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THE
^>l
ATHOLIC WORLD.
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
General Literature and Science.
VOL. XXL
APRIL. 1875. TO SEPTEMBER. 1875.
NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
9 Warren Street.
1875.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
General Literature and Science.
VOL. XXL
APRIL. 1875, TO SEPTEMBER. 1875.
NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
9 >Ararren 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 4 CO., PRINTERS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
icofCleTes^403.
I Yott My Wile > 41, 16a, 306, 451, 590, 742.
Med XicboUs von der Fltie, 836.
bvtsalpe, Les^* ^ of the, 385.
iDthef Philip, 384, 509.
hOikron's Autos Sacramentales, 3a, 3x3.
^ia&Ute, The, 3S9« 473.
kttidcs. Specimen, 389.
^Chiefly Amonc Women,*' 334.
bTco'sThe Veil Withdrawn, x8.
ia the Desert, 8x3.
)katel O'ConneU, 653,
Ir, Dtmper, 651.
km Ottefanger and Sdesmes, 379.
>B«ii9iqae de Goai^es, 701.
[knpcr's Conflict between Religion and Science,
tarif Anaals of Catholicity in New Jersey, 565.
ldDC«UoB,The RighU of the Church over, 731.
Ifuode, Aq,8os.
ttpocition of the Church in View of Recent
Dificolties and Controversies, and the
FrcMat Needs of the Age, 117.
;FffstJabilee,The,^s8.
TlSst, Blessed Nicholas von der, 836.
Tng««nt, A, 608.
Fstan of the Russian Church, The, 6t.
6««wi Rsicbstag, The Leader of the Centrum
in Ike, na.
5*«btoQe*s Misrepresentations, 145.
VfittUk and Saint-Simon, 366.
GiMuser and Solesmes, 379.
H-Mm of Joan of Arc. The, 697.
}«f»od in 1874, A Visit to, 7^5.
Irnh Tour, 497.
Jo«n ot Arc, The Honse of, 697.
JttWee, The First, 358.
Kentucky Mission, Origin and Progress of the,
8s3.
^*W«r of Life, The, 71s.
Lady Anne of Clcvcs, 403.
Leader of the Centrum in the German Reich-
stag, The, 1x2.
Legend of Friar's Rock, The, 780.
Legend of the Blumisalpe, 285.
Legend of the Rhine, A, 541.
Lourdes, Notre Dame de, 683.
Lourdes, On the Way to, 368, 549.
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon. 670.
Modern Literature of Russia, The, 250.
New Jersey, Early Annals of Catholicity in, 565.
Notre Dame de Lourdes, 682.
Odd Stories— Kurd ig, 139.
O'Connell, Daniel, 65a.
Old Irish Tour, An, 497.
On the Wav to Lourdes, 368, 549.
Origin and Pr egress of the Kentucky Mission,
8as.
Persecution Itj SwiizerUnd, The, 577.
Philip, Brother, 384, 509.
Pius IX. and Mr. Gladslone's Misrepresenta-
tions, 145.
Religion and Science, 178.
Religion in Our State Institutions, x.
Rhine, A Legend of the, 541.
Rights of the Church over Education, The, 78'.
Roman Ritual, The, and its Chant, 415, 527, 638.
Russia, The Modern Literature of, 350.
Saint-Simon and Greville, 366.
Scientific Goblin, The, 849.
Space, 433, 614, 790.
Specimen Charities, 389.
Stray Leaves irom a Passing Life, 68, aoo, 341,
486.
Substantial Generations, 97, 234.
Switzerland, The Persecution in, 577.
Tondini's Russian Church, 6x.
Tragedy of the Temple, The, 84, 323.
Ultraism, 669.
Veil Withdrawn, The, x8.
Visit to Ireland in 1874, A, 765.
*^ Women, Chiefly Among,** 334*
POETRV.
^ntad Science, 637.
A«»option,The,848.
J*i of the Golden Robin, The, 159-
*^'«^ft««Kw,The.305.
*:«ffiaPlowert,5S9.
'^«T»oBChrisU,4so.
Ottttloce CsiUe, 789.
5y\,»»l«nd^.The,85a.
»waHes4.4S5.
'•■t^DooT,aa3.
In Memoriam, 83.
In Memory of Harriet Ryan Albee, 4x4.
Little Bird, A, 564.
March, 31.
On a Charge Made after the Publication of a
Volume of Poetry, 340.
Sonnet, 700.
Spring, 96.
Submission, 536.
Why Not? 548.
IV
Contents.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Adhemtr de Belcmstel, 4s8.
Archbishop, The, of Westminster's Reply to Mr.
Gladstone, X4s.
Ralmes* Criterion, 4a8.
Be not H&sty in Judginsf, 428.
Bioflrnphical Readings, 859.
Boone's Manual of the Blessed Sacrament, 57a
Brann's Politico- Historical Bssay, etc., 859.
Breakfast, Lunch, and Tea, 7iQ>
Bridgett's Our Lady's Dowry, s88.
Bulla Jubilaei, 1875, 288.
Catholic Premium-Book Library, tso.
Child, The, 573.
Classens^ Life of Father Bernard, 499.
Coffin's Caleb Krinkle, 144.
Coleridge's The Ministry. of S. John Bsptist, 143.
Cortes* Es8a3r8,43x.
Craven's The Veil Withdrawn, 143.
Deharbe*s A Full Catechism of the Catholic
Religion, 576.
De MlUe's The Uly and the Cross, X43.
Donnelly's Domus Dei, 431.
Droits de Dieu, Les, et les Id^es Modernes, 855.
Dunne's Our Public Schools, etc., 439.
Dupanloup's The Child, 573.
Egglestoo^s How to make a Living, 430.
Bssajrs on Catholicism, Liberalism, and Social-
ism, 43x<
Fessler's True and False Infallibility, 141, 438.
First Christmas, The, 859.
Full Catechism of th»CathoIic Religion, A, 576.
Fullerton's Life ofFather Henry Young, X43.
FuUerton's Seven Stories, a88.
FuUerton's The Straw-Cutter's Daughter, etc.,
430.
Gahan's Sermons for Every Day in the Year, etc.,
576.
Gross' Tract on Baptism, 428.
Hedley's (Bishop) The Spirit of Faith, 576, 7x6.
Herbert's Wife, 719.
Higglnson's Brief Biographies, 439.
History of England, Abridged, 730.
Internal Mission of the Holy Ghost, The, 4a6.
Irish World, The, 421,
Kostka, S. Stanislaus, The Story of; 859.
Lambing*s The Orphan's Friend, 430.
Life of Father Henry Young, X43.
Life of Father Bernard, 439.
Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 571.
Lingard's History of England, Abridged, 720.
McQuaid's (Bishop) Lecture on the School Ques-
tion, etc., 439.
Madame de Lavalle's Bequest, yxa.
Manning's (Archbishop) Reply to Mf^
X43, 438.
Manning's (Archbishop) The TiiiimJl
of the Holy Ghost, 436.
Manual of the Bteeaed Sacrament,
Mary, Star of the Sea, 437.
Memoirs of (general William T. S]
Ministry of S. John Baptist, 143.
Montagu's (Lord Robert) Reply to
stone, 143.
Moore's and Jordan's Personal
887.
Newman's Postscript to a Letter to tbm
Norfolk, 387.
Old Chest, The, 430.
O'ReiUy's The Victims of the Mameitia^ S|fr
Orphan's Friend, The, 430.
Our Lady's Dowry, 388.
Our PubUc Schools, etc., 4S9.
Oianam't Land of the Cid, 576.
Postscript to a Letter to the.Duke of KorlM^tf
Readings from the Old Testament, 388.
Sherman, (General William T., Membra ftl^l^
Shields' Religion and Science, 716.
Spalding's Young Catholic's Sixth Readfl^iML
Spirit of Faith, The, 576, 716.
Stewart's Biographical Readings, 859.
Story of a Convert, The, 430.
Story of S. Stanislaus Kostka, 859.
Stuaw-Cutter's Daughter, etc , 430.
Syllabus for the People, The, a86.
Thitfblin*s Spain and the Spaniards, 574.
Thompson's Paparchy and Nationality, m^
Tract for the Missions, on Bsptism, 438.
True, The, and the False InfalUbility 4f Ike
Popes, X41, 438. '
Tyler's Discourse on WiUiston, 573.
Ullathonie*t (Bishop) Reply to Mr. Gladatone.
143.
Vatican Decrees, The, and Civil Allegiance, 4sL
Vanghan's (Bishop) Reply to Mr. Gladstona, t^
Veil Withdrawn, The, 143.
Vercruysses' New Practical Meditations, 7x8.
Veuillot'sThe Life of Our Lord Jesus Chr6t,5rr.
Victims of the Mamertine, The, 576.
Wann sprichtdie Kirche unfehlbar ? etc., 73a
Warren's Physical (geography, 718.
Wenhara's Readings from the Old Tettaaen:,
388.
Wilson's Poems, 144.
Whitcher's The Story of a Convert, 43a
Young Catholic's Fifth and Sixth Readen, 3B6.
Young Ladies' Illustrated Reader, The, 860.
Mov
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXI., No. 121.— APRIL, 1875.
RELIGION IN OUR STATE INSTITUTIONS.
of this State shall be disfranchised or deprived of any of the rights or privileges secured to
ttoless by the law of the land or the judgment of his peers."
t and enjoyment of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or prefer-
fiw ever be allowed iii this State to all mankind. '*->C<7n.F//V«i/{V« o/tkt State 0/ New Yark^
jTint first article of all the old
charters which were em-
in, and confirmed by, the
Charter wrung from King
raa> ** First of all, we wish the
of God to be free." In the
when those charters were
up there was no dispute as
h was ** the church of God."
feligious unity of Christendom
not yet been reformed into a
id contending sects, each of
was a claimant to the title
the church of God." The two
ioiift of our own constitution
from above, which establish
'their fullest sense the civil'and
liberty of the individual,
taken from those grand old
ers of Catholic days. The
r thing practically new in them
ic substitution, for the " church
od," of " the free exercise and
jfinent of religious profession
j worship, without discrimination
I preference." The reason for
this alteration is plain. Civil lib-
erty is impossible without religious
liberty. But here the founders of
our constitution were confronted
with a great difficulty. To follow
out the old Catholic tradition, and
grant freedom to the "church of
God," was impossible. There were
so many ** churches of God," an-
tagonistic to one another, that to
pronounce for one was to pronounce
against all others, and so establish
a state religion. This they found
themselves incompetent to do. Ac-
cordingly, leaving the title open,
complete freedom of religions pro-
fession and worship was proclaimed
as being the only thing con^men-
surate with complete civil liberty
and that large, geiferous, yet withal
safe freedom of the individual which
forms the corner-stone of the re-
public.
This really constitutes what is
commonly described as the absolute
separation of church and state, on
to Act of CoBgreM, in the year
Libfmrian of Conjcreis,
7875, by Rev. I. T. Hbckbr, in the Office of th e
at Washington, D. C*
Religion in Our State Institutions.
which we are never weary of con-
gratulating ourselves. It is not
that the state ignores the church
(or churches), but that it recognizes
it in the deepest sense, as a power
that has a province of its own, in
the direction of human life and
thought, where the state may not
enter — a province embracing all
that is covered by the word religion.
This ^is set apart by the state, vol-
untarily, not blindly; as a sacred,
not as an unknown and unrecog-
nized, ground, which it may invade
at any moment. It is set apart for
ever, and as long as the American
Constitution remains what it is, will
so remain, sacred and inviolate.
Men are free to believe and wor-
ship, not only in conscience, but in
person, as pleases them, and no
state official may ever say to them,
" Worship thus or thus !"
Words would be wasted in dwell-
ing on this point. There is not a
member of the state who has not
the law, as it were, born in his
blood. No man ever dreams of in-
terfering with the worship of an-
other. Catholic church and Jewish
tabernacle and Methodist meeting-
house nestle together^side by side,
and their congregations come and
go, year in year out, and worship,
each in itsown way, without abreath
of hindrance. Conversion or perver-
sion, as it may be called, on any side
is not attempted, save at any particu-
lar member's good- will and pleasure.
Each •may possibly entertain the
pious conviction that his neighbor is
going directly to perdition, but he
never dreams of disputing that neigh-
bor's right of way thither. And the
thought of a state official or an offi-
cial of any character coming in and
directly or indirectly ordering the
Catholics to become Methodists, or
the Methodists Jews, or the Jews
either, is something so preposterous
that the American mind can scarce-
ly entertain it. Yet, strange as it is
painful to confess, just such coer-
cion of conscience is carried on
safely, daily and hourly, under our
very noses, by State or semi-state
officials. Ladies and gentlemen
to* whom the State has entrusted
certain of 4ts wards are in the habit
of using the powers bestowed on
them to restrain " the free exercise
of religious profession and worship,"
and not simply to restrain it, but to
compel numbers of those under their
charge to practise a certain form
of religious profession and worship
which, were they free agents, they
would never practise, and against
which their conscience must revolt.
This coercion is more or less
generally practised in the prisons,
hospitals, reformatories, asylums,
and such like, erected by the State
for such of its members or wards as
crime or accident have thrown on
its hands. Besides those mainly
supported by the State, there arc
many other institutions which vol-
unteer to take some of its work off
the hands of the State, and for
which due compensation is given.
In short, the majority of our public
institutions will come within the
scope of our observations. And it
may be as well to premise here that
our observations are intended chief-
ly to expose a wrong that we, as
Catholics, feel keenly and suffer
froiTv; but the arguments advanced
will be of a kind that may serve for
any who suffer under a similar griev-
ance, and who claim for themselves
or their co-religionists "the free
exercise of religious profession and
worship, without discrimination or
preference." If the violation of this
article of the constitution to-day
favors one side under our ever-shift-
ing parties and platforms, it may to-
morrow favor the other. What wc
Religion in Our State Instiiutiofis.
demand is simply that the consti-
tution be strictly maintained, and
not violated under any cover what-
soever.
The inmates of our institutions
may be divided into two broad
classes, the criminal and the unfor-
tunate. From the very fact of their
being inmates of the institutions
both alike suffer certain depriva-
tion of " the rights and privileges "
secured to them as citizens. In the
case of criminals those rights and
privileges are forfeited. They are
deprived of personal liberty, be-
cause they are a danger instead of a
support to the State and to the
commonwealth. The question that
meets us here is, does the restric-
tion of personal involve also that
of religious liberty and worship ?
Happily, there is no need to argue
the matter at any length, as it has
already been pronounced upon by
tlie State; and as regards the reli-
gious discipline in prisons, our ob-
jection is as much against a non-
application as a misapplication of
the law. ** The free exercise and
enjoyment of religious profession
and worship " is never debarred any
man by the State. On the contra-
ry, it is not only enjoined, but,
where possible, provided. Even
the criminal who has fallen under
tlie supreme sentence of the law,
and whose very life is forfeit to the
Slate, is in all cases allowed the
full and free ministry of the pastor
of his church, whatever that church
may be. Nothing is allowed to
interfere with their communion.
Even the ordinary discipline of the
prison is broken into in favor of that
power to which, from the very first,
the Slate set a region apart. And
it is only at the last moment of life
that the minister, be he Catholic,
Methodist, or Jew, yields to the
hangman.
Is it possible to think that the
State, wltich, in the exercise of its
last and most painful prerogative,
shows itself so wise, just, tender
even, and profoundly religious — so
true, above all, to the letter and the
spirit of the constitution — should,
when the question concerns not the
taking, but the guarding, of the
criminal's life, and, if possible, its
guidance to a better end, show it-
self cruel, parsimonious, and a petty
proselytizer .> Does it hold that
freedom of religious profession and
worship is a privilege to be granted
only to that superior grade of crimi-
nal whose deeds have fitted him be-
fore his time for another world, and
not to the lesser criminal or the
unfortunate, who is condemned to
the burden of life, and who has it
still within his power to make that
life a good and useful one 1 Such a
' q.uestion is its own answer. And
yet the system of religious disci-
pline at present prevailing in many
of our prisons, as in most of our in-
stitutions, would seem to indicate
that the State exhausts its good-will
over murderers, and leaves all other
inmates, in matters of religion, to
the ministry of men in whom they
do not believe and creeds that they
reject. A certain form of religious
discipline is provided, which is
bound to do duty for all the prison-
ers, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and
Protestant alike. If that is not good
enough for them, they may not even
do without it ; for all are bound to
attend religious worship, which, in
the case of Catholic prjscners at
least — for we adhere to our main
point — is beyond all doubt the se-
verest coercion of conscience. The
worst Catholic in this world Wv»uld
never willingly take part in the wor-
ship of any but his own creed. It
is idle to ask whether some worship
is not better for him than none at all.
Religion in Our State Institutions.
The fact remains that he does not
believe in any other but his own
church, in the sacredness of any
other ministry bat his own, in the
efficacy of any means of grace save
those that come to him through the
church of which he is a member.
More than this, he knows that it is
a sin not to approach the sacra-
ments and hear Mass, and that,
without frequenting them, he can-
not hope to lead a really good life.
The perversion of discipline pre-
vents him either hearing Mass or
frequenting the sacraments, often
even from seeing a priest at all.
There is no need to dwell on the
fact that of all men in this world,
those who are in prison or in con-
finement stand most in need of con-
stant spiritual aid and consolation.
Indeed, in many cases the term of
imprisonment would be the most
favorable time to work upon their
souls. The efficacy of religion in
helping to reform criminals is rec-
ognized by the State in establishing
prison chaplains, and even making
attendance at worship compulsory.
Lut this compulsion is not in-
tended so much as an act of coer-
cion of conscience as an opportunity
and means of grace. As seen in
the case of murderers, the State is
only too happy to grant whatever
spiritual aid it can to the criminal,
without restriction of any kind.
Laying aside, then, as granted, the
consideration that spiritual ministry
is of a reforming tendency in the
case of those who come freely un-
der its influence, we pass on at once
to show where in our own State we
are lamentably deficient and unjust
in failing to supply that ministry.
In this State there arc three State
prisons: those of Sing Sing, Auburn,
and Clinton. In no one of them is
there proper provision for the spirit-
ual needs of Catholic prisoners.
There are also in this State seven
penitentiaries : Blackwcll's Island,
New York ; Kings County, Stalen
Island, Albany, Syracuse, Roches-
ter, and liuflalo. Of these seven, in
three only is Mass celebrated and
the sacraments administered, viz.,
BlackwelKs Island, Kings County,
and Albany.
The Slate boasts also of four re-
formatories: the Catholic Protec-
tory, Westchester County; House of
Refuge, New York ; Juvenile Asy-
lum, New York ; Western House of
Refuge, Rochester. Of these, at the
first named only is Mass celebrated
and the sacraments administercd.
This is a very lamentable state of
affairs, and one that ought to be
remedied as speedily as possible.
It is being remedied in many places,
for it prevails practically through-
out the country. Catholics, unfor-
tunately, add their quota to the
criminal list, as to every grade and
profession in life. But there is no
reason why Catholic criminals alone
should be debarred the means
which is more likely than the pun-
ishment of the law to turn their
minds and hearts to good — the sac-
raments and ministry of their
church. But the fault, probably, in
the particular case of prisons, con-
sists in the fact that the grievance
has not hitherto been fairly set be-
fore the authorities in whose hands
the remedy lies. The application
of the remedy, indeed, is chiefly a
question of demand, for it consists
in conformity to the constitution.
The Catholic Union of New York
has been at pains to collect testi-
mony on this subject, and the testi-
mony is unanimous as to the advis-
ability of allowing Catholic prison-
ers free access to priests, sacra-
ments, and Mass. In Great Britain,
where there really is a state religion.
Catholic as well as Protestant chap-
Religion in Our State Institutions.
bins are appointed to the various
prisons and reformatories, as also
to the army and navy. In answer
to an inquiry from the Catffolic Un-
ion respecting the system on which
British reformatories are managed
in regard to the religious instruc-
tion aforded to their Catholic in-
mates, the following letter was re-
ceived :
"Office of Inspector of Reforma-
tory AND Industrial Schools, No. 3
Delahat Street, December 7, 1874.
"Sir : In reference to your letter of the
»tb uUimo, I beg to forward you a copy
of the last report of the Inspector of Re-
formatory and Industrial Schools.
** You will observe that almost all the
Kbools arc denominational ; one re-
fonnatory (the Northeastern) and one or
two industrial schools alone receiving
both Protestant and Roman Catholic
children.
" In these cases the children of the lat-
ici faith arc visited at stated limes by a
priest of their own religion, and allowed
to attend service on Sundays in the near-
est Catholic chapel.
"The Catholic schools arc solely and
entirely for Catholics.
"I am, sir, your faithful servant,
•* William Costeker.
" Dr. E. B. O'Callaghan."
In the British provinces on this
continent the saine system prevails.
Equal religious freedom is guaran-
teed in all reformatories and pri-
sons. In the Province of Quebec,
where the French population and
Catholic religion predominate, the
system is the same. Throughout
Europe it is practically the same.
Rev. G. C. Wines, D.D., the ac-
« rcdited representative of our gov-
ernment to the International Peni-
tentiary Congress at London, in his
report to the President, February
12, 1873, gave most powerful testi-
mony on this point. A few extracts
yf'xW suffice for our purpose.
In England "every convict pri-
son has its staff of ministers of reli-
gion. For the most part, the chap-
lains are not permitted to have any
other occupations than those per-
taining to their office, thus being
left free to devote their whole time
to the improvement of the prison-
ers."
In Ireland, in this respect, " the
regulations and usages of the con-
vict prisons are substantially the
same."
In France, in the smaller depart-
mental prisons, " some parish priest
acts as chaplain." In the larger, as
well as in all central prisons, " the
chaplain is a regular officer of the
establishment, and wholely devoted
to its religious service." ** Liberty
of conscience is guaranteed to pri-
soners of all religions." If the pri-
soner, who must declare his faith on
entering, is not a Catholic, "he is
transferred, whenever it is possible,
to a prison designed to receive per-
sons of the same religious faith as
himself."
In Prussia "chaplains are pro-
vided for all prisons and for all re-
ligions. They hold religious ser-
vice, give religious lessons, inspect
the prison schools," etc.
In Saxony "^he religious wants
of the prisoners are equally regard-
ed and cared for, whatever their
creed may be."
In Wiirtemberg " in all the pri-
sons there are Protestant and Catho-
lic chaplains. For prisoners of the
Jewish faith there is similar pro-
vision for religious instruction."
In Baden " chaplains are provid-
ed for all prisons and for all re-
ligions."
In Austria, " in the prisons of all
kinds, chaplains and religious teach-
ers are provided for prisoners of
every sect."
In Russia " in all the large pri-
sons there are chapels and chaplains.
Prisoners of all the different creeds
i
Religion in Our State Institutions.
receive tlle offices of religion from
injnisten; of their own faith, even
Je^s nnd Mussulmans.**
In ihu Netherlands, ** in all the
rcntral piisonH, in all the houses of
lU' tent ton » and in the greater part
of the houses of arrest, the office
of chaplain and religious services
are confided to one of the parish
ministers of each religion, who is
named by the Minister of Justice.'*
In Switzerland ** ministers of the
reformed and of the Catholic reli-
gion act as chaplains in the prisons.
The rabbi of the nearest locality
is invited to visit such co-religion-
ists as are occasionally found in
them.'*
Is it not sad, after testimony of
this kind, to come back to our own
country, and, with the law on the
point so plain, to find the practice
so wretchedly deficient.^ In New
York State Mass is celebrated in
three penitentiaries and one re-
formatory only, and that solitary re-
formatory is denominational. It was
only last year that a Mass was
celebrated for the first time in a
Boston prison, and a chaplain ap-
pointed to it. In Auburn prison a
priest has only recently been allow-
ed to visit the Catholic prisoners,
hear confessions, and preach on
Sunday afternoons. But the pri-
soners are compelled to attend the
Protestant services also.
In the State prison at Danne-
mora, Clinton Co., N. Y., where a
Catholic chaplain has only of
late been appointed, the prisoners
hear Mass but once a month.
In the Western House of Refuge,
a branch house of an establishment
in this city, to which attention will
be called presently, it was only af-
ter a severe conflict * that in De-
• For partiaalan lee Bulletin 0/ the Catholic
UnioH^ Jan., 1875, which contaiiis an admirably-
l>repare<l sUitement of the whole caac.
cember of last year permission
was granted "to Catholic and all
ministers " of free access to the
asylum, • ** to conduct religious
exercises, etc," and that Catholic
children be no longer compelled
" to attend what is called * non-
sectarian ' services.** Such testi-
mony might be multiplied all over
the country. Indeed, as far as
our present knowledge goes, the
State of Minnesota is the only State
wherein "liberty of conscience and
equal rights in matters of religion
to the inmates of State institutions "
have been secured, and they were
only secured by an act approved
March 5, 1874.
Catholics are content to believe
that the main difficulty in the way
of affording Catholic instruction to
the Catholic inmates of such insti-
tutions has hitherto rested with
themselves. Either they have not
sufficiently exposed the grievance
they were compelled to endure, or,
more likely, such exposure was
useless, inasmuch as the paucity of
priests prevented any being detail-
ed to the special work of the pri-
sons and public institutions. This,
too, is probably the difficulty in the
army and navy of the United States,
which boast of two Catholic chap-
lains in all, and those two for the
army only. But the growth of our
numbers, resources, dioceses, and
clergy is rapidly removing any
further obstruction on that score ;
so that there is no further reason
why Catholic priests should not be
allowed to attend to and — always, of
course, at due times — perform the
duties of their office for inmates of
institutions who, by reason of their
confinement, are prevented from the
free exercise of their religious pro-
fession and worship laid down and
guaranteed in the constitution to all
mankind for ever.
Religion in Our State Institutions.
But over and above the strictly
criminal class of inmates of our
State institutions there is another,
a larger and more important class,
to be considered — that already
designated as unfortunate. Most
of its members, previous to their
admission into the institutions pro-
vided for their keeping, have hover-
ed on that extreme confine where
poverty and crime touch each other.
Many of them have just crossed
the line into the latter region.
Inmates of hospitals and insane
asylums will come, without further
mention, within the scope of our
general observations. Our atten-
tion now centres on those inmates of
State or public institutions who, for
whatever reasons, in consequence
either of having no home or inade-
quate protection at home, are
thrown absolutely upon the hands
of the State, which is compelled in
some way or other to act towards
them in loco parentis. In the major-
ity of cases there is hope that they
may by proper culture and care be
converted, from a threatened dan-
ger to the State, to society at large,
and to themselves, into honest,
creditable, and worthy citizens.
This class, composed of the
youth of both sexes, instead of di-
i&inishing, seems, with the spread
of population, to be on the increase.
From its ranks the criminal and
l»auper classes, which are also on
the increase, are mainly recruited.
The criminal, in the eye of the law,
who has led a good life up to man-
Hood or womanhood, is the excep-
tion. Crime, as representative of
a c las3, is a growth, not a sudden
-bcrration. It is, then, a serious and
vilemn duty of the State to cut off
this criminal growth by converting
ific class who feed it to good at the
outset. At the very lowest estimate
a i» a duty of self-preservation.
This being so, there i^ no need in
dwell on the plain \\ivX that it islht?
duty of the State to do :dl that in it
lies to lead the lives of those iinfor-
tunates out of the wrong path mUi
the right. Every means aE its dis-
posal ought to be worked to that
end. There is still less reason to
dwell on the fact, acknowledged
and recognized by the State and by
all men, that, in leading a life away
from evil and up to good, no influ-
ence is so powerful as that of reli-
gion. The fear of man, of the pow-
er and vengeance of the law, is un-
doubtedly of great force ; but it is
not all, nor is it the strongest influ-
ence that can be brought to bear
on the class indicated, not yet crim-
inal. At the best it represents to
their minds little more than the
whip of the slave-driver — .something
to be feared, but something also to
be hated, and to be defied and bro-
ken where defiance may for the
time seem safe. But the moral
sense, the sense of right and wrong,
of good and evil, which shows law
in its true guise as the benignant re-
presentative of order rather tlian the
terror of disorder, is a higher guide,
a truer teacher, and a more humane
and lasting power.
This sense can only come with
religion ; and so convinced is the
State of this fact that, as usual, it
calls in religion to its aid, and over
its penitentiaries and reformatories
sets chaplains. It goes further even,
and, as in prisons, compels the in-
mates of such institutions to attend
religious services, practise religious
observances, and listen to religious
instruction. There is no State re-
formatory — it is safe to say no re-
formatory at all — without such re-
ligious worship and instruction.
This careful provision for the
spiritual wants of so extensive and-
important a class we of course ap-
8
Religion in Our State Institutions.
prove to the full. The idea of a
reformatory where no religious in-
struction is given the inmates
would be a contradiction. The
State empowers those into whose
hands it entrusts the keeping of its
wards to impart religious instruc-
tion — in short, to do everything that
may tend to the mental, moral, and
physical advancement of those un-
der their charge. All that we con-
cede and admire. But the State
never empowers those who have the
control of such institutions to draw
up laws or rules for them which
should in any way contravene the
law of the State, least of all that
article of the constitution wherein
the free exercise of religious pro-
fession and worship, without dis-
crimination or preference, is allow-
ed to all mankind in this State for
ever. But it is just in this most im-
portant point that our public insti-
tutions signally fail.
Here is our point : In our public
institutions there is, in the case of
Catholic inmates, a constant and
persistent violation of the constitu-
tion of the State regarding freedom
of religious profession and worship.
In those institutions there is a ste-
reotyped system of religious profes-
sion and worship, which all the in-
mates, of whatever creed, are com-
pelled to accept and observe. They
have no freedom of choice in the
matter. They may not hold any
religious intercourse with the pas-
tors of their church, save, in impos-
sible instances, on that stereotyped
plan. Practically, they may not
hold any such intercourse at all.
Once they become inmates of these
institutions, the freedom of religious
profession and worship that they
enjoyed, or were at liberty to en-
joy, before entering, is completely
cut off, and a new form of religious
profession and practice, which,
whether they like it or not, wheth<
they believe it or not, they are com
pelledto observe and accept as thei
religio% until they leave the insti
tution, is substituted. No matte
what name may be given this rnod^
of worship and instruction, whethei
it be called "non-sectarian "or not,
it is a monstrous violation of human
conscience, not to speak of the let-
ter and the spirit of the constitu-
tion of this State. Its proper name
would be the " Church Established
in Public Institutions." From the
day when a Catholic child crosses
the threshold of such an institution
until he leaves it, in most cases he
is not allowed even to see a Catho-
lic clergyman ; he is certainly not
allowed to practise his religion ; he
is not allowed to read Catholic
books of instruction ; he is not al-
lowed to hear Mass or frequent the
sacraments. For him his religion is
chgked up and dammed off utterly,
and his soul left dry and barren.
Nor does the wrong rest even here ;
for all the while he is exposed to
non-Catholic influences and to a
direct system of anti-Catholic in-
struction and worship. He is com-
pelled to bow to and believe in the
" Church Established " in the insti-
tution.
There is, unfortunately, a super-
abundance of evidence to prove all,
and more than all, our assertions.
There will be occasion to use it ;
but just now we content ourselves
with such as is open to any citizen
of the State, and as is given in the
Reports of the various institutions.
Of these we select one — the oldest
in the State — the Society for the
Reformation of Juvenile DeHn-
quents, which has this year publish-
ed its fiftieth ^«;i/ytf/^<f^^r/. With-
in these fifty years of its life 15,791
children, of ages ranging from five
to sixteen, of both sexes, of native
Religion in Our State Institutions.
and foreign parentage, of every
complexion of color and creed, have
passed through its hands. The so-
ciety has, on more than one occa-
«oo, come before the public, more
especially within the last two or
three years, in anything but an en-
viable light. But all considerations
of that kind may pass for the pre-
sent, our main inquiry being. What
kind of religion, of religious disci-
pline, instruction, and worship, is
provided for the hundreds of chil-
dren who year by year enter this
asylum ?
The "Circular to Parents and
Guardians," signed by the president,
Mr. Edgar Ketchum, sets forth the
objects of the institution and the
manner in which it is conducted.
** For your information," says Mr.
Ketchum to the parents and guar-
dians, "the managers deem it proper
to state that the institution is not a
place of punishment nor a prison,
but a reform school, where the in-
mates receive such instruction and
training as are best adapted to form
and perpetuate a virtuous charac-
ter." An excellent introduction !
Nothing could be better calculated
to allay any scruples that an
anxious parent or guardian might
entertain respecting the absolute
wrrender of a <fhild or ward to the
institution, *' to remain during mi-
nority, or until discharged by the
managers, as by due process of law."
Of course the Catholic parent or
guardian who receives such a cir-
cular will have no question as to
the **inslntction and training best
adapted to form and (above all)
to perpetuate a virtuous character*' !
The training up of "a virtuous
character " is, by all concession,
mainly a purely religious work,
and the Catholic knows, believes in,
•ad recognizes only one true reli-
ipon— that taught by the Catholic
Church. Whether he is right or
wrong in that belief is not the
question. It is sufficient to know
that the constitution recognizes and
respects it.
A few lines lower the Catholic
parent or guardian receives still
more satisfactory information on
this crucial point. After a glowing
description of the life of the in-
mates, he is informed that they, " on
the Sabbath, are furnished with suit-
able religious and moral instruc-
tion." Just what is wanted by the
child ! ** Sabbath," it is true, has
come to have a Protestant sound ;
but as for " suitable religious and
moral instruction," there can be
no doubt that the only religious
instruction suitable for a Catholic
child is that of the Catholic reli-
gion, and such as would be given
him outside in the Sunday-school
by the Catholic priest or teacher.
He is just as much a Catholic inside
that institution as he was outside ;
and there is no more right in law
or logic to force upon him a system
of non-Catholic and anti-Catholic
instruction within than without its
walls. Let us see, then, of what this
moral and religious instruction con-
sists ; if Catholic, all our difficulties
are over.
Turning a few pages, we come to
the "Report of the Chaplain."
The chaplain ! The chaplain, then,
is the gentleman charged with fur-
nishing " on the Sabbath " the
" suitable religious and moral in-
struction " of the Catholic child.
The chaplain is the Rev. George
H. Smyth, evidently a clergyman
of some denomination. His, name
is not to be found in the Catholic
directory. He is probably, then,
not a Catholic priest. However,
his report may enlighten us.
It occupies five and a half pages,
and renders an jidmirable account
10
Religion in Our S(ate Institutions.
of — the Rev. George H. Smyth,
who, to judge of him by his own re-
port, must be an exceedingly en-
gaging person, and above all a pow-
erful preacher. No doubt he is.
He informs us that the children
have shown, among other good
qualities, " an earnest desire to re-
ceive instruction, both secular and
religious. " That is cheering news.
It is worthy of note, too, the dis-
tinction made between the secular
and religious instruction of the
children. That is just the Catholic
ground. Children require both
kinds of instruction — instruction in
their religion, as well as in reading,
writing, ciphering, and so on. The
Catholic parent or guardian con-
gratulates himself, then, on the fact
that his child or ward will not be
deprived of instruction in his reli-
gion while an inmate of the institu-
tion. All satisfactory so far; but
let us read Mr. Smyth a little
more.
** Often have the chaplain's coun-
sel and sympathy been sought by
those striving to lead a better life."
Very natural ! ** And as often have
they been cordially tendered." Still
more natural. Then follow some
pleasing reminiscences from the
boys and girls of the chaplain's
good offices. He even vouchsafes,
almost unnecessarily, to inform us
that ** the children have it impress-
ed on them that the object of the
preaching they hear is wholly to
benefit them." It could not well
be otherwise. And Mr. Smyth's
preaching evidently does benefit
them, for one of the boys remarked
to him, casually; "Chaplain, you
remember that sermon you preach-
ed" — neither the sermon nor its
text, unfortunately, is given — ** that
was the sermon that led me to the
Saviour." Happy lad! It is to
be regretted that he ever came back.
We are further informed of **
close attention given by the child
to the preaching of the Gospel S
bath after Sabbath." "On c
occasion a distinguished milit
gentleman and statesman — an a
bassador from one of the lead
courts of Europe — was present. 1
sermon was from the text Ciea
thau me from secret faults ^ So jjc
erful was Mr. Smyth's sermon
that occasion that the revere
gentleman graciously informs u:
so moved the " distinguished mili
ry gentleman and statesman " fn
Europe that at the close he ro
and, " taking the chaplain by t
hand, said with great warmth
feeling, * That sermon was so w
suited to these children they mi
be better for it. I saw it madt
deep impression upon them; but
rose to thank you for myself — it ji
suited me' "
And there the story ends, leavi
us in a painful state ofconjectii
respecting the state of that " disti
guished military gentleman ai
statesman's " conscience. The
little incidents are thrown off wi
a naive simplicity almost touch in
and are noticed here as they a
given, as establishing beyond :
doubt the clear and marked di
tinction in nature and grace bet we(
the Rev. Mr. Smyth and the drea^
ful characters, whether ambassado
or youthful pickpockets, with who
Mr. Smyth is brought in contac
But the main question for the C
tholic parent or guardian is, Wh;
religious and moral instruction
nry child to receive } For it is cle:
that Mr. Smyth is not a Catholi
clergyman. It seems that M
Smyth being " the chaplain," thei
is no Catholic chaplain at all, an
no Catholic instruction at all k
Catholic children. Are the Cathc
lie children compelled, then, to al
Religion in Our State Institutions.
II
tend Mr. Smyth's preaching and
Mr. Smyth's worship, and nothing
but Mr. Smyth, excellent man though
he be ? Mr. Ketchum has already,
in the name of the managers, in-
formed us that the institution is not
"a place of punishment." Far be
It from us to hint, however remote-
ly, that it is a punishment even to be
(ompflied to listen to the preaching
of such a man as Mr. Smyth. With
the evidence before us, how could
such a thought be entertained for a
moment } But at least how is this
state of things reconcilable with
that solemn article of the constitu-
tion already quoted so often ?
However, let us first dismiss Mr.
Smyth, after ascertaining, if possi-
ble, what it is he does teach. Here
wc have it in his own words: ** The
truths preached to these children
[all the inmates of the institution]
liave been those fundamental truths
held in common by all Christian
'omraunions, and which are adapt-
ni to the wants of the human race,
and must ever be the foundation of
pure morals and good citizenship.
Studious care has been taken not
to prejudice the minds of the in-
mates against any particular form
of religious belief."
Here lies the essence of what we
hjve called the " Church Establish-
ed in Public Institutions." The
favorite term for it is " non-secta-
rian ** teaching; and on the ground
I'lat it is *• non-sectarian," that it
fjvors no particular church or
Teed, but is equally available to
X it has thus far been upheld
^ad maintained in our public insti-
t'ltions. It is well to expose the
' int and humbug of this non-secta-
ruiism once for all.
In the first place, no such thing
cMsls. Let us adhere to the case
I" (»oint. Mr. Smyth, who is styled
f:':rind, " is the chaplain of the
society we are examining. What
is the meaning of the word chap-
lain? A clergj'man appointed to
perform certain clerical duties. Mr.
Smyth is a clergyman of some de-
nomination or other, we care not
what. He is not a self-appointed
" reverend." He must have been
brought up in some denomination
and educated in some theological
school. There is no such thing as
a " reverend " of no church, of a
non-sectarian church. Every cler-
gyman has been educated in some
theological school, or at least ac-
cording to some special form of
doctrine and belief, and has enter-
ed the ministry as a teacher and
preacher of that special form of be-
lief and doctrine. If he leaves it, he
leaves it either for infidelity— in
which case he renounces his title
as a clergyman — or for some other
form of doctrine and belief to which
he turns, and of which, so long as
he remains in the ministry, he is the
teacher, proj)agator, and upholder.
If he is not this, he is a humbug.
To say that he is or can be non-
sectarian — that is, pledged to preach
no particular form of doctrine, or a
form of doctrine equally available
for all kinds of believers or non-be-
lievers — is to talk the sheerest non-
sense. In all cases a clergyman
is, by virtue of his office and pro-
fession and belief, pledged to some
form of doctrine and faith, which
unless he teaches, he is either a
coward or a humbug. Anything
resembling a " non-sectarian " cler-
gyman would be exactly like a sol-
dier who bound himself by oath to a
certain government, yetheld himself
free not to defend that government,
or, when he saw it attacked, to be par-
ticularly careful not to do anything
that might possibly offend or op-
pose the foe. The world and his
own government would stamp such
12
Religion in Our State Institutions.
a man as the vilest of beings — a
traitor. The union of such dia-
metrically opposite professions is a
sheer impossibility.
Let us test the doctrine Mr.
Smyth himself lays down here, or
which the managers of the institu-
tion have laid down for him, and
show how sectarianism, which is
the one thing to be avoided, or, to
use a kinder term, denominational-
ism, must inevitably meet the teach-
er or preacher at every turn. " The
truths preached to these children
have been those fundamental truths
held in common by all Christian
communions." Mr. Smyth has told
us already that " the chaplain's
counsel and sympathy are sought
by those striving to lead a better
life, and with good results.*' There
must, then, be questioning on the
part of the children. Indeed, how
could instruction possibly go on
without question, explanation, ob-
jection, and answer ? Let us begin,
then, with the very foundation of
his doctrine. The first question
that would occur to any one would
be. What are " those fundamental
truths held in common by all Chris-
tian communions *' ? Mr. Smyth
does not mention one. Where shall
we find one ? A fundamental truth
held in common by all Christian
communions might at least be sup-
posed to be a belief in Christ. Very
well. Then who is Christ } Where
is Christ? Is Christ God or man,
or both.^ How do we come to
know him } Is Christ not God, is
he not man } What is his history }
Where is it found? In the Bible?
What is the Bible? Who wrote
the Bible ? VV^hy must we accept
it as the Word of God ? Is it the
Word of God ? W1iy " all Christian
communions '* are at war right on
this "fundamental truth,*' from
which they derive their very name
of Christian, and not a single qu
tion can be put or answered wi
out introducing denominatioridili
of some kind or another, and so
least prejudicing the minds of i
inmates agamst some particu
form of religious belief.
Take another supposition. Sure
belief in God would be " a func
mental truth held m common by
Christian communions." Here
begin again. Who is God ? \W
is God ? Where is God ? Is G
a spirit ? Is God a trinity or
unity? Is there only one Go<
Do all men believe in and worsli
the same God ? All at s^a again
the very mention of God's name !
Take the belief in a future. Dc
man end here ? Does he live agn
after death? Will the future
happy or miserable ? Is there
hell or a heaven ? Is there an ev«
lasting life? What is Mr. Smytl
own opinion on such " fundament
truths "? There is not a sinj
" fundamental truth " " held in co
mon by all Christian communion*
What is truth itself? What is
fundamental truth? Fundament
to what ? Why, there is not a sinj
religious subject of any kind wh*^
ever that can be mentioned
" Christian communions ** of a mi
ed character which will not on the i
stant create as many contentions
there are members of various Chr
tian communions present. Let M
Smyth try it outside, and see. L
him preach on " fundamental tnitl:
to any mixed congregation in Nt
York ; let there be free discussi*
after, and what would be the resiil
It is hard to say. But in all proli
bility the discussion would end 1
the State, in the persons of its i
presentatives, stepping in to ejc
the fundamental truths from l
building.
One need not go beyond this
Religion in Our State Institutions,
13
show how necessarily sectarian
must Mr. Smyth's religious instruc-
tion and preaching be. But the
fcry next sentence bristles with
direct antagonism to Catholic teach-
ing: ** What delinquent children
need is not the mere memorizing
of ecclesiastical formularies and
dogmas, which they can repeat one
moment and commit a theft the
next." In plain English, Catholic
children do not need to learn their
catechism, which is the compen-
dium of Christian doctrine. What
is the use of learning it, asks Mr.
Smyth, when they can "commit a
theft the next moment " ? He had
bcUcr go higher, and ask Christian
members of Congress how they can
address such pious homilies to
interesting Young Men's Christian
Associations, while they know they
have been guilty of stealing. He
might even ask the Rev. George
H- Smyth how he could reconcile
it with his conscience to take an
oath or make a solemn promise on
entering the ministry to preach a
certain form of doctrine, and pro-
fess to throw that oath and promise
I to the winds immediately on being
oflfered a salary to teach something
i quite different on Randall's Island.
I ** But they do need, and it is the
I province of the State to teach them
that there are, independent of any
and ail forms of religious faithy
fundamental principles of eternal
right, truth, and justice, which, as
members of the human family and
citizens of the commonwealth,
they must learn to live by, and
I which are absolutely essential to
their peace and prosperity. These
principles are inseparable from a
sound education, and must underlie
any and every system of religion
th.it is not a sham and a delusion."
That sounds very fine, and it is
dmost painful to be compelled to
spoil its effect. One cannot help
wondering in what theological
school Mr. Smyth studied. He
will insist on his " fundamental
principles," which, in the preced-
ing paragraph, are " common to all
Christian communions," but have
now become " independent of any
and all forms of religious faith." Is
there any " fundamental principle
of eternal right, truth, and justice "
which, to ** members of the human
family," is ** independent of any
and all forms of religious faith " }
Is there anything breathing of
eternity at all that comes not to us
in and through ** religious faith ".?
If there be such " fundamental
principles of eternal right, truth,
and justice," in God's name let us
know them ; for they are religion,
and we are ready to throw "any
and all forms of religious faith "
that contradict those eternal prin-
ciples to the winds. This we know :
that there is not a single " principle
of eternal right, truth, and justice "
which, according to Mr. Smyth,
" it is the province of the State to
teach delinquent children," that
did not come to the State through
some form or another of religious
faith; for in the history of this
world religion has always preceded
and, in its " fundamental principles
of eternal right, truth, and justice,"
instructed and informed the state.
The Rev. George H. Smyth is
either an infidel or he does not
know of what he is writing.
What kind of " moral and reli-
gious instruction " is likely to be
imparted to all children, and to Ca-
tholic children of all, by the Rev.
George H. Smyth, may be judged
from the foregoing. Whether or
not his teaching can approve itself
to a Catholic conscience may be
left to the judgment of all fair-mind-
td men. His report is only quoted
H
Religion in Our State Institutions.
further to show how completely sub-
ject the consciences of all these chil-
dren are to him :
"The regular preaching service
each Sabbath morning in the
chapel has been conducted by the
chaplain, one or more of the man-
agers usually being present ; also,
the Wednesday lecture for the offi-
cers. In the supervision of the
Sabbath-schools in the afternoon
he has been greatly aided by mana-
gers Ketchum and Herder, whose
valuable services have been grate-
fully appreciated by the teachers
and improved {sic) by the inmates.
** The course of religious instruction
laid down in the by-laws and pur-
sued in the house for fifty years has
been closely adhered to. " That is to
say, for fifty years not a syllable of
Catholic instruction has been im-
parted to the Catholic inmates of
the House of Refuge. The number
of those Catholic inmates will pre-
sently appear.
Among the gentlemen to whom
the chaplain records his "obli-
gations *' for their gratuitous ser-
vices in the way of lectures are
found the names of nine Protestant
clergymen and two Protestant lay-
men. No mention of a Catholic.
The Sabbath-school of the Re-
formed Church, Harlem, is thanked
for " a handsome supply ** of the
Illustrated Christian Weekly. The
librarian reports that one hundred
copies of the Youth's Companion
are supplied weekly, one hundred
copies of the American Messenger^
and one hundred and twenty-five
copies of the Chiltfs Paper, There
is no mention of a Catholic print
of any kind. The chaplain and
librarian are under no obligations
for copies of the Young CcUholiCy or
the New York Tablet, or the Catho-
lic Review, or any one of our many
Catholic journals. They are all for-
bidden. Yet they are not a whit
more " sectarian " than the Chris-
tian Weekly,. In addition, the
Bible Society is thanked " for a
supply of Bibles sufficient to give
each child a copy on his dis-
charge."
We turn now to the report of the
principal of schools. It is chiefly
an anti-Catholic tirade on the public
school question, but that point may
pass for the present. What we are
concerned with here is the species
of instruction to which the Catholic
children of the institution are sub-
jected. Mr. G. H. Hallock, the
principal, is almost "unco guid.*'
A single passage will suffice. ** But
underneath all this intellectual
awakening there is a grander work
to be performed ; there is a moral
regeneration that can be achieved.
Shall we stand upon the environs
of this moral degradation among
our boys, and shrink from the duty
We owe them, because they arc
hardened in sin and apparently
given over to evil influences ?
Would He who came to save the
* lost * have done this }
^^ Nothing can supply the place of
earnest, faithful religious teaching
drawn from the Word of God. 1
have the most profound convictions
of the inefficacy of all measures of
reformation, except such as are
based on the Gospel and pervaded
by its spirit. In vain are all
devices, if the heart and conscience,
beyond all power of external re-
straints, are left untouched.**
It were easy to go on quoting
from Mr. Hallock, but this is more
than . enoug i for our purpose.
Catholics too believe in the efficacy
of the Word of God, but in a differ-
ent manner, and to a great extent
in a different " Word ** from that of
Mr. Hallock. It is plain that
this man is imbued with the spirit
Religion in Our State Institutions.
15
rtf a missionary rather than of a
principal of schools, though how
Catholic sinners would fare at his
hands may be judged from the tone
of his impassioned harangue. The
missionary spirit is an excellent
spirit, and we have no quarrel with
Mr. Hallock or with his burning
desire to save lost souls; we only
venture to intimate that Mr. Hal-
lock is even less the kind of teacher
than Mr. Smyth is the kind of
preacher to whom we should en-
trust the spiritual education of our
Catholic children. By the bye,
this excellent Mr. Hallock*s name
occurred during the trial of Justus
Dunn for the killing of Calvert,
one of the keepers of this very
institution, in 1872. One of the
witnesses in that eventful trial, a
free laborer in the house, testified
on oath concerning the punishment
of a certain boy there :
" Q» What was the boy punished
for?
** A. For not completing his task
and not doing it well. He was re-
l>orted for this to the assistant-
superintendent, Mr. Hallock. He
(Mr. Hallock) carried him down to
the office by his collar, and there
punished him for about fifteen
minutes with his cane, so that the
blood ran down the boy's back ;
then the assistant-superintendent
brought him back into the shop to
his place, and there struck hirn on
the side of the head, telling him
that if he did not do his work
fight, he would give him more yet.
Then the boy cried out, * For God's
«akc! I am not able to do it.' So
he took him by his neck, and carried
him to the office, where he caned
him again. After that he brought
the boy back to his place in the
^p, and treated him then as he
*i>d on the other occasion. The
b^y could not speak a word after
^**au Then the assistant carried
him down to the office, and caned
him for the third time. After this
caning the boy could not come up-
stairs, so they took him to the
hospital, where he died in about
four days. After his death a
correspondent wrote a letter to the
New York Tribune y stating the
facts, and asking for an investiga-
tion, which took place. The pun-
ishment of Mr. Hallock was his
deposition from his office as assis-
tant superintendent, and installation
as teacher of the school. The eye-
witnesses of the occurrence were
not examined, but the whole mat-
ter was settled in the office of the
institution."
This en passant. It is pleasing,
after having read it, to be able to
testify to Mr. Hallock's excellent
sentiments, as shown in the extract
already given from his report, which
concludes in this touching fashion :
" We are left to labor in the vine-
yard amid scenes sometimes dis-
couraging, severe, and depressing
even. But, amid all, the sincere and
earnest worker may hear the voice
of the Great Teacher uttering words
of comfort and consolation : Inas-
much as ye have done it unto one of
the least of these my brethren^ ye have
done it unto me. ^* Tliose words of
consolation may be read in more
senses than one.
In keeping with all this is the
report of the president, Mr. Edgar
Ketchum. He also has the Catholics
in his eye. He is sirong on the mo-
ral training of the children and " the
mild discipline of the house," of
which the public knows sufficient to
warrant our letting Mr. Ketchum's
ironical expression pass without
comment. He is " far from dis-
couraging any effort to extend
Christian sympathy and aid to a
class who so deeply need them."
He believes that " religion, in her
benign offices, will here and there
i6
Religion in Our State Institutions.
be found to touch some chord of
the soul, and make it vibrate for ever
with the power of a new life."
What religion and what offices ?
He is of opinion that " the interests
of society and the criminal concur ;
and if his crimes have banished him
from all that makes life desirable,
t/uy need not carry with them cUso a
sentence of exclusion from whatever
a wise Cfhistian philanthropy can to
in his behalf "
We quite agree with Mr. Ketch um.
Christian philanthropy, as far as it
extends in this world, with the soli-
tary exception of this country, has,
as already seen, by unanimous ac-
tion, annulled, if ever it existed, that
** sentence of exclusion " which shut
off the criminal, or the one whom
Mr. Ketchum designates as ** the
victim of society," from the free
profession and practice of his re-
ligion, whether he were Catholic,
Protestant, Jew, or Mahometan.
That same " Christian philanthro-
py," as Mr. Ketchum is pleased to
call it, never peddled over by-laws,
or rules, or regulations, or " difficul-
ties " whose plain purpose was to
hinder Catholic children, confined
as are those in the house of which
he is president, from seeing their
priest, hearing their Mass, going to
confession, frequenting the sacra-
ments, and learning their catechism.
The same wise Christian philan-
thropy framed that section of the
constitution, binding alike on Mr.
Ketchum and his charges, that was
precisely framed to prevent the
** sentence of exclusion " which Mr.
Ketchum so justly and with such
' eloquence denounces. Christian
philanthropy can do no work more
worthy of itself than allowing these
unfortunate children, foremost and
above all things, the practice of that
form of Christianity which, were they
free agents, they would undoubtedly
follow ; nor could it do anything less
worthy of itself than force upon
them a system of worship and reli-
gious training which their hearts
abhor and their consciences reject.
It could not devise a more hein-
ous offence against God and man,
or a more hateful tyranny, than
that very " sentence of exclusion *'
which, under the " mild discipline
of the house," prevails in the society
of which Mr. Ketchum is president.
There is nothing left now but to
turn to the superintendent's report,
in order to ascertain the number of
Catholic children who, for the last
fifty years, have suffered this " sen-
tence of exclusion " from their faith,
its duties, and- its practices. We
are only enabled to form a proxi-
mate idea of their number, but suf-
ficiently accurate to serve our pur-
pose. The superintendent's figures
are as follows :
Total number of children com-
mitted in fifty years, . . . 15,791
Of these, 12,545 were boys and
3,246 girls. The statistics for the
first four decades are more accurate
than for the last, and show the rela-
tive percentage of the children of
native and foreign parents, as fol-
lows :
1ST Decade :
Native, .
. 44 :
per cent.
Foreign, ,
. . 56
a
2D Decade :
Native, .
. . 34i
«
Foreign. .
. . 65i
<«
3D Decade :
Native, .
. 32
«<
Foreign, .
. . 78
••
4TH Decade:
Native. .
. 14
««
Foreign, .
. . 86
<«
5TH Decade :
Native, .
. 13A
«
Foreign, .
. . 86tV
«r
It will be seen from this that the
percentage of the entire number is
enormously in favor of the children
born of foreign parents. This is
only natural from a variety of rca-
Religion in Our State Institutions. 17
^ons, chief among which is that the Ketchum is so eloquent an expo-
foreign-born population, including nent has pronounced against them
iheir children in the first degree, a dread " sentence of exchision "
has, within the last half-century, from all these practices of faith and
l>cen vastly in excess of the native, means of grace, as well as from in-
in this city particularly. Full sta- struction of any kind whatever in
listicsof the various nationalities of their religion. And not only has
the children are only given for the this been the case, but they have
last year (1874). Of the 636 new been subjected to the constant in-
inmates received during the year, struction of such men as Mr. Smyth
a little more than half the number and Mr. Hallock. Multiply these
(334) were of Irish parentage; children throughout the last fifty
S were French; 3 Italian; 1 Cu- years, as far as the relative percent-
ban. All of these may be safely age given will allow us to form an
set down as Catholics. There were opinion of their creeds, and the
^ of German birth, of whom one- picture that presents itself of these
third, following the relative statistics poor little Catholics is one that
of their nation, might be assumed rends the heart. In the present ar-
is of the Catholic faith. The re- tide we are only presenting the
mainder, whom we are willing to set general features of the case, basing
down in bulk as non-Catholic, were our argument for the admission of
divided as to nationality as follows : a Catholic chaplain to this and all
American, 96 similar institutions from which a
African, 35 Catholic chaplain is excluded, on
^.^i^^ 26 ji^g 1^^^. Qf ^i^g i^„^^ ^^ ^Y\Q letter
^J^jj ! * 6 and spirit of the constitution, which
B-jhetniin, ! \ . .' .* . i ^^^ Catholics love, revere, and obey.
Welsh. I We simply set the case in its barest
^'^«J 34 aspect before our fellow-citizens, of
At all events, figure as we may, whatever creed, and ask for our
It may be taken as indisputable children what they would claim
that more than one-half the chil- for their children — the riglit of in-
dren committed during the past struction in the religion in which
year to the House of Refuge were they were born ; the right of the free
'>f Catholic parents. Their average practice and profession of the reli-
ige, according to the statistics, was gion in which they believe ; the
mirteen years and eight months, right to repel all coercion, in what-
tTonsequcntly, the children were ever form, of conscience, whetlier
<l«ite of an age to be capable of such coercion be called sectarian
distinguishing between creed and or non-sectarian. In a word, we
rrccd, and six years beyond the av- ask now, as at the beginning, what
engc age set down by the Catholic we ask for all, and what Catholics,
Church as a proper time to begin to where they have the power, as al-
frequent the sacraments of Confes- ready seen, freely and without com-
mon and Communion, to prepare for pulsion, or request even, grant to
Confirmation, and to hear Mass on all — that great privilege and right
ill Sundays and holydays of ohliga- which the constitution of this State
lion, under pain of mortal sin. From guarantees to all mankind: "the
ihe moment of their entering the free exercise and enjoyment of reli-
iosiiiution the ** wise Christian phi- gious profession and worship, with-
bnihropy " of which Mr. Edgar out discrimination or preference.*'
VOL- XXI. — 2
I8
The Veil Withdrawn.
THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.
TSAIfSLATED, BY reRM!SSION, FHOK THE FRENCH OP MXK. CRATBN, AUTBOB OP ** A SISTEK*S STOIV,*'
"PLBURANC«," ETC.
COMCLUOBD.
XLIV.
This was the spring of the year
1859. In spite of the retirement in
which we lived and Lorenzo's assidu-
ous labors, which deprived him of
the leisure to read even a newspaper,
the rumors of a war between Austria
and Italy had more than once reach-
ed us and excited his anxiety — ex-
cited him as every Italian was at that
period at the thought of seeing his
country delivered from the yoke of
the foreigner. On this point public
sentiment was unanimous, and many
people in France will now compre-
hend belter than they did at that
time, perhaps, a cry much more
sincere than many that were uttered
at a later day — the only one that
came from every heart : Fuori i
Tedeschi, But till the time, when the
realization of this wish became possi-
ble, it was only expressed by those
who labored in secret to hasten its
realization ; it seemed dormant among
others. Political life was forbidden
or impossible. An aimless, frivolous
life was only embraced with the more
ardor, and this state of things had
furnished Lorenzo with more than
one excuse at the time when he
snatched at a poor one,
I had often lieard liim express his
national and political opinions, as-
pirations, and prejudices, but these
points had never interested me. I
loved Italy as it was. I thought it
beautiful, rich, and glorious. I did
not imagine anything could add to
the charm, past and present, which
nature, poetry, religion, and history
had endowed it with. From time to
time I had also heard a cry which
excited my horror, and conveyed to
my mind no other idea than a mon-
strous national and religious crime :
Roma capitate / These words alone
roused me sufficiently from my in-
difference to excite my indignation,
and even awakened in me a feeling
bordering on repugnance to all that
was then called the Italian resor^-
mento,
Stella did not, in this respect, agree
with me. It was her nature to be
roused to enthusiasm by everything
that gave proof of energy, courage,
and devotedness — traits that patriot
ism, more or less enlightened, easily
assumes the seductive appearance of,
provided it is sincere. No one could
repeat with more expression than
she:
"'Italia! Italia t . . .
De^ fossi tu men beUa ! O almcn piu forte T *
Or the celebrated apostrophe of
Dante :
** A hi serva Italia ! di ddore ostello !" t
Never did her talent appear to
better advantage than in the recita-
tion of such lines; her face would
light up and her whole attitude
change. Lorenzo often smilingly
said if he wished to represent the
poetical personification of Italy, lie
would ask Stella to become his
model. As to what concerned Rome.
she did not even seem to compre-
hend my anxiety. If a few madmen
• Italy ! Italy I ... Oh! that thou \rcrt kss few
or more powerful !
t " A slavish Italy ! thou inn of grief !"—G»r7'*
Dante,
The Veil Withdrawn,
19
already began to utter that ominous
rry, ilie most eminent Italians of the
lime declared that to infringe on the
majesty of Rome, deprive her of the
v>\-ereignty which left her, in a new
stmse, her ancient title of queen of
the world — in short, to menace the
Papacy, ** Vuniqiu grandeur vivanU
de tltalie^'^ would be to commit the
crime of treason against the world,
and uncrown Italy herself.
Alas ! now that the time approach-
ed for realizing some of her dreams
and the bitter deception of others,
Stella, absorbed in her grief, was
indiffijrent to all that was occurring
in her country, and did not even re-
mark the universal excitement around
her! As for me, who had always
taken so little interest in such things,
I was more unconcerned than ever,
ind scarcely listened to what was
^d on the subject in Mme. de
Kcrgy's drawing-room. I was far
from suspecting I was about to be
"olenily roused from my state of in-
tiifiterence.
It was Easter Sunday. I had been
to church with Lorenzo. We had
tulfillcd together the sweet, sacred
obligations of the day ; the union of
our souls was complete, and our
hearts were at once full of joy and
solemnity — that is, in complete har-
mony with the great festival. At our
return we found breakfast awaiting
Bs. Ottavia, who, with a single do-
mestic, had the care of our house,
Hid adorned the table with flowers,
y well as with a little more silver
IJan usual, in order to render it some-
what more in accordance with the
Importance of the day. By means
« colcre<l-glass windows and some
"*•! paintings suspended on the dark
*aiiiscotting, Lorenzo had given our
'tile dining room an aspect at once
^.ous and smiling, which greatly
iilcased me, ami I still remember the
Wing of happiness and joy with
which, on my return from church, I
entered the little room, the open win-
dow of which admitted the sun and
the odorof the jasmine twined around
it. The three conditions of true hap-
piness we did not lack — order, peace,
and industry — and we were in that
cheerful frame of mind which neither
wealth, nor gratified ambition, nor
any earthly prosperity is able to im-
part.
We took seats at the table. Lo-
renzo found before him a pileof letters
and newspapers, but did not attempt
to open them. He sat looking at
me with admiration and affection.
I, on my part, said to myself that
moral and religious influences had
not only a beneficial effect on the
soul, but on the outward appearance.
Never had Lorenzo's face worn such
an expression ; never had I been so
struck with the manly beauty of his
features. Our eyes met. He smil-
ed.
" Ginevra mia I" said he, '* in
truth, you are right. The life we now
lead must suit you, for you grow
lovelier every day."
" Our life does not suit you less
than it does me, Lorenzo," said I.
**We are both in our element now.
God be blessed! His goodness to
us has indeed been great !"
** Yes," said he with sudden gravity,
*' greater a thousand times than 1
had any right to expect. I am really
too happy !"
This time I only laughed at his
observation, and tried to divert his
mind from the remembrances awak-
ened.
'' Where are your letters from ?"
He tore one open, and his face
brightened.
" That looks well ! Nothing could
suit me better. Here is an American
who wishes a repetition of my Sapplu\
and gives me another order of impor-
tance. And then what ? He wishes
20
The Veil Withdrawn.
to purchase the lovely Vestal he saw
in my studio. Oh ! as for that, par
exemple^nol , . . The Vestalis mine,
mine alone. No one else shall ever
have it. But no matter, Ginevra ; if
things go on in this way, I shall
soon be swimming in money, and
then look out for the diamonds !"
He knew now, as well as I, what
I thought of such things. He laugh-
ed, and then continued to read his
letters.
** This is from Lando. It is ad-
dressed to us both."
He glanced over it :
" Their honeymoon at Paris is still
deferred. They cannot leave Donna
Clelia."
After reading for some time in si-
lence, he said in an animated tone :
"This letter has been written
some time, and it seems there were
rumors of war on all sides at the
time, and poor Mariuccia, though
scarcely married to her German ba-
ron, had to set out for her new home
much sooner than she expected."
I listened to all this with mingled
indifference and distraction, when I
suddenly saw Lorenzo spring from
his seat with an exclamation of so
much surprise that I was eager to
know what had caused his sudden
excitement.
He had just opened a newspaper,
and read the great news of the
day : tlie Austrians had declared war
against Italy. The beginning of the
campaign was at hand.
Alas! my happy Easter was in-
stantly darkened by a heavy cloud !
Lorenzo seized his hat, and imme-
diately went out to obtain further
details concerning the affair, leaving
me sad and uneasy. Oh ! how far
I lived from the agitations of great
political disturbances! How inca-
pable I was of comprehending them !
For a year my soul had been filled
with emotions as profound as they
were sweet. After great sufferings,
joys so great had been accorded ine
that I felt a painful shrinking from
the least idea of any change. Bat
though the power of suffering was
still alive in my heart, ail anxiety was
extinguished. Whatever way a dear
hand is laid on us, we never wish to
thrust it away. I remained calm,
therefore, though a painful appreheo*
sion had taken possession of my
mind; and when Lorenzo returned,
two hours later, I was almost pre-
pared for what he had to coromuni-
cate.
Yes, I knew it ; he wished to go.
Every one in the province to which
his family belonged was to take part
in this war of independence. He
could not remain away from his bro-
thers and the other relatives and
friends who were to enroll them-
selves in resisting a foreign rule.
" It is the critical moment- Sec-
onded by France, the issue cannot
be doubtful this time. You know 1
have abhorred conspiracies all my life,
and my long journeys have served to
keep me away from those who would
perhaps have drawn me into them.
But now how can you wish me to
hesitate ? How can you expect me
at such a time to remain inactive and
tranquil ? You would be the first, I
am sure, to be astonished at such a
course, and I hope to find you now
both courageous and prompt to aid
me, for I must start without any de-
lay. You understand, my poor
Ginevra, before tomorrow I must be
on my way."
He said .ill this and much more
besides. I neither tried to remon-
strate nor reply. I felt he was obey-
ing what he believed to be a call of
duty, and I could use no arguments
to dissuade him from it. What
could I do, then ? Only aid him.
and bear without shrinking the unex-
pected blow which had come like a
The Veil Wit/tdrawn.
2\
sudden tempest to overthrow the
edifice, but just restored, of my calm
jnd happy life I
The day passed sadly and rapidly
away. I was occupied so busily
ihat I scarcely had time for reflec-
tion. But at last all I could do
was done, and Lorenzo, who had
gone out in the afternoon, found, on
TCturuing at nightfall, that everything
was ready for his departure, which
was to take place that very night.
We sat down side by side on a
Iitdc bench against the garden-wall.
Spring-time at Paris is lovely also,
and everything was in bloom that
rear on £aster Sunday. The air
even in Italy could not have been
sweeter nor the sky clearer. He
took my hand, and I leaned my
head against his shoulder. For
some minutes my heart swelled with
a thousand emotions I was un-
able to express. I allowed my tears
to flow in silence. Lorenzo likewise
stnjgglevl to repress the agitation he
(lid not wish to betray, as I saw by
bis trembling lips and the paleness
of his^&ce.
I wiped my eyes and raised my
bead.
** Lorenzo," said I all at once,
"why not lake ine with you, instead
<i leaving me here ?"
•*To the war ?" said he, smiling.
** No, but to Italy. You could
icare me, no matter where. On the
oCier side of the Alps I should be
Dcir you, and . . . should you have
cecd of me, I could go to you."
He remained thoughtful for a mo-'
meet, and then said, as '\( speaking to
^ioKelf:
{ ** Ves, should I be wounded, and
Qave time to see you again, it would
' ijc a consolation, it is true."
Wc became silent agaui, and I
^«aited his decision with a beating
^icart Finally he said in a decided
" No, Ginevra, it cannot be. Re-
main here. It is my wish. You
must"
" Why ?" asked I, trying to keep
back the tears that burst from my
eyes at his reply — ^** why ? Oh ! tel!
me why ?"
*' Because," re^^ied he firmly, '• 1
have no idea what will be the result
of the war in Italy. Very probably
it will cause insurrections everywhere,
perhaps revolutions."
**0 my God!" cried I with ter-
ror . . . "and you expect me not
to feel any horror at this war!
Even if it had not come to overturn
my poor life, how can I help shud-
dering at the thought of all the mis-
ery it is about to produce ?"
" What can you expect, Ginevra ?
Yes, it is a serious affair. God alone
knows what it will lead to. You see
Mario writes Sicily is already a-flanie.
No one can tell what will take place
at Naples. I should not be easy
about you anywhere but here. . . .
No, Ginevra, you cannot go. You
must remain here. I insist upon
it."
I knew, from the tone in which he
said this, it was useless to insist, and
I bent my head in silence. He gently
continued, as he pressed my hand in
his :
" The war will be short, I hope,
Ginevra. If I am spared, I will has-
ten to resume the dear life we have
led here. But if, on the contrary . . ."
He stopped a moment, then, with
a sudden change of manner and an
accent I shall never forget, he con-
tinued :
*' But why speak to you as I should
to any other woman ? Why not
trust to the inward strength you pos-
sess, which has as often struck me
as your sweetness of disposition ? I
know now where your strength
comes from, and will speak to you
without any circumlocution."
22
The Veil Withdrawn,
I looked at him with surprise at
this preamble, and by the soft even-
ing light I saw a ray of heaven in
his eyes; for they beamed with faith
and humility as he uttered the follow-
ing words :
*• Why deceive you, Ginevra ?
Why not tell you«J feel this is the
last hour we shall ever pass together
ill this world ?"
I shuddered. He put his arm
around my waist, and drew me to-
wards him.
*' No, do not tremble ! . . . Listen
to me. ... If I feel I am to die,
1 iiave always thought a life Hke
mine required some other expiation
'besides repentance. The happiness
you have afforded me is not one, and
who knows if its continuation might
not become a source of danger to
me ? Whereas to die now would be
something; it would be a sacrifice
worthy of being offered . . . and
accepted."
My head had again fallen on his
shoulder, and my lieart beat so rap-
idly I was not able to reply.
*' Look upward, Ginevra," said he
in a ihrilUng tone ; " raise your eyes
towards the heaven you have taught
me to turn to, to desire, and hope
for. Tell me we shall meet there
again, and there find a happiness no
longer attended by danger I"
Yes, at such language I felt the
inward strength he had spoken of as-
sert itself, after seeming to fail me,
and this terrible, painful hour became
truly an hour of benediction.
'* Lorenzo," said I in a tone which,
in spite of my tears, was firm, " yes,
you are right, a thousand times right
Yes, whatever be your fate and mine,
let us bless God ! . . . We are happy
without doubt ; but our present life,
whatever its duration, is only a short
prelude to that true life of infinite
happiness which awaits us. Let God
do as he pleases with it and with us!
Whatever be the result, there is no
adieu for us."
Do I mean to say that the sorrow
of parting was extinguished? Oh!
no, assuredly not. We tasted its
bitterness to the full, but there is a
mysterious savor which is only re-
vealed to the heart that includes all
in its sacrifice, and refuses nothing.
This savor was vouchsafed us at that
supreme hour, and we knew and fell
it strengthened our souls.
XLV.
The two weeks that succeeded this
last evening seem, as I look back
upon them, like one long day of ex-
pectation. Nothing occurred to re-
lieve my constant uneasiness. A few
lines from Lorenzo, written in haste
as he was on the point of starting to
join the army, where the post of
aide-de-camp to one of the generals
had been reserved for him, were the
last direct news I received. From
that day I had no other information
but what I gathered from the news-
papers, or what Mme. de Kergy and
Diana obtained fi-om their friends,
who, though most of them were un-
favorable to the war in which France
was engaged, felt an ardent interest
in all who toolc part in it. But there
were only vague, confused reports,
which, far from calming my agitation,
only served to increase it.
One evening I remained later than
usual at church. Prostrate before
one of the altars, which was lit up
with a great number of tapers, I
could not tear myself away, though
night had come and the church was
almost deserted. It was one of those
dark, painful hours when the idea of
suffering fills us with fear and repug-
nance, and rouses every faculty of
Tlie Veil Withdrawn.
23
our nature to resist it ; one of those
hours of mortal anguish that no hu-
man being could support bad there
not been a day — a day that will en-
dure as long as the world — when this
agony was suffered by Him who wish-
ed us to participate in it in order that
he might be for ever near us when we,
in our turn, should have to endure it
fur him ! . . .
Oh I in that hour I felt in how
short a time I had become attached
to the earthly happiness that had
been granted me beyond the realiza-
tion of my utmost wishes. What
tender, ardent sentiments! What
sweet, delightful communings already
constituted a treasure in my memory
vhich furnished material for the most
fearful sacrifice I could be called
iipon to make ! Alas ! the human
heart, even that to which God has
deigned to reveal himself, still at-
taches itself strongly to all it is per-
imtted to love on earth! But this
divine love condescends to be jealous
(if our affection, and it is seldom he
spares such hearts the extreme sacri-
fices which lead them to give them-
selves to him at last without any re-
serve!
When I left the church, I saw a
crowd in the street. Several houses
vere illuminated, and on all sides I
beard people talking of a great vic-
tory, the news of which had just ar-
rived at Paris. '
I returned home agitated and trou-
bled. At what price had this victory
been won ? Who had fallen in the
battle ? What was I to hear ? And
«hen would the anguish that now
cTouacted ray heart be relieved . . .
Of juuified? Mme. de Kergy,
•ho hastened to participate in my
anxiety, was unable to allay it. But
our suspense was not of long duration.
The hour, awaited with the fear of
aa overpowering presentiment, was
iooQ to arrive I • • •
Two days after I was sitting in
the evening on the little bench in
the garden where we held our last
conversation, when I received the news
for which he had so strangely prepared
nie. His fatal prevision was realized.
He was one of the first victims of
the opening attad^ His name, better
known than many others, had been
reported at once, and headed the list
of those who fell in the battle.
No preparation, no acceptation
of anticipated misfortune, no effort
at submission or courage, was now
able to preserve me from a shock
similar to the one I have related the
effects of at the beginning of thi§
story. As on that occasion, I lost
all consciousness, and Ottavia car-
ried me senseless to my chamber.
As tlien, likewise, I was for several
days the prey to a burning fever,
which was followed by a weakness
and prostration that rendered my
thoughts confused and incoherent
for some time. And finally, as
when I was but fifteen years old, it
was also a strong, sudden emotion
that helped restore my physical
strength and the complete use of my
senses and reason.
The most profound silence reign-
ed in the chamber where I lay, but
I felt I was surrounded by the ten-
derest care. At length I vaguely
began to recognize voices around
me; first, that of Ottavia, which
made me shed my first tears — tears
of emotion, caused by a return to the
days of my childhood. I thought
myself there again. I forgot every-
thing that had happened since. But
this partial relief restored lucidness
to my mind, and with it a clear
consciousness of the misfortune that
had befallen me. Then I uttered a
cry — a cry that alarmed my faithful
nurse. But I had the strength to
reassure her at once.
24
The Veil Withdrawn.
" Let i»e weep, Ottavia," said I
in a low tone — ** I know, ... I
recollect. Do not be alarmed ; I am
better, Ottavia. God be blessed, I
can pray !"
I said no more, and closed my
eyes. But a little while after I re-
opened them, and q§gerly Vaised my
head. What did I hear ? Mme.
de Kergy and Diana were there.
I recognized their voices, a
now distinguished theii faces. I
whose voice was that which h
just struck my ear? Whose sw<
face was that so dose to mini
Whose hand was that I felt the \>t<
sure of?
" O my Stella !" I cried, " is it
dream, or are you really here ?" . .
XLVI.
No, it was not a dream. It was
reaily Stella, who had torn herself
from her retreat, her solitude and
her grief, and hastened to me as
9©on as she heard of the fresh blow
that had befallen me. She had not
ceased to interest herself in all that
concerned my new life, and the dis-
tant radiance of my happiness had
been the only joy of her wounded
lieart. Now this happiness was sud-
denly destroyed. ... I was far
away ; I was in trouble ; I was
alone ; the state of affairs, which be-
came more and more serious, de-
tained my brother in Sicily ; but she
was free — free, alas I from every tie,
from every duty, and she came to
me as fast as the most rapid travel-
ling could bring her. But when she
arrived, I was unable to recognize
her, and, when I now embraced her,
she had watched more than a week
at my bedside !
This was the sweetest consola-
tion — the greatest human assistance
heaven could send me, and it was a
benefit to both of us. For each it
was beneficial to have the other to
think of.
My health now began to improve,
and my soul recovered its serenity.
I felt a solemn, profound peace,
which could not be taken from me,
and which continually increased ; but
this did not prevent me from feeling
and saying with sincerity that every-
thing in this world was at an end f
me.
Yes, everything was at an enc
but I resigned myself to my lot, an
when, after this new affliction,
found myself before the altar w^hei
I prayed that evening with so man
gloomy forebodings, I fell prostrate
as, after some severe combat or Ion
journey, a child falls exhausted o
the threshold of his father's house, t
which he returns never to leave i
again !
If I had then obeyed my natura
impulse, I should have sought som<
place of profound seclusion, where J
could live, absorbed and lost in th<
thought continually preseiit to mj
mind since the great day of grac€
which enabled me to comprehend
the words; God loves me! and to
which I could henceforth add : And
whom alone I now love !
But it is selddfn the case one's na-
tural inclinations can be obeyed, es-
pecially when they incline one to
a hfe of inaction and retirement
There is but little repose on eanh,
and the more we love Goii, the less
it is permitted to sigh after it. I
was forced to think of others at this
time, and, above all, of the dear, faith-
ful friend who had come so far to
console me.
It did not require a long time for
Mme. de Kergy to discern the he-
roic greatness of Stella's character,
The Veil Witltdrawn,
25
and still less for her maternal heart,
that had received so many blows, to
sympathize with the broken heart of
Angiolina's mother. The affection
she at once conceived for Stella was
so strong that I might have been al-
most jealous, had it not exactly re-
alized one of my strongest desires,
and had not Mme. de Kergy been
one of those persons whose affection
is tiie emanation of a higher love
which is bestowed on all, without al-
luving that which is given to the
latest comer to diminish in the least
the part of the others.
She at once perceived the remedy
that would be efficacious to her
wounded heart, and what would be
a beneficial effort for mine, and she
ihrew us both, if I may so express
myself^ into that ocean of charity
where all personal sufferings, trials,
and considerations are forgotten, and
where peace is restored to the soul by
means of the very woes one encoun-
ters and succeeds in relieving.
No fatigue, no fear of contagion,
the sight of no misery, affected Stella's
coorage; no labor wearied her pa-
tience, no application or effort was
beyond her ability and perseverance.
For souls thus constituted it is a
genuine pleasure to exercise their
noble faculties and be able to satis-
fy the thirst for doing good that
devours them. Her eyes, therefore,
soon began to brighten, her face to
grow animated, and from time to
lime, Kke a reflection of the past, her
lips to expand with the charming
«nile of former days.
There b a real enjoyment, little
suspected by those who have not ex-
perienced it, in these long, .atiguing
rounds, the endless staircases ascend-
ed and descended, in all these duties
at once distressing and consoling,
and it can be truly affirmed that
there is more certainty of cheerful-
ness awaiting those who return home
from these sad visits than the hap-
piest of those who come from some
gay, brilliant assembly. It is to the
former the words of S. Francis de
Sales may be addressed : " Consider
the sweetest, liveliest pleasures that
ever delighted your heart, and say if
there is one worth the joy you now
taste. . . ."
Thus peace and a certain joy re-
turned by degrees, seconded by th^
sweetest, tenderest, most beneficial
sympathy. Notwithstanding the soli-
tude in which we lived, and the
mourning I never intended to lay
aside, and which Stella continued to
wear, we spent an hour every even-
ing at Mme. de Kergy's, leaving
when it was time for her usual circle
to assemble. This hour was a plea-
sant one, and she depended on seeing
ns, for she began to cling to our
company. Diana, far from being
jealous, declared we added to the
happiness of their life ; and one day,
in one of her outbursts of caressing
affection, she exclaimed that the good
God had restored to her mother the
two daughters she had mourned for
so long.
At these words Mme. de Kergy's
eyes filled with tears, which she has-
tily wiped away, and, far from contra-
dicting her daughter, she extended
her arms and held us both in a
solemn, tender, maternal embrace !
XLVII.
HTiat Stella felt at that moment I
cwnot say. As for me, my feelings
•ere rather painful than pleasant,
i comprehended only too well the
sadness that clouded the dear, vene-
rable brow of Gilbert's mother, and
his prolonged absence weighed on
my heart like remorse. Of course I
26
Tlie Veil Witlidrawn.
did not consider myself the direct
cause. But I could not forget that
he merely left his country for a few
weeks, and it was only after his so-
journ at Naples he had taken the
sudden resolution to make almost
the tour of the world — that is, a jour-
ney whose duratioi^was prolonged
from weeks into months, and from
months into years. I felt that no
joy could spring up on the hearth
he had forsaken till the day he
should return, and it seemed to me I
should not dare till that day arrived
enjoy the peace that had been re-
stored to my soul.
Months passed away, however,
autumn came for the second time
since Stella's arrival, and the time
fixed for her departure was approach-
ing. I had made up my mind to
accompany her, and pass some lime
at Naples with her, in order to be
near my sister; but various unfore-
seen events modified her plans as
well as mine.
I went one day to the H6tel de
Kergy at a different hour from that I
was in the habit of going. Diana
and her mother had gone out. I
was told they would return in an
hour. I decided, therefore, to wait,
and, as the weather was fine, I se-
lected a book from one of the tables
of the drawing-room, and took a
seat in the garden.
While I was looking over the
books, my attention was attracted to
several letters that lay on the table
awaiting Mme. de Kergy's return,
and, to my great joy, I recognized
Gilbert's writing on one of them.
His long absence had this time been
rendered more painful by the infre-
quency and irregularity of his letters.
Whole months often elapsed without
the arrival of any. I hoped this one
h;ui brought his mother the long-
wished -for promise of his return, and
cheered by this thought, I opened my
book, which soon absorbed me so
completely that I forgot my anxieiy.
and hope, and everything else. . . .
The book I held in my hand %va5
the Confessions of S. Augustine^ and,
opening it at hazard, the passage on
which ray eyes fell was tkis :
" What I know, not with doubt, but
with certainty ; what 1 know, O my
God ! is that 1 love thee. Thy word
penetrated my heart and suddenly
caused it to love thee. The heavens
and tlie earth, and all they contain, do
they not cry without ceasing that all
men should love thee ? But he on
whom it pleaseth thee to have
mercy alone can comprehend this lan-
guage." ♦
words, ancient but ever new,
like the beauty itself that inspired
them I What a flight my soul took
as I read them again here in this
solitude and silence. Though centu-
ries had passed since the day they
were written, how exactly they ex-
pressed, how faithfully they por-
trayed, the feelings of my heart!
How profound was the conviction I
felt, in my turn, that, without the
mercy and compassion of God, I
should never have been able to un-
derstand their meaning I
1 was deeply, deeply plunged in
these reflections, I was lost in a world,
not of fancy, but of reality more de-
lightful than a poet's dreams, when
an unusual noise brought me sudden-
ly to myself. First I heard the rat-
tling of a carriage which I supposed
to be Mme. de Kergy 's. But I
instandy saw two* or three servants
rush into the court, as if some un-
expected event had occurred. Then
the old gardener, at work in the
parterre before me, suddenly threw
down his watering-pot and uttered a
cry of surprise and joy :
" O goodness of God !'* exclaimed
• Owt/. 0/S, /4«^.. b, X. ch. vi.
The Veil Withdrawn.
27
he in a trembling voice, " there is
Monsieur le Comte !"
^'Monsieur le Comte?" cried I,
ha^y rising. ...
But I had not time to finish my
question. It was really he — Gilbert.
He was there before me, on the upper
step of the flight that led to the
drawing-room. 1 sprang towards
him with a joy I did not thiuk of
re))ressing or concealing, and, extend-
ing both hands, I exclaimed :
** Oh ! God be blessed a thousand
times. It is you! You have re-
turned ! What a Joyful surprise for
yoiu- mother ! For Diana ! For me
abo, I assure you ! . . ."
I know not what else I was on
the point of adding when, seeing
him stand motionless, and gaze at
me as if incapable of answering a
word, a famt blush rose to my face.
Was he surprised at such a greeting,
or too much agitated ? Perchance
he was deceived as to its signification.
This doubt caused a sudden embar-
nusment, and checked the words I
was about to uttei¥
At length he explained his unex-
pected arrival. His letter ought to
hare arrived before. He supposed
his mother was notified. . . . He
wislied to spare her so sudden a sur-
prise. , . .
** I knew you were at Paris," con-
tinued he, in a tone of agitation he
could not overcome, " Yes ... I
iroew it, and hoped to see you again.
But to find you here ... to see you
the first, O madame 1 that was a
happiness too great for me to antici-
pate, and I cannot yet realize it is
not, after all, a dream. . . ."
While he was thus speaking, and
gazing intently at me as if I were
some vision about to vanish from his
wght, my joyful greeting and cordial-
itr were changed into extreme gravity
of manner, and I looked away as
his eyes wandered from my face to
my mourning attire, and for the first
time it occurred to me he found me
free, and perhaps was now thinking
of it!
Free! . . . Oh! if I have suc-
ceeded in describing the state of my
soul since that moment of divine
light which marked the most pre-
cious day of my life ; if 1 have clearly
expressed the aspect which the past,
the present, the future, and all the
joys, all the sufferings, in short, every
event of my life, henceforth took in
my eyes; if, I say, I have been able
to make myself understood, those
who have read these pages are al-
ready aware what the word free now
signified to me.
Free ! Yes, as the bird that cle aves
the air is free to return to its cage ; as
the captive on his way to the shores
of his native land is free to return
and resume his chains; so is the
soul that has once tasted the blessed
reality of God's love free also to
return to the vain dreams of earthly
happiness.
" I would not accept it I" was the
exclamation of a soul * that had thus
been made firee, and it is neither
strange nor new. No more than
the bird or the caprive could it be
tempted to return to the past. . . .
• •••••
I did not utter a word, however,
and the thoughts that came over me
like a flood died away in the midst
of the joyful excitement that \m\ an
end to this' moment of silence.
Mme. de Kergy and Diana, who
had been sent for, arrived pale and
agitated. But when I saw Gilbert
in his mother's arms, I felt so happy
that I entirely forgot what had oc-
curred, and was not even embarrass-
ed when, as I was on the point of
leaving, I heard Diana say to her
brother that her mother had two new
* A Sttter** Story.
28
The Veil Witlidrawn.
daughters now, and he would find
three sisters instead of one in the
house.
I returned home in great haste.
It was the first time for a long while
my heart had felt light. I searched
for Stella. She was neither in the
house nor garden, I then thought
of the studio, where, in fact, I found
her. Everything remained in the
same way Lorenzo had left it, and
Stella, who had a natural taste for
the arts, knew enough of sculpture
to devote a part of her time to it
She had succeeded in making a bust
of Angiolina which was a good like-
ness, and she was at work upon it
when I entered.
She looked at me with an air of
surprise, for she saw something un-
usual had taken place.
"Gilbert has returned!" I ex-
claimed, without thinking of prepar-
ing her for the news, the effect of
which I had not sufficiently foreseen.
She turned deadly pale, and her
face assumed an expression I had
never known it to wear. I was ut-
terly amazed. Rising with an abrupt
movement, she said, in an altered
tone :
" Then 1 must go, Ginevra !" And,
suddenly bursting into tears, she
pressed her lips to • the little bust,
the successful production of her
labor and grief.
"O my angel child!" said she,
** forgive me. I know it ; I ought to
love no one but thee. I have been
punished, cruelly punished. And yet
I am not sure of myself, Ginevra.
1 do not wish to see him again. I
must go."
It was the first time in her life
Stella had thus allowed me to read
the depths <5f her heart. It was the
first time the violence of any emo-
tion whatever broke down the wall
of reserve she knew how to main-
tain, and made her rise above her
natural repugnance to speak of her-
self. It was the first time I was sure
of the wound I had so long suspect-
ed, but which I had never ventured
to probe.
God alone knows with what emo-
tion I listened to her. What hopes
were awakened, and what prayers
rose from my heart during the mo-
ment's silence that followed tliese
ardent words. She soon continued,
with renewed agitation :
"Yes, I must start at once. I
had no idea he would arrive in this
way without giving me time to es-
cape! . . ."
Then she added, in a hollow tone :
** Listen, Ginevra. For once I
must be frank with you. He loves
you, you well know, and now there
is nothing more to separate youj
now you are free. . . ."
But she stopped short, surprised,
I think, at the way in which I
looked at her.
" She also ! Is it possible ?" mur-
mured I, replying to ray own
thoughts. •
And my eyes, that had been ^xt^i
on her, involuntarily looked upward
at the light that came from the only
window in the studio. I soon said
in a calm tone :
" You are mistaken, Stella. I am
not free, as you suppose. But let us
not speak of myself, I beg. . . ."
She listened without comprehend-
ing me, and her train of thought, in-
terrupted for a moment, resumed its
course. I was far from wisliing to
check a communicativeness her suf-
fering heart had more need of than
she was aware. I allowed her,
therefore, to pour out without hin-
drance all that burdened her mind
I suffered her to give way to her un-
reasonable remorse. I did not even
contradict her when she repeated
that her sweet treasure would not
have been ravished from her, had
The Veil Withdrawn.
29
she been worthy of possessing it, if
no other love had been allowed to
enter her heart. I did not oppose
this fancy, which was only one of
those pfffidies de Pamour^ as such
imaginar)' wrongs have been happily
styled, which, after the occurrence of
misfortune, often add to one's actual
sorrow a burden still heavier and
more difficult to bear.
On the contrary, I assured her we
would start together, and she herself
should fix the day of our departure.
I only begged her not to hasten the
time, and, by leaving Paris so ab-
ruptly, afflict our excellent friend at
the very hour of her joy, and make
Diana weep at the moment when she
was so pleased at the restoration of
their happiness. At last I induced
her to consent that things should re-
main for the present as they were.
She would return to the Hotel de
Kergy, and Gilbert's return should
in no way change the way of life we
had both led for a year.
XLVIII.
Nothing, in fact, was changed.
Our morning rounds, our occupations
in the afternoon, and our evening re-
onions, all continued the same as be-
fore. Apparently nothing new had
occurred except the satisfaction and
joy which once more brightened the
fireside of our friends, and things
•trere pleasanter than ever, even when
(iilbcrt was present. This time he
seeing I decided to put an end to his
wandering habits, «nd settle down
with his mother, never to leave her
again.
Nothing was changed, therefore.
And yet before the end of the year
I alone remained the same as the day
of Gilbert's arrival, the day when
Stella was so desirous of going away
tbit she might not meet him again ;
the day when (as I must now ac
knowledge) he thought if he was de-
ceived by the pleasure I manifested
at seeing him again, if my sentiments
did not respond to his, if some new
insurmountable barrier had risen in
the place of that which death had re-
moved, then he would once more de-
l»art, he would leave his country again,
he would exile himself from his
friends . . . and — who knows ? — per-
haps die— yes, really, die of grief with
a hroken heart ! . . .
It was somewhat in these terms he
spoke to me some time after his re-
turn, and I looked at him, as I listen-
ed, with a strange sensation of sur-
prise. He was, however, the same
he once was, the same Gilbert whose
presence had afforded me so much
happiness and been such a source
of danger. There was no change in
the charm of his expression, his voice,
his wit, the elevation of his mind and
character, and yet ... I tried, but
in vain, to recall the emotions of the
past I once found so difficult to liide,
so painful to combat, so impossible to
overcome. I could not revive the
dreams, the realization of wliich was
now offered me, and convince my-
self it was I who had formerly re-
garded such a destiny as so happy a
one and so worthy of envy — I, who
now found it so far below the satis-
fied ambition of my heart. Ah ! it
was a good thing for me to see Gil-
bert again ; it was well to look this
earthly happiness once more in the
face, in order to estimate il e extent
the divine arrow had penetraied my
soul and opened the only true foun-
tain of happiness and love !
It was not necessary to give utter-
ance to all these thoughts. There
was something inexpressible in my
eyes, my voice, my language, my
tranquillity in his presence, in ray
30
The Veil Withdrawn.
friendship itself, so evident and sin-
cere, which were more expressive
than any words or explanation, and
by degrees produced a conviction no
man can resist unless he is — which
Gilbert was not — ^blind, presumptuous,
or inflated with pride.
** Amor, ch* a null* amato amar perdona,** *
says our great poet. But he should
have added that, if this law is
not obeyed, love dies, and he who
loves soon grows weary of loving in
vain.
Gilbert was not an exception to
this rule. The time came for its ac-
complishment in his case. Tlie day
came when he realized it. It was a
slow, gradual, insensible process, but
at length I saw the budding, the
progress, the fulfilment of my dearest
hopes.
The ** sang joyeux " which once
enabled my dear Stella to endure the
trials of her earlier life now diffused
new joy and hope in her heart, brought
back to her eyes and lips that bril-
liancy of color and intensity of ex-
pression which always reflected the
emotions of her soul, and made her
once more what she was before her
great grief! . . .
I saw her at last happy — happy to
a degree that had never before been
shed over her life. I should have
left her then, as I intended, to see
Livia again ; but, while the changes I
have just referred to were taking
place around me, the heavy, un-
merciful hand of spoliation had been
laid on the loved asylum where my
sister hoped to find shelter for life
Soldiers' quarters were needed. The
monastery was appropriated, the
nuns were expelled. A greater trial
than exile was inflicted on their inno-
cent lives — a trial as severe as death*
and, in fact, was death to several of
* ** Love that denial take» from none beloved." —
Gary's Dautty lH/cru9, canto v
their number. They were separate
from one another; the aged wej
received in pious families; sou
were dispersed in various conven
of their order sttll spared in Italy h
the act of suppression ; others, agau
sought refuge in countries not the
affected by the tempest which, fron
time to time, rises against the cfaurc
and strikes the religious orders a
lightning always strikes the highe<
summits, without ever succeeding ii
annihilating one, but leaving to Ihi
persecutors the stigma of crime an<
the shame of defeat !
My sister Livia was of the nurobe
of these holy exiles. A convent ol
her order, not far from Paris, was as
signed her as a refuge, and it wa
there I had the joy of once raon
seeing her calm, angelic face. Ho\5
much we had to say to each other I
How truly united we now wcrel
What a pleasure to again find her
attentive ear, her faithful heart, and
her courageous, artless soul! Bui
when, after the long account I had
to give her, I asked her to tell me, in
her turn, all she had suffered from
the sudden, violent invasion, the pro-
fanation of a place so dear and sacred
to her, and the necessity of bidding
farewell to the cloudless heavens,
the beautiful mountains, and all the
enchanting scenery of the country
she loved, she smiled :
"What difference does all that
make ?" said she. " Only one thing
is sad : that they who have wronge<i
us should have done us this injury.
As for us, the only real privation
there is they could not inflict on us ;
the only true exile they could not
im pose. Domini est term et filemtn ii*
ejus I No human power can separate
us from him !
And now there remains but little
to add.
The happiness of this world, such
March.
31
as it is, in all its fulness and its in-
sufficiency, Gilbert and Stella pos-
ses. Diana also, without being
obliged to ]eave her mother, has
found a husband worthy of her and
the dear sanctuary of all that is
noble. Mario makes frequent jour-
neys to France to visit his sisters,
each in her retreat, and his former
t^>erities seem to grow less and less.
Liudo and Teresina also come to see
me every time they visit Paris, and
I always find in him a sincere and
fidthful friend ; but it is very difficult
to convince him I shall never marry
again, and still more so to make him
understand how I can be happy.
Happy! . . . Nevertheless I am,
sod truly so ! I am happier than I
ever imagined I could be on earth ;
aod if life sometimes seems long, I
have never found it sad. Order,
peace, activity, salutary friendship, a
<ii\*ine hope, leavfe nothing to be de-
sired, and like one * who, still young,
* AknoMlnae d« fat Fermcmays.
likewise arrived through suffering to
the clearest light, I said, in my turn :
Nothing is wanting, for '* / believe, I
love, and I wait /"
Yes, I await the plenitude of tliat
happiness, a single ray of which suf-
ficed to transform my whole life. I
bless God for having unveiled the
profound mystery of my heart, and
enabled me to solve its enigma, and
to un^lerstand with the same clear-
ness all the aspirations of the soul
which constitute here below the
glory and torment of our nature ! I
render thanks to him for being able
to comprehend and believe with as-
surance that the reason why we are
so insatiable for knowledge, for
repose, for liappiness, for love, for
security, and for so many other
blessings never found on earth to
the extent they are longed for,
is because " we are all i created
solely for what we cannot here pos-
sess!"*
* Madame SwetchiiM.
. MARCH.
Ready is Time beneath her brooding wing
To break with swelling life the brown earth's sheath ;
And fondly do we watch th' expectant heath
For bloom and song the days are ripe to bring.
Our heralds even vaunt the birth of spring.
While yet, alack ! the winter's blatant breath
Defieth trust, and coldly shadoweth
With drifts of gray each hope that dares to sing.
Yet still we know, as deepest shades foretell
The coming of.the morn, and lovely sheen
Of living sunshine lies asleep between
A snow-bound crust and joys that upward well,
So, sure of triumph o'er the yielding shell,
Are ecstasies of song and matchless green !
32
C alder on s Autos Sacrainentales.
CALDERON'S AUTOS SACRAMENTALES.
ViLLEMAiN, in his Lectures on the
Literature of the Middle Ages^ while
speaking of the Mysteries perform-
ed by the Confreres de la Passion^ ex-
claims, " It is to be regretted that
at that period the French language
was not more fully developed, and
that there was no man of genius
among the Confreres de la Passion,
"The subject was admirable : im-
agine a theatre, which the faith of
the people made the supplement of
their worship ; conceive religion,
with the sublimity of its dogmas, put
on the ttage before convinced spec-
tators, then a poet of powerful im-
agination, able to use freely all
these grand things, not reduced to
the necessity of stealing a few tears
from us by feigned adventures, but
striking our souls with tlie authori-
ty of an apostle and the impassion-
ed magic of an artist, addressing
what we believe and feel, and mak-
ing us shed real tears over subjects
which seem not only true, but di-
vine — certainly nothing would have
been greater than this poetry !"
Such a poet and such poetry
Spain possesses in Calderon and
his Autos Sacramentales^ which may
be regarded as the completion and
perfection of the religious drama of
the Middle Ages.
Of the modern nations which
possess a national popular drama,
Spain is the only one where, by the
side of the secular stage, there has
grown up and been carefully culti-
vated a reb'gious drama ; for this, in
England, died with the Mysteries
and Moralities.
The persistence of the religic
drama in Spain is to be explain
by the peculiar history of the i
tion, especially the struggle of cc
turies with the Moors — ^a contini
crusade fought on their own s<
which inflamed to the highest <]
gree the religious enthusiasm
the people.
The Reformation awoke but
feeble echo in Spain, and only sei
ed to quicken the masses to great
devotion to doctrines they s*'
threatened from abroad.
The two dogmas of the chun
which have always been especial
dear to the Spaniards are those {
the Immaculate Conception ar
Transubstantiation.
The former, as more spiritual ar
impalpable, remained an article <
faith, deep and fervent, only repn
sented to the senses by the myst
masterpieces of Murillo. Trai
substantiation, on the other ham
was embodied in a host of symbo
and ceremonies, and had devoted l
it the.most gorgeous of all the fest
vals of the church — that of Corpi
Christi, established in 1263 by Ui
ban IV., formally promulgated b
Clement V. in 13 11, and fifty yeai
later amplified and rendered mor
magnificent by John XXIII.
This festival was introduced int
Spain during the reign of Alfonsi
X., and its celebration there, a
elsewhere, was accompanied b;
dramatic representations. •
In Barcelona, even earlier thai
13 14, part of the celebration consist
ed in a procession of giants an(
ridiculous figures — a feature, ai
Colder on s Autos Sacramentales.
33
wc shall afcem'ards see, alivays re-
tained.
It seems established that from
the earliest date dramatic represen-
tations of some kind always accom-
panied the celebration of Corpus
Christ! .
These plays, constituting a dis-
tinct and peculiar class, received a
name of their own, and were at
&r$t called autos (from the Latin
a€t»5, applied to any particularly
^olemn act, as auios^da-fe)^ and later
more specifically autos sacramen-
tda.
We infer from occasional notices
that these religious dramas were
I^rformed without interruption dur-
ing the XlVth and XVth centuries.
What their character was during this
pcriofl we do not lenow, as we pos-
sess none earlier than the beginning
of the XVI th century.
From this last-named date noti-
ces of the secular drama begin to
muhiply, and we may form some
idea of the early autos sacramentales
from the productions of Juan de la
Eaxina and Gil Vicente.
The former wrote a number of
religious dialogues or plays, which
he named eclogues^ probably because
the majority of the characters were
shepherds.
One of these eclogues is on the
Nativity, another on the Passion
And Death of our Redeemer.
The word autOy as we have stated,
misapplied to any solemn act, and
did not at first refer exclusively to
the Corpus Christi dramas, so we
M among the works of Gil Vicente
w auto for Christmas, and one on
'he subject of S. Martin, which, al-
Jiiough having nothing to do with
the mystery of the Eucharist, was
}<rformed during the celebration
'^f Corpus Christi in 1504, in the
vestibule of the Church of Las Cal-
das in Lisbon.
VOL XXI. — 3
These sacred plays were un-
doubtedly at first represented only
in the churches by the ecclesiastics ;
they were not allowed to be per-
formed in villages (where they could
not be supervised by the higher
clergy), or for the sake of money.
The abuses in their performance,
or perhaps the large number of
spectators, afterwards led to their
representation in the open air.
The stage (as in the beginning
of the classical drama) was a wagon,
on which the scenery was arranged ;
when the autos became more elabo-
rate, three of these wagons or carros
were united.
We may see what these primitive
stages were like in Don Quixote
(part ii. chap. 11), the hero of
which encountered upon tlie high-
way one of these perambulating
theatres :
" He tvho guided the mules and served
for carter was a frightful demon. The
cart was uncovered and opened to the
sky, without awning or wicker sides.
**The first figure that presented itself
to Don Quixote's eyes was that of Death
itself with a human visage. Close b}* him
sat an angel with painted wings. On
one side stood an emperor, with a crown,
seemingly of gold, on his head.
**At Death's feet sat the god called
Cupid, not blindfolded, but with his bow,
quiver, and arrows.
"There was also a knight completely
armed, excepting only that he had no
morion or casque, but a hat with a large
plume of feathers of divers colors.
** With these came other persons, differ-
ing both in habits and countenances."
To Don Quixote's question as to
who they were the carter replied :
" Sir, we are strollers belonging to An-
gulo el Malo's company. This morning,
which is the octave of Corpus Christi,
we have been performing, in a village on-
the other side of yon hill, a piece repre*
scnting the Cortes or Parliiiment of
Death, and this evening we pre to play
it again in that village just before us;
which being so near, to save ourselves the
34
Calderons Autos Sacramcntales.
trouble of dressing and undressing, we
come in the clothes we are to act our
parts in."
The character of the autos chang-
ed with the improvements in their
representation ; from mere dialogues
they developed into short farces, the
object of which was to amuse while
instructing.
Like the secular plays, they open-
ed with a prologue, called the loa
(from loary to praise), in which the
object of the play was shadowed
forth and ,the indulgence of the
spectators demanded.
The loa was originally spoken
by one person, and was also called
argumento or introito^ and was in
the same metre as the auto ; al-
though it consisted sometimes of a
few lines in prose, as in the auto of
The Gifts which Adam sent to Our
Lady by S. Lazarus :
" LoA. — Here is recited an auto which
treats of a letter and gifts which our fa-
ther Adam sent by S. Lazarus to the il-
lustriwis Vitgin, Our Lady, supplicating
her to consent to the Passion of our Lord
Jesus Christ.
" In order that the auto may be easily
heard, the accustomed silence is request-
ed."
Still later the ha was extended
into a short, independent play,
sometimes with no reference to the
auto it preceded, and frequently by
another author.
During Lope de Vega's reign
over the Spanish stage an entremes
or farce was inserted between the
loa and auto.
These entremeses are gay inter-
ludes, terminating with singing and
dancing, and having no connection
with the solemn play which follows,
. unless, as is the case with one of
Lope de Vega*s {Muestra de los
Carros)f to ridicule the whole man-
ner of celebrating the festival.
With the increase in wealth and
cultivation the performance of the
autos had lost much of its primitive
simplicity, and was attended with
lavish magnificence.
The proper representation of
these truly national works was deem-
ed of such importance that each city
had a committee, or junta del corpus^
consisting of the corregidor and two
regidores of the town, and a secre-
tary.
This committee in Madrid was
presided over by a member of the
royal council {Consejo y Cdmera
real) who was successively called
the "commissary, protector, and
superintendent of the festivals of
the Most Holy Sacrament."
The president of the junta was
armed with extraordinary powers,
frequently exercised against refrac-
tory actors. It was his duty to pro-
vide everything necessary for the
festival : plays, actors, cars, masked
figures for the processions, decora-
tions for the streets, etc.
As there were at that date no
permanent theatrical companies in
the cities, it was necessary to en-
gage actors for the autos early in
the year, in order that there might
be no risk of failure, and to afford
the necessary time for rehearsals.
The necessary preparations hav-
ing been made, and an early Mass
celebrated, a solemn procession
took place, followed by the repre-
sentation oilht autos in the open air.
The best descriptions of the man-
ner of representation are found in
the travels of two persons who wit-
nessed the performance of the autos
in Madrid in 1654 and 1679.
.The second of the two was the
Comtesse d'Aulnoy, whose account
of her travels was always a popular
book.* The writer was a gossipy
* We have the eleventh edidon of the Eos&h
translation with the title. The Lad/s Travels im*^
Spain ^ 9 vob., L<Hidoo, 1808.
Calderon^s Autos Sacramentales.
35.
French lady, who disseminated
through Europe many groundless
icmdals about the Spanish court.
Here are her own woius about
:he autos :
"As soon as the Holy Sacrament is
5onc back to the church everybody goes
home to eat, that they may be at the au-
tef, which are cenain kinds of tragedies
apon reli^ous subjects, and are oddly
enoogh contrived and managed ; they
are aaed cither in the court or street of
each president of a council, to whom it is
doe.
** The king goes there, and all the per-
sons of quality receive tickets overnight
to go there ; so that we were invited, and
I was amaizcd to see them light up abun-
dance of flambeaux, whilst the sun beat
fuU npon the comedians' heads, and melt-
ed the wax like butter. They acted the
Boftt impertinent piece that I ever saw in
my days. . . . These autos last for a
mootfa. . . ."
We shall see why the flippant Pa-
rtsian was shocked when we consid-
er the subject-matter of these plays.
The whole ceremony is much
better described by the earlier tra-
veller, Aarseus de Somerdyck, a
Datchman, who was in Madrid in
1654.
His account is so long and mi-
nute that we have been obliged to
condense it slightly :
"The day opened with a procession,
hraded by a crowd of musicians and Bis-
<*ayaDs with tambourines and castanets ;
tbm followed many dancers in gay dress-
es, who sprang about and danced as gay-
Iv a« though they were celebrating tlic
carnival.
"The king attended Mass at Santa
Maria, near the palace, and after the ser-
vwe came out of the church bearing a
t^ndlc in his hand.
"The repository containing the Host
Kcapied the first place ; then came the
iT^ftdeei and different councils.
"At the head of the procession were
fnreral gigantic figures made of paste-
^'oard, and moved by persons concealed
•ilhin. They were of various designs,
Jod tome looked frightful enough ; all
tfjKcsenled women, except the first, which
consisted only of an immense painted head
borne by a very short man, so that the
whole looked like a divarf with a giant's
head.
** There were besides two similar fig-
ures representing a Moorish and an
Ethiopian giant, and a monster called the
tarrasca,
" This is an enormous serpent, with a
huge belly, long tail, short feet, crooked
claws, threatening eyes, powerful, dis-
tended jaws, and entire body covered
with scales.
" Those who are concealed within cause
it to writhe so that its tail often knocks
off the unwary bystanders' hats, and
greatly terrifies the peasants.
** In the afternoon, at five o'clock, the
autos were performed. These are religious
plays, between which comic interludes
are given to heighten and spice the sol-
emnity of the performance.
"The theatrical companies, of which
there are two in Madrid, close their thea-
tres during this time, and for a month
perform nothing but such religious plays,
which take place in the open air, on plat-
forms built in the streets.
** The actors are obliged to play every
day before the house of one of the presi-
dents of the various councils. The first
representation is before the palace, where
a platform with a canopy is erected for
their majesties.
*' At the foot of this canopy is the thea-
tre ; around the stage are little painted
houses on wheels, from which the actors
enter, and whither they retire at the end
of ever}' scene.
** Before the performance the dancers
and grotesque figures amuse the public.
" During the representation lights were
burned, although it was day and in the
open air, while generally other plays are
performed in the theatres in the daytime
without any artificial light."
Sufficient has now been said in
regard to the history and mode of
representation of the autos to en-
able us to understand the essential-
ly popular character of these plays —
a fact very necessary to be kept in
mind, and which will explain, if not
palliate, the many abuses which
gradually were introduced, and
which led to their suppression by a
royal decree in 1765.
88
Calderons Autos Sacramcntales.
It is almost needless to say that
the most important sources of the
autos are the Scriptures and Bibli-
cal traditions.
Examples of the former are : The
Brazen Serpent^ The First ami Se-
cond Isaac, Baltassar's Feast, T/ie
Vineyard of the Lord (S. Matt. xx.
i), Gedton*s Fleece, The Faithful
Shepherd, The Order of Melc/iise^
dcch, Ruth's Gleaning y etc.
An interesting example of the
use of tradition is the auto of The
Tree of the Best Fruit (El Arbol
del Mejor Fruto), embodying the
legend that the cross on which
Christ died was produced from
three seeds of the tree of the for-
bidden fruit planted on the grave
of Adam. There yet remains a
large number of plays which can-
not be referred to any of the above-
mentioned classes.
These are the inventions of the
poet's brain, some of them but a
recast of secular plays already pop-
ular;* others are fresh creations,
and are among the most interest-
ing of the autos. Among these are
The Great Theatre of the World (El
Gran Teatro del Mundv, partly
translated by Dean Trench), T/te
Poison and the Antidote (EI Veneno
y la Triaca, partly translated by
Mr. MacCarthy), etc.
No idea, however, can be formed
of the autos from a mere statement
of their form and subjects ; they
must be examined in their entirety,
and the reader must transport him-
self back to the spirit of the times
in which they were written.
^Psiquh y Cuptdo^ two aatos, refiwxiaincnto
of the comedy of Ni Amor st libra dt Amor :
El Hint or de su Deshonra^ comedy of same name ;
El A rbol del MeJor FrutOy La Sibila del Orientt :
1.41 i'ida et SuoHo^ comedy of same name ; A ndrom-
fda y PerseOy comedy of same name ; El Jar din
df FaUrnia^ comedy of same name ; Lot Encantos
df l.t Cul^y el mayor Encanto A mo".
These, we beUeTe,are all the autot which dupli-
cate oomcdtes.
What this spirit was, and how
the autos are to be regarded, is ad-
mirably expressed by Schack, in his
History of the Spanish Drama (iif.
p. 251), and of which Mr. MacCar-
thy has given the following spirited
translation :
** Posterity cannot fail to participate in
the admiration of the XVIIth century for
this particular kind of poetry, wbea it
shall possess sufficient self-denial to
transplant itself out of the totally differ-
ent circle of contemporary ideas into the
intuition of the world, and the mode of
representing it, from which this entire
species of drama has sprung. He who
can in this way penetrate deeply into the
spirit of a past century will see the won-
derful creations of Calderon's autos rise
before him, with sentiments somewhat
akin to those of the astronomer, who
turns his far-reaching telescope upon the
heavens, and, as he scans the niighty
spaces, sees the milky-way separating in-
to suns, and from the fathomless depths
of the universe new worlds of inconceiv-
able splendor rising up.
** Or let me use another illustration:
he may feel like the voyager who, having
traversed the wide waste of waters, steps
upon a new region of the earth, where he
is surrounded by unknown and wonder
ful forms — a region which speaks to him
in the mysterious voices of its forests
and its streams, and where other species
of beings, of a nature different from any
he has known, look out woiideringly at
him from their strange eyes.
"Indeed, like to such a region these
poems hem us round.
•* A temple opens before us, in which,
as in the Holy Graal Temple of Titurel,
the Eternal Word is represented sym-
bolically to the senses.
•* At the entrance the breath as if of the
Spirit cf eternity blows upon us, and a
holy auroral splendor, like the brightness
of the Divinity, fills the consecrated dome.
" In the centre, as the central point of
all being and of all history, stands the
cross, on which the infinite Spirit has
sacrificed himself from his infinite be*
nevolence towards man.
*'At the foot of this sublime symbol
stands the poet as hierophant and pro-
phet, who explains the pictures upon tiie
walls, and the dumb language of the
tendril?, and the floivers that arc twininj;
Calderons Autos Sacrameutales.
37
tion ; consist of but one act^that one,
however, nearly equal in length to
ibc three of many secular plays) ;
and were performed on butone.sol-
enm occasion — the festival of Cpr-
pus Christi.
The most striking peculiarity of
tbe aut^s consists in the introduc-i
tioD of tf/Z/'^tf/'/V^x/ characters, which,
however, were not first brought be-
fore the public in autos^ nor was
their use restricted to that class of
dramatic compositions.
The custom of personifying inani-
mate objects is as old as the imagi-
nation of man, and has been con-
stantly used since the days of Job
and David; and Cervantes, in his
interesting drama, Numancia^ intro-
duces "a maiden who represents
Spain," and " the river Douro."
It is not easy to see how the in-
troduction of allegorical personages
( onld have been avoided.
The leading idea in all the autos
is the redemption of the human
Noul by the personal sacrifice of the
Son of God — that great gift of hini-
Milf to us embodied in the doctrine
of the Real Presence.
The plot rs the history of the
'oul from its innocence in Eden to
It* temptation and fall, and subse-
iuent salvation; the characters
ire the soul itself, represented by
•uman nature, the Spouse Christ,
'"^c tempter, the senses, the vari-
'tis virtues and vices.
These constitute but a small
minority of the whole number, as
'ill be seen "by the following list,
«bich might easily be expanded :
^iod Almighty as Father, King,
'^r Prince, Omnipotence, Wisdom,
'divine Love, Grace, Righteousness,
^^"cy; Christ as the Good Shep-
'lerd, Crusader, etc., the Bride-
Wun— />., Christ, who woos his
''"dc, the Church — the Virgin, the
l^il or Lucifer, Shadow as a
symbol of guilt. Sin, Man as Man-
kind, the Soul, Understanding, Will
Free-will, Care, Zeal, Pride, Envy,
Vanity, Thought (generally, from
its fickleness, as Clo^n), Ignorance,
Foolishness, Hope, Comfort, the
Church, the written and natural
Law, Idolatry, Judaism or the
Synagogue, the Alcoran or Maho-
metanism, Heresy, Apostasy, Athe-
ism, the Seven Sacraments, the
World, the four quarters of the
globe. Nature, Light symbol of
Grace, Darkness, Sleep, Dreams,
Death, Time, the Seasons and
Days, the various divisions of the
world, the four elements, the plants
(especially the wheat and vine, as
furnishing the elements for the
Holy Eucharist), the ^wt, Senses,
the Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles
and their symbols (the eagle of
John, etc.), and the Angels and
Archangels.
Anachronisms are not regarded,
and the prophets and apostles ap-
pear side by side on the same stage.
Although the plot was essential-
ly always the same, its develop-
ment and treatment were infinitely
varied.
The protagonist is Man, but un-
der the most diversified forms,
from abstract man to Psyche or
Eurydice, representatives of the
human soul.
The essential idea of man's fall
and salvation is entwined with all
manner of subjects taken from his-
tory, mythology, and romance.
The first contributed The Con-
version of Consiantinfj the second a
host of plays like The Divine Ja-
son^ Cupid and Psyche^ Andromeda
and PerseuSy The Divine Orpheus,
The True God Pan, The Sacred
Parnassus, The Sorceries of Sin
(Ulysses and Circe). Romance
contributed the fables of Charle-
magne and the Twelve Peers, etc.
88
Calderons Autos Sacramentales.
It is almost needless to say that
the most important sources of the
auios are the Scriptures and Bibli-
cal traditions.
Examples of the former are : The
Brazen Serpent^ The First and Se-
cond IsaaCy Baltassar's Feast^ T/ie
Vineyard of the Lord (S. Matt. xx.
i), Gedton's Fleece, The Faithful
Shepherd, The Order of MelcMse-
dechy Ruth's Gleaningy etc.
An interesting example of the
use of tradition is the auto of T/u
Tree of the Best Fruit (El Arbol
del Mejor Fruto), embodying the
legend that the cross on which
Christ died was produced from
three seeds of the tree of the for-
bidden fruit planted on the grave
of Adam. There yet remains a
large number of plays which can-
not be referred to any of the above-
mentioned classes.
These are the inventions of the
poet's brain, some of them but a
recast of secular plays already pop-
ular;* others are fresh creations,
and are among the most interest-
ing of the autos. Among these are
The Great Theatre of the World {El
Gran Teatro del Munch, partly
translated by Dean Trench), The
Poison and the Antidote {El Veneno
y la Triaca, partly translated by
Mr. MacCarthy), etc.
No idea, however, can be formed
of the autos from a mere statement
of their form and subjects ; they
must be examined in their entirety,
and the reader must transport him-
self back to the spirit of the times
in which they were written.
*Psiquh y CupidOs two autos, refitccbmento
of the comedy of Ni Amor se libra d* Amor :
Et Finttfr de su Dexhonray comedy of same name ;
El A rhd del Mtjcr FrMto^ La Sibila del Oriente :
[.,% Vida et Sue^o, comedy of same name ; A ndrom-
eda y Perseo^ comedy of same name ; El Jar din
de Filler nia^ comedy of same name ; Los EncatUos
de lit Cul/a^ el mayor Encanto A me*.
These, we belieTe^are all the aw/w which dupli-
cate comedies.
What this spirit was, and how
the autos are to be regarded, is ad-
mirably expressed by Schack, in his
History of t/u Spanish Drama (iif.
p. 251), and of which Mr. MacCar-
thy has given the following spirited
translation :
*' Posterity cannot fail to participate in
the admiration of the XVIIth centuf)' for
this particular kind of poetry, when it
shall possess sufficient self-denial to
transplant itself out of the totally differ-
ent circle of contemporary ideas into the
intuition of the world, and the mode of
representing it, from which tliis entire
species of drama has sprung. He who
can in this way penetrate deeply into the
spirit of a past century will see the won-
derful creations of Calderon's aulas ri^
before him, with sentiments somewhat
akin to those of the astronomer, whc
turns his far-reaching telescope upon the
heavens, and, as he scans the mighty
spaces, sees the milky-way separating in-
to suns, and from the fathomless depths
of the universe new worlds of inconceiv-
able splendor rising up.
*' Or let me use another illustration:
he may feel like the voyager who, having
traversed the wide waste of waters, steps
upon a new region of the earth, where he-
is surrounded by unknown and wonder-
ful forms — a region which speaks to him
in the mysterious voices of its forests
and its streams, and where other species
of beings, of a nature different from any
he has known, look out woiideringly at
him from their strange eyes.
** Indeed, like to such a region these
poems hem us round.
*' A temple opens before us, in which,
as in the Holy Graal Temple of Titurcl,
the Eternal Word is represented sym-
bolically to the senses.
"At the entrance the breath as if of the
Spirit cf eternity blows upon us, and a
holy auroral splendor, like the brightness
of the Divinity, fills the consecrated dome.
" In the centre, as the central point of
all being and of all history, stands the
cross, on which the infinite Spirit has
sacrificed himself from his infiiute be-
nevolence towards man.
«*At the foot of this sublime symhol
stands the poet as hierophant and pro-
phet, who explains the pictures upon the
walls, and the dumb language of the
tendrils, and the flowers that are twining
Calderon's Autos Sacramentales.
39
rofiiid the columns, and the melodious
tuaes which rcTerberate in music from
the raulL
**Hc waves his magic wand, and the
balls of the temple extend themselves
through the immeasuiable ; a perspective
o( pillars spreads from century to century
up to the dark gray era of the past, where
hist the fountain of life gushes up, and
where suns and stars, coming forth from
the womb of nothing, begin their course.
*'AQd the inspired seer unveils the
secrets of creation, showing to us the
breath of God moving over the chaos,
as he separates the solid ^arth from the
witers, points out to the moon and the
Mirs their orbits, and commands the
dements whither they should fly and
what they are to seek.
" We feel ourselves folded in the wings
of the Spirit of the universe, and we hear
the choral jubilation of the new-born
suns, as they solemnly enter on their
ippotnted paths, proclaiming the glory
of the Eternal.
" From the dusky night, which conceals
ibc source of all things, we see the pro-
cession of peoples, through the ever-rc-
aewing and decaying generations of men,
following that star that led the wise men
'rom the east, and advancing in their
I'ilgnmage towards the place of promise ;
but beyond, irradiated by the splendors
«>{ redemption and reconciliation, lies the
ftJturc, with its countless generations of
kings yet unborn.
"And the sacred poet points all round
10 the illimitable, beyond the boundaries
of time out into eternity, shows the re-
laiioQ of all things, created and uncreat-
<^d, to the symbol of grace, and how all
Qitions look up to Him in worship.
**The universe in its thousand-fold
pbeoomena, With the chorus of all its
myriad voices, becomes one sublime
psalm to the praise of the Most Holy ;
heaven and earth lay their gifts at his
>«i;lhe stars, * the never-fading flowers
'>f heaven,' and the flowers, * the transitory'
«ars of earth,* must pay him tribute ;
^ay and night, light and darkness, lie
worshipping before him in the dust, and
ihe mind of man opens before him its
most hidden depths, in order that all its
thoughts and feelings may become trans-
Sfured in the vision of the Eternal.
"This is the spirit that breathes from
i^fltt/if of Calderon upon him who can
comprehend them in the sense meant by
*epo.t-
With this preparation we can
now examine in detail one or two
of the most characteristic of Cal-
deron's autoSy selecting from the
class of Scriptural subjects B alias-
sars Feast, and from the large
class of allegories invented by the
poet the Painter of his own Dis-
honor , which is of especial interest,
as being the counterpart of a secu-
lar play.
Note. — Those who desire a bet-
ter acquaintance with Caldcron*s
auios than they can form from the
above very imperfect sketch and
analyses will find the following list
of authorities of interest :
The autos were not collected and
published until some time after the
poet's death, in 17 17, six vols.
4to, and 17S9-60, six vols., also in
4to, both editions somewhat diffi-
cult to find. In 1865 thirteen were
published in Riradeneyra's collec-
tion of Spanish authors in a work
entitled Autos Sacramentales desde
su origen hasta fines del siglo XVII.,
with an historical introduction by
the collector, Don Eduardo G. Pe-
droso.
The autos have never been re-
published, in the original, o it of
Spain.
The enthusiasm in regard to the
Spanish drama aroused by Schle-
gel's Lectures, early in this century,
bore fruit in a large number of ex-
cellent German translations of the
most celebrated secular plays.
The autos were neglected until
1829, when Cardinal Diepenbrock
published a translation of Life is a
Dream (counterpart of comedy of
same name) ; this was followed in
1 846-53 by Geistliche Schauspie lesson
Calderon (Stuttgart, two volumes),
containing eleven autos translated
by J. von Eichendorff, a writer well
known in other walks of literature.
In this translation the original
Calderon's Autos SacramentaUs.
metre is preserved, and they are in
every way worthy of admiration.
In 1856 Liidwig Braunfels ptib-
lished two volumes of translations
from Lope de Vega, Iviso de Mo-
lina, and Calderon ; tiie second vol-
ume contains the auto of Baltas-
sar*s Feast*
In 1855 Dr. Franz Lorinser, an
ecclesiastic of Regensburg, an en-
thusiastic admirer of Spanish litera-
ture, began the translation of all
of Calderon 's autos^ and has now
translated some sixty-two of the
seventy-two into German trochaic
verse, w^ithout any attempt to pre-
serve the original asonante.
This translation is accompanied
by valuable notes and explanations,
very necessary for the non-Catholic
reader, as these plays are in many
instances crowded with scholastic
theology.
If the Germans, with their genius
for translation, shrank from the
labor necessary for the faithful
rendering of the autos^ the English,
with their more unmanageable lan-
guage, may well be excused for suf-
fering these remarkable plays to re-
main so long unknown.
Occasional notices and analyses
had been given in literary histories
and periodicals, but the first at-
tempt at a metrical translation was
by Dean Trench in his admirable
little work (reprinted in New York
1856) on Calderon, which contains a
partial translation of The Great
Theatre of the World.
It is needless to say it is beauti-
fully done, and on the whole is the
most poetical translation yet made
into English.
The first complete translation of
an auto was made by Mr. D. F.
MacCarthy, published in 1861 in
London, under the title, Three
Dramas of Calderon^ from the Span-
ish^ and containing the auto^ The
Sorceries of Sin,
The authoi; was favorably known
for his previous labors in this field,
which had won him the gratitude
of all interested in Spanish litcra-
ture.
He has since published a volume,
entitled Mysteries of Corpus Christie
Dublin and London, 1867, contain-
ing complete translations of Baltas*
sar's Feast, The Divine Philothta,
and several scenes from The Poison
and the Antidote, in all of which the
original metre is strictly preserved.
There are few translations in the
English language where similar dif-
ficulties have been so triumphantly
overcome.
The asonante can never be na-
turalized in English verse, but Mr.
MacCarthy has done much to re-
concile us to it, and make its in-
troduction in Spanish translations
useful, if not indispensably neces-
sary.
It may be doubted whether in
any other way a correct idea of the
Spanish drama can be conveyed to
those unacquainted with the Span-
ish language.
TO BB CONCLUDBO NEXT UONTH.
Are You My Wifet
4«
ARE YOU MY WIFE?
r THE AirriMB OF *• A SALOK W PARIS BBFORB THE WAR," " NUMBER THIRTEEN,** *' PIUS VI.," ETC.
CHAPTER in.
THE LILIES.
My first step was to pay a visit
to the Prefecture de Police. I was
received with the utmost courtesy
and many half-spoken, half-intimat-
ed expressions of sympathy that
were touching and unexpected.
All that my sensitive pride most
shrank from in my misfortune was
ignored with a tact and delicacy
that were both soothing and en-
couraging. I had felt more than
ODce, when exposing my miserable
and extraordinary situation to the
police agents at home, that it requir-
ed the strongest effort of profes-
sional gravity on their part not to
burst out laughing in my face. No
such struggle was to be seen in the
countenances of the French police.
They listened with interest, real
or feigned, to my story, and invited
what confidence I had to give by
the matter-of-fact simplicity with
which they set to work to put the few
pieces of the puzzle together, and
to endeavor to read some clew in
them. I returned to my hotel after
this interview more cheered and
(anguine than the incident itself
reasonably warranted.
It was scarcely two years since I
had been in Paris, yet since that
first visit I found it singularly alter-
ed. I could not say exactly how;
bnt it was not the same. It had
^•truck me when I first saw it as
the place above all I had yet seen
for a man to build an earthly para-
dise to himself; the air was full of
brightness, redolent of light-hearted
pleasure ; the aspect of the city, the
looks of the people, suggested at
every point the Epicurean motto,
** Eat, drink, and be merry ; for to-
morrow we die!" But it was dif-
ferent now. Perhaps the change
was in me; in the world within
rather than the world without.
The chord that had formerly an-
swered to the touch of the vivacious
gayety of the place was broken. I
walked through the streets and
boulevards now with wide-open,
disenchanted eyes, critical and un-
sympathetic. Things that had pass-
ed unheeded before appeared to
me with a new meaning. What
struck me as most disagreeable, and
with a sense of complete novelty,
was the widespread popularity
which the devil apparently enjoyed
amongst the Parisians. If, as we
may assume, the popularity of a
name implies the popularity of the
person or the idea that it represents,
it is difficult to exaggerate the
esteem and favor which Satan com-
mands in the city of bonnets and
revolutions. You can scarcely pass
through any of the thoroughfares
without seeing his name emblazon-
ed ort a shop-window, or his figure
carved or bedaubed in some gro-
tesque or hideous guise on a sign-
board inviting you to enter and
spend your money under his pat-
ronage. There are devils dancing
and devils grinning, devils fat and
devils lean, a diable vert and a dia*
bU rose^ a ban diabU^ a diable h qua-
42
Are You My Wife?
tre — every conceivable shape and
color of diahUy in fact, in the range
of the infernal hierarchy. He
stands as high in favor with the
literary guild as with the shop-
keepers ; books and plays are call-
ed after him ; his name is a house-
hold word in the press ; it gives
salt to the editor's joke and point to
his epigram. The devil is welcome
everywhere, and everywhere set up
as a sign not to be contradicted.
Angels, on the other hand, are at a
discount. Now and then you
chance upon some honorable men-
tion of the ange gardien^ but the
rare exception only serves as a
contrast which vindicates the over-
whelming popularity of the fallen
brethren. Is this the outcome of
the promise, " I will give my angels
charge over thee ** ? And does
Beelzebub's protection of his Pari-
sian votaries justify their interpre-
tation of the message? I was re-
volving some such vague conjectures
in my mind as I turned listlessly
into the Rue de Rivoli, and saw a
cab driving in under the porie
cochirc of my hotel. I quickened
my pace, for I fancied I recognized
a familiar face in the distance.
The glass door at the foot of the
stairs was still swinging, as I pushed
it before me, and heard a voice
calling ray name on the first floor.
" Hollo ! here you are, uncle !"
I cried, and, clearing the interven-
ing stair at three bounds, I seized
the admiral by both arms, as he
stood with his hand still on my bell-
rope.
"Come in, my boy. Come in,"
he said, and pushed in without turn-
ing his head towards me.
" You have bad news !" I said. I
read it in his averted face and the
subdued gravity of his greeting.
He deliberately took off his hat and
flung his light travelling surtout on
the sofa before he answered me.
Then he came up and laid his haed
on my shoulder. **Yes, very bad
news, my poor fellow ; but you will
bear up like a man. It doesn't all
end here, you^know."
" My God ! It is all over, then !
She is dead !" I cried.
He made a gesture that signified
assent, and pressed me down into
a chair. I do not remember what
followed.
I recollect his standing over me,
and whispering words into raj ear
that came like the sound of my mo-
ther's voice — words that fell like
balm upon my burning brain, and
silenced, as if by some physical force,
other words that were quivering on
my tongue. I never knew or cared
before whether my uncle believed
in anything, whether he had faith
in God or in devils ; but as he spoke
to me then I remember feeling a
kind of awe in his presence — ^awc
mingled with surprise and a sense
of peace and comfort ; it was as if
I had drifted unawares into a haven.
He never left me for a moment till
the hard dumbness was melted, and
I let my head drop on his shoulder,
and wept. . . .
He told me that the day I left
Dieppe news came of the wreck of
a fishing-smack having floated into
the harbor of St. Valery. The police
were on the alert, 'and went at once
to inspect the boat. It had capsized,
and had drifted ashore, after knock-
ing about on the high seas no one
could say how many days; but it
bore the name of a fisherman who
had been seen in the neighborhood
about ten days before. There was
nothing in the boat, of course, that
could give any indication as to what
had become of its owner or how
the accident had occurred. About
two days later the body of a woman
was washed ashore almost on the
Are You Afy Wi/e f *
43
same spot ; the police, still on the
fw-nVr, went down to see it, and at
once telegraphed for my uncle.
The body was lying at the morgue
of St. Val^ry ; it was already decom-
posing, but the work of destruction
was not far enough advanced to ad-
mit of doubt as to the identity. The
long, dark hair was dripping with
the slime of the sea, and tangled
hke a piece of sea-weed ; but the
admiral's eyes had no sooner glanc-
ed at the face than he recognized it.
I can write this after an interval
of many months, but even now
I cannot recall it without feeling,
almost as vividly as at the moment,
the pang that seemed to cleave my
very life in two. My . uncle had
said: "It doesn't all end here!"
and those words, I believe, preserved
me from suicide. They kept sing-
ing, not in my ears, but within me,
and seemed to be coming out of all
the common sounds that were jar-
ring and dinning outside. The very
ticking of the clock seemed to re-
peat them : ** It does not all end
here.** It did, so far as my happi-
ness went. I was a blighted man
for ever. The dark mystery of the
flight and the death would never be
solved on this side of the grave.
The sea had given up its dead, but
tbe dead could not speak. I was
alone henceforth with a secret that
no fellow-creature could unriddle
for me. I must bear the burden
of my broken life, without any hope
of alleviation, to the end. The
name of De Winton was safe now.
No blot would come upon it
through the follies or sins of her
who had beamed like a sweet, sud-
den star upon my path, and then
gone out, leaving me in the lonely
darkness. Why should I chronicle
my days any more ? They can
never be anything to me but a drea-
ry routine of comings and goings,
without joy or hope to brighten
them. The sun has gone down.
The stone has fallen to the bottom ;
the trembling of the circles, as they
quiver upon the surface of the water,
soon passes away, and then all is
still and stagnant again.
So Glide lapses into silence again,
and for a time we lose sight of him.
He is roving about the world, doing
his best to kill pain by excitement,
and soothe memory with hope ; and
all this while a new life is getting
ready for him, growing and Wossora-
ing, and patiently waiting for the
summer-time, when the fruit shall
be ripe for him to come and gather
it. The spot which this new life
has chosen for its home is sugges-
tive rather of the past than of the
future. A tiny brick cottage, with
a thatched roof overgrown with
mosses green and brown, a
quaint remnant of old-fashioned
life, a bit of picturesque long ago
forgotten on the skirts of the red-
tiled, gas-lit, prosperous modern
town of Dullerton. The little brick
box, smothered in its lichens and
mosses, was called The Lilies from a
band of those majestic flowers that
dwelt on either side of the garden-
wicket, like guardian angels of the
place, looking out in serene beauty
on the world without.
It was a nine days* wonder to
Dullerton when the Comte Ray-
mond de la Bourbonais and his
daughter Franceline came from
over the seas, and took up their
abode at The Lilies with a French
donne called Ang^lique. There was
the usual amount of guessing
amongst the gossips as to the why
and the wherefore a foreign noble-
man should have selected such a
place as Dullerton, when, as was
affirmed by those who knew all
about it, he had all the world before
44
Are You My Wifef
him to choose from. The only
person who could have thrown
light upon the mystery was Sir
Simon Harness, the lord of the
manor of Dullerton. But Sir Simon
was not considerate enough to do
so ; he was even so perverse as to
set the gossips on an entirely wrong
scent for some time ; and it was not
until the count and his daughter
had become familiar objects to the
neighborhood that the reason of
their presence there transpired.
The De la Bourbonais were an
old race of royalists whose archives
could have furnished novels for a
generation without mixing one line
of fiction with volumes of fact.
They had fought in every Crusade,
and won spurs on every battle-field
wherever a French prince fought;
they had produced heroes and he-
roines in the centuries when such
things were expected from the feu-
dal lords of France, and they had
furnished scapegraces without end
when these latter became the
fashion; they had quarrelled with
their neighbors, stormed their cas-
tles, and misbehaved themselves
generally like other noble families
of their time, dividing their days
between war and gallantry so even-
ly that it was often difficult to say
where the one began and where the
other ended, or which led to which.
This was in the good old times.
Then the Revolution came. The
territorial importance of the De la
Bourbonais was considerably di-
minished at this date; but the
prestige of the old name, with the
deeds of prowess that had once
made it a power in the camp and a
glory at the court, was as great as
ever, and marked its oto'ners
amongst the earliest victims of the
Terror. They gave their full con-
tingent of blue blood to the guillo-
tine, and what lands remained to
them were confiscated to the Re-
generators of France. The then
head of the house, the father of the
present Comte Raymond, died in
England under the roof of his friend,
Sir Alexander Harness, father of
Sir Simon. The son that was bom
to him in exile returned to France
at the Restoration, and grew up in
solitude in the old castle that had
withstood so many storms, and —
thanks partly to its dilapidated
condition, but chiefly to the fidelity
and courage of an old dependent —
had been rescued from the general
plunder, and left unmolested for the
young master who came back to
claim it. Comte Raymond lived
there in learned isolation, sharing
the ancestral ruin with a popula-
tion of owls, who pursued their
meditations in one wing while he
pondered over philosophical prob-
lems in another. It was a dreary
abode, except for the owls ; a deso-
late wreck of ancient splendor and
power. We may poetize over ruins,
and clothe them with what pathos
we will, the -beauty of decay is but
the beauty of death ; the ivy that
flourishes on the grave of a glori-
ous past is but a harvest of death ;
it looks beautiful in the weird sil-
ver shadows of the moon, but it
shrinks before the blaze of day that
lights up tlie proud castle on the
hill, standing in its strength of bat-
tlement and tower and flying but-
tress, and smiling a grim, granite
smile upon the gray wreck in the
valley down below, and wondering
what poets and night-birds can find
in its crumbling arches and gaping
windows to haunt them so fanati-
cally. Raymond de la Bourbo-
nais was contented in his weather-
beaten old fortress, and would
probably never have dreamed of
leaving it or changing the owl-like
routine of his life, if it had not
Are You My Wife?
4S
CDtCTcd into the mind of his grand-
aunt, the only remaining lady of his
name, to marry him. Raymond
Martcd when the subject was broach-
ed, but, with the matter-of-fact cool-
ness of a Frenchman in such things,
he quickly recovered his compo-
hurc, and observed blandly to the
*iged countess : *' You are right, my
iiunt. It had not occurred to me, I
confess ; but now that you mention
ir, I see it would be desirable."
And having so far arranged his
marriage, Raymond, satisfied with
his own consent, relapsed into his
books, and begged that he might
hear no more about it until his
f^and-aunt had found him a wife.
The family of the De Xaintriacs
lived near him, and happened just
at this moment to have a daughter
to marry ; so the old countess order-
ed out the lumbering family coach
that had taken her great-gran d-
raoiher to Xhe fetfs given for Marie
'Ic Medicis on her marriage, and
rambled over the roads to the
(bateau de Xaintriac. This ances-
tral hall was about on. a par with
Its neighbor, De la Bourbonais, as
rc^rded external preservation, but
the similarity between the two
bouses ended here. The De Xain-
triacs* origin was lost in the pre-
liistoric ages before the Deluge, the
earliest record of its existence be-
;ng a curious iron casket preserved
m the archives, in which, it was said,
tite family papers had been rescued
from the Flood by one of Noe's
(uughters- in-law, "herself a de-
moiselle de Xaintriac " — so ran the
legend. The papers had been de-
Mfoycd in a fire many centuries be-
fore the Christian era, but happily the
* irXti had been saved. It was to
a daujdiier of this illustrious house
that tlie Comtesse de la Bourbonais
*)ffcred her grand-nephew in mar-
riage Amnengarde de Xaintriac
was twenty-five years of age, and
shadowed forth in character and
person the finest* characteristics of
her mystic genealogy. In addition to
the antediluvian casket, she brought
the husband, who was exactly double
her age, a dower of beauty and
sweetness that surpassed even the
lofty pride that was her birthright.
For four years they were as happy
as two sojourners in this valley of
tears could well be. Then tlie
young wife began to droop, perish-
ing away slowly before her hus-
band's eyes. " Take her to the
Nile for a year; there is just a
chance that that may save her,'*
said the doctors. Armengarde did
not hear the cruel verdict; and
when Raymond came back one
day after a short absence, and
announced that he had come in
unexpectedly to a sum of money,
and proposed their spending the
winter in Egypt, she clapped her
hands, and made ready for the
journey. Raymond watched her
delight like one transfigured, while
she, suspecting nothing, took his
happiness as a certain pledge of
restored health, and went singing
about the house, as if the promise
were already fulfilled. The whole
place revived in a new atmosphere
of hope and security ; the low
ceilings, festooned with the cobwebs
of a generation, grew alight with
cheerfulness, and the sunbeams
streamed more freely through the
dingy panes of the deep windows.
It was as if some stray ray from
heaven had crept into the old keep,
lighting it up with a brightness not
of earth.
Ang^lique was to go with them
in charge of little Franccline, their
only child.
It was on a mild autumn morn-
ing, early in October, that the
travellers set out on their journey
46
Are You My Wi/tf
toward the Pyramids. The birds
were singing, though the sun was
hiding behind tht clouds ; but as
Raymond de la Bourbon ais looked
back from the gate to catch a last
glimpse of the home that was no
longer his, the clouds suddenly
parted, and the sun burst out in a
stream of golden light, painting the
oW keep with shadows of pathetic
beauty, and investing it with a
charm he had never seen there be-
fore. Sacrifice, like passion, has its
hour of rapture, its crisis of mys-
terious pain, when the soul vibrates
between agony and ecstasy. A
sunbeam lighted upon Raymond^s
head, encircling it like a halo.
"My Raymond, you look like an
angel ; see, there is a glory round
your head !" cried Armengarde.
" It is because I am so happy !*'
replied her husband, with a radiant
smile. ** We are going to the land
of the sun, where my pale rose will
grow red again."
The sacrifice was not quite in vain.
She was spared to him four years ;
then she died, and he laid her to
rest under the shade of the great
Pyramid, where they told him that
Abraham and Sara were sleeping.
\Vhen M. de la Bourbonais set
foot on his native soil again, he was
a beggar. The money he had re-
ceived for the castle and the small
bit of land belonging to it had just
sufficed to keep up the happy delu-
sion with Armengarde to the last,
and bring him and Franceline and
Ang^lique home ; the three landed
at Marseilles with sufficient money
to keep them for one month, using it
economically. Meantime the count
must look for employment, trusting
to Providence rather than to man.
Providence did not fail him. Help
was at hand in the shape of one of
those kind dispensations that we
call lucky chances, and which are
often er found in the track of chiva
rous souls than misanthropes like (
own. About three days after h
arrival in the busy mercantile poi
M. de la Bourbonais was walk in
along the quay, indulging in sa
reveries with the vacant air an
listless gait now habitual to hiu
when a hand was laid brusquely o
his shoulder. " As I Jive, here i
the man," cried Sir Simon Hamea
" My dear fellow, youVe turned u
in the very nick of time; but wher
in heaven's name have you tumei
up from ?"
The question was soon answered
Sir Simon gave his heartiest sympa
thy, and then told his friend th
meaning of the joyous exclamatioi
which had greeted him.
" You remember a villain of th
name of Roy — a notary who play
ed old •Harry with some propert
in shares and so forth that you
father entrusted to him just befor
he fled to England 1 You must hav
heard him tell the story many •
time, poor fellow. Well, thi
worthy, as big a blackguard as ev«
cheated the hangman of his fee, wa
called up to his reckoning about ;
month ago, and, by way, I suppose
of putting things straight a bit befon
he handed in his books, the ras
cal put a codicil to his will, restor
ing to you what little remained of
the money he swindled your pooi
father out of. It is placed in banfc
shares — a mere pittance of the origi
nal amount ; but it will keep youi
head above water just for tht
present, and meantime we must look
about for something for you at head-
quarters—some stick at the court
or a nice little government appoint-
ment. The executors have been
advertising for you in every direc-
tion ; it's the luckiest chance, my
just meeting you in time to give
the good news."
Are You My Wifef
47
Raymond was thankful for the
timely legacy, but he would not
bear of a stir being made to secure
him either slick or place. He
was too proud to sue at the hands
of the regie ide*s son who now sat
on the throne of Louis Seize, nor
vould he accept an appointment at
his court, supposing it offered unso-
licited. The pittance that, in Sir
Simon's opinion, was enough to
keep him above water for a time,
would be, with his simple habits^
enough to float him for the rest of
his life. He had, it is true, visions
of future wealth for Franceline, but
these were to be realized by the
product of his own brain, not by
ibc pay of a courtly sinecure or
government office. Finding him in-
exorable on this point. Sir Simon
icas<?d to urge it. He was confi-
dent that a life of poverty and ob-
scurity would soon bring down the
ni^id royalist's pride; but meantime
nhcre was he to live? Raymond
•j.id no ide». Life in a town was
txiious to him. He wanted the green
fields and quiet of the country for
fits studies ; but where was he to
seek them now ? He had no mind
to go back to Lorraine and live like
a peasant, in sight of his old home,
ihit was now in the hands of stran-
gers. "Come to England," said Sir
Simon. " You'll stay with me until
you grow^ home-sick and want to
leave us. No one will interfere
with you; you can work away at
your books, and be as much of a
hermit as you like." Raymond ac-
cepted the invitation, but only till
He should find some suitable little
Home for himself in the neighbor-
Hood. Within a week he found
Himself installed at Dullerton Court
*ith Franceline and Ang^lique.
The same rooms that his father had
occupied sixty years before, and
which had ever since been called
the count's apartments, were prepar-
ed for them. They were vefy little
changed by the wear and tear of the
intervening half-century. There
were the same costly hangings to the
gilt four-post beds, the same grim,
straight-nosed Queen Elizabeth
staring down from the tapestry, out
of her stiff ruffles, on one wall ; the
same faded David and Goliath
wrestling on the other. Raymond
could remember how the pictures
used to fascinate him when he was
a tiny boy, and how he used to lie
awake in his little bed and keep his
eyes fixed on them, and wonder
whether the two would ever leave
off fighting, and if the big man
would not jump up suddenly and
knock down the little man, who was
sticking something into his chest.
Outside the house the scene was
just as unchanged ; the lake was in
the same place, slnd it seemed as if
the swan that was sitting in the
middle of it, with folded sails and
6ne leg tucked under his wing, was
the identical one that the young
countess used to feed, and that
Raymond cried to be let ride on. The
deer were glancing through the dis-
tant glade, just as he remembered
them as a child, starting at every
sound, and tossing their antlers in
the sunlight ; the gray stone of the
grand castellated house may have
been a tinge darker for the smoke
and fog of the sixty additional
years, but this was not noticeable ;
the sunbeams sent dashes of golden
light across the flanking towers
with their dark ivy draperies, and
into the deep mullioned windows,
where the queer small panes hid
themselves, as if they were ashamed
to be seen, just as in the old days ;
the fountain sent up its crystal
showers on the broad sweep of the
terrace, and the lime and the acacia
trees sheltering the gravel walks that
88
Calderons Autos Sacrament ales.
It is almost needless to say that
the most important sources of the
autos are the Scriptures and Bibli-
cal traditions.
Examples of the former are : The
Brazen Serpent^ The First and Se^
cond IsaaCy Baltassar*s Feast, The
Vineyard of the Lord (S. Matt. xx.
i), Gedton's Fleece^ The Faithful
Shepherd, The Order of MelclUse-
dechy RutJCs Gleaning, etc.
An interesting example of the
use of tradition is the auto of The
Tree of the Best Fruit {El Arbol
del Mejor Fruto), embodying the
legend that the cross on which
Christ died was produced from
three seeds of the tree of the for-
bidden fruit planted on the grave
of Adam. There yet remains a
large number of plays which can-
not be referred to any of the above-
mentioned classes.
These are the inventions of the
poet's brain, some of them but a
recast of secular plays already pop-
ular;* others are fresh creations,
and are among the most interest-
ing of the autos. Among these are
T/ie Great Theatre of the World (El
Gran Teatro del Mumh^ partly
translated by Dean Trench), Tfu
Poison and the Antidote {El Veneno
y la Triaca, partly translated by
Mr. MacCarthy), etc.
No idea, however, can be formed
of the autos from a mere statement
of their form and subjects ; they
must be examined in their entirety,
and the reader must transport him-
self back to the spirit of the times
in which they were written.
* Psiguh y CuptdOy two aotos, refitcdamento
of the comedy of Ni Amor $e libra de Amor :
Et Hint or dt su Deshonra^ comedy of same name ;
El A rbol del Mfjor Fruto^ La Sibila del Orienie :
I. a Vida fs Sueno, comedy of same name ; A ndrom-
eda y PerseOy comedy of same name ; El Jar din
df FaUrnia^ comedy of same name ; Lot Emcantot
de i.t Cul/a^ el mayor Encnnto A wo*-.
These, we beliere^are all the aulas -mYadtx dupli-
cate comedies.
What this spirit was, and how
the autos are to be regarded, is ad-
mirably expressed by Schack, in his
History of the Spanish Drama (iif.
p. 251), and of which Mr. MacCar-
thy has given the following spirited
translation :
** Posterity cannot fail to participate in
the admiration of the XVIIih century for
this particular kind of poetry, when it
shall possess sufficient self-denial to
transplant itself out of the totally differ-
ent circle of contemporary ideas into the
intuition of the world, and the mode of
representing it, from which this entire
species of drama has sprung. He who
can in this way penetrate deeply into the
spirit of a past century will see the won-
derful creations of Calderon's autos ri^e
before him, with sentiments somewhat
akin to those of the astronomer, whc
turns his far-reaching telescope upon the
heavens, and, as he scans the mighty
spaces, sees the milky-way separating in-
to suns, and from the fathomless depths
of the universe new worlds of inconceiv-
able splendor rising up.
"Or let me use another illustration:
he may feel like the voyager who, having*
traversed the wide waste of waters, steps
upon a new region of the earth, where he
is surrounded by unknown and wonder-
ful forms — a region which speaks to him
in the mysterious voices of its forests
and its streams, and where other species
of beings, of a nature different from any
he has known, look out wonderingly at
him from their strange eyes.
"Indeed, like to such a region these
poems hem us round.
"A temple opens before us, in which,
as in the Holy Graal Temple of Titurel,
the Eternal Word is represented sym-
bolically to the senses.
•* At the entrance the breath as if of the
Spirit cf eternity blows upon us, and a
holy auroral splendor, like the brightness
of the Divinity, fills the consecrated dome.
" In the centre, as the central point of
all being and of all history, stands the
cross, on which the infinite Spirit has
sacrificed himself from his infinite be*
nevolencc towards man,
**At the foot of this sublime symbol
stands the poet as hierophant and pro-
phet, who explains the pictures upon the
walls, and the dumb language of the
tendril?, and the flowers that are twining
Are You My Wifef
49
hzX halls, with the necessaries of
life provided as by a law of nature>
and in the midst of a loyal and rev-
erent peasantry, was a very differ-
ent sort of poverty from what he
was now embarking on. He would
;>oinetimes fix his eyes on Raymond
when he was busying himself, with
apparently great satisfaction, on
some miserable trifle that Angdliquc
wanted done in her room or in the
kitchen, and wonder whether it was
gennine or feigned, whether sorrow
or philosophy had so deadened him
to external conditions as to make
him indifferent to the material
meanness and miseries of his posi-
tion. He never heard a word of
regret, or any expression that could
be construed into regret, escape
him in their most familiar conversa-
tions. Once Raymond, in speaking
of poverty, had confessed that he
had never believed it had any
power to make men unhappy — such
porerty as his had been — until he
felt the touch of its cruel finger on
his Armengarde; then he realized
the fact in its full bitterness. But
he had foiled the tormenter by a
sublime fraud of love, and saved his
own heart from an anguish that
would have been more intolerable
than remorse. Sir Simon remem-
bered the expression of Raymond's
face as he said this; the smile of
gentle triumph that it wore, as if
gratitude for the rescue and the
sacrifice had alone survived. He
t rmcluded that it was so ; that Ray-
mond had forgiven poverty, since he
had conquered her; and that now
he could take her to live with him
like a snake that had lost its sting,
')r some bright-spotted wild beast
that he had wrestled with and tam-
ed, and might henceforth sport with
m safety.
Sir Simon found it hard to recon-
dle this serene philosophical state
VOL XXI. — ^4
of mind with his friend's insur-
mountable reluctance to accept the
least material service, while, on the
other hand, he took with avidity
any amount of affection and sympa-
thy that was offered to him. It was
because he felt that he could repay
these in kind ; whereas for the oth-
ers he must remain an insolvent
debtor. '^ Bourbonais, that is sheer
nonsense and inconsistency. I
wouldn't give a button for your
philosophy, if it can't put you above
such weakness. It's absurd; you
ought to struggle against it and over-
come it." This was the baronet's
pet formula; he was always ready
with this advice to his friends. Ray-
mond never contested the wisdom
of the proposition, or Sir Simon's
right to enunciate it ; but in this par-
ticular at least he did not adopt it.
The gentry of the neighborhood
called in due course at The Lilies,
and M. de la Bourbonais puncti*
liously returned the civility, and
here the intercourse ended. He
would accept no hospitality that he
was not in a position to return. He
was on very good terms with his im-
mediate neighbors, who were none
of them formidable people. There
was Mr. Langrove, the vicar of
Dullerton, and Father Henwick, the -
Catholic priest, and Miss Bulpit
and Miss Merrywig, two maiden
ladies, who were in their separate-
ways prominent institutions of the -
place. These four, with Sir Simon, ,
were the only persons who could:
boast of being on visiting terms,
with the shy, polite foreigner who.
bowed to every old apple-woman *
on the road as if she were a duchess,^
and kept the vulgar herd of the-
town and the fine people of the-
county as much at a distance as if
he were an exiled sovereign who*
declined to receive the homage of.
other subjects than his own.
50
Are You My Wife?
Franceline had been eight years
at Dullerton, and was now in her
seventeenth year. She was very
beautiful, as she stood leaning on the
garden-rail amongst the lilies, look-
ing like a lily herself, with one dove
perched upon her finger, while an-
other alighted on her head, and
cooed to it. She was neither a
blonde nor a brunette, as we classify
them, but a type between the two.
Her complexion was of that pecu-
liar whiteness that we see in fair
northern women, Scandinavians
and Poles; as clear as ivory and
as colorless, the bright vermilion
of the finely cut, sensitive mouth
alone relieving its pallor. Yet her
face was deficient neither in warmth
nor light ; the large, almond-shap-
ed eyes, flashing in shadow, some-
times black, sometimes purple gray,
lighted it better than the pinkest
roses could have done; and if the
low arch of the dark eyebrows gave
a tinge of severity to it, the impres-
sion was removed by two saucy
dimples that lurked in either cheek,
and were continually breaking out
of their hiding-places, and brighten-
ing the pensive features like a sun-
beam. Franceline's voice had a
note in it that was as bright as her
dimples. It rang through the brick
cottage like the sound of running
water; and when she laughed, it
was so hearty that you laughed
with her from very sympathy. Such
a creature would have been in her
proper sphere in a palace, treading
on pink marble, and waited on by
a retinue of pages. But she was not
at all out of place at The Lilies;
perhaps, next to the palace and
pink marble, she could not have
alighted in a more appropriate
frame than this mossy flower-bed to
which n capricious destiny had trans-
planted her. She seemed quite as
much a fitting part of the place as
the tall, majestic lilies on either
side of the garden- gate. But as re-
garded Dullerton beyond the garden-
gate, she was as much out of place
as a gazelle in a herd of Alderney
cows. Dullerton was the very
ideal of commonplace, the embo-
diment of respectability and d ill-
ness — wealthy, fat-of-the-land dul-
ness; if a prize had been set up
for that native commodity, Duller-
ton would certainly have carried
it over every county in England.
There was no reason why it should
have been so dull, for it possessed
quite as many external dements
of sociability as other provincial
neighborhoods, and the climate
was no foggier than elsewhere ;
everybody was conscious of the
dulness, and complained of it to
everybody else, but nobody did any-
thing to mend matters. There was,
nevertheless, a good deal of inter-
course one way or another ; a vast
amount of food was interchange*!
between the big houses, and the
smaller ones periodically called in
the neighbors to roll croquet-balls
about on the wet grass, and sip tea
under the dripping trees ; for it seem-
ed a law of nature that the weather
was wet on this social occasion. But
nothing daunted the good-will of the
natives; they dressed themselves in
muslins, pink, white, and blue, and
came and played croquet, and
drank tea, and bored themselves,
and went away declaring they had
never been at such a stupid aflair
in their lives. The gentlemen were
always in a feeble minority at these
festive gatherings, and, instead of
multiplying themselves to supple-
ment numbers by zeal, they had a
habit of getting together in a group
to discuss the crops and the game-
laws, leaving their wives and
daughters to seek refuge in county
gossip, match - making, or parish
Are Yot^My Wifef
51
affiurst according to their separate
tastes. Dullerton was not a scan-
dal - monger ing place. Its gossip
was mostly of an innocent kind ; the.
intqaities of servants the difficulties
of getting a tolerable cook or a
housemaid that knew her business,
recipes for economical soups for the
poor, the best place to buy flannels,
etc., formed the staple subject; of
the matrons' conversation. The
yoang ladies dressed themselves
bravely in absolute defiance of the
rudiments of art and taste; vied
vith each other in disguising their
heads — some of them very pretty
ones— under monstrous chignons
and outlandish head-gears; prac-
tised the piano, rode on horseback,
and wondered who Mr. Charlton
would eventually marry; whether
his attentions to Miss X meant
anything, or whether he was only
playing her off against Miss Z .
Mr. Charlton was the only eligible
young roan resident witliin a radius
of fifteen miles of Dullerton, and
was consequently the target for
many enterprising bows and arrows.
For nine years he had kept mothers
and daughters in harassing sus-
pense as to *^what he meant";
xad^ instead of reforming as he grew
otder« he was more tantalizing than
ever now at the mature age of
thirty-two. Mothers and maidens
were still on the qui-viw^ and lived
la perpetual hot water as to the real
intentions of the owner of Moor-
lands and six thousand a year.
He had, besides this primary claim
en social consideration, another that
would in itself have made him mas-
ter of the situation in Dullerton:.
he had a fine voice, and sang a cap-
ital song ; and this advantage Mr.
Charlton used somewhat unkindly.
He was as capricious with his voice
a» in his attentions, and it was a
serioas preoccupation with the din-
ner-givers whether he would make
the evening go off delightfully by
singing one of his songs with that
enchanting high C, ox leave it to its
native dulness by refusing to sing at
alL The moods and phases of the
tyrannical tenor were, in fact, watch-
ed as eagerly by the expectant hos-
tess as the antics of the needle
on the eve of a picnic.
The one house of that side of the
county where people did not bore
themselves was Dullerton Court.
They congregated here, predeter-
mined to enjoy something more than
eating and drinking ; and they were
never disappointed. There was
nothing in the entertainments them-
selves to ex^plain this fact; the
house was indeed on a grander
scale of architecture, more palatial
than any other country mansion in
those parts; but the people who
met there, and chatted and laughed
and went away in high satisfaction
with themselves and each other,
were the same who congregated
in the other houses to yawn and
be bored, and go away grumbling.
The secret of the difference lay en-
tirely in the host. Sir Simon Har-
ness came into the world endowed
with a faculty that predestined him
to rule over a certain class of men —
the dull and drearry class ; people who
have no vital heat of their own, but
are for ever trying to warm them-
selves at otlier people's fires- He
had, moreover, the genius of hos-
pitality in all its charms. He
welcomed every commonplace
acquaintance with a heartiness
that put the visitor in instanta-
neous good-humor with himself
and his host and all the world.
Society was his life; he could not
live without it. He enjoyed his
fellow-creatures, and he delighted
in having them about him; his
house was open to his friends at all
5«
Are You My Wifet
times and seasons. What else was
a house good for ? What pleasure
could a man take in his house, unless
it was full of friends ? Unhappily
for Dullerton, Sir Simon was a fre-
quent absentee. Some said that he
could not stand its dulness for
long at a time, and that this was
why he was continually on the
road to Paris and Vienna and the
sunny shores of Italy and Spain.
But this could not be true; you
liad only to witness his mercurial
gayety in the midst of his Dullerton
friends, and hear the ring of his
loud, manly voice when he shook
them by the hand and bade them
welcome, to be convinced that he
enjoyed them to the full as much as
they enjoyed him. It is true that
since M. de la Bourbonais had
come to be his neighbor, the squire
was less of a rover than formerly.
When he was at home, he spent a
great deal of time at The Lilies — a
circumstance which gave Dullerton
a great deal to talk about, and rais-
ed the reserved, courteous recluse
a great many pegs in the estimation
of the county. The baronet and
his friend had many points of
sympathy besides the primary one
of old hereditary friendship, though
they were as dissimilar in tastes
and character as any two could be.
This dissimilarity was, however,
a part of the mutual attraction.
Sir Simon was an inexhaustible
talker, and M. de la Bourbonais an
indefatigable listener ; he had what
Voltaire called a talent for hold-
ing his tongue. But this negative
condition of a good listener was
not his only one ; he possessed in
a rare degree all the merits that go
to the composition of that delight-
ful personage. Most people, while
you are talking to them, are more
occupied in thinking what they will
say to you than in attending to
what you are saying to them, and
these people are miserable listeners.
M. de la Bourbonais gave his whole
mind to what you were saying, and
never thought of his answer until
the time came to give it. He not
only seemed interested, he really
was interested, in ypur discourse ;
and he would frequently hear more
in it than it was meant to convey,
supplying from his own quick in-
telligence what was wanting in
your crude, disjointed remarks.
There was nothing in a quiet way
that Sir Simon liked better than an
hour's talk with his tenant, and he
always came away from the luxury
of having been listened to by a
cultivated, philosophical mind in
high good-humor with himself. His
vanity, moreover, was flattered by
the fact beyond the mere personal
gratification it afforded him. Every-
body knew that the French emigri
was a man of learning, given to
abstruse study of some abstract
kind; the convivial squire must
therefore be more learned than he
cared to make believe, since this
philosophical student took such
pleasure in his society. When his
fox-hunting friends would twit him
jocosely on this score, Sir Simon
would pooh-pooh them with a
laugh, observing in a careless way :
"One must dip into this sort of
thing now and then, you see, or
else one's brain gets rusty. I don't
care much myself about splitting
hairs on Descartes or untwisting
the fibres of a Greek root, but
it amuses Bourbonais; you see
he has so few to talk to who can
listen to this sort of thing.** It
was true that the conversation did
occasionally take such learned
turns, and equally true that M. de
la Bourbonais enjoyed airing his
views on the schools and dissect-
ing roots, and that Sir Simon felt
Are You My Wifet
53
elevated in his own opinion when
the count caught up some hazar-
dous remark of his on one of the
dassic authors, and worked it up
into an elaborate defence of the
said author ; and when, on their next
meeting, Raymond would accost
him With '* Mon cher, I didn't
quite see at the moment what you
neant by pointing that line from
Sophocles at me, but I see now,"
Sir Simon would purr inward-
ly like a stroked cat. Every now
and then, too, he would startle the
Grand Jury by the brilliancy of
his classical quotations, and the
way in which he bore down on
them with a weight of argument
worthy of a Q.C. in high practice ;
little they dreamed that the whole
case had been sifted the day before
by the orator's learned friend, who
bad analyzed it, and put it in shape
for the rhetorical purpose of the
Borrow. The baronet was serene-
ly oaconscious of being a plagiarist ;
he had got into a way of sucking
his friend s brains, until he honestly
thought they were his own.
This intellectual piracy is not so
rve, perhaps, as at first sight you
aay imagine. It would be a curi*
OQs revelation if our own minds
cotdd be laid bare to us, and we
were enabled to see how far their
▼orkings are original and how far
imitative. We should, I fancy, be
startled to find how small a propor-
tion the former bears to the latter,
«k1 how much tliat we consider
the spontaneous operation of our
Bunds is, in reality, but the reflex
ol the minds of others, and the un*
conscious reproduction of thoughts
and ideas that are suggested by
things outside of us.
Franceline's bonne^ as she still
called her, though Angdlique had
patted from that single capacity
mto the complex position of butler,
cook, housemaid, lady's maid, and
general factotum at The Lilies, was
as complete a contrast to a name
as ever mortal presented. A gaunt,
high-cheek-boned, grizzly-haired
woman, with a squint and a sharp,
aggressive chin, every inch of her
body protested against the mockery
that had labelled her angelic. She
had a gruff voice like a man's, and
a trick of tossing her head and
falling back in her chair when she
answered you that had gained her
the nickname of the French grena-
dier amongst the rising generation
of Dullerton. Yet the kernel of
this rough husk was as tender and
mellow as a peach, and differed
from the outer woman as much as
the outer woman differed from her
name. When the small boys fol-
lowed her round the market, laugh-
ing at her under her very nose, and
accompanying their vernacular com-
ments with very explicative gestures,
the French grenadier had not the
heart to stop the performance by
sending the actors to the right-
about, as she might have done with
one shake of her soldier-like fist ;
but if they had dared to look
crooked at Franceline, or play off
the least of their tricks on M. de la
Bourbonais, she would have punch-
ed their heads for them, and sent
them off yelling with broken noses
without the smallest compunction.
Ang^lique had found a husband in
her youth, and when he died she
had transferred all her wifely solici-
tude to her master and his wife and
child. She could have given him
no greater proof of it than by leav-
ing her native village and following
him to his foreign home; yet she
never let him suspect that the sac-
rifice cost her a pang. She was of
a social turn, and it was no small
trial to be shut out from neighborly
chat by her ignorance of the Ian-
54
Are You My Wi/ef
guage. She took it out, to be sure,
with the count and Franceline, and
with the few intimates of The Lilies
who spoke French ; but, let her im-
prove these opportunities as she
might, there was still a great gap in
her social life. Conversation with
ladies and gentlemen was* one thing,
and a good gossip with a neighbor
was another. But Ang^lique kept
this grief to herself, and never com-
plained. With M. le Cur^, as she
dubbed Father Henwick, the Catho-
lic priest of DuUerton, she went the
length of shaking her head, and
observing that people who were
in exile had their purgatory in
this world, and went straight to
heaven when they died. Father
Henwick had been brought up at
S. Sulpice, and spoke French like a
native, and was as good as a born
Frenchman. She could pour her
half- uttered pinings into his ear
without fear or scruple ; her dreams
of returning dans mon pays at some
future day, when M. le Comte would
have married mademoiselle. She
could even confide to this trusty ear
her anxieties on the latter head, her
fear that M. le Comte, being a phi-
losopher, would not know how to go
about finding a husband for France-
line. She could indulge freely in
motherful praises of Franceline's
perfections, and tell over and over
again the same stories of her nurse-
ling's babyhood and childhood ;
how certain traits had frightened
her that the /^///^ was going to turn
out a very Jezabel for wickedness,
but how she had lived to find out
her mistake. She lo>ed notably to
recall one instance of these juvenile
indications of character ; when one
day, after bellowing for a whole hour
without ceasing, the child suddenly
stopped, and Mme. la Comtesse
called out from her pillows under
tke palm-tree : '' At last ! Thank
goodness it's over!" and how
Franceline stamped her small foot,
and sobbed out : " No-o-o, it's not
over! I repose myself!" and be-
gan again louder than ever. And
how another day, when a power-
ful Arab who was leading her mule
over the hills suddenly lashed his
whip across the shouKlers of a little
boy fast asleep on the pathway,
waking him up with a howl of pain,
Franceline clutched her little fist
and struck the savage a box on the
ear,, screaming at him in French :
" O you wicked ! I wish you were
a thief, and I'd lock you up ! I wish
you were a murderer, and I'd cut
your head ofi*! I wish you were a
candle, and I'd blow you out!"
Father Henwick would listen to the
same stories, and delight Ang^lique
by assuring her for the twentieth
time that they were certain pledges
of future strength and decision in
the woman. And when Ang^lique
would wind up with the usual re-
mark, " Ah ! our little one is born
for something great; she would
make a famous queen, Monsieur le
Cur^," he would cordially agree with
her, revolving, nevertheless, in his
own mind the theory that there are
many kinds of greatness, and many
queens who go through life without
the coronation ceremony that crowns
them with the outward symbols of
rt>yalty.
Miss Merry wig was another of An-
g^lique's friends; but she had not
been educated at S. Sulpice, and so
the intercourse was sustained under
difficulties. Her French was some-
thing terrific. She ignored genders,
despised moods and tenses ; and as to
such interlopers as adverbs and pre-
positions. Miss Merry wig treated
them with the contempt they dcser>-
ed. Her mode of proceeding was ex-
tremely simple : she took a bundle
of infinitives in one hand, and pco*
Are You My Wifef
55
nouns and adjectives in another,
and shook them up together, and
they fell into place the best way
they could. It was wonderful how,
somehow or other, they turned into
sentences, and Ang^lique, by dint
of good-will, always guessed what
Miss Merrywig was driving at. A
great bond between them was their
lore of a bargain. Miss Merrywig
delighted in a bargain as only an
old maid with an income of two
hundred pounds a year can delight
in it. She had, moreover, a passion
for QMLkiog everybody guess what
she paid for things. This harmless
peculiarity was apt to be a nuisance
to her friends. The first thing she
did after investing in a remnant of
some sort, or a second-hand article,
was to carry it the rounds of Duller-
ion, and insist on everybody's guess-
ing how much it cost.
" Make a guess ! You know what
a good linsey costs, and you see
this is pure wool ; you can see that ?
you have only to feel it. Just feel
it! It's as soft as cashmere. That's
what tempted me. I don't want it
exactly^ but then I mightn't get such
a bargain when I did want it ; and,
aa the young man at Willis' said —
they're so uncomnumly civil at Wil-
lis'! — ^a good article always brings
its value ; and there was no deny-
ing it was a bargain, and one never
can go wrong in taking a good thing
when one gets it cheap ; and they do
mix cotton so much with the wool
aowadays that one can't be too
particular, as my dear mother used
to say, though in her time it was of
course very different. Now you've
examined it, what do you think I
gave for it ?" There was no getting
out of it : you might try to fight
off on the plea that you had no ex-
perience in linscys, that you were
no judge — Miss Merrywig would
take no excuse.
"Well, but give a guess. Say
something. AVhat would you con-
sider cheap t You know what a
stuff all pure wool ought to be
worth. Just give a guess. Re-
member, it was a bargain !" Thus
adjured and driven into a corner,
you timidly ventured a sum, and,
whether you hit it or not, Miss
Merrywig was aggrieved. If you
fell below the mark, there was no
describing her astonishment and
disappointment. ** Fifteen shil-
lings! Dear me! Why, that's the
price of a common alpaca ! Fif-
teen shillings I Good gracious ! Oh!
you can't mean it. Do guess again."
And when, to consdle her, you
guessed double, and it happened to
be right, she was still inconsolable.
" So you don't think it was a bar-
gain after all ! Dear me ! Well that
is a disappointment. All I can say is
that my dear mother had a linsey that
was not one atom softer or stronger
than this, and she paid just double
for it — three pounds ; she did in-
deed ; she told me so herself ^ pooi
soul. I often heard her speak high-
ly of that linsey when I was a child,
and I quite well remember her say-
ing that it had cost three pounc.?,
and that it had been well worth «.*ic
money."
You might cry peccaviy and eai
your words, and declare your con-
viction that it was the gre<ilest
windfall you ever heard of; noming
would pacify Miss Merrywig until
she had carried her bargain to some
one else, and had it guessed at a
higher figure, which you were pret-
ty sure to be informed of at the
earliest opportunity, and trium-
phantly upbraided for your want
of appreciation. Ang^lique was a
great comfort to Miss Merrywig on
this head. She loved a bargain
dearly, and was proud of showing
that she knew the difference be-
56
Are You My Wife?
tween one tnat was and one that
was not ; accordingly, she was one
of the first to whom Miss Merry wig
submitted a new purchase. " Voy-
ons ! '* the grenadier would say,
and then she would take out her
spectacles, wipe them, adjust them
on her nose, and then deliberately
rub the tissue between her finger
and thumb, look steadily at Miss
Merrywig, as if trying to gather a
hint before committing herself, and
then give an opinion. She gener-
ally premised with the cautious for-
mula : ** Dans mon pays it would be
so-and-so. Of course I can only
make a guess in this country ;
prices differ." She was not often
far astray ; but even when she was,
this preface disarmed Miss Merry-
wig, and, when Ang^lique hit the
mark, her satisfaction was unbound-
ed. Other people might say she
had been cheated, or that she had
paid the full value of the thing.
There was Comte de la Bourbonais*
French maid, who said it was the
greatest bargain she had ever seen ;
and being a Frenchwoman, and
accustomed to French stuffs, she
was more likely to know than peo-
ple who had never been out of Eng-
land in the whole course of their
lives.
The other old maid who occupi-
ed a prominent position at Duller-
ton, and was on friendly terms
with the grenadier, was Miss Bul-
pit. It would be difficult to meet
with a greater contrast between any
two people than between Miss Bul-
pit and Miss Merrywig. The latter
talked in italics, emphasizing all
the small words of her discourse, so
as to throw everything out of joint.
Miss Bulpit spoke "in mournful
numbers," brought out her senten-
ces as slowly as a funeral knell, and
was altogetherfunereal in her aspect.
She was tall and lank, and wore a
black silk wig, pasted in melancholy
braids on either side of her face — a
perfect foil to the gay little curls
that danced on Miss Merrywig's
forehead like so many little bells
keeping time to her tongue. Miss
Bulpit was enthroned on a pedes-
tal of one thousand five hundred
pounds a year, and attended by all
the substantial honors that spring
from such a foundation. She was
fully alive to the advantages of her
position, and had never married
from the fear of being sought more
for her money than for herself. So,
at least, rumor has it. Mr. Tobes,
the Wesleyan clergyman of the
next parish, whose awakening ser-
mons decoyed the black sheep of
the surrounding folds to him, had
tried for the prize for more than
seven years, but in vain. Miss
Bulpit smiled with benevolent con-
descension on his assiduities, allow-
ed him to meet her at the railway
station and to hand her a bouquet
occasionally; but this was the ex-
tent of his reward. He persevered,
however ; and, when Miss Bulpit
shook her black silk head at him
with a melancholy smile and a re-
proof for wasting on her the pre-
cious time that belortged to his flock,
Mr. Tobes would reply that the
laborer was worthy of his hire,
and that no man could live without
an occasional recompense for his
labors.
Miss Bulpit was the lowest of the
Low-Church, so zealous in propagat-
ing her own views as to be a severe
trial to the vicar, Mr. Langrove.
The vicar was a shy, scholarly man
and a great lover of peace, but he
was often hard pushed to keep liie
peace with Miss Bulpit. She cross-
ed him in every way, and defied
him to his very face ; but it was done
so mildly, with such an unction
of zeal and such a sincere desire t(»
Are You My Wife?
57
correct his errors and make up for
his shortcomings, that it was ini-
possible to treat her like an ordi-
narj antagonist. She had a soup-
kitchen and a dispensary in her
own house, where the poor of his
parish were fed and healed ; and if
Miss Bulpit made these material
things the medium of dealing with
their souls, and if they chose to be
dealt with, how could Mr. Langrove
ioterfcrc to prevent it ? If she
bad a call to break the word to
others, why should she not obey it
just as he obeyed his? He had
his pulpit, which she did not inter-
fere with — a mercy for which the
Ticar was not, perhaps, sufficiently
grateful. Miss Bulpit was limited
10 BO restriction of place or time ;
ibe could preach anywhere and at
a moment's notice; the water was
ilways at high pressure, and only
w^antcd a touch to set it flowing in-
to any channel; the cottages, the
wards of the hospital, the village
kcbool, the roadside, any place was
* rostrum for her. If she met a
gioop of laborers going home with
iwir spades over their shoulders,
Uiss Bulpit would accost them
with a few good words ; and if they
took them well, as their class most-
ly do from ladies, she would plunge
iotothe promiscuous depths of that
ivful leatlier bag of hers that was
^. Langrove's horror, and evolve
from a chaos of pill-boxes, socks,
cpectacles, soap, black draughts,
bns, and bobbins, a packet of
uicts, and, selecting an appropriate
«>c, she would proceed to expound
It, and wind up with a few texts out
'>f the little black Testament that
''»cd hy itself in an outside pocket
of the black leather bag. This
^c of things would have been bad
mough, even if Miss Bulpit had
bcld sound views ; bubywhat made it
infinitely worse was that her ortho-
doxy was more than doubtful. But
there was no way of putting her in
her place. She was .too rich for
that. If she had been a poor
woman, like Miss Merrywig, it
would have been easy enough ; but
Miss Bulpit's fortune had built a
bulwark of defence round her, and
against these stout walls the vicar*s
shafts might be pointed in perfect
safety to the enemy. It was a great
mercy if they did not recoil on
himself. Some persons accused
him of being ungrateful. How
could he quarrel with her for preach-
ing in the school when she had re-
roofed it for him, after he had spent
six months in fruitless appeals to
the board to do it ? Ho^ could the
authorities of the hospital refuse
her the satisfaction of saying a few
serious words to the inmates, when
she supplied them with unlimited
port-wine and jellies, and other
delicacies which the authorities
could not provide? It was very
difficult to turn out a benefactor
who paid liberally for her privileges,
and had so firm a footing in every
charitable institution of the coun-
ty. The vicar was, not on vantage-
ground in his struggle to hold his
own. Miss Bulpit was a pillar of
the state of Dullerton. There were
not a few who whispered that if
either must go to the wall, it had
better be the parson than the par-
ishioner. Coals were at famine
prices ; soup and port-wine are
comforting to the soul of man, and
the donor's strictures on S. James
and exclusive enthusiasm for S.
Paul were things that could be tol-
erated by those whom they did not
concern.
Franceline had been to see Miss
Merrywig, who lived like a lizard
in the grass, with a willow weeping
copious tears over her mouldy little
cottage. The cheerful old lady al-
58
Arr YouAfyWi/ef
ways spoke with thankfulness of the
quiet and comfort of her home, and
believed that everybody must envy
her its picturesque situation, to say
nothing of the delights of being
wakened by the larks before day-
light, and kept awake long after
midnight by the nightingales.
The woods at DuUerton were alive
with nightingales. On emerging
from the damp darkness after an
hour with Miss Merrywig, France-
line found that the sun had climbed
up to the zenith, and was pouring
down a sultry glow that made the
earth smoke again. There was a
stile at the end of the wood, and
she sat down to rest herself under
the thick shade of a sycamore. The
stillness of the noon was on every-
thing, A few lively linnets tried to
sing ; but, the effort being prompted
solely by duty, after a while they
gave it up, and withdrew to the
coolest nooks, and enjoyed their
siesta like the lazy ones. Nobody
stirred, except the insects that
were chirping in the grass, and
some bees that sailed from flower
to flower, buzzing and doing field-
labor when everybody else was
asleep or idle. To the right the
fields were brimful of ripening grain
of every shade of gold ; the deep-
orange corn was overflowing into
the pale amber of the rye, and the
bearded barley was washing the
hedge that walled it off from the
lemon-colored wheat. To the left
the rich grass-lands were dotted
with flocks and herds. In the
nearest meadow some cattle were
herding. It was too hot to eat, so
they stood surveying the fulness of
the earth with mild, bovine gaze.
They might have been sphinxes, they
they were so still ; not a muscle
in their sleek bodies moved, except
that a tail lashed out against the
flies now and then. Some were in
the open field, holding up their
white horns to the sunlight ; others
were grouped in twos and threes
under a shady tree ; but the noon-
tide hush was on them all. Pre-
sently a number of horses came
trooping leisurely up to the pond
near the stile ; the mild-eyed kine
moved their slow heads after the
procession, and then, one by one,
trooped on with it. The noise of
the hoofs plashing into the water,
and the loud lapping of the thirsty
tongues, was like a drink to the hot
silence. Franceline watched theni
lifting their wet mouths, all dripping,
from the pool, and felt as if she had
been drinking too. There was a
long, solemn pause, and then a
sound like the blast of an organ
rose up from the pond, swelling and
sweeping over the fields ; before it
died away a calf in a distant pad-
dock answered it.
If any one had told Franceline, as
she sat on her stile, thinking sweet,
nothing-at-all thoughts, under the
sycamore tree, that she was coni-
muning with nature, she would have
opened her dark eyes at them, and
laughed. It was true, nevertheless.
She might not know it, but she drew^
a great deal of her happiness from
the woods and fields, and the birds
and the sunsets. Her life had been
from its babyhood, comparatively
speaking, a solitary one, and the
want, or rather the absence, of kin-
dred companions had driven her
unconsciously into companionship
with nature. Her father's society
was a melancholy one enough for a
young girl. Raymond's mind was
like an aeolian harp set up in a ruin ;
every breath of wind that swept over
it drew out sounds of sweet but
mournful music. Even his cheerful-
ness — and it was uniform and gen-
uine — had a note of sadness in it,
like a lively air set in a minor key ;
Are You My Wi/iT
59
tkere was nothing morbid or harsh
in his spirit, but it was entirely out
of tune with youth. He was perfect-
ly resigned to life, but the spring
was broken ; he looked on at Fran-
Celine's young gayety, as he might
do at the flutterings and soarings
of her doves, with infinite admira-
tion, but without the faintest re-
kponse within himself. So the child
grew up as much alone as a bird
Biigbt be with creatures of a dififer-
eot nature, and made herself a
little world of her own — not a
dream world, in the sense of ordina-
ry romance; she had read no no-
vels, and knew nothing about the
great problem of the human heart,
except what its own promptings may
have whispered to her. She made
friends with the flowers and the
birds and the woods, and loved
them as if they were living com-
panions. She watched their com-
ings and goings, and found out
their secrets, and got into a way of
talking to them and telling them
hers^ As a child, the first peep of
the snowdrop and the first call of
the cuckoo was as exciting an event
to her as the arrival of a new toy
or a new dress to other little girls.
She found S. Francis of Assisi's
bcaaliful hymn to his *^ brother, the
sua, and his sisters, the moon and
the stars," one day in an old book
of her father's, and she learned it by
heart, and would warble it in a duet
with the nightingale out of her lat-
tice-window sometimes when Angd-
hqoe fancied her fast asleep. As
she grew up the mystery of the poem
grew clearer to her, and she repeat-
ed it with a deeper sense of sympa-
thy with the brothers and sisters
that dwell in the sky, and the clear,
pure water, and everywhere in the
beautiful creation. I am sorry if
this sounds unnatural, but I cannot
hdp it. I am describing Fran-
celine as I knew her. But I don't
think it will seem unnatural if you
notice the effect of surroundings
on delicate-fibred children ; how
easily they follow the lights we hold
out to them, and how vibratile their
little spirits are. There was no abso-
lute want of child society at Duller-
toji, any more than grown-up socie-
ty ; but Franceline de la Bourbonais
did not care for it somehow. She felt
shy amongst the noisy, romping
children that swarmed in the nur-
series of Dullerton, and they thought
her a queer child, and did not get
on well with her. The only house
where she cared at all to go in her
juvenile days was the vicarage ; but
the attraction was the vicar himself,
rather than his full home, thkt was
like an aviary of chattering parrots
and chirping canaries. Now that the
parrots were grown up and ** going
out," Franceline saw very little of
them. They were occupied making
markers on perforated card-board
for all their friends, or else " doing
up " their dresses for the next dinner
or croquet party ; the staple topic of
their conversation after these enter-
tainments was why Mr. Charlton
took Miss This down to dinner, in-
stead of Miss That; whether it was
an accident, or whether there was
anything in it; and how divinely Mr.
Charlton had sung " Ah, non giunge."
These things were not the least
interesting to Franceline, who was
not "out," or ever likely to be.
Who would take her, and where
could she get dresses to go ? She
hated perforated card-board work,
and she did not know Mr. Charlton.
It was no wonder, therefore, she
felt out of her element at the vicar-
age, like a wild bird strayed into a
cackling farmyard, and that the
Langrove girls thought her dull and
cold.
It would be a very superficial ob-
6o
Are You My Wife?
server, nevertheless, who would ac-
cuse Franceline of either coldness
or dulness, as she sits there on this
lovely summer day, her gypsy hat
thrown back, and showing the small
head in its unbroken outline against
the sky, with the red gold hair drifting
in wavy braids from the broad, ivory
forehead, while her dark eyes glance
over the landscape with an intense
listening expression, as if some in-
audible voices were calling to her.
It was very pleasant sitting there in
the shade doing nothing, and there is
no saying how long she might have
indulged in the delicious /ar niente^
if a thrush had not wakened sudden-
ly in the foliage over her head, and
reminded her that it was time to be
stirring. It was nearly three hours
since she had left home, and Ang^-
lique would be wondering what had
become of her. With a fairy sudden-
ness of motion she rose up, vaulted
over the stile with the agility of a
young kid, and plunged into the
teeming field. There was a foot-
path through it in ordinary times,
but it was flooded now, and she
had to wade through the rye, put-
ting her arms out before her, as if she
were swimming; for a light breeze
had sprung up and was blowing
the tawny wave in ripples almost
into her face. She shut her eyes
for a moment, and, opening them,
suddenly fancied she was in the
middle of the sea, the sun lighting
up the yellow depths with myriads
of scarlet poppies and blue-bells,
that shone like fairy sea-weed
through the stems. She had not
got quite to the end of the last
field when she heard a sound of
voices coming down the park to-
ward a small gate that opened into
the fields. She hurried on, think-
ing it must be Sir Simon, and per-
haps her father ; and it was not un-
tils he was close by the gate that
she discovered her mistake. One
of the voices belonged to Mr.
Charlton, the other to a young man
whom she had never seen before,
Franceline knew Mr. Charlton by
sight. She had met him once at
Miss Merrywig's, who was a particu-
lar friend of his — but then every-
body was aT*- particular friend of
Miss Merrywig's — and a few times
when she was out walking with Sir
Simon and her father, and the young
man had stood to shake hands;
but this had not led to anything
beyond a bowing acquaintance.
That was not Mr. Charlton's fault.
There were few things that would
have gratified him more than to be
able to establish himself as a visitor
at The Lilies ; but M. de la Bour-
bon ais had not given him the
smallest sign of encouragement, so
he had to content himself with rais-
inghishat instinctively an inch high-
er than to any other lady of his ac-
quaintance when he met Franceline
on the road or in the green lanes —
he on horseback, she, of course, on
foot; and when the young French
girl returned his salute by that
stately little bend of her head, he
would ride on with a sense of
elation, as if a royal princess had
paid him some flattering attention.
This was the first time they had
met alone on foot. Mr. Charlton's
first impulse was to speak; but
something stronger than first im-
pulse checked him, and, before lie
had made up his mind about it, he
had lost an opportunity. The
stranger, whose presence of mind
was disturbed by no scruples or
timidity, stepped quickly forward,
and lifted the latch of the heavy
wooden gate, and swung it back,
lifting his hat quite off, and re-
maining uncovered till Franceline
had passed in. It was very vexa-
tious to Mr. Charlton to ha. ? miss-
The Future of the Russian Church.
6i
cd the chance of the little courtesy,
and to feel that his companion had
the largest share in the bow that in-
Hudcd them both as she walked rap-
idly on. Franceline's curiosity, mean-
while, was excited. Who could this
strange gentleman be, who looked
so like a Frenchman, and bowed
like one ? If he was a guest of Mr.
Cliarlton's, she would never know,
most likely ; but if he was staying
at the Court, she would soon hear
all about him. She wondered
which way they were going. The
gate had clicked, so they were sure
to have gone on. Franceline
scarcely stopped to consider this,
but, obeying the impulse of the
moment, turned round and looked.
She did so, and saw the stranger,
with his hand still upon the gate,
looking after her.
TO BB CONTXNirXD.
THE FUTURE OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCH.
BY TMB ttV. CJB8AX1V8 TONDINI, BAKNABITB.
CONCLUDED.
IV.
It is time that our notice of this
Mibject drew towards its close. The
rcinm of the Russian Church to
< atholic unity is the dearest wish
♦•four heart. A brother in re'iigion
(in which we love each other as
perhaps nowhere else in the world,
iiecause we love each other for eter-
nity) drew us, during the few
months we spent together in Italy,
to frhare in his longings and aspira-
tions for the religious future of Rus-
sia, his native country. Before quit-
ting luly Father Schouvaloff went
to Rome, and presented himself be-
fore the Pope. The Holy Father,
Pias IX., engaged him to make a
daily oflfering of his life to God to
obtain the return of his country to
the unity of the Catholic Church.
Father Schouvaloff joyfully obeyed,
jnd God, on his part, accepted the
•ffering. Being sent to Paris to-
iiards the end of the year 1857, Fa-
ther Schouvaloff died there on the
>d of April, 1859.
Upon his tomb we promised to
continue, in so far as it would be
granted to us under religious obe-
dience, our feeble co-operation in
his work ; and our writings are in
part the fulfilment of this promise.
Father Schouvaloffs confidence
in the return of Russia to Catholic
unity was very great; we have fully
shared in this confidence, and every-
thing that, since his death, has taken
place in Russia, has but served to
augment it. This may appear
strange, but perhaps more than one
among our readers will share it
with us when we have said in what
manner we look forward to this
happy event.
A return of the Russians en masse
to Catholic unity we scarcely con-
template. This could not happen
except under the hypothesis of po-
litical interests which appear to us
inadmissible. And even should we,
in this matter, be mistaken, and
from political interests the Russian
people were to accept union with
Rome, would a union thus brought
62
The Future of the Russian Church.
about be desirable ? Unicss we
mistake, the words of Jesus Christ
might be applied to a faith thus
created when he said, Omnis plan-
tatio quam non piantaznt Pater mens
cradicabitur — " Every plant which
, my Heavenly Father hath not plant-
ed shall be rooted up ** (S. Matt. xv.
13). Was it by promising the Jew-
ish nation to deliver it from the
Roman yoke that Jesus Christ
taught his heavenly doctrine ? Was
it by promising independence, ho-
nors, temporal advantages, that
the apostles peisuaded the pagans
to believe in the Crucified ? Again,
is it by pointing to a perspective
of material advantages that any
Catholic priest, however moderate-
ly cognizant of his own duty and
the good of souls, seeks to induce
any one to become a Catholic ? If
to those who aspire to follow Jesus
Christ was always held the same
language as that which he himself
used to them, there might, perhaps,
be fewer conversions, but they
would be true conversions, and each
one would lead on others, as true
as themselves. No ; a faith creat-
ed by political interests would ne-
ver be a real and solid faith, and
other political interests would cause
it to be cast aside as easily as it
had been accepted ; it is the tree
which the Father has not planted,
and which will be rooted up. Be-
sides, history proves it. More than
once have the Greeks momentarily
reunited themselves to the Catho-
lic Church ; their defection has
been explained by the fides Graca^
and that is all. But let us be just ;
Greek faith is pretty much the faith
of every nation. If we take into
account the circumstances under
which these reunions were accom-
plished, the motives which led the
Greek bishops, whether to Lyons
or to Florence, and the small care
they took to cause tnat that which
had agreed happily with their pre-
sence in the council — the discus-
sion of the contested points — should
remain always the principal end,
we shall perceive that the duration
of the reunion would have been a
prodigy.
In not effecting this prodigy our
Lord has perhaps willed to hinder
men from finding in history a deni-
al given to his words : Omnis plan-
tatio ^uam non plantavit Pater meus
eradicabitur — *' Every plant which
my Heavenly Father hath not plant-
ed shall be rooted up."
Neither have we by any means
an unlimited confidence in the
action which might be exercised
by the emperors of Russia on the
bishops and clergy of their church.
While retaining the hope that the
czars may understand that it is to
their interest to dispossess them-
selves, in great part at least, of the
religious power, and not even de-
spairing of their favoring the re-
union of the Russian bishops with
Rome, our confidence is not based
upon their actions. It is difficult
for us to believe that they could
be moved by other than political
interests ; that which we have said,
therefore, respecting a return rn
masse of the Russian people, would
consequently here again find its ap-
plication. Besides, if formerly the
word of a czar was that of Russia,
and his will the will also of his sub-
jects, it is no longer the same in
the present day. When Peter I. ac-
cepted the scheme of reunion pro-
posed by the doctors of the Sorbonne
of Paris, and consented to have it
examined by his bishops (1717);
when Paul I. took into consideration
the plan suggested by Father G ru-
ber (1800), one might truly have
said, Russia promises fair to be-
come Catholic. At this present
The Future of the Russian Church.
63
time, however, an emperor of Rus-
sia might probably speak and pro-
mise for himself alone. We must
add that at a period when changes
ia popular opinion and sympathies
arc as frequent as they are sudden,
the simple fact that the reunion
with Rome had been promoted and
favored by a czar might, in certain
circumstances, furnish an addition-
al pretext for disavowing it after-
wards.
But what is it, then, whiclvinduces
OS to hope, which sustains our con-
fidence, and which emboldens us
to manifest it openly, though we
should seem to be following an
Utopian idea ?
In the first place, we have hope
in a change which, grace aiding it,
the events recently accomplished,
tad those which are continuing to
lake plac^ in Europe, will work on
the minds of men. Events have
ibcir logic, and it imposes itself also
upon the nations. The alternative
indicated above, and which will
ffwce minds to recognize the divin-
ity of the Catholic Church, will be-
cofBe an evident fact, and God will
do the rest.
We hope because Alexander II.
has emancipated the peasantry,
and «re may be allowed to see in
the emancipation of the peasantry
the prelude to the emancipation of
the Russian Church. We shall re-
nim to this point.
We hope because the spirit of
apostolate, by faith and charity, is
TK)w more powerful than ever in the
Catholic Church. As soon as the
doors of Russia shall be open to
l»eT, and she can there freely exer-
cise her action, her priests, her mis-
sionaries, her religious orders, her
S«tcrs of Charity, her Little Sisters
of the Poor, will present themselves
of thrir own accord. God will do
the rest.
Again, we hope because of the
" Associations of Prayer," which
have already preceded and power-
fully prepared the way for the re-
turn of Russia to the Catholic
faith. The favor demanded is a
great one, and therefore we have
chosen all that Christian piety, the
church, God himself, offers us as
having most power to prevail with
him. Rather than depend alone on
disseminating leaflets of prayers, or
engaging pious souls to remember
Russia, thus giving to these asso-
ciations a form which, in one way
or another, might injure their cha-
racter of universality, we have
endeavored to obtain the celebra-
tion of the Holy Sacrifice of the
Mass. For this intention we have
asked for Masses.* In the Holy
Mass it is Jesus Christ himself who
prays, and he is always heard.
A plenary indulgence, attached to
these Masses, invites^ the faithful
to unite their prayers with those of
the divine Intercessor. If the faith-
ful fail, still Jesus pleads ; for faith
this is enough.
Lastly, we hope because eight-
een centuries which have passed
away since Jesus Christ quitted the
earth in human form have not been
able to diminish in anything the
creative power of his words. Jesus
Christ promised to faith — and to
faith possessed in the measure of
a grain of mustard-seed — that it
should move mountains (S. Matt,
xvii. 19; S. Luke xvii. 6). Thus it
was with happiness, at the last Gen-
eral Congress at Mechlin, in 1867,
'*A Mom, followed by the Benediction of the
Most Holy SacrameDt, is celebrated with this inten-
tion the first Saturday of every month at niac o'clock,
in the ch{^>el of the Bamabite Fathers at Paris, < ^
Rue de Monceau. The reader will find at the end
of our second essay {Lt Pa^e dt Rome et Us rot* <
dtCEgliseOrtkod0Xt d'Oritnt. Paris: Plon) a
notice upon the "^ Association of prayers in honor of
Mary InunaCulate for the return of the Greco-Ruf.-
•ian Church to Catholic Unity,** with thf docu
ments relating to it.
64
The Future of tlu Russian Church.
we made a public act of faith in
proclairaing our unlimited confi-
dence in prayer, and, we added, ** in
prayer presented to God by Mary." *
This public act of faith we here re-
peat.
At the same Congress of Mech-
lin we also spoke of our confidence
in the special benediction which
His Holiness Pius IX. had deigned
to grant to us, and which is thus ex-
pressed : Benedicat te Deus et diri-
j(at cor ct intelligentiatn tuam.
This confidence has assuredly
not diminished since that time. Far
from this, if there is one teaching
which imposes itself with an irre-
sistible force upon our mind, it is
this: thatinthe Vicar of Jesus Christ,
no less than in Jesus Christ him-
self, is fulfilled the declaration of
our divine Saviour, " He that gath-
ereth not with me, scattereth " (S.
Luke xi. 23).
And further, Jesus Christ spoke
iluis to his disciples: When you
shall have done cUl the things that are
cctrntttanded you^ say : We are un-
profitable servants : we hai^e done that
which we ought to do (S. Luke xvii.
10). After this it is not even hu-
mility, but simple Christian logic, to
attach a high value to the works
of the apostolate, to the benediction
of the pope ; lest we should be not
only unprofitable servants — which
is always the case — but dangerous
servants.
It is that, in the first place, the
benediction of the pope, while it
encourages zeal, requires that we
* *' It is not for naught that the Russians have
preserved among the treasures of their fiuth the
< uitus of Mary ; it b not for naught that they in-
voke her, that they believe in her Immaculate
Cbnception, without, perhaps, knowing it, and that
they ccL'brate its festival. . . . Yes« Mary will be
the hood which shall unite the two churches, and
which will make of all those who love her a people
of brelhrcn, under the fraternity of the Vicar of
Jesus Christ *' {Ma Conversion et ma Vocation^
par le P&re Schouvaloff, Bamabite, II. part, I9,
Paris, Douniol, 1859).
should correct whatever there may
be of human or of reprehensible in
the manner in which our zeal ex-
presses itself and the means which
it employs. The Vicar of Jesus
Christ cannot and does not bless
anything but what is pleasing to
Jesus Christ and conformable to his
will. That which is not conforma-
ble to these, far from participating
in this benediction, dishonors and
in some sort vilifies it. The bene-
diction of the pope imposes an obli-
gation.
It is, in the second place, that
the mission of the priest is not to
preach according to his own ideas ;
to exercise the ministry according
to his own ideas ; to aid the church
according to his own ideas ; but to
preach, to exercise the ministry, to
aid the church, after the manner
indicated by God, who is the Mas-
ter of the church, who knows her
needs better than we do, and who
has no need of us. And who will
inform us of his will, if not his
legitimate representatives, the bi-
shops, and, above them, the Vicar
of Jesus Christ, the pope } All
those who, however slightly, have
studied the mysteries of the human
heart, the relations existing between
faith and reason, and the powerless-
ness of all human means to produce
one single act of faith, will, we are
certain, partake in the sentiment
which we have just expressed.
Hence it is that we are happy here
to proclaim again our confidence
in the benediction of Pius IX.
Thus, therefore, the logic of
events, the spirit of the apostolate,
the emancipation of the serfs, the
efficaciousness of prayer, the power
of faith, the benediction of Pius IX.
— these are the things which sup-
port our confidence; these are our
motives for hope.
Are we the plaything of an illn-
Tlu Future of the Russian Church.
65
sion, and is our confidence the ef-
fect of religious excitement? Not
to any wise ; for we are now about
to indicate where lies the principal
obstacle in the way of reunion, and
what is the objection which will
have the most effect upon the minds
of men. It is in the fear that the
popes may overstep the limits of
their authority; that the religious
power may absorb that of the state ;
and that Russia would only become
Catholic to the detriment of the na-
tional spirit.
In fact, we cannot deny the teach-
ing of history, which shows us, al-
most always and everywhere, con-
flicts between the civil and religious
jKJwer. More than in the conduct
of the popes, the true cause of these
will be found, we believe, in the
iact that Casarism — that is to say,
the tendency of sovereigns to ob-
tain an empire entire and absolute
over their subjects — is to be found
in human nature itself. To avoid
the possibility of conflicts between
Rome and the various goyernments,
it would be necessary tocliange hu-
man nature. Perhaps it may be al-
lowable to say that, in the difficulty
which stands in the way, practically
to define in an absolute manner the
limits of the two powers, we must
recognize a providential disposition
vhich has permitted this in order
to open a wider field for the exer-
cise of virtue. That which was
«ud by S. Augustine, Homines
tumu$^ fragiieSy infirmi^ lutea vasa
fmiantfs ; sed si angustiarUur vasa
MTKis, dilatentur spatia charitatisy
siy find here its application, at
i<4^ if from the supreme repre-
leotatives of the two powers, the
pope and the sovereign, we descend
to those who exercise these powers
m their name in less elevated
ipheres and in the ordinary details
of life. These smaller and subor-
VOL XXI. — s
dinate authorities, charged to repre-
sent power, and carrying into their
representation of power their per-
sonal character, tl>eir private views,
at times their prejudices and their
interests, may be well compared to
those vases of which S. Augustine
speaks — vases of capacity and of
varied form, and which must be
made to occupy a certain fixed
space. Let only charity intervene,
round the angles, shape the lines,
adapt the prominences to the sinu-
osities, determine the length, shor-
ten where needful, obtain even the
sacrifice of some superfluous orna-
ments, these vases will then all find
their place; space is multiplied by
miracle ; that which has effected it
is the spirit of Jesus Christ, which
is charity.
This solution of the difficulty by
charity is not, however, the only
one which we propose. Without
speaking of the concordats which
prove that an amicable understand-
ing may be entered into with Rome,
and also not to mention those
great sovereigns of various coun-
tries whose history proves that to
live in peace with the church is
by no means hurtful to the pros-
perity of the state, the Russians
will allow us also to reckon in some
degree upon the intellectual pro-
gress to which, no less than other
nations, they attach a great value.
Now, to advance intellectually is to
perceive that which was previously
hidden from the mind, and to dis-
cern clearly that which was only
half guessed at before. Why, then,
not hope that the Russians will now
see more clearly than in the time
when Peter I. treated them so con-
temptuously what must be expect-
ed or feared from the religious and
civil power; that is to say, that if
conflicts appear inevitable, the al-
ternative, for them as well as for
•66
The Future of tJu Russian Church,
other peoples, is this : conflicts with
Rome, or slavery to their sovereigns.
Let them make their choice.
Much is said about the providen-
tial mission of Russia in Asia. Why
not also m Europe } Of all the
nations of Europe, the Russian
l)eople is that which more than all
others knows by experience what
serfdom really is, under the empire
of a sovereign ruling at the same
time bodies and souls. Their sub-
mission has been called "the hero-
ism of slavery." " Whoever has
seen Russia,** it has also been said,
"will find himself happy to live
anywhere else." Well ! at the risk
of provoking a smile of incredulity,
we express the hope that there will
be found amongst the Russians
sufficient intelligence to compre-
hend that God is offering to them
the most sublime mission with
which he can honor a nation. A
people only now freed from reli-
«»ious slavery, arwi consecrating the
first exercise of its liberty to hinder
other nations from falling into the
same slavery, will be worthy of true
admiration, so much would there
be in this conduct of nobleness,
of self-denial, and of disinterested-
ncHs ! Now, all this is what Russia
can do. But in order to do it, she
nuist break with the past ; she must
disavow her acts ; she must ac-
knowledge with humility her faults,
which she must hasten to repair.
If those who hold in their hands
the destinies of Russia were not
< /ats, that would offer no difficulty.
I'hc c/ars are not the Russian peo-
ple. If they have reparation to
make, they have nothing to dis-
avow. In the situation in which
Russia has been up to the present
time the faults of the czars have
been personally their own; no re-
sponsibility could rest upon the
Russian people.
But Russia is still governed by
the czars. Will they be asked to
break with their past ? Will it be
expected that they will disavow
the acts of their dynasty ; that they
will acknowledge their faults ; that
they will repair them 1 It is to re-
quire of them a more than heroic
virtue. Are they capable of it ?
Why not }
The czar who at this time gov-
erns Russia has emancipated the
I^ussian peasants, he has abolished
the servitude of the glebe. He has
had to break with his past, dis-
avow the acts of his ancestors, ac-
knowledge their faults, and repair
them. He has had to struggle
against immense interior difficulties,
against the interests of the lords,
against routine, against the spirit
of domination, against cupidity.
In spite of all this, Alexander II. is
emancipator of the serfs — a title far
more glorious than those given by
flattery to Peter I.
When the servitude of the pea-
santry was still in existence in Rus-
sia, lords were not wanting who
held to their serfs the following
kind of language : " How happy
you are ! You are delivered from all
care for your own existence or for
that of your families ! When you
have finished the work which you
owe to me, you can do whatever
you think best. You enjoy in peace
the fruits of the earth, the pleasures
of the country, the free air of the
fields. 1 consider you as my chil-
dren. I take care of you. Your
interests are mine. Your family
joys are mine, and mine also are
your pains. How happy you ar^'*
In fact, if we are to believe certain
authorities, nothing was wanting to
the happiness of the Russian pea-
sant, serf of the glebe ; it was a per-
petual idyl. In spite of that, all
Europe pitied him. And wby.>
The Future of the Russian Church.
67
Because the peasant could net go
whither he would, and because, if
he were not sensible of the priva-
tion of this liberty, it was because
he had been rendered incapable of
appreciating it.
Now, there are peoples who are
chained to the glebe, not by the
body, but by the soul.
They have each their lord, and,
provided that they accomplish the
work which their lord imposes upon
ihcra, they are, for the rest, free to
employ their time as they plea?e.
Care is taken of them, of their
families, of their material interests,
and especially they are unceasingly
reminded that they are free, and
that their lord has nothing more at
heart than their liberty. They are
indeed free to do many things;
but one liberty is wanting to them —
their body may go whither they
desire it, but their soul is chained
to the glebe. Study being granted
to them, and the knowledge of that
which is passing in the world being
no longer refused to them, they
discover on the earth a church
which calls herself divine, and
charged to conduct all souls to
heaven. They study her ; they are
act alarmed at objections; they
kBow how to make allowance for
human weakness in herchildren, and
even in her ministers. They find
in this weakness itself one argument
more in favor of the divinity of
this church. They admire the
courage, full of gentleness, of these
bishops. It is truth, it is God,,
who speaks by her. These souls de-
sire God, and they are therefore
drawn towards her, because they
lift themselves up to God. At
this moment a heavy weight holds
them back ; wishing to soar towards,
heaven, they find themselves chain-
ed to the glebe.
Yes, for the souls who desire
God the false interests of the state
are but a glebe — a glebe the laws
to which the conscience refuses
to submit — a glebe the will of the
sovereign, and a glebe also the
traditions of his dynasty.
These people, let others call them
free, and, on the faith of their lords,
let them also call themselves free ;
they are none the less people in serf-
dom — souls chained to the glebe.
What glory for Alexander II., if,
after having delivered bodies from
the servitude of the glebe, he would
also deliver souls! What glory,
if, after having delivered his own
subjects from it, he would labor
also to set others free !
68
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
STRAY LEAVES FROM A PASSING LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
MR. CULPEPPER MAKES A PROPOSAL— A RENCOUNTER IN A CHURCHYARD.
It was one of those golden No-
vember mornings that throw a mys-
tic glamour over New York. A
warm haze draped the great city,
softening its deformities, blending
Its beauties. In its magic light the
very street-cars took on a romantic
air, as they sped along loaded with
their living freight. The bales of
goods on the sidewalk, huddled to-
gether in careless profusion, were
no longer the danger which they
are generally supposed to be by
elderly gentlemen who have due
regard for life and limb, but gra-
cious droppings rather from Pan-
dora's box, raining down fresh and.
bright from the hands of the genial
goddess. What in the garish sun
were vulgar business houses filled
with sober goods and peopled with
staring and sleek-combed clerks, as-
sumed under this gorgeous drapery
the aspect of mystic temples of
commerce, where silent and so-
lemn-eyed priests stood patiently
all the day long to call in the pass-
ers-by to worship. The lofty po-
liceman, looming like a statue at the
corner, was not the ferocious, pea-
nut-chewing being that he is com-
monly supposed to be, but a bene-
ficent guardian of the great temple
of peace. The busy crowds of
brisk business men that hurried
along, untouched as yet by the toil
and the soil of the day, were fresh-
faced and clear-eyed, chatty and
cheerful. Thompson stepped out
as cheerily as though he were just
beginning that strange task, on
which so many ambitious mortals
have gone down, of performing his
thousand miles in a thousand hours;
fjr Thompson, happy man ! knew
not as yet what was so calmly await-
ing him on his desk — that heavy bill
that he was bound to meet, but
which, strange to say, had quite
slipped his memory. And there is
Johnson walking arm-in-arm with
Jones, Johnson's face wreathed in
sunny smiles the while. Johnson's
heart is gay and his step light, and
he feels the happy influence of the-
morning. Jones is sadly in want
of a confidential clerk, and his
friend is dilating on the treasure
that he himself possesses — that very
clerk who, he learns on reaching
his office, absconded last night with
a fearful amount of Johnson's pro-
perty. Nor, on the other hand, does
that eager-faced youngster, the
shining seams of whose garments
tell of more years than his seamless
face and brow, know that at last the
gracious answer that he has so long-
ed for awaits his arrival, and that the
bright opening at length lies before
him that is to lead him on to fortune,
if not to fame, more than the five
hundred and forty-six rival appli-
cants know that their addresses
have been rejected. As yet the
day is marked with neither white
bean nor black, and so let us hope,
with this mighty stream pouring on
and on and on down the great tho-
roughfares of the city, that the white
beans may outnumber the black
when the day is done, and that
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life,
69
what is lost here may be gained
there ; for we are of them, brethren
of theirs, and joyous hopes of this
kind cost little, while, at least, they
harden not the heart. And so the
whole city, with its hopes and fears,
its life and its death, moved out un-
der the November haze that morn-
ing, and with it, as the central figure
in the vast panorama, he whose
stray leaves, it is hoped, may prove
at least of passing interest to the
many of whom he is one.
My si>ecial point of attracti?)n
that day was the office of T?u fiuk-
ei,^ 2L monthly journal of polite lit-
erature," to quote the prospectus,
which was supported by " the ablest
pens of both hemispheres," as the
same prospectus modestly admitted.
As at this time I was a pretty con-
stant contributor to The Packet^ I
suppose that, according to the pro-
spectus, I was fully entitled to take
my stand among ** the ablest pens
of both hemispheres," whether I
chose to insist on my literary rank
or not. And as I contributed oc-
casionally to other journals which
were respectively, according to
their several prospectuses, " the
leading weekly," "the greatest
daily," " the giant monthly," " the
only quarterly," "the great art
journal," etc., there could not pos-
sibly be any doubt as to my literary
position. For all that, I confess
I was still among the callow brood,
and fear that, if any person had re-
ferred to me in public as " a lite-
rar)- man," the literary man would
Have blushed very violently, and
felt as small as a titmouse. Still, I had
that delicious feeling of the dawning
of hope and the glorious uncertainty
of a great ambition that always at-
tend and encourage the first steps
of a new career, whatever be its
character. It was natural enough,
then, that I should step out lustily
among my fellows, my head high
in air, and my heart higher still,
drinking in the inspiration of the
morning, piercing the golden mist
with the eye of hope, feeling a
young life throbbing eagerly within
me, feeling a mysterious brother-
hood with all men, gliding as
through a fairy city in a gilded
dream.
As I had several places to call at,
it was late in the afternoon when
I arrived at The Packet office to
draw my little account. On enter-
ing I found an unusual commotion;
something had evidently gone very
wrong. Mr. Culpepper, the ex-
perienced editor of the journal of
polite literature, was, to judge by
the tones of his voice, in a tower-
ing rage. I fancied that I caught
expressions, too, which were not
exactly in accordance with polite
literature. When Mr. Culpepper's
temper did happen to fail, it was an
^ event to be remembered, particular-
ly as that event took place, on an
average, some two or three times a
week. Everything and everybody
in the office was in a turmoil ; for
Mr. Culpepper's temper had an
infectious quality that affected all
its immediate surroundings. An
experienced eye could tell by the
position of the dictionary, the state
of the floor, the standing of the
waste-basket, the precise turn of
the editor's easy-chair, how the
wind blew to Mr. Culpepper. On
this mild November afternoon it
was clear that a terrific gale had
sprung up from some unexpected
quarter. It had ruffled what was
left of Mr. Culpepper's hair, it blew
his cravat awry, it had disarranged
his highly intellectual whiskers, it
spared not even his venerable coat-
tails. His private office showed
the effects of a raging tornado.
Pigeon-holes had been ransacked;
TO
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
drawers had been wrenched open
and rifled of their contents; Web-
ster and Worcester lay cheek-by-
jowl in the waste-basket ; the easy-
chair had a dangerous crick in the
back; Mr. Culpepper himself was
plunged ankle-deep in manuscripts
that strewed the floor in wild con-
fusion ; while Mr. Culpepper's hands
were thrust in his cavernous pockets,
as he stood there on my entrance,
a very monument of editorial de-
spair.
Mr. Culpepper, like most men,
was preferable when good-temper-
ed. Indeed, though his opinions
at times, particularly on the merits
or demerits of my own composi-
tions, were apt to be more empha-
tic than polished, Mr. Culpepper,
when good-tempered, was by no
means an unpleasant, companion.
In his stormy periods I always
coasted as clear of him as I could ;
but it was now too late to sheer off.
So, making the best of a bad bargain,
I advanced boldly to meet the
enemy, when to my surprise he greet-
ed me with the exclamation,
** Oh ! you are just the man I want-
ed. Can you tell a story — a good,
lively Christmas story, with a spice
of fun, a dash of love, a slice of
plum-pudding, a sprinkling of holly
and ivy, with a bunch of mistletoe
thrown in ? And, by the bye, if
you have genius enough, a good
ghost. Yes, a good, old-fashioned
gliost would be capital. They are
dying out now, more's the pity. Yes,
I must have a ghost and a country
churchyard, with a bowl of punch,
if you want it. There are your
materials. Now, I want them fixed
up into a first-class Christmas story,
to fill exactly eight pages, by four
o'clock to-morrow afternoon at the
latest. Must have it to fit this
illustration. Clepston was to have
done it, but he has failed me at the
last hour. Just like him — he must
go and get married just when I
want ray story. He did it on pur-
pose, because I refused to advance
his pay — married out of revenge,
just to spite me. Well, what do
you say V*
I said nothing; for Mr. Culpep-
per's rapidity and the novelty of
his proposal fairly took my breath
away. I had never yet attempted
fiction, but there was a certain raci-
ness in Mr. Culpepper's manner of
putting it that urged me to seize
my present opportunity. A good
ghost-story within just twenty-four
hours ! A pleasant winter tale that
should be read to happy families by
happy firesides ; by boys at school,
their hair standing on end with
wild excitement, and their laughter
ringing out as only boys* laughter*
does; by sweet-faced girls — by
everybody, in fact, with a vast
amount of pleasure and not a twinge
^ of pain. Thousands whom I should
never know would say, " What a
dear fellow this story-teller is!"
" What a pleasant way he has of
putting things !" " What — "
" Well, what do you say V* broke
in Mr. Culpepper rudely ; and I
remembered that the story which
was to win me such golden opinions
from all sorts of people was yet to
be written.
"I hardly know. Four o'clock
to-morrow afternoon? The time
is so very short. Could you not ex-
tend it .>"
** Not a moment. Printers wait-
ing now. If I can't have yours by
that time, I must use something
else ; and I have not a thing to
suit. Just look here," he said
pointing to the floor, and glancing
ruefully around; " I have spent the
day wading through all these things,
and there is nothing among the
pile. A mass of rubbish, all of it I"
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
71
My resolution was made ; I start-
ed up.
"Mr. Culpepper, I will try. I
▼ill stay up all night ; and if there
be a ghost yet unlaid, a pudding
yet unmade, a piece of holly yet un-
gathcrcd, or a bunch of mistletoe
that has not yet done duty, you
shall have them all by four o'clock
to-morrow afternoon."
" Now, I rely on you, mind. Four
o clock sharp. Let it be brisk and
frosty, bright as the holly-berries,
and soothing as a glass of punch !
We owe you a little account, I be-
lieve- Here it is, and now good-by
till to-morrow afternoon.**
Who has not experienced that
half-fearful and yet wholly plea-
sant feeling of setting foot for the
first time in a new and strange
land } It was with some such feel-
ing that my heart fluttered as I left
the ofl&ce of The Faeket that after-
noon. Yet what was I to achieve
within the next four-and- twenty
hours.' An eight-page Christmas
story of the approved pattern, with
the conventional sauces and season-
ings — nothing more. The thing had
been done a thousand times before,
and would be done a thousand times
again, as often as Christmases came
round, and thought nothing of.
Why should I be so fluttered at the
task? Was this to be the great
beginning at last of my new career 1
Was this trumpery eight-page story
to be the true keynote to what was
to make music of all the rest of my
life? Nonsense ! I said to myself;
and yet why nonsense.' Did not
all great enterprises spring from
tmall and insignificant beginnings.'
Were not all great men at some time
or another babies in arms, rocked
in cradles, fed on soothing syrups,
and carried about in long clothes ?
Did not a falling apple lead New-
I ton on to the great discovery of
gravitation .' Was it not a simmer-
ing kettle that opened Watt's eyes
to steam, and introduced the rail-
way and the packet .' Did not a
handful of sand reveal the mines
of California .' Must not Euclid
have started with a right reading
of axioms as old as the world ?
Who shall fix the starting-point of
genius .' And why should not my
first fictitious Christmas pudding
contain the germ of wonders that
were to be .'
I can feel the astute and experi-
enced reader who has been gracious
enough to accompany me thus far
already falter at the very outset of
the short excursion we purposed
taking together. I can feel the
pages close over me like a tomb,
while a weary yawn sings my
death-dirge. But allow me, my
dear sir, or my dear madam, or my
much-«ste.emed young lady, to stay
your hands just one moment, until
I explain matters a little, until I in-
troduce myself properly; and I
promise to be very candid in all I
have to say. You see — indeed, you
will have seen already — that the gen-
tleman who has just left Mr. Culpep-
per's presence was at this period
of his life very yiung indeed, and
proportionately ambitious. These
two facts will explain the fluttering
of his heart at the cold-blooded
proposal of spending an entire night
at his writing-desk, delving his brain
for the materials of a silly little
story, while yotJ, dear sir, have
drawn over your ears, and over that
head that has been rubbed into
reverent smoothness by the gentle
hand of time, the sleep-compelh'ng
night-cap; and while you, dear
madam, while you have — done no-
thing of the kind. I plead guilty,
then, at this time, to the twofold
and terrible charge of outrageous
youth and still more outrageous
^2
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
ambition. But I have long since
contrived to overcome the disgrace
of excessive youth ; while, as re-
gards ambition, what once happen-
ed to a literary friend of mine has
never happened to me : that morn-
ing I have been waiting for so
long, so long, when I was to wake
up and find myself famous, has not
yet arrived — looks even as though
it never meant to dawn. Literature
was to me an unknown sea, upon
which I had not fairly embarked.
I had paddled a little in a little
cockleshell of my own in sunny
weather around friendly coasts,
but as yet had not ventured to
launch out into the great deep.
The storm and the darkness and
the night, the glory and the dread
of the tempest, the awful conflicts
of the elements, were as yet un-
known to and unbraved by me.
Indeed, as I promised to \)t, candid,
I may as well whisper in your ear
that the main efforts of my pen at
this precise period of my life were
devoted to meeting with a calm
front and easy conscience the week-
ly eye of Mrs. Jinks. Mrs. Jinks
was my boarding-house keeper, a
remarkable woman in her way, and
one for whom I entertained an
unbounded respect ; but she was
scarcely a Mme. de Stael, unless in
looks, still less a Mme. de S^vlgn^.
Mme. Jinks' encouragement to as-
piring genius was singularly small
when aspiring genius could not pay
its weekly board — a contingency
that has been known to occur.
Mrs. Jinks never fell into the fatal
mistake of tempting the man to eat
unless the man was prepared to pay.
But even Mrs. Jinks could not
crush out all ambition, so that I
hugged Mr. Culpepper's proposal,
as I went home that evening, with
a fervor and enthusiasm that I had
never before experienced ; for it
seemed to open up to me a new
vista of bright and beautiful imagin-
ings.
For all that, I could not strike the
clew. It seems a very easy thing,
does it not, to concoct a passable
enough Christmas story out of the
ample materials with which Mr.
Culpepper had so lavishly supplied
me 1 Just try; sit down and write a
good, short, brisk Christmas story,
out of all the time-honored materi-
als, and judge for yourself what an
easy task it is, O sapient critic!
a line from whose practised pen
stabs to death a year of hopes, and
projects, and labor. Strange to
say, my immediate project dissolv-
ed and faded out of my mind, as I
plodded homewards along the great
thoroughfare I had trodden so se-
renely in the morning. The little
Christmas story gave place to some-
thing new, something larger, some-
thing vague, indefinable, and mighty.
A great realm of fiction unfold-
ed itself before me — a realm all
my own, a fairy island in a sum-
mer sea, peopled with Calibans and
dainty Ariels, Mirandas and Ferdi-
nands, and a thousand unseen crea-
tures, waiting only for the wave of
my magic wand to be summoned
into the beauty of life, to bring
sweet songs down from the clouds
of heaven, and whisperings of
spirits far away that the earth had
never yet heard. A mist sprang up
around me as I walked, and through
it peered a thousand eyes, and from
it came and went a thousand shape-
less forms, whose outlines I could
half discern, but hold not. I could
not bid them stay until I grasped
them. Something was wanting, a
touch only, a magic word, but I
could not find it. A charm was on
me, and more potent than I. It
was there, working, working, work-
ing, but I could not master it.
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
n
valked along in a dream. Men in
throngs passed roe by in what
seemed a strange and awful silence.
If they spoke, never a word heard
I. Carriages and vehicles of every
description I felt rolling, rolling
past ; but their wheels were strange-
ly muffled, for never a sound fell on
my ear. The fair, bright city of the
morning was filled now with silent
shadows, moving like ghosts in a
troubled dream. Lights sprang up
out of the mist as I passed along,
but they seemed to shine upon me
alone. Intensely conscious of ray
own existence, I had only a numb
feeling of other life around me.
At last I found ^myself at Mrs.
Jinks* door. I took a letter from
ber band, and seated at length in
my own room, with familiar, objects
around me, the shadows seemed to
lift, and I was brought back to the
subject of my proposed night's
work.
Still, I could not collect my
thoughts sufficiently to bring them
lo bear, in a practical way, on the
central idea around which my fic-
tion was to take body and shape.
The sudden strain on my imagina-
tion had been too severe ; a kind of
oambness pervaded my whole be-
ing, and the moments, every one of
vhich was precious as a grain of
gold, were slipping idly away. The
feeling that all the power to achieve
what you desire lies there torpid
within you, but too sullen to be
cither coaxed or bullied into action,
laughing sluggishly at the roost
riolcnt effort of the will to roove it,
i»t perhaps, one of the most exas-
perating that a man can experience.
It is like one in a nightmare, who
tecs impending over him a name-
less terror that it only needs a wag
of a httle tongue to divert, and yet
the little tongue cleaves with such
rooQstrous persistency to the roof
of the parched roouth tliat not all
the leverage of Archimedes himself
could move it from its place.
That fine power of man's intellect,
that clear perception and keen pre-
cision which can search the memo-
ry, and at a glance find the clew
that it is seeking ; that can throw
out those far-reaching fibres over
the garden of knowledge, gathering
in from all sides the necessary
stores, was as far away from me ar.
from a roadman's dream. I could
fasten upon nothing ; my brain was
in disorder, while the moments were
lengthening into hours, and the
hours slipping- silently away.
In despair I tried a cigar — a favor-
ite refuge of mine in difficulties ; and
soon light clouds, pervaded with a
subtle aroma, were added to those
thinner clouds of undefined and in-
definable images that floated around
me, volatile, shadowy, intangible;
mysterious, nebulous. Mr. Culpep-
per's ** materials " had quite evapor-
ated, and I began to think dreamily
of old days, of anything, everything,
save what was to the point. I re-
member how poor old Wetherhead,
of all people in the world — " Leath-
erhead " we used facetiously to style
him at college — came up before me,
and I laughed over the fun we had
with him. What a plodder he was !
When preparing for his degree, he
took ferociously to wet towels. He
had the firmest faith in wet towels.
He had tried them for the matri-
culation, and found them ** capital,"
he assured us. " Try a towel. Leath-
ers," we would say to him whenever
we saw him in difficulties. Poor
fellow ! He was naturally dull and
heavy, dense and persistent as a
clod. It would take digging and
hoeing and trenching to plant any-
thing in that too solid brain ; and
yet he was the most hopeful fellow
alive. He was possessed with the
74
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
very passion of study, without a
streak of brightness or imagination
to soften and loosen the hopeless
mass of clay whereof his mind seem-
ed composed ; and so he depended
on wet towels to moisten it. He
almost wore his head out while pre-
paring for the matriculation exam-
en. But by slow and constant ef-
fort he succeeded in forcing a
sufficient quantity of knowledge into
his pores, and retaining it there, to
enable him to pass the very best-de-
served first-class that ever was won.
The passage of the Alps to a Hannibal
or a Napoleon was a puny feat com-
pared'with the passingof an examina-
tion by a Wetherhead. We took him
on our shoulders,. and bore him aloft
in triumph, a banner-bearer, with a
towel for banner, marching at the
head of the procession. " You may
laugh, but it was the towels pulled
me through, old fellow," he said to
me, smiling, his great face expand-
ing with delight. ** Stay there, and
don't go any farther. Leathers," I
advised, when he proclaimed his
intention of going up for the de-
grees. "Nonsense!" saidhe, and, in
spite of everybody's warnings, Weth-
erhead "went in" for the B.A.
It was a sight to see him in the
agonies of study ; his eyes almost
starting out of his head as the day
wore on, and around that head,
arranged in turban fashion, an enor-
mous towel reeking with moisture.
" How many towels to-day. Leath-
ers ?" " How's the reservoir, Leath-
erhead V* those impudent young-
sters would cry out. As time went
on and the examination drew near
the whole college became interested
in Wetherhead and his prospects
of success. Bets were made on
him, and bets were made on his
towels. The wit of our class wrote
an essay — which, it was whispered
aloud, had reached the professors*
room, and been read aloud thereto
their intense amusement — on ** Tow-
els vs. Degrees; or. The proba-
bilities of success, measured by tl>c
quantity of water on the brain."
He bore it all good-humoredly,
even the threat to crown him with
towels instead of laurel if he pass-
ed and went up for his degree. A
dark whisper reached me, away in
the country at the time, that he liad
failed, that the failure had. touched
his brain, and that he was cut down
half-strangled one morning from his
own door-key, to which he had sus-
pended himself by means of a wet
towel; which, instead of its usual
position around his brow, had fast-
ened itself around his throat. Of
course that was a malicious libel;
for I met the poor fellow soon after,
looking the ghost of himself. " How
was it, Wetherhead ?" I asked. " 1
don't know, old fellow," he respond-
ed mournfully. ** I got through
splendidly the first few days; but
after that things began to get mud-
dled and mixed up somehow, so
that I could hardly tell one from
another. It was all there, but
something had got out of order. I
felt that it was all there, but there
was too much to hold together.
The fact is, / missed my taweL A
towel or two would have set it all
right again. The machine had got
too hot, and wanted a little cool-
ing off; but I couldn't march in
there, you know, with a big towel
round my head ; so I failed."
The clock striking twelve woke
me from my dream of school-days. 1
had just sixteen hours and a half
left to complete the story that was
not yet begun. Whew ! I might as
well engage to write a history <;f
science within the appointe'd time.
It was useless. My cigar had gj»nc
out, and I gave up the idea of writ-
ing a story at all. And yet surely
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
75
it WIS so easy, and I had promised
Colpepper, and both he and The
Foikei and the public were awaiting
my decision. And this was to be
the end of what I had deemed
the dawn of ray hope and the
firstling of my true genius !
** Roger Herbert, you are an ass,"
spake a voice I knew well — a voice
that compelled my attention at the
roost unseasonable hours. ** Excuse
me for my plainness of speech, but
you are emphatically an ass. Now,
now, no bluster, no anger. If you and
1 cannot honestly avow the plain
truth to each other, there is no hope
for manhood. Mr. Culpepper and
the public waiting for you ! Ho ! ho !
Hatha! It's a capital joke. Mr.
Culpepper is at this moment in the
peaceful enjoyment of his first sluni-
bcT3; and the public would not
cTtn know your name if it were told
ihcm. Upon my word, Roger, you
ire even a greater ass than I took
you to be. Well, well, we live and
learn. For the last half-a-dozen
hours or more where have you
'jctn } Floating in the clouds ; full
of the elixir of life ; dreaming great
dreams, your spirit within you fan-
itrdwith the movement of xhtdivinus
^gUtuSy eh } Is not that it } Non-
^sc, my dear lad. You have only
once again mounted those two-foot
*iiits, against which I am always
»aming you, and which any little
Toonntebank can manage better
than you. They may show some
ikill, but you only tumble. So
come down at once, my fine fellow,
ind tread on terra firma again,
where alone you are safe. You a gen-
ins! Ho! ho! Ho! ho! ho! And
Jl apropos of a Christmas pudding.
The genius of a Christmas pudding !
Ii is too good. Your proper busi-
r^iswhen Mr. Culpepper made his
proposal to you this afternoon, was
to tell him honestly that the task he
set you was one quite beyond your
strength — altogether out of your
reach, in fact. Bat no ; you must
mount your stilts, and, once en
them, of course you are a head and
shoulders above honest folk. (>
Roger, Roger! why not remember
your true stature ? What is the use
of a man of ^\q, foot four trying to
palm himself off and give himself
the airs of one of six foot four ?
He is only laughed at for his pains,
as Mr. Culpepper will assuredly
laugh at you to-morrow. Take my
advice, dear boy, acknowledge your
fault, and then go to bed. You are
no genius, Roger. In what, pray,
are you better, in what are you so
good, as fifty of your acquaintances,
whom I could name right ofi" for
you, but who never dream that they
are geniuses ? The divinus afflatus^
forsooth ! For shame, for shame,
little man ! Stick to your last, my
friend, and be thankful even that
you have a last whereto to stick. Let
Apelles alone, or let the other little
cobblers carp at him, if they will.
The world will think more of his
blunders than of all your handi-
craft put together, and your little
cobbler criticisms into the bargain.
And now, having said my say, I wish
you a very good-night, Roger, or
good-morning rather."
So spake the voice of the Daimon
within me ; a very bitter voice it has
often proved to me — as bitter, but as
healthy, as a tonic.^ And at its
whisper down tumbled all " the
cloud-capt towers and gorgeous
palaces " that my imagination had
so swiftly conjured up. It was
somewhat humiliating to confess,
but, after all, Roger Herbert, Senior,
as I called that inner voice, was
right. I resolved to go to bed.
Full of Uiat practical purpose, I
went to rny desk to close it up for
the night, and all dreams of a
76
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
momentary ambition with it, when
my eyes fell upon a letter bearing
the address :
Roger Herbert, Esq.,
Care of Mrs. Jinks,
Street,
New Yoik,
United States,
America.
What a quantity of writing for so
small an envelope ! One needed
no curious peep within, nor scarce-
ly a second glance at the neat-
pointed hand, with the up-and-down
strokes of equal thickness, to guess
at the sex of the writer. I remem-
bered now ; it was the letter Mrs.
Jinks gave me at the door, and,
good heavens ! it had been lying
there disregarded all these hours,
while I was inflated with my absurd
and bombastic thoughts. The
writing I knew well, for my hand
had been the first to guide the wri-
ter through the mazes and the mys-
teries of chirography. One sen-
tence from the letter is sufficient to
give here. " Dear, dear Roger :
Papa is sick — is dying. Come home
at once." It was signed ** Fairy."
" Home at once !" The post-
marks said London and Leighstone.
London, it may be necessary to
inform the reader, is the capital
of a county called Middlesex, in
a country called England, while
Leighstone is a small country town
some thirty miles out of London.
From Leighstone writes ** Fairy "
to " Dear, dear Roger '* some thou-
sand — it seems fifty thousand —
odd miles away. The father re-
ported dying is my father ;-Fairy is
my sister. It is now nearly two in
the morning, and by four in the
afternoon Mr. Culpepper and the
printers expect that brisk, pleasant,
old-fashioned Christmas story that
is to make everybody happy, and
not a hint at pain in it! And I
have been puzzling my brains these
long hours past trying to compose
it, with that silent letter staring me
in the face all the time. A plea-
sant Christmas story, a cheery
Christmas story! How bitterly
that voice began to laugh within
me again ! Oh I the folly, the crime,
of which I had been guilty. It was
such vain and idle dreams as these
that had lured me away from that
father's side ; that had brought me
almost to forget him; that, great
God ! perhaps had dealt the blow
that struck him down. Merciful
heavens! what a Christmas story
will it be mine to tell }
At four in the afternoon a steam-
er sailed for Liverpool, and I was
one of the passengers. Years have
passed since then, and I can write
all this calmly enough now; but
only those — and God grant that they
may be few ! — who at a moment's
warning, or at any warning, have
had to cross more than a thousand
miles of ocean in the hope of catch-
ing a dying parent's last breath, can
tell how the days pall and the sleep- *
less nights drag on ; how the sky
expands into a mighty shroud
covering one dear object, of which
the sad eyes never lose the sight;
how the winds, roar they loud or
sing they softly, breathe ever the
same low, monotonous dirge.
It was scarcely a year since I bad
parted from my father, and our
parting had not been of the friend-
liest. He was a magnate in Leigh-
stone, as all the Herberts before
him had been since Leighstone had
a history. They were a tradition
in the place; and though to be
great there in these days did not
mean what it once meant, and to
the world outside signified very
little indeed, yet what is so exact-
ing or punctilious as the etiquette
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
77
of a petty court, what so precise
and well preserved as its narrow
uaditions and customs? Time did
not exist for Leighstone when a
Herbert was not the foremost man
there. The tomb of the Herberts
vas the oldest and grandest in the
churchyard that held the ashes of
whole generations of the Leighstone
folk. There had been Crusading
Herberts, and Bishops Herbert,
Catholic and Protestant, Abbots
Herbert, Justices Herbert, Herberts
ibat had shared in councils of state,
and Herberts that had been hanged,
drawn, and quartered by order of
iJc state. Old townsfolk would
bring visitors to the churchyard
and give in their own way the his-
tory of " that ere Harbert astretch-
cd out atop o* the twomb, wi' a
svoord by his soide, and gluvs on
bis hands, the two on 'em folded
one afinst t'other a-prayin' loike,
wd a cross on his buzzum, and a
rooplc o* angels wi' stone wings
a-watchin* each side o* 'im. A had
fowt in the waarslong ago, that ere
Harl)ert had, when gentle-folk used
to wear steel coats, a used, and
iron breeches, and go ever so fur
over the seas to foight. Queer
loixnes them was. Whoi, the Har-
berts, folks did say, was the oldest
famly i* the country. Leastwoise,
there was few 'uns older."
My father was possessed with the
f^reatness of his ancestry, and re-
lented the new-fangled notions that
[Messed to see nothing in blood
or history. Nurtured on tradition
of a past that would never reap-
pear, he speedily retired from a
world where he was too eager to
tt that a Herbert was no more
than a Jones or a Smith, and, though
:tfied with powers that, rightly
Bsed, might have proved, even in
these days, that there was more in
his race than tradition of a faded
past, he preferred withdrawing into
that past to reproducing it in a
manner accommodated to the new
order of things. In all other re-
spects he was a very amiable Eng-
lish gentleman, who, abjuring poli-
tics, which he held had degenerated
into a trade unbecoming a gentle-
man's following, divided his lime
between antiquarian and agricultu-
ral pursuits, for neither of which
did I exhibit so ardent an admira-
tion as he had hoped. As soon as
I could read, and think, and rea-
son in my own way, I ran counter
to my father in many things, and
was pronounced by him to be a
radical, infected with the danger-
ous doctrines of the day, which
threatened the overthrow of all
things good, and the advent of all
things evil. He only read in histo-
ry the records of a few great fami-
lies. For me the families were of
far less interest than the peo]>les,
historically at least. The families
had already passed or were passing
away ; the peoples always remained.
To the families I attributed most
of the evils that had afflicted hu-
manity ; in the peoples I found
the stuff that from time to time
helped to regenerate humanity. I
do not say that alF this came to me
at once ; but this manner of looking
at things grew upon me, and made
my father anxious about my future,
though he was too kind to place
any great restrictions in the way
of my pursuits, and our disputes
would generally end by the injunc-
tion : " Roger, whatever you do or
think, always remember that you
represent a noble race, and are by
your very birth an English gentle-
man, so long as such a being is per-
mitted to exist."
As I grew older problems thick-
ened around me, and I often envied
the passive resignation with which
78
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
so spirited a temperament as my
father's could find refuge from the
exciting questions of the day in the
quiet of his books and favorite
pursuits. Coming home from
college or from an occasional ex-
cursion into the great world with-
out, Leighstone would seem to me
a hermitage, where life was extinct,
and thexe was room for nothing
save meditation. And there I med-
itated much, and pondered and
read, as I then thought, deeply.
The quaint, old churchyard was
my favorite ground for colloquy
with myself, and admirably adapt-
ed, with its generations of si-
lent dead, was it for the purpose.
In that very tomb lay bones, once
clothed with flesh, through which
coursed lustily blood that had
filtered down through the ages into
my veins. In my thoughts I would
question that quiet old Herbert
stretched out there on his tomb
centuries ago, and lying so still,
with his calm, stony face upturned
immovably and confidently to hea-
ven. The face was not unlike my
father's ; Leighstone folk said it
was still more like mine. That
Herbert was a Catholic, and be-
lieved earnestly in all that I and
my father as earftestly disbelieved.
Was he the "worse or the better
man for his faith .> To what had
his faith led him, and to what had
ours led us } What was his faith,
and what was ours ? To us he was
a superstitious creature, bom in
dark ages, and the victim of a cun-
ning priestcraft, that, in the name
of heaven, darkened the minds and
hearts of men; while, had he
dreamed that a degenerate child of
his would ever, even in after-ages,
turn heretic, as he would say, the
probabilities were that in his great-
hearted earnestness, had it rested
solely with him, he would rather
have ended the line in his own per-
son than that such disgrace should
ever come upon it. The man who
in his day had dared tell him
that flesh of his would ever revile
the church in which he believed,
and the Sacrament which he ador-
ed, would likely enough have been
piously knocked on the head for
his pains. What a puzzle it all
was! Could a, century or two
make all this difference in the man-
ner of regarding the truths on
which men professed to bind their
hopes of an eternal hereafter ?
One affernoon of one of those
real English summer days that
when they come are so balmy and
bright and joyous, while sauntering
through the churchyard, I lighted
upon a figure half buried in the
long grass, so deeply intent on de-
ciphering the inscription around
the tomb of my ancestor that he
did not notice my approach. There
he lay, his hat by his side, and an
open sketch-book near it, peering
into the din), old, half-effaced char-
acters as curiously as ever did al-
chemist of eld into an old black-let- ^
ter volume. His years could not
be many more than mine. His foryi
would equally attract the admira-
tion of a lady or a prize-fighter-
The sign of ruddy health burned
on the bronzed cheek. The dress
had nothing particular in it to stamp
the character of the wearer. The
sketch-book and his absorbing in-
terest in the grim old characters
around a tomb might denote the
enthusiasm of an artist, or of an an-
tiquarian like my father, though he
looked too full of the robust life of
careless youth for the one, and too
evidently in the enjoyment of life
as it was for the other. Altogether
a man that, encountered thus in a
country churchyard on a warm
July afternoon, would at once excite
Stray. Leaves from a Passing Life.
79
iht interest and attract the attention
of a passer-by.
While I was mentally noting
down, running up, and calculating
to a nicety the sum of his qualities,
the expression of his face indicated
that he was engaged in a hopeless
task. ^ I can malce all out about
the old Crusader except the date,
and that is an all-important point.
The date — the date — the date," he
repeated to himself aloud. ** I won-
der what Crusade he fought in?"
•* Perhaps I could assist you," I
broke in. " Sir Roger Heibert fol-
lowed the good King Edward to the
Holy Land, and for the sake of
irhrist's dear rood made many a
proud painim to bite the dust.
So saith the old chronicle of the
Abbey of S. Wilfrid which you see
vtill standing — the modernized ver-
sion of it, at least— on yonder hilt,
the present abbot of S. Wilfrid is
the florid gentleman who has just
fluted me. That handsome lady
i^tsidehira is the abbot's- wife. The
two pretty girls seated opposite are
^ the abbot's daughters. The good
and gentle Abbot Jones is taking
the fair abbess, Mrs. Jones, out for
Her afternoon airing. She is a very
amiable lady ; he is a very genial
gentleraan, and the author of the
[orophlet in reply to Maitland's
Dark Ages, Mr. Jones is very
severe on the laziness and general
good-for-nothingness of the poor
nooks.
My companion, who still re-
mained stretched on the grass,
•Tinned ray face curiously and with
in aroused glance while I spoke.
He seemed lost in a half-revery,
from which he did not recover un-
'il a few moments after I had ceas-
cil speaking. With sudden recollec-
tion, he said :
" I beg your pardon, I was think-
ing of something else. Many thanks
for your information about this old
hero, whom the new train of ideas,
called up by your mention of the
Abbot Jones and his family, drove
out of my mind a moment. The
Abbot Jones!" he laughed. "It
is very funny. Yet why do the
two words seem so little in keep-
ing ?"
*' It is because, as my father
would tell you, this is the century
of the Joneses. Centuries ago Ab-
bot Jones would have .sounded just
as well and as naturally as did
Queen Joan. But, in common with
many another good thing, the name
has become vulgarized by a vulgar
M.VA »*
age.
My companion glanced at me
curiously again, and seemed more
inwardly areused than before, wheth-
er with me or at me, or both, it was
impossible to judge from his coun-
tenance, though that was open
enough. He turned from the ab-
bot to the tomb again.
** And so this old hero," said he,
patting affectionately the peaked
toe of the figure of Sir Roger, " drew
his sword long ago for Christ's dear
rood, and probably scaled the walls
of Damietta at the head of a lusty
band. What a doughty old fellow
he must have been ! I should have
been proud to have shaken hands
with him."
" Should you, indeed } Then per-
haps you will allow a remote rela-
tive of that doughty old fellow tc
act as his unworthy representative
in his absence ?" said I, offering my
hand.
" Why, you don't mean to say that
you are a descendant of the old
knight whose ashes consecrate this
spot !" he exclaimed, rising and
grasping me by the hand. ** Sir, I
am happy to lay my hand in that
of a son of a Crusader !"
" I fear I may not claim so high
8o
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
a character. There are no Crusad-
ers left. Myself, and Sir Roger
here, move in different circles. You
forget that a few centuries roll be-
tween us.'*«
" Centuries change the fashion
of men's garments," he responded
quickly, " not the fashion of their
hearts. Truth is truth, and faith
faith, and honor honor, now as
when this warrior fought for faith,
and truth, and honor. The cru-
sades end only with the cross and
faith in Christ."
So spake with fervent accent
and kindling glance the gentleman
whom a few moments before I had
set down as one eminently fitted
to attract the admiration alike of
lady or prize-fighter. The words
struck me as so strange, spoken in
such a place and by such a person,
that I was silent a little, and he also.
At length I said :
** You are like my father. You
seem to prefer the old to the new."
** Not so ; I am particularly grate-
ful that I was born in this and in
no other century. But I object to
the enthusiasm that would leave all
the dead past to bury its dead.
There were certain things, certain
qualities in the centuries gone by,
a larger faith, a more general fer-
vor, a loyalty to what was really
good and great, more universal than
prevails to-day, that we might have
preserved with benefit to ourselves
and to generations to come. But
pardon me. You have unfortunate-
ly hit upon one of my hobbies, and
I could talk for hours on the sub-
ject."
** On the contrary, I ought to feel
flattered at finding one interest-
ed even in so remote a relative of
mine as Sir Roger. As I look at
him this moment the thought comes
to me, could he bend those stiff old
knees of his, hardened by the cen-
turies into triple stone, rise up and
walk through Leighstone, live a
week among us, question us, know
our thoughts, feelings, aspirations,
religions, ascertain all that we have
profited by the centuries that have
rolled over this tomb, he would, af-
ter one week of it all, gather his old
joints together and go back to his
quiet rest until that
* Tuba minim t^miigtta toiuim
Per tepulchn regionom
Coget omnes ante throaum.'
" I can't help laughing at the
conceit. Imagine me escorting this
stiff and stony old Sir Roger
through the streets of Leighstone,
and introducing him to ray relations
and friends as my grandfather some
six centuries removed. But the
fancy sounds irreverent to one
whom I doubt not was as loyal-
hearted a gentleman as ever clove
a Turk to the chine. Poor old Sir
Roger! I must prevent Mattock
making such constant use of his
elbow. It is getting quite out of
repair."
" Who is Mattock, may I ask ?"
" Mattock is a character in his
way. He is the Leighstone grave-
digger, and has been as long as I
can remember. He claims a kind
of fellowship with those he buries,
and he has buried a whole genera-
tion of Leighstonites, till a conta-
gious hump has risen on his back
from the number of mounds he has
raised. He is a cynic in his way.
and can be as philosophic over a
skull as Hamlet in the play. He
has a wonderful respect, almost a
superstitious regard, for Sir Roger.
Whenever he strips for a burial, he
commends his goods to the care of
my ancestor, accompanied always
by the same remark : * I wonder
who laid thee i* the airth } A
weighty corpse thou, a warrant. A
deep grave thine, old stone-beard.
Stray Leavts from a Passing Ufe.
8l
Well, Icnd's your elbow, and here's
to yc, wherever ye may be/ Mat-
lock ukes special care to fortify
himself against possible contingen-
cies with a dram. * Cold corpses,'
he says, *is unhealthy. They are
apt to lie heavy on the stomick, if
ye doant guard agin 'em ; corpses
docs. So doos oysters. A dram
afore burial and another dram after
keeps off the miasmys.' Such is
Mattock's opinion, backed up by an
experience oi a quarter of a century.
You are evidently a stranger in this
neighborhood?"
'*Ye$, I was merely passing
through. I am enjoying a walking
tour, being a great walker. It is by
far the best method of seeing a
country. When in the course of
mj wanderings I come across an
old tomb such as this, an old in-
scription, or anything at all that was
vrought or writ by reverent hands
centuries ago, and has survived
through the changes of time, I am
amply repaid for a day's march.
Doubly so in this instance, since it
has been the fortunate means of
bringing me in contact with one
whose opinions I am happy to
think run in many things parallel
vith my own. And now to step
oat of the past into the very vulgar
present, I am staying at the ' Black
Bull.' The * Black Bull,' I am as-
sured, is famous for his larder, so
that, if you feel inclined to ripen the
acquaintance begim by the grave
of your ancestor, in the interior of
the* Black Bull,' Kenneth Goodal
«ill consider that he has fallen on
a exceptionally happy day."
" Kenneth Goodal ?" The nxune
umck roe as familiar ; but I could
noi recollect at the moment where
I kid heard it before. I repeated
It aloud.
** It sounds quite a romantic
name, does it not ? It was my ab-
VOL XXI. — 6
surd mother who insisted on the
Kenneth, after a Scotch uncle of
mine. For that matter I suppose
it was she who also insisted on the
Goodal. At least my father says
so* But she is the sweetest of
women to have her own way. Heaven
bless her! Of course I had no
voice in the matter at all, beyond
the generic squeal of babyhood.
Had I been consulted, I should
have selected Jack, a jolly, rough-
and-ready title. It carries a sort
of slap-me-on-the-back sound with
it. One is never surprised at a
Jack getting into scrapes or getting
out of them. But it would cause
very considerable surprise to hear
that a Kenneth had been caught
in any wild enterprise. However,
Kenneth I am, and Kenneth I must
remain, as staid and respectable as
a policeman on duty by very force
of title."
" Now I remember where I heard
the name. There were traditions
at Dr. Porteous', at Kingsclere, of a
Kenneth Goodal who had just left
before I went there. But he Can*t
have been you."
"No.i» Why not?"
"He was an awful scape-grace,
they told me. He used to play
all kinds of tricks on the masters,
though as great a favorite with
them as with the boys. He was a
great mimic, and Dr. Porteous, who
is as solemn as an undertaker at a
rich man's funeral, and as pomp-
ous as a parish beadle, surprised
Kenneth Goodal one day, surround-
ed by a delighted crowd, listening
with such rapt attention to a high-
ly wrought discourse, after the doc-
tor's best manner, on the history
and philosophy of Resurrection
Pie, that it required the unmis-
takable * ahem ! ' of the doctor at
the close to announce to actor and
audience the presence of the orig-
92
inal. The doctor in the grand old-
school manner congratulated the
youthful Roscius on talents of
whose existence he had been hith-
erto unaware, and hinted that a re-
petition of so successful a perform-
ance might encourage him to seek
a wider field for so promising a pu-
pil. And when the same Kenneth
thrashed the Kingsclere Champion
for beating one of the youngsters,
bribing the policeman not to inter-
fere until he had finished him, the
doctor, who was a model of deco-
rum, had him up before the whole
college, and delivered an address
that is not quite forgotten to this
day ; acknowledging the credit to
the establishment of such a cham-
pion in their midst; a young gentle-
man who could mimic his superiors
until his identity was lost, and pum-
mel his inferiors until their identity
was lost, was wasting his great na-
tural gifts in so narrow an arena •
and so on— all delivered in the
doctor's best Ciceronian style. It
took a deputation of all the mas-
ters and all the boys together to
beg the delinquent off a rustication
or worse. In fact, the stories of
'him and his deeds are endless
How odd that you should have the
same name!"
My new acquaintance laughed
outright.
" I fear I must lay claim to more
than the name; that historical per-
sonage stands before you. I was
with Dr. Porteous for a couple of
years, and had no idea that I left
such fame behind me. The doctor
and I became the best of friends af-
ter my departure. And so you and
I are, in a manner, old school-fel-
lows? How happy I am to have
fallen across you. But, come ; the
Black Buir is waiting."
" By the elbow of mine ancestor,
»^ay. Such dishonor may not come
Straj^ Leaves from a Passing Life.
upon the Herberts. Why, Sir Ro-
ger here would rise from his tomb
at the thought and denounce me
m the market-place. You must
come with me. Dinner is ready by
this time. Come as you are. My
father will like you. He likes any
one who is interested in his ances-
tors. And my sister, who, since my
mother's death, is mistress of the
house and mistress of us all, shall
answer for herself."
" So be it," he said, and we pass-
ed under the yews, their sad
branches flushed in the sun, out
through the gate, under the old
archway with its mouldering sta-
tues, up the pretty straggling road
that formed the High Street of
Leighstone, arm in arm together,
fast friends we each of us felt,
though but acquaintances of an
hour. The instinct that out of a
multitude selects one, though you
may scarcely know his name, and
tells you that one is your friend, is
as strange as unerring. It was this
unconscious necromancy that had
woven a mesh of golden threads
caught from the summer sunlight
around us as we moved along. Its
influence was upon us, breathing in
the perfumed air. I had never had
a real friend of my own age before,
and I hailed this one as the dis-
covery of a life-time. We should
strike out together, tread the same
path, be it rough or smooth, arm in
arm until the end come. Damon
and Pythias would be nothing to
us. The same loves, the same
hates, the same hopes, were to guide,
animate, and sustain us. Castles
in the air I Castles in the air!
Who has not built them? Who
among the sons of men in the
neighborhood of twenty summers
has not chosen one man out of
thousands, leant upon him, cher-
ished him, made him his idol, loved
In Memoriam. 83
him above all ? And so it goes on, ship is smitten through and through,
until some day comes a laughing and Damon is ready to sacrifice a
eye peeping from under a bonnet, hecatomb of his Pythiases on the
and with one dart the bosom friend- altar of the ox-eyed goddess.
TOBBCONTINUKO.
IN MEMORIAM.
E.T.
OmT AJOfOS MATA XT.
Who says she has withered, that little White Rose ?
She has been bnt removed from the valley of tears
*ro a garden afar, where her loveliness glows
Begemm'd with the grace-dew of virginal years.
I knew we should lose her. The dear Sacred Heart
Has a nook in earth's desert for flowerets so rare ;
And keeps them awhile in safe shelter, apart
From the wind and the rain, from the dust and the glare ;
But all to transplant them when fairest they bloom.
When most we shall miss them. And this, that our love
May be haunted the more by the fadeless perfume
They have left us to breathe of the Eden above.
Farewell, happy maiden ! Our weariest hours
May gather a share of thy perfect repose.
And fragrantly still with the Lord of the flowers
Thou wilt plead for thy lov'd ones — our little Saint Rose.*
•She AoteS. RoMcf liMRfar kerpMroii,aiidtookli«rauMat oonfinudon.
84
The Tragedy of the Temple.
THE TRAGEDY OF THE TEMPLE.
History is like a prison-house,
of which Time is the only jailer
V'ho can reveal the secrets. And
Father Time is slow to speak.
Sometimes he is strangely dumb
ccncerning events of deep impor-
tance, sometimes idly garrulous
about small matters. When now
and then he reveals some long-kept
secret, we refuse to believe him;
we cannot credit that such things
ever happened on this planet of
ours, so respectable in its civilized
humanity, so tenderly zealous for
the welfare and freedom of its re-
motest members. But this same
humanity is a riddle to which our
proudest philosophers have not yet
found the clew. It moves mountains
to deliver an oppressed mouse, and
sits mute and apathetic while a na-
tion of weak brothers is being
hunted to death by a nation of
strong ones in the midst of its
' universal brotherhood ; seeing the
most sacred principles and highest
interests of the world attacked and
imperilled, and the earth shaken
with throes and rendings that will
bring forth either life or death, ex-
actly as humanity shall decide, and
yet not moving a finger either way.
Then, when the storm is over and it
Tjeholds the wreck caused by its own
.apathy or stupidity, it fills the world
with an "agony of lamentation,"
gnashes its teeth, and protests that
it slept, and knew not that these
things were being done in its name.
Sometimes the funeral knell of
the victims goes on echoing like a
distant thunder-tone for a whole
generation, and is scarcely heeded.
until at last some watcher hearkens,
and wakes us up, and, lo ! we find
that a tragedy has been enacted at
our door, and the victim has been
crying out piteously for help while
we slumbered. History is full of
these slumberings and awakenings.
What an awakening for France was
that when, after the lapse of two gen-
erations, the jailer struck the brok-
en stones of the Temple, and gave
them a voice to tell their story,
bidding all the world attend !
The account of the imprisonment
and death of Louis XVIL had
hitherto come down to his people
stripped of much of its true charac-
ter, and clothed with a mistiness
that disguised the naked horror of
the truth, and flattered the sensitive
vanity of the nation into the belief
— or at any rate into the plausible
hope — that much had been exag-
gerated, and that the historians oi
those times had used too strong
colors in portraying the sufferings
of the son of their murdered king.
The Grande Nation had been always
grand ; she had had her hour of
delirium, and run wild in anarchy
and chaos while it lasted ; but she
had never disowned her essential
greatness, never forfeited her hu-
manity, the grandeur of her mis-
sion as the eldest daughter of the
church of Christ, and the apostle of
civilization among the peoples. The
demon in man's shape, called Si-
mon the Cordwainer, had disgraced
his manhood by torturing a feeble,
inoffensive child committed to his
mercy, but he alone was responsi-
ble. The governing powers of the
The Tragi dy of the Temple.
85
time were in total ignorance of his
proceedings; France had no share in
the blame or the infamy. The sensa-
tional legend of the Temple was bad
coough, bnt at its worst no one was
responsible but Simon, a besotted
shoemaker. It was even hinted
tiiat the Dauphin had been rescued,
and had not died in the Tower
at all, and many tender-hearted
Frenchmen clung long and tena-
ciously to this fiction. But at the ap-
{K>inted time one man, at the bid-
ding of the great Secret-Teller, stood
forth and tore away the veil, and
discovered to all the world the things
that had been done, not by Simon
the Cordwainer, but by the Grande
Nation in his person. M. de Beau-
rhesne* was that man, and nobly,
because faithfully and inexorably,
be fulfilled his mission. It was a
tearful message that he had to deliv-
er, and there is no doubt but that
tiu work — the result of twenty
vcars' persevering research and
Htudy^— moved the hearts of his
coontrynien as no n>ook had ever
before moved them. It made an
end once and for ever of garbled
nirratives, and comforting fables,
and bade the guilty nation look
upon the deeds she had done, and
atone for them with God's help as
t>ett she might.
In reading the records of those
mad times one ceases to wonder at
recent events. They give the key to
all subsequent crimes and wander-
tttfs. A nation that deliberately,
m cold, premeditated hate and full
vakelulness of reason, decrees by
iaw in open court that God does
not exist, and forthwith abolishes
litm by act of parliament-*a nation
that does this commits itself to the
T'onsequences. France did this in
tbe National Convention of 1793,
* S« Umis XVJt^ im Vh, m M»ri, wan AgntU^
iw M. a» B«Mdicn«, iNMbhed i«9B.
and why should she not pay the
penalty ?
Of all the victims of that bloody
period, there is none whose story
is so touching as that of the little
son of Louis and Marie Antoi-
nette. He was born at Versailles
on the 27th of March, 1785. All
eye-witnesses describe him as a
bright and lovely child, with shin-
ing curls of fair hair, large, blue
eyes, liquid as a summer sky, and a
countenance of angelic sweetness
and rare intelligence — " a thing of
joy " to all who beheld him.
Crowds waited for hours to catch a
glimpse of him disporting himself
in his little garden before the palace,
a flower amidst the flower-beds,
prattling with every one, making
the old park ring with his joyous
laughter. One day, when in the
midst of his play, he ran to meet
his mother, and, flinging himself
into a bush for greater haste, got
scratched by the thorns ; the queen,
chided him for the foolish impetuo-
sity. ** How then ?*' replied the child ;-
**you told me only yesterday that,
the road to glory was through,
thorns." " Yes, but glory means de-
votion to duty, my son," was Marie
Antoinette's reply. " Then," cried
the little man, throwing his arms^
round her knees, "I will make it
my glory to be devoted to you,,
mamma !" He was about four
years old when this anecdote was.
told of him.
It is rather characteristic of the
child's destiny that two hours after
the bereavement which made him.
Dauphin of France, and while his*
parents were breaking their hearts .
by the still warm body of his elder
brother, a deputation from the Tiers.
Etat came to demand an audience
of the king. Louis XVI. was a
prey to the first agony of his pater-
nal grief, and sent to entreat, the
86 /
Tki Tragedy of the Temple.
deputies to spare him, and return
another day. They sent back an
imperious answer, insisting on his
appearing. " Are there no fathers
amongst them ?*' exclaimed the
king; but he came out and receiv-
ed them. The incident was trifling,
yet it held one of those notes of
prophetic anticipation which now
. first began to be heard, foretelling
the approaching storm in which the
old ship of French royalty was to
be wrecked.
On the 6th of October the palace of
Versailles was stormed by the mob ;
the guards were massacred, the
royal family led captives to Paris
amidst the triumphant yells of the
sans'Culottesn Then followed the
gilded captivity of the Tuileries,
which lasted three years ; then came
the loth of August, when this was
exchanged for the more degrading
prison of the Temple; then the
Conciergcn&^^ihtn the scaffold.
The Temple was a Gothic fortress
built in 1212 by the Knights of the
Temple. It had been long inhabit-
ed by those famous warrior-knights,
and consisted of two distinct towers,
which were so constructed as to re-
semble one building. The great
tower was a massive structure divid-
ed into five or six stories, above a
hundred and fif^y feet high, with a
pyramidal roof like an extinguisher,
having at each comer a turret with
a conical roof like a steeple. This
was formerly the keep, and had
been used as treasury and arsenal
by Ihe Templars ; it was accessible
only by a single door in one turret,
opening on a narrow stone stair.
The other was called the Little
Tower, a narrow oblong with turrets
at each angle, and attached, with-
out any internal communication, to
its big neighbor oi> the north side.
Close by, within the enclosure of
the Temple, stood an edifice which
had in olden times been the dwell-
ing-hoose of the prior, and it was
here the royal family were incarce-
rated on their arrival. Th« place
was utterly neglected and dilapi-
dated, but from its construction
and original use it was capable of
being made habitable. The king
believed that they were to remain
here, and visited the empty, Diouldy
rooms next day, observing to Clery
what chufiges and repairs were most
urgently required. No such luxu-
rious prospect was, however, in
store for them. They were merely
huddled into the Prior's Hotel
while some preparations were being
made for their reception in the
tower. These preparations consist-
ed in precautions, equally formida-
ble and absurd, against possible
rescue or flight. The heavy oak
doors, the thick stone walls, which
had proved safe enough for murder-
ers and rebel warriors, were not
considered secure for the timid
king and his wife and children.
Doors and winddws were reinforced
with iron bars, bolts, and wooden
blinds. The corkscrew stair was
so narrow that only one person
could pass it at a time, yet new
iron-plated doors were put up, and
bars thrown across it at intervals,
to prevent escape. The door
leading from it into the royal pri-
soners' apartment was so low that
when Marie Antoinette was drag-
ged from her children, after the
king's death, to be taken to the
Conciergeriey she knocked her head
violently against the upper part of
it, exclaiming to some one who
hoped she was not hurt, " Nothing
can hurt me now!" The Abb^
Edgeworth thus describes the ac-
cess to the king's rooms : ^* I was
led across the court to the door of
the tower, which, though very nar-
row and very low, was so over-
Tht Tragedy of the TetHpU.
87
ciiarged with iron bolts and bars
that it opened with a horrible
soise. I was conducted up a wind-
ing stair so narrow that two per-
sons would have had great difficul-
ty in getting past each other. At
short distances these stairs were cut
across by barriers, at each of which
was a sentinel ; these men were ail
tree sans-€ul0iUs^ generally drunk,
and their atrocious exclamations,
re-echoed by the vast vaults which
covered every story of the tower,
were really terrifying." For still
greater security all the adjoining
boildings which crowded round the
tower were thrown down. This
work of destruction was entrusted
to Palloy, a zealous patriot, whose
energy in helping to pull down the
Bastile pointed him out as a fit in-
strument for the occasion. These
external arrangements fitly symbol-
ised the systematic brutality which
vas organized from the first by the
Convention, and relentlessly carried
out by its agents on each succeed-
ing victim, but by no one so fero-
cioosly as Simon the shoemaker.
The most appalling riddle which
the world has yet set us to solve is
the riddle of the French Revolu-
tion, The deepest thinkers, the
shrewdest philosophers, are puzzling
over it still, and will go on puzzling
to the crack of doom. There are
causes many and terrible which ex-
pfaum the grand fact of the nation's
revolt itself; why, when once the
6ensy broke out, the people mur-
dered the king, and butchered all
belonging to him, striving to bring
about a new birth, a difierent or-
der of things, by a baptism of blood,
the death and annihilation of the
old system — many wise and solemn
words have been uttered concern-
ing these things, many answers
which, if they do not justify the
mdness of the Revolution, help us
to pity, and in a measure excuse,
its actors; but the enigma which
no one has ever yet solved, or at-
tempted to solve, is the excess of
cruelty practised on the fair-haired
child whose sole crime was his
misfortune in being the descendant
of the kings of France.
The Princesse de Lamballefell on
the 3d of September at the prison of
La Force. The National Guards
carried the head on a pike through
the city, and then hoisted it under
the windows of the king, and cla-
mored for him to come out and
show himself. One young officer,
more humane than his compeers,
rushed forward and prevented it,
and saved Louis from beholding
the dreadful spectacle. The king
was deeply grateful for the kind
action, and asked the officer.s
name. " And who was the other.
who tried to force your majesty
out ? ** enquired M. de Malesherbe^.
** Oh ! I did not care to know
his name!" replied Louis gentlx.
That was a night of horrors. The
two princesses, Mmc. Royale and
Princess Elizabeth, could not sleep ;
the drums were beating to arms,
and they sat in silence, " listening
to the sobs of the queen, which
never ceased." But more cruel
days were yet in store. Before
the month was out the Commune
de Paris issued a decree for the
separation of the king from his
wife and children. " They felt it,"
says this curious document, " their
imperious duty to prevent the abus-
es which might facilitate the eva-
sion of those traitors, and therefore
decree, ist, that Louis and Antoi-
nette be separated.
" 2d. That each shall have a se]Ki-
rate dungeon (cachat).
" 3d. That the valet de chambrt
be placed in confinement, etc., etc."
That same night the king was re-
8S
The Tragedy of ihi Temple.
moved to the second story of the
great tower. The room was in a
state of otterdestitution ; no prepara-
tions of the commonest description
had been made for receiving him. A
straw bed was thrown down on the
floor; Cl^ry, his vcUcty bad not even
this, but sat up ail night on a chair.
A month later (October) the queen
and her children were transferred
to the story over that now occupied
by Louis in the great tower. On
the 26th the Dauphin was torn from
his mother under the pretence that
he was now too old to be left to the
charge of women, being just seven
years and six months. He was
therefore lodged with his father, who
found his chief solace in teaching
the child his lessons; these con-
sisted of Latin, writing, arithmetic,
geography, and history. The sepa-
ration was for the present miti-
gated by the consolation of meeting
at meal-times, and being allowed to
be together for some hours in the
garden every day. They bore all
privations and the insults of their
jailers with unruffled patience and
sweetness. Mme. Elizabeth and
the queen sat up at night to mend
their own and the king's clothes,
which the fact of their each having
but one suit made it impossible for
them to do in the daytime.
This comparatively merciful state
of things lasted till the first week in
December, when a new set of com-
missaries were appointed and the
captives watched day and night
with lynx-eyed rigor. On the nth
the prince was taken back to his
mother, the king was summoned to
the bar of the Convention, and on
his return to prison was informed
that he was henceforth totally sepa-
rated from his family. He never
saw them again until the eve of his
death. The Duchessc d*Angou-
l^me (Mme. Royale) hat described
that interview to ns with her nsoal
'simplicity and pathos : *' My father,
at the moment of parting with us
for ever, made us promise never to
think of avenging his death. He
was well satisfied that we should
hold sacred his last instructions;
but the extreme youth of my bro-
ther made him desirous of produc-
ing a still stronger impression upon
him. He took him on his knee, and
said to him, *My son, you have
heard what I have said, but, as an
oath is something more sacred than
words, hold up your hand and swear
that you will accomplish the last
wish of your father.' My brother
obeyed, bursting into tears, and
this touching goodness redoubled
ours."
The next day Louis had gone to
receive the reward promised to the
merciful, to those .who return love
for hate, blessings for curses. When
the guillotine had done its work,
the shouts of the infuriated city
announced to the queen that she
was a widow. Her agony was in-
consolable. In the afternoon of
this awful day she asked to see
C16ry, hoping that he might have
some message for her from the king,
with whom he had remained till his
departure from the Temple. She
guessed right; the faithful servant
had been entrusted with a ring,
which the king desired him to de-
liver to her with the assurance that
he never would have parted with it
but with his life. But Cl^ry was not
allowed the mournful privilege of
fulfilling his trust in person ; he was
kept a month in the Temple, and
then released. "We had now
a little more freedom," continues
Mme. Royale. '* The guards even
believed that we were about to be
sent out of France; but nothing
could calm the agony of the queen.
No hope could touch her heart;
The Tragedy of tlie Temple.
89
^ was indifferent to her, and she
did not fear death."
Her SOD, meanwhile, had nomin-
allv become King of France. The
armies of La Vendue proclaimed
him as Louis XV I L, under the re-
^ncy of his uncle, the Comte de
l^rovencc. He was King of France
everywhere except in France, where
he was the victim of a blind feroci-
ty unexampled in the history of the
most wicked periods of the world.
The ** freedom " which the Duch-
c3se d'Angouleme speaks of lasted
bat a few days; the royal family
were all noiV in the queen's apart-
ment, but kept under, if possible,
more rigid and humiliating super-
vision than before. Their only at-
tendants were a certain Tison and
his wife, who had hitherto been em-
)>(oyed in the most menial house-
hold work of the Temple. They were
K oarse and ignorant by nature, and
Mwn the confinement to which they
were themselves condemned so sour-
ed their temper that they grew cru-
el lod insolent, and avenged their
own privations on their unhappy
prisoners. They denounced three
ttf the municipals whom they de-
lected in some signs of respect and
sympathy for the queen, and these
men were all guillotined on the
strength of the Tisons* evidence.
The woman went mad with re-
morse when she beheld the mischief
her denunciations had done. At first
^6 sank into a black melancholy.
Marie Antoinette and the Princess
IUi7.abeth attended on her, and did
their utmost to soothe her during
the nrst stage of the malady; but
their gentle charity was like coals
•if fire on the head of their persecu-
te She soon became furious, and
ttad to be carried away by force to
X mad-house.
.\bont the 6th of May the young
pfmre fell ill. The queen was alarm-
ed, and asked to see M. Brunier,
his ordinary physician ; the request
was met with a mocking reply, and
no further notice taken of it, until
the child's state became so serious
that the prison doctor was ordered
by the Commune to go and see
what was amiss with him. The
doctor humanely consulted M. Bru-
nier, who was well acquainted with
the patient's constitution, and other-
wise did all that was in his power
to alleviate his condition. This
was not much, but the queen and
Mme. Elizabeth, who for three
weeks never left the little sufferer's
pillow, were keenly alive to the kind-
ness of the medical man. This ill-
ness made no noise outside the Tem-
ple walls ; but Mine. Royale always
declared that her brother had never
really recovered from it, and that
it was the first stage of the disease
which ultimately destroyed him.
The government had hitherto been
too busy with more important mat-
ters to have leisure to attend to
such a trifle as the life or death of
" little Capet." It was busy watch-
ing and striving to control the strug-
gle between the Jacobins and the
Girondists, which ended finally in
the overthrow of the latter. On the
9th of July, however, it suddenly
directed its notice to the young
captive, and issued a decree order-
ing him to be immediately separated
from Antoinette, and confided to a
tutor (instituteur)^ who should be
chosen by the nation. It was ten
o'clock at night when six commis-
saries, like so many birds of ill-
omen, entered the Temple, and as-
cended the narrow, barricaded stairs
leading to the queen's rooms. The
young prince was lying fast asleep
in his little curtainlcss bed, with a
shawl suspended by tender hands
to shade him from the light on the
table, where his mother and aunt
90
The Tragedy of the Temple.
sat mending their clothes. The
men delivered their message in loud
tones ; but the child slept on. It
was only when the queen uttered a
great cry of despair that he awoke,
and beheld her with clasped hands
praying to the commissaries. They
turned from her with a savage laugh,
and approached the bed to seize
the prince. Marie Antoinette,
quicker than thought, flew towards
It, and, clasping him in her arms,
clung despairingly to the bed-post.
One of the men was about to use
violence in order to seize the boy,
but another stayed his han'd, ex-
claiming : " It does not become us
to fight with women ; call up the
guard !'* Horror-stricken at the
threat, Mme. Elizabeth cried out :
'* No, for God's sake, no ! We sub-
mit, we cannot resist; but give us
time to breathe. Let the child sleep
out the night here. He will be deliver-
ed to you to-morrow." This prayer
was spurned, and then the queen
entreated as a last mercy that her
son might remain in the tower, where
she might still see him. A com-
missary retorted brutally, tutoyant
her, ** What ! you make such a to-do
because, forsooth, you are separated
from your child, while our children
are sent to the frontiers to have their
brains knocked out by the bullets
which you bring upon us!" The
princesses now began to dress the
prince ; but never was there such a
long toilet in this world. Every arti-
cle was passed from one to another,
pat on, taken off again, and replaced
after being drenched with tears.
The commissaries were losing pa-
tience. " At last," says Mme. Roy-
ale, the queen, gathering up all her
strength, placed herself in a chair,
with the child standing before her,
put her hands on his little shoul-
ders, and, without a tear or a sigh,
said with a grave and solemn yoke.
*' My child, we are aoout to part.
Bear in mind all I have said to yx>ti
of your duties when I shall be no
longer near to repeat it. Never for-
get God, who thus tries you, nor your
mother, who loves you. Be good.
patient, kind, and your father wiii
look down from heaven and bless
you." Having said this, she kiss-
ed him and handed him to the
commissaries. One of them said :
" Come, I hope you have done with
your sermonizing; you have abus-
ed our patience finely." Another
dragged the boy out of the room,
while a third added : ** Don *t be un-
easy; the nation will take care of
him !" Then the door closed.
Take care of him ! Not even in
thathour of supreme anguish, quick-
ened as her imagination was by past
and present experience of the na-
tion's *'care," could his mother
have pictured to herself what sort
of guardianship was in preparation
for her son. That night which saw
him torn from her arms and from be-
neath the protecting shadow of her
immense love, beheld the little King
of France transferred to the pitiless
hands of Simon and his wife.
Simon was a thick-set, black-vis-
aged man of fifty-eight years of
age. He worked as a shoemaker
next door to Marat, whose patron-
age procured for him the ofiice of
" tutor " to the son of Louis XVI.
His wife is described as an ill-favor-
ed woman of the same age as her
husband, with a temper as sour and
irascible as his was vicious and
cruel. They got five hundred
francs a month for maltreating the
" little Capet," whom Simon never
addressed except as " viper/*
** wolf-cub," ** poison-toad," add-
ing kicks and blows as exple-
tives. For two days and nights the
child wept unceasingly, refusing to
eat or sleep, and crying out con-
The Tragedy of the Temple,
9»
dnaally to be taken back to his
mother. He was starved and beat-
en into sullen silence and a sort
of hopeless submission. If he show-
ed terror or surprise at a threati it
was treated as insolent rebellion,
and he was seized and beaten as if
he had attempted a crime. All
this first month of Simon's tutor-
ship the child was so ill as to be
under medical treatment But this
was no claim on the tutor's mercy ;
if it had been, he would have been
unfitted for his task, and would not
have been chosen for it. He was
astonished, nevertheless, at theindo*
miuble spirit of his victim, at
the quiet firmness with which he
bore his treatment, and at the
perseverance with which he con-
tinued to insist on being restored
to his mother. How long would it
lake to break this royal ** wolf-
cub " ? Simon began to be perplex-
ed about it. He must have advice
from headquarters, and fuller liber-
ty for the exercise of his own in-
genuity. Four members of the
Committee of S4r€tS GinSrale be-
took themselves to the Temple, and
there held a conference with the
patriot shoemaker which remains
ofteof the most curious incidents
of those wonderful days. Amongst
the four councillors was Drouet, the
famous post-master of Sainte M^6-
hould, and Chabot, an apostate
moak. One of the others related
the secret . conference to S6nart,
secretary of the committee, who thus
transcribed it at the time : " Citi-
leos," asks Simon, "what do you
dcdde as to the treatment of the
wolf-cub? He has been brought
up to be insolent. I can tame him,
bat I cannot ^ answer that he will
not sink under it {crever). So
much the worse for him ; but, after
ail, what do you mean to do with
hun? To banish him?" Answer:
"No." "To kill him?" "No."
" To poison him ?" "No." "But
what, then ?" " To get rid of him "
(s'en (Ufairt),
From this forth the severity of
Simon knew no bounds but those
of his own fiendish powers of in-
vention. He applied his whole en-
ergies to the task of " doing away
with" the poor child. He made
him slave like a dog at the most la-
borious and menial work ; he was
shoe-black, turnspit, drudge, and
victim at once. Not content with
thus degrading him, Simon insisted
that the boy should wear the red
cap as an external badge of degrada-
tion. The republican symbol was
no doubt associated in the child's
mind with the bloody riots of the
year before; for the mere sight of it
filled him with terror, and nothing
that his jailer could say or do could
persuade him to let it be placed on
his head. Simon, exasperated by
such firmness in one so frail and
young, fell upon him and flogged *
him unmerbifully, until at last Mme.
Simon, who every now and then
showed that the woman was not
quite dead within her, interfered to
rescue the boy, declaring that it
made her sick to see him beaten in
that way. Rut she hit upon a mode
of punishment which, though more
humane, proved more crushing to
the young captive than either
threats or blows. His fair hair, in
which his mother had taken such
fond pride, still fell long and un-
kempt about his shoulders. Mme.
Simon declared that this was un-
seemly in the little Capet, and that
he should be shorn like a son of
the people. She forthwith proceed-
ed to cut off the offending curls.
and in a moment, before he realiz-
ed what she was about to do, the
shining locks lay strewn at his feet.
The effect was terrible; the child
92
The Tragedy of tJie Temple.
uttered a piteous cry, and then
lapsed into a state of sullen despair.
All spirit seemed to have died out
of him ; and when Simon, perceiv-
ing this, again approached him with
the h^(ed cap, he made no resistance,
gave no sign, but let it be 'placed
on his little shorn head in silence.
The shabby black clothes that he
wore by way of mourning for his
father were now taken off, and re-
placed by a complete Carmagnole
costume ; still Louis offered no op-
position. He was taken out for ex-
ercise on the leads every day, and,
to prevent the queen having the
miserable satisfaction of catching a
glimpse of him on these occasions,
a wooden partition had been run
up ; it was loosely put togeth-
er, however, and Mme. Elizabeth
discovered a chink through which
it was possible to see the cap-
tive as he passed. Marie Antoi-
nette was filled with thankful-
ness when she heard of this, and
overcoming her reluctance to leave
her room, from whicK she had
never stirred since the king's death,
she now used every subterfuge for
remaining on the watch within
sight of the chink. At last, on the
2oth of July, her patience was re-
warded. But what a spectacle it
was that met her gaze I Her beau-
tiful, fair-haired child, cropped as
if he had just recovered from a
fever, and dressed out in the odious
garb of his father's murderers,
driven along by the brutal Simon,
and addressed in coarse and horri-
ble languajge. She was near enough
to hear it, to see the look of terror
and suffering on the child's face as
he passed. Yet, such strength does
love impart to a mother in her
most trying needs, the queen was
able to see it all and remain mute
and still ; she did not cry out, nor
faint, nor betray by a single move-
ment the horror that made hei
very heart stand still, but, rising
slowly from the spot, returned to
her room. The shock had almost
paralyzed her, and she resolved
that nothing should ever tempt her
to renew it. But the longing of
the mother's heart overcame all
other feelings. The next day she
returned to her watch-point, and
waited for hours until the little feet
were heard on the leads again, ac-
companied as before by Simon's
heavy tread and rough tones-
What Marie Antoinette must have
suffered during those few days,
when she beheld with her own eyes
and heard with her own ears the
sort of tutelage to which her inno-
cent child was subjected, God, and
perhaps a mother's heart, alone can
tell. That young soul, whose pur-
ity she had guarded as the very
apple of her eye, was now exposed
to the foulest influences ; for prayers
and pious teachings he heard no-
thing but blasphemy and curses;
his faith, that precious flower
which had been planted so rever-
ently and watered wjjh such ten-
der care, what was to become of
it — what had become of it already ?
None but God knew, and to God
alone did the mother look for help.
He who saved Daniel in the lions*
den and the children in the fiery
furnace was powerful to save his
own now, as then; he would save
her child, for man was powerless to
help. One of Simon's diabolical
amusements was to force the prince
to use bad language and sing blas-
phemous songs. Blows and threats
were unavailing so long as the boy
caught any part of the revolting
sense of the words ; but at last, de-
ceived no doubt by the very gross-
ness of the expressions, and unable
to penetrate their meaning, he took
refuge from blows in compliance,
Tlu Tragedy of the Temple.
93
and with his sweet childish treble
piped out songs that were never
heard beyond the precincts of a
tavern or a guard-house. The
queen heard this once. Angels
heard it, too, and, closing their ears
to the loathsome sounds, smiled
with angels* pity on the unconscious
treason of their little kindred spirit.
But this new crisis of misery was
not of long duration to Marie
Anloinette. About three days af-
ter her first vision of Simon and
his victim, the commissaries enter-
ed her room in the dead of the night,
and read a decree, ordering them
to convey her to the Cotuiergerie.
This was the first step of the scaf-
fold. The summons would have
been welcome to the widow of
Louis XV L, if she had not been a mo-
ther; but she was, and the thought
of leaving her son in the hands of
men whose aim was not merely to
''slay the body," but to destroy the
soul, made the prospect of her own
deliverance dreadful to contem-
plate. But God was there — God,
vrho loved her son better and more
availingly than even she loved him.
She committed him once more to
God, and commended her daughter
lo the tender and virtuous Eliza-
beth, little dreaming that the same
late which had befallen the brother
was soon to be awarded to the gen-
tle, inoffensive sister.
On the same day that the queen
was sent to the Cotuiergerie^ prepara-
tory to her execution, a member of
the Convention sent a toy guillo-
tioe as a present to *' the little
Capet," doubtless with the merci-
ful design of acquainting the poor
child with his mother's impending
fate. A subaltern officer in the
Temple, however, had the humanity
to intercept the fiendish preseiU,
ibr the young prince never received
it It was the fashion of the day
to teach children to play at be-
heading sparrows, which were sold
on the boulevards with little guillo-
tines, by way of teaching them to
love the republic and to scorn
death. It is rather a curious coin-
cidence- that Chaumette, the man
who sent the satanic toy to the
Dauphin, was himself decapitated
by it a year before the death of the
child whom he thought to terrify
by his cruel gift.
While the mock trial of the queen
was going on, Simon pursued more
diligently than ever his scheme of
demoralization. A design which
must first have originated in some
fiend's brain had occurred to liim,
and it was necessary to devise new
means for carrying it into execu-
tion. He would make this spot-
less, idolized child a witness against
his mother; the little hand which
hers had guided in forming its first
letters, and taught to lift itself in
prayer, should be made an instru-
ment in the most revolting calumny
which the human mind ever con-
ceived. Simon began to make the
boy drink;, when he attempted to
refuse, the liquor was poured into
his mouth by force; until at last,
stupefied and unconscious of what
he was doing, unable to compre-
hend the purpose or conseqttence
of the act, he signed his name to a
document in which the most hei-
nous accusations were brought
against his august mother. The
same deposition was presented to
his sister for her signature ; but
without the same success. " They
questioned me> about a thousand
terrible things of which they accus-
ed my mother and my aunt," says
Mme. Royale ; " and, frightened as I
was, I could not help exclaiming;
that they were wicked falsehoods."
The examination lasted three hours,
for the deputies hoped that the ex-
94
The Tragedy of tlu Temple.
treme youth and timidity of the
princess would enable them to
compel her consent to sign the
paper ; but in this they were mis-
taken. "They forgot/' continues
Mm^Royale, "the life that I had
led for four years past, and, above all,
that the example shown me by my
parents had given me more energy
and strength of mind." The queen's
trial lasted two entire days and
nights without intermission. Not
a single accusation, political or
otherwise, was confirmed by a
feather's weight of evidence. But
what did that signify ? The judges
had decreed beforehand that she
must die. Ht^bert brought for-
ward the document signed by her
son; she listened in silent scorn,
and disdained to answer. One of the
paid assassins on the jury demand-
ed why she did not speak. The
queen, thus adjured, drew herself
up with all the majesty of outraged
motherhood, and, casting her eyes
over the crowded court, replied :
** / did not ansiver j but I appeal to
the heart of every mother who hears
me,** A low murmur ran through
the crowd. No mother raised her
voice in loyal sympathy with the
mother who appealed to them, but
the inarticulate response was too
powerful for the jury ; they dropped
the subject, and when the counsel
nominally appointed for her defence
had done speaking, the president
demanded of the prisoner at the
bar whether she had anything to
add. There was a moment's hush,
and then the queen spoke : " For
myself, nothing; for your conscien-
ces, much ! I was a queen, and you
dethroned me ; I was a wife, and you
murdered my husband ; I was a mo-
ther, and you have torn my children
from me. I have nothing left but
my blood — make haste and take it !"
This last request was granted.
The trial ended soon after day-
break on the third day, and at ele-
ven o'clock the same forenoon she
was led to the scaffold.
Seldom has retribution more
marked ever followed a crime, than
that which awaited the perpetrators
of this legal murder. Within nine
months from the death of Marie
Antoinette every single individual
known to have had any share in the
deed — judges, jury, witnesses, and
prosecutors — all perished on the
same guillotine to which they con-
demned the queen.
The captives in the Temple knew
nothing either of the mock trial or
the death which followed it. It is
difficult to understand the motive
of this silence, especially as con-
cerns Simon. Perhaps it was owing
to his wife's influence that the
young prince was spared the blow
of knowing that he was an orphan.
If so, it was the only act of mercy
she was able to obtain for him. The
brutalities of the jailer rather in-
creased than diminished after the
queen's death. The child was lock-
ed up alone in a room almost en-
tirely dark, and the gftom and soli-
tude reduced him to such a point
of despondency and apathy that few
hearts, even amongst the cruel men
about him, could behold the wretch-
ed spectacle unmoved. One of the
municipals begged Simon's leave to
give the poor child a little artificial
canary bird, which sang a song and
fluttered its wings. The toy gave
him such intense pleasure that the
man good-naturedly followed up the
opportunity of Simon's mild mood
to bring a cage full of real canaries,
which he was likewise allowed to
give the little Capet. The birds
were tamed to come on his flnger
and perch on his shoulder, and had
other pretty tricks which amused
and delighted the poor little fellow
The Tragedy of the Temple.
95
inexpressibly. He was very happy
inthesociety of his feathered friends
for some time, until one unlucky
day a new commissary came to in-
spect his room, and, expressing
great surprise at " the son of the
tyraDt " being allowed such an ar-
istocratic amusement, ordered the
cage to be instantly removed. Si-
mon, to atone for this passing weak-
ness towards the wolf-cub, set him-
jielf to maltreat him more savagely
than ever. The child, in the midst
of the revolting atmosphere which
surrounded him, still cherished the
memory of his mother's teaching ;
he remembered the prayers she had
uught him, the lessons of love and
faith she had planted in his heart.
Simon had flogged him the first
tune he saw him go down on his
knees to say his prayers, so the
child ever after went to bed and
gotup without repeating the offence.
We may safely believe that he sent
up his heart to God morning and
night, nevertheless, though he did
not dare kneel while doing so. One
night, a bitter cold night in Janua-
ry, Simon awoke, and, by the light
of the mooit that stole in through
the wooden blind of the window.
beheld the boy kneeling up in hi^
bed, his hands clasped and his face
uplifted in prayer. He doubted at
first whether the child was awake
or asleep ; but the attitude and all
that it suggested threw him into a
frenzy of superstitious rage ; he took
up a large pitcher of water, icy cold
as it was, and flung it, pitcher and
all, at the culprit, exclaiming as he
did so, " 1*11 teach you to get up
Pater- nostering at night like a Trap-
pist !" Not satisfied with this, he
seized his own shoe — a heavy wood-
en shoe with great nails — and fell to
beating him with it, until Mme Si-
mon, terrified by his violence and
sickened by the cries of the victim,
rushed at her husband, and made
him desist. Louis, sobbing and
shivering, gathered himself up out
of the wet bed, and sat crouching
on the pillow; but Simon pulled
him down, and made him lie in
the soaking clothes, perishing and
drenched as he was. The shock
was so great that he never was the
same after this night; it utterly
broke the little spirit that yet re-
mained in him, and gave a blow to
his health which it never recover-
ed.
TO IB CONCLUDVD NBXT MONTH.
96 spring.
SPRING.
The spring-time has come,
But with skies dark and gray
And the wind waileth wildly
Through all the drear day.
Few glimpses of sunshine,
No thought of the flowers,
No bird's songs enliven
These chill, gloomy hours.
The snow lieth coldly
Where lately it fell.
The crocus and daisy
Yet sleep in the dell ;
The frost yet at evening
Falls softly and chill,
And scatters his pearls
Over meadow apd hill.
But April, sweet Aprils
Her tears bring no gloom —
Will pour on the zephyr
A violet perfume ;
Will bid the rill glance
In the sunlight along,
And waken at morning
The bird's gushing song.
I am thinking of one
Who oft sought for the flowers
In the sunlight and shadow
Of April's bright hours.
But when winter's bleak winds
Sang a dirge for the year.
With pale lips, yet smiling,
She lay on her bier.
The flowers then that died
Will awaken again.
But her we have lo^ed
We shall look for in vain ;
Yet, though we have laid her
Beneath the dark sod.
She bloometh this spring
In the garden of God.
Sttbsiantial Generations.
97
SUBSTANTIAL GENERATIONS.
We have shown that the intrinsic
principles of the primitive material
substance are the matter and the sub-
itnttal/orm ; and we have proved
that in the material element the
nutter is a mere mathematical
point— the centre of a virtual
sphere — ^whilst the substantial form
which gives existence to such a cen-
tre is an act, or an active principle,
having a spherical character, and
constituting a sphere of power all
around that centre, as shown by its
exertions directed all around in ac;
conUnce with the Newtonian law.
Hence the nature of the matter as
actuated by its substantial form,
and the nature of the substantial
tonn as terminated to its matter,
are fully determined.
It would seem that nothing re-
ouiDs to be investigated about this
sabject ; for, when we have reached
ihc/rrf constituent principles of a
given essence, the metaphysical
vulfsis is at an end. One ques-
tion, however, remains to be settled
i<tween us and the philosophers
oftheAristotelic school concerning
^t mutual relation of the matter and
'^e substantial form in a material
t>cing. Is such a relation variable
^ invariable ? Is the matter sepa-
ls from any given substantial
^on&,as the Aristotelic theory as-
^^laes, or are the matter and its
form so bound together as to form
^tmit substantially unchangeable?
^ substantial forms be supplant-
^ ind superseded by other sub-
^^tial forms, or do they continue
VOL. XXI. — 7
for ever as they were at the instant
bf their creation ?
Some of our readers may think
that what we have said in other pre-
ceding articles suffices to settle the
question ; for it is obvious that sim-
ple material elements are substan-
tially unchangeable. But the peri-
patetic school looked at things from
a different point of view, and
thought that the question was to be
solved by the consideration of the
potentiality of Xht first matter with
respect to all substantial forms..
Hence it is under this aspect that
their opinion is to be examined,,
that a correct judgment may be-
formed of the merits and deficien-
cies of a system so long advocated
by the most celebrated philosophers. .
For this reason, as also because
some modern writers have resusci-
tated this system without taking no--
tice of its defects, and without mak-
ing such corrections as were re-
quired to make it agree with the
positive sciences, we think it neces-
sary to examine the notions on^
which the whole Aristotelic theory
is established, and the reasonings-
by which it is supported, and to*
point out the inaccuracies by which
some of those reasonings are spoil-
ed, as well as the limits within which
the conclusions of the school can
be maintained.
Materia prima. — The notion of
" first matter," which plays the prin-
cipal part in the theory of substan-
tial generations, has been the source
9f many disputes among philoso-
98
Substantial Generations.
phers. Some, as Suarez^ think that
the materia prima is metaphysical-
Jy constituted of act and potency ;
others consider the materia prima as
a real potency only ; whilst others
consider it as a mere potency of
being, and therefore as a non-entity.
The word ** matter " can, in fact, be
used in three different senses.
First, it is used for material sub-
stance^ either compound or simple ;
as when steel is said to be the mat-
ter of a sword, or when the primi-
tive elements are said to be the
matter of a body. When taken in
this sense, the word "matter"
<means 2iphysical being, substantially
perfect, and capable of accidental
modifications.
Secondly, the word *' matter " is
used for the potential term lying un-
der the substantial form by which it
is actuated. In this sense the mat-
ter is a metaphysical reality which,
by completing its substantial form,
concurs with it to the constitution
of the physical being — that is, of
the substance. It is usually called
materia formata^ or " formed mat-
ter."
Thirdly, the word ** matter" is
used also for the potential term of
zubstance conceived as deprived of its
substantial form. In this sense the
matter is a mere potency of being,
and therefore a being of reason ; for
it cannot thus exist in the real or-
der : and it is then called materia
informis^ or "unformed matter."
It is, however, to be remarked that
the phrase materia ' informis has
been used by the fathers of the
church to designate the matter as it
came out of the hands of the Crea-
tor before order, beauty, and har-
mony were introduced into the ma-
terial world. Such a matter was
not absolutely without form, as is
evident.
Of the three opinions above men-
tioned about the nature of materia
prima, the one maintained by Suarez
is, in the present state of physical
science, the most satisfactory,
though it can scarcely be said to
agree with the Aristotelic theorj',
as commonly understood. Indeed,
if such a first matter is metaphysi-
cally constituted of act and potency,
as he maintains, such a matter is
nothing less than a primitive sub-
stance, as he also maintains;. and
we may be allowed to add, on the
strength of the proofs given in our
preceding articles, that such a first
matter corresponds to our primi-
tive unextended elements, which,
though unknown to Suarez, arc in
fact the Jirst physical matter of
which all natural substances are
composed. But, if the first matter
involves a metaphysical act and
is a substance, such a matter can-
not be the subject of substantial
generation; for what is already in
act is not potential to the first act,
and what has already a first being
is not potential to the first being.
Hence we may conclude that the
first matter of Suarez excludes the
theory of rigorously substantial
generations, and leads to the con-
clusion that the generated sub-
stances are not new with respect to
their substance, but only with re-
gard to their compound essence,
and that the forms by which they
are constituted are indeed essential
to them, but not strictly substantia/,
as we intend hereafter to explain.
The second interpretation of the
words materia prima is that given
by S. Thomas, when he considers
the first matter as ** matter without
form," and as a mere potency of
being. " The matter," he says, ** ex-
ists sometimes under one form,
and at other times under another ;
but it can never exist isolated — that
is, by itself— ^because, as it docs not
Substantial Generations.
99
invohre in i(s ratio any form, it can-
not be in act (for the form is the
only source of actuality), but can
merely be in potency. And there-
fore, nothing which is in act can be
called first matter,'' ♦ From these
vords it is evident that S. Thomas
considers the first matter as matter
without form ; for, had it a form, it
would be in act, and would cease
to be called "first" matter. In
another place he says : " Since the
matter is a pure potency, it is one^
not through any one form actuating
it, but bj the exclusion of ail forms*' f
And again : " The accidental form
supervenes to a subject already pre-
existent in act ; the substantial form,
on the contrary, does not super-
vene to a subject already pre-exist-
ent in act, but /b something which is
merely in potency to exists viz., to the
first matter.*' } And again : " The
true nature of matter is to have no
form whatever in cuty but to be in
potency with regard to any of
them." § And again : " The first
matter is a pure potency, just as
God is a pure act." |
From these passages, and from
many others tlnit might be found
in S. Thomas* works, it is manifest
that the holy doctor, in his meta-
physical speculations, considers the
first matter as matter without a
* MatenA quaadoqne eat tub iraa fonaa, qiuuido-
q«t nb afia, per w amem minqiwiin potest eae ;
qpM, qmm in ntioae cua non habeat idiquam for-
aaa, mom poMst ene in acta (qanm e»e b actu non
■taiiia isnaa), aed ulum in potcntia ; et ideo quid'
^■ii CM in actu non potest did materia prima.—
UpaK. /V Frinci^ia Nuiurm
t Qna materia est potentia tantum, ideo est una
saatTOi wan per nnam fbnnam quam habeat, sed
?n f^Mcknem omnium formfarum diadnguentittiii.
—la I iOK., diet, a, q. i, a. i, ad 3m.
X fiama ^xidcntalis adrenit sobjecto jam prmex-
liati b actu ; Ibrma autem substantialis noa ad-
•ofc wbjecro jam prmexisteati in actu, sed exis-
^otk m potcstia taattim, sdfioet materim primae.—
Is Amt. Dt A mtmrn, fib. a, lect. t.
{ Rac est vera aatura materiao, at scilicet oon
fciAcH acttt afiqnam formam, sed sit in potentia ad
-ve*.— Its Arist. Metaph^ i, lecL is.
VUteria prima est potentia pura, sicut Deus est
Kt.a ^trm^^Sum, 7%^pi,^ i>. «. c. 115, a x, ad am.
form. In this he faithfully follows
Aristotle's doctrine. For the Greek
philosopher explicitly teaches that
" as the metal is to the statue, or
ihi wood to the bedstead, or any
other unformed material to the
thing which can be formed with it,
so is the matter to the substance
and to the being";* that is, as
the metal has not yet the form of a
statue, so the first matter still lacks
the substantial form, and conse-
quently is 2ipure potency of being.
• Nevertheless, the Angelic Docrbr
does not always abide by this old
and genuine notion of the first mat-
ter. When treating of generation
and corruption, or engaged in other
physical questions, he freely as-
sumes that the first matter is some-
thing actually lying under a sub-
stantial form, and therefore that it
is a real potency in the order of
nature, and not a mere result of
intellectual abstraction. Thus he
concedes that "the first matter
exists in all bodies," t that "the
first matter must have been created
by God under a substantial fomi,"t
and that " the first matter remains
in act, after it has lost a certain
form, owing to the fact that it is
actuated by another form."§ In
these passages and in many others
the first matter is evidently consid-
ered as matter under a form.
It is difiicult to reconcile with
one another these two notions, mat-
ter without a formy and matter un-
der a form ; for they seem quite
* Ut enim ad stafuam ms, vd ad lecticam Cgnum,
vel ad aliud quadpiam eorum quae formam babent,
materia et quod fiorma caret ae habet priusqnam
formam aocaperit, sic ipsa adsuhstantiam se habet et
ad id quod eat hocaliquid, atoue tx^^—Physic-y
tib. I.
t Materia prima est in omnibus corporibus.— ^« jw .
Tktolxy p. X, q. 8, a. 4.
$Oport«t poneie edam materiam primam crea-
tam id> universali causa entium, . . . sed non
quod sit orcata sine forma. — Ibid,^ q. 44, a. a.
S Quod autem materia prima remanast actu post
formam. non est nisi secundum actum alterius for-
mie.— C(Mi/r4i (7ns/., fib. a, c 8x.
100
Substantial Generations.
contradictory. The only manner
of attempting such a conciliation
would be to assume that when the
first matter is said to be without a
form, the preposition ** without " is
intended to express a mental ab-
straction, not a real exclusion, of
the substantial form. Thus the
phrase " without a form *' would
mean " without taking the form in-
to account/' although such a form is
really in the matter. This interpre-
tation of the phrase might be justi-
fied by those passages of the holy
doctor in which the first matter, in-
asmuch as Jirsty is presented as a
result of intellectual abstraction.
Here is one of such passages : " First
matter," says he, "is commonly
called something. within the genus
of substance which is conceived as a
potency abstracted from all forms
and from all privations, but suscep-
tible both of forms and of priva-
tions.'* * It is evident that, by this
kind of abstraction, the matter which
is actually under a form would be
conceived as being without a form.
As, however, the conception would
not correspond to the reality, the
first matter, thus conceived, would
have nothing common with the real
matter which exists in nature* For,
since the whole reality of matter
depends on its actuation by a form,
to conceive the matter without any
form is to take away from it the
onlv source of its reality, and to
leave nothing but a non-entity con-
noting the privation of its form.
Hence such a materia prima would
* Id oommuniter materia prima nominatur, quod
ett in genere tubBtandas ut potentia qusdam inteU
kcta prater omnem spedem et formam, et etiam
pivter privationem; qu«B tamen est suaceptiTa
formarum et privationum. — Dt Spirit. Creaturit^
art. X. We can hardly conceive how the matter thus
abstracted from aH forms can be understood to re-
main *' not under privations." When we conceive
the matter without any form, we conceive it as dt^
privtdfdtJX forms. The thing is evident. Materia
skbsque forma inteUecta cum privatione eriam intel-
Ugitur, says S. Thomas himself, DtP^ttutia^ q. 4.,
entirely belong to the oVdcr of con-
ceptual beings, not to the order of
realities ; and therefore the matter
which exists in nature would not be
" first matter." It is superfluous to
remark that if the first matter does
not exist, as firsts in the real order,
all the reasonings of the peripatetic
school about the offices performed
by the first matter in the substan-
tial generation are at an end.
The confusion of actuated ^vith
actuable matter was quite unavoid-
able in the Aristotelic theory of
substantial generations. This theo-
ry assumes that not only the primi-
tive elements of matter, but also
every compound material substance,
has a special substantial form giving
the first being {simpliciter esse^ or
primum esse) to its matter. Hence,
in the substantial generation, as
understood by Aristotle, the matter
must pass from one first being to
another first being. Now, the au-
thors who adopted such a theory
well saw that the matter which had
to acquire a first being, was to be
considered as having no being at
all ; or else it would not acquire its
first being. On the other hand,
the matter which passed from one
first being to another was to be
considered as having a first being ;
or else it would not exchange it
for another. Hence the first mat-
ter, as ready to acquire a first be-
ing, was called 2Lpure potency — that
is, a potency of being; whilst, as
ready to exchange its first being for
another, it was called a real potency
— that is, an actual reality. That a
pure potency can be a real potency,
or an actual reality, is an assump-
tion which the peripatetic school
never succeeded in proving, though
it is the very foundation of the
theory of strictly substantial gene-
rations as hy- them advocated.
Before we proceed further we
Substantial Generations.
loi
hav€ to mention S. Augustine's no*
tton of unfornud matter, as one
which contains a great deal more
of truth than is commonly believed
by the peripatetic writers. This
great doctor admits that unformed
matter was created, and existed for
a time in its informity. "The
earth," says he, "was nothing but
unformed matter ; for it was invisi-
ble and uncompounded, . . • and
oat of this invisible and uncom*
pOQoded matter, out of this infor-
mitjy out of this almost mere no-*
thingness, thou wast to make, O
God! all the things which this
changeable world contains. " * Some
viU ask : How could such a great
man admit the existence of matter
without a form ? Did he not know
that a potency without an act can-
not exist ? Or is it to be suspected
tiiat what he calls unformed matter
was not altogether destitute of a
form, but only of such a form as
would make it visible as in the
cxMipound bodies ?
S Thomas believes that S. Augus-
tine really excluded all forms from
his unformed matter, and remarks
tiiat sQch an imformed matter could
aot possibly exist in such a state ;
£or, Lf it existed, it was in act as a
remit of creation. For the term
of creation is a being in act ; and
the act is a form, f Thus it is evi-
dent that to admit the existence of
the matter without any form at all
* Tenm ftQtea ipca quam feoeras, informis mate-
■«> cm, qoia nmubilb eiat et incompoaita . . .
^ f« cctxa iminbiU et iocompoHta, de qua iofor-
«iui, 6m. quo pese oihilo facere* luec omnia qui-
4 in Mwtahilia moadus constat. — Com/tu.^ lib.
acdpit informitatem materias pro
bnui ; et nc trnpouibile est dicers
nateris tempore pnecenerit vel
tpahia Tcl dntinctionem. Et de for-
manHctmn est. Si enim materia
t duratitne, haec erat jam in actu ;
aac caia creatio inportat. Creationis enim termi-
*aft«a caa actu ; tpsum autem qood est actus, est
fnsL Dioete ifitar, materiam prascedere sine
*>«&, at diccre ena actu sine actu, quod impKcat
~VMr. TMtoi,^ p. X, q. 66, a. x.
is a very gross blunder. But, for
this very reason that the blunder is
so great, we cannot believe that S.
Augustine made himself guilty of
it. We rather believe that he mere-
ly excluded from his unformed mat-
ter a visible shape> and what was
afterward called " the form of cor-
poreity " by which compound sub-
stances are constituted in their spe-
cies and distinguished from one
another. Let us hear him.
"There was a time," says he,
" when I used to call unformed^ not
that which I thought to be alto-
gether destitute of a form, but that
which I imagined to be ill-formed,
and to have such an odd and ugly
form as would be shocking to see.
But what I thus imagined was un-
formed, not absolutely, but only in
comparison with other things en-
dowed with better forms; whilst
reason and truth demanded that I
should discard entirely all thought
of any remaining form, if I wished
to conceive matter as truly unform-
ed. But this I could not do; for
it was easier to surmise that a thing
altogether deprived of form had no
existence, than to admit anything
intermediate between a formed be-
ing and nothing, which would be
neither a formed being nor nothing,
but an unformed being and almost
a mere nothing. At last I dropped
from my mind all those images of
formed bodies, which my imagina-
tion was used to multiply and vary
at random, and began to consider
the bodies themselves, and their •
mutability on account of which such
bodies cease to be what they were,
and begin to be what they were
not. And I began to conjecture
that their passage from one form
to another was made through some-
thing unformed, not through abso-
lute nothing. But this I desired to
know, not to surmise. Now, were
102
Substantial Generations.
I to say all that thou, O God ! hadst
taught me about this subject, who
. among my readers would strive to
grasp my thought ? But I shall not
cease to praise thee in my heart for
those very things which I cannot
expound. For the mutability of
changeable things is susceptible of
all the forms by which such things
can be changed. But what is such
a mutability } Is it a soul ? Is it a
body ? Is it the feature of a soul
or of a body ? Were it allowable,
I would call it a nothing-somethings
and a being non-being. And yet it
was already in some manner before
it received these visible and com-
pounded forms.** *
The more we examine this pas-
sage, the stronger becomes our con-
viction that the word " form *' was
used here by S. Augustine, not for
the substantial form of Aristotle,
but for shape or geometric form,
and that " unformed matter '* stands
here for shapeless matter. For, when
he says that ** reason and truth de-
mand that all thought of any re-
* Informe oppeUabam doo quod careret forma,
led quod takm haberct, ut, si appareret, insoUtum
et inccmgruum avenaretur lensus meus, et coatur-
baretur infinnitas hcMmais. Venun iUud quod oog!-
tabam, nmi privatione omnis fomue, sed compara-
tiooe forroosionim erat informe: et tuaulebat vera
rado ut omnis form» qualescumque reltquias om-
nino detraherem, si veDem prorsus informe cogitare ;
et noQ poteram. Citius enim oon ene ceasebam
quod omni forma privaretur, qnam oogitabam quid-
dam inter formatum et nihil, nee formatmn, nee
nihil, informe prope nihil. Et cessarit mens mea
interrogare hinc sptritum meum plenum imaginibus
formatorum corporum et eas pro arbitrio mutantem
atque variantem ; et intendi in ipea corpora, eorum-
que mutabilitatem altius inspexi, qua desinunt esse
^ quod fuerant, et indpiunt esse quod non erant ; eo-
rumdemque transituns de forma in formam per in-
forme quiddam fieri suspicatus sum, non per omnino
nihil ; scd nosse cupielMun, non suspicari. Et si to*
tum tiU confiteatur vox et stilus mens, quidquid
de isU qusestione enodasti mihi, quis legentium ca-
pere durabit ? Nee ideo tamen cessabit cor meum
dare tibi honorem et canticum laudis de iis qum die-
tare non suffidt. Muubilitas enim rerum mutabi-
lium ipsa capax est formarum omnium in quas mu-
tantur res mutabiks. Et hmc quid est? Num-
quid animus? numquid corpus? numquid spedes
animi vel corporis ? Si did posset ** Nihil aliquid,*'
et '' Est non est," hoc cam dicerera ; et tamen jam
utcumque erat« ut spedes caperet istas visibiles et
compositas.— Cm(/>/«., lib. xa, c. 6.
maining forms should be disc4id>
ed,*' of what remaining forms
does he speak ? Of those ^^ odd and
ugly forms *' which he says would
be shocking to see. But it h% evi-
dent that no substantial form can
be odd and ugly or shocking to
see. Moreover, S. Augustine con-
ceives his " unformed matter/* by
dropping from his mind ** all those
images of formed bodies '* by which
his imagination had been previous-
ly haunted. Now, it is obvious
that substantial forms are not an
object of the imagination, nor can
they be styled " images " of formed
bodies. Lastly, the holy doctor
explicitly says that the matter of
the bodies '* was already in some
manner before it could receive these
visible and compounded forms"
which shows that the forms which
he excluded from the primitive
matter are "the visible and com-
pounded forms ** of bodies — that is,
such forms as result from material
composition. And this is confirm-
ed by those other words of the ho-
ly doctor, " The earth was nothing
but unformed matter; for it was
invisible and uncompounded *' — that is,
the informity of the earth consisted
in the absence of material coropo*
sition, and, therefore, of visible
shape, not in the absence of primi-
tive substantial forms.
It would be interesting to know
why S. Augustine believed that his
readers would not bear with him
{quis legentium caper e durabit t) if
he were to <ay all that God had
taught him about shapeless matter.
Had God taught him the existence
of simple and unextended ele-
ments ? Was his shapeless matter
that simple point, that invisible and
uncompounded potency, on ac-
count of which all elements are
liable to geometrical arrangement
and to physical composition ? The
Substantial Generatums.
103
holf doctor does not tell us; But
certainly, if there ever was shapeless
matter, it could have no extertsion,
for extension entails shape. It
would, therefore, seem that S. Au-
gustine's shapeless matter could
not but consist of simple and unex-
tended elements ; and if so, he had
good reason to expect that his read-
ers would scorn a notion so con-
trary to the popular bias ; as we
see that even in our own time, and
in the teeth of scientific and philo-
sophical evidence, the same notion
cannot take hold of the popular
mind.
If the unformed matter of S. Au-
gustine is matter without shape and
withotxt extension, we can easily un-
derstand why he calls xtpetu nuHam
frm^ viz., scarcely more than no-
thing.* Indeed, the potential term
of a primitive element, a simple
point in space, is scarcely more
than nothing; for it has no bulk,
and were it not for the act which
gives it existence, it would be no-
thing at all, as it has nothing in
itself and in its potential nature
which deserves the name of " be-
ing *• ; but it borrows all its being
from the substantial act, as we
shall explain later on. It is, there-
ibre, plain that the matter of a sim-
ple element, and of all simple ele-
ments, is hardly more than nothing,
ind that it might almost be describ-
ed as a nothing-somethings and a
idng mm-beings as S. Augustine ob-
scr\'es. But when the primitive
matter began to cluster into bodies
having bulk and composition, then
this same matter acquired a visible
/0rm under definite dimensions,
and thus one mass of matter be-
came distinguishable from another,
and by the arrangement of such
* T«amB,Daaiine, Caditi nundumde materia In-
teaiqum fedsU de oulla re peike
distinct material things the order
and beauty of the world were pro-
duced.
Thus S. Augustine did not admit
the existence of matter deprived of
a substantial form, but only the exis-
tence of matter without shape, and
therefore without extension. And
for this reason we have said that
his doctrine contains mbre truth
than is commonly believed by the
peripatetic writers. His uncom-
pounded matter can mean nothing
else than simple elements; and
since the components are the ma-
terial cause of the compound, and
must be presupposed to it, the
simple elements of which all bod-
ies consist are undoubtedly those
material beings which God must
have created before anything hav-
ing shape and material composition
could make its appearance in the
world. Hence S. Augustine's view
of creation is, in this respect, per-
fectly consistent with sound philo-
sophy no less than with revelation.
His shapeless matter must be rank-
ed, we think, with the first matter
of Suarez above mentioned, under
the name oi primitive material sub-
stance. ^
As to the first matter of S. Tho-
mas and of the other followers of
Aristotle, it is difficult to say what
it is ; for we have seen that it has
been understood in two different
manners. If we adopt its most re-
ceived definition, we must call it
" a pure potency " and " a first po-
tency.** According to this defini-
tion, the first matter is a non-entity,
as we have already remarked, and
has no part in the constitution of
^bstance, any more than a corpse
in the constitution of man ; for, as
the body of man is not a living
corpse^ so the matter in material
substance is not a pure potency in acty
both expressions implying a like
104
Substantial Generations.
contradiction. Hence the first
matter, accordingj to this definition,
is not a metaphysical being, but a
mere being of reason — that is, a con-
ception 01 nothingness as resulting
from the suppression of the formal
principle of being.
From our notion of simple ele-
ments we can form a very clear im-
age of this being of reason. In a
primitive element the matter bor-
rows all its reality from the substan-
tial form of which it is the intrinsic
term — that is, from a virtual sphe-
ricity of which it is the centre. To
change such a centre into a pure
potency of being, we have merely
to suppress the virtual sphericity ;
for, by so doing, what was a real
centre of power becomes an imag-
inary centre, a term deprived of its
reality, a mere nothing; which
however, from the nature of the
process by which it is reached, is
still conceived as the vestige of the
real centre of power, and, so to say,
the shadow of the real matter which
disappears. Tlvus the materia prima^
as a pure potency, is nothing else
than an imaginary point in space,
or the potency of a real centre of
power. This clear and definite
conception of the first matter is cal-
culated to shed some additional
light on many questions connect-
ed with the peripatetic philosophy,
and, above all, on the very definition
of matter. The old metaphysicians,
when defining the first matter to fie
"a pure potency," had no notion
of the existence pf simple elements,
and knew very little about the law
of material actions ; and for this
reason they could say nothing
about the special character of such
a pure potency. For the same rea-
son they were unable also to point
out the special nature of the first act
of matter; they simply recognized
that the conspiration of such a pot
tenty with such an act ought to
give rise to a "movable being."
But potency and act are to be found
not only in material, but also in
spiritual, substances ; and as these
substances are of a quite different
nature, it is evident that their re-
spective potencies and their respec-
tive acts must be of a quite differ-
ent nature. Now, 'the special char-
acter of the potency of material
substance consists in its being a lo-
cal term, whilst the special charac-
ter of the potency of spiritual sub-
stance consists in its being an intel-
lectual term. And therefore, to dis-
tinguish the former from the latter,
we should say that the matter is " a
potential term in spaced' and the
first matter '* a potency of being
in space'' The additional words
" in space " point out the charac-
teristic attribute of the material
potency as distinguished from all
other potencies. ,
Moreover, our conception of
materia prima as an imaginary point
in space may help us to realize
more completely the distinction
which must be made between the
non-entity of the first matter and
absolute nothingness. Absolute no-
thingness is a mere negation of
being, or a negative non-entity ;
whereas the non-entity of the first
matter is formally constituted by a
privation, and must be styled a
privative non-entity. For, as the
matter and its substantial form are
the constituents of one and the
same primitive essence, we cannot
tliink of the matter without refer-
ence to the form, nor of the form
without reference to the matter.
And therefore, when, in order to
conceive the first matter, we sup-
press mentally the suostantial form,
we deprive the matter of what it
essentially requires for its exist-
ence ; and it is in consequence of
Substantial Generations.
105
web a process that we reduce the
matter to a non-entity. Now, to
exdnde from the matter the form
which is due to it is to constitute
the • matter under a privation,
llicrefore the resulting non-entity
of the firsr matter is a privative
non-entity. Indeed, privation is
defined as " the absence of some-
thing due to a subjecty* and we can
scarcely say that a non-entity is a
subject. But this definition applies
to ual privations only, which re-
qaire a real subject lacking some-
thing due to it ; as when a man has
lost an eye or a foot. But in our
case, as we are concerned with a
pure potency of being, which has
DO reality at all, our subject can
be nothing else than a non-entity.
This is the subject which demands
the form of which it is bereaved, as
it cannot even be conceived with-
out reference to it. The very name
of matUr^ which it retains, points
out a form as its transcendental
correlative; while the epithet
** first " points out the fact that this
nutter is yet destitute of that being
»hich it should have in order to
deserve the name of real matter.
But, much as this notion of the
first matter agrees with that of
** pure potency " and of " first po-
tency," the followers of the peri-
patetic system will say that their
first matter is something quite dif-
ferent, as is evident from their
theory of substantial generations,
which would have no meaning, if
the first matter were not a reality.
Let us, then, waive for the present
the notion of ^^ pure potency,'* and
lam our attention to that of " real
potency," that we may see what
tmd of reality the first matter must
be, when the "first matter'* is iden-
tified with the matter actually ex-
isting under a substantial form.
The matter actuated by a form
is a real potency^ and nothing more.
It is only by stretching the word
" being '* beyond its legitimate
meaning that this real potency is
sometimes called a real being. In
fact, the potential terra of the real
being is real, not on account of any
real entity involved in its own na-
ture, but merely on account of the
real act by which it is actuated.
How anything can be real without
possessing an entity of its own our
reader may easily understand by
recollecting what we have often re-
marked about the centre of a sphere,
whose reality is entirely due to the
spherical form, or by reflecting that
negations and privations are simi-
larly called real^ not because of any
entity involved in them, but simply
because they are appurtenances of
real beings.
We have seen that S. Augustine
would fain have called the primi-
tive matter a nothing-something and
a being non-beings if such phrases
had been allowable. His thought
was deep, but he could not find
words to express it thoroughly.
Our " real potency " is that " no-
thing-something " which was in the
mind of the holy doctor. S. Tho-
mas gives us a clew to the explana-
tion of such a ** nothing-something "
by remarking that to be and to have
being are not precisely the same
thing. To be is the attribute of a
complete act, whilst to have being is
the attribute of a potency actuated
by its act. That is said to be
which contains in itself the formal
reason of its being ; whilst that is
said to Iiave being which does not
contain in itself the formal reason
of its being, but receives its being
from without, and puts it on as
a borrowed garment. Of course,
God alone can be said to be in tlie
fullest meaning of the term, as he
alone contains in himself the ade-
io6
Substantial Generations.
quote reason of his being ; yet all
created essence can be said to be^
inasmuch as it contains in itself the
formal reason of its being — that is,
an act giving existence to a poten-
cy ; whereas the potency itself can
be said merely to have beings because
being is not included in the nature
of potency, but must come to it
from a distinct source. And there-
fore, as a thing colored has color,
but is not color, and as a body ani-
mated has life, but is w^?/ life, so the
matter actuated by its form lias be-
ing, but is not a being.
Some philosophers, who failed to
take notice of this distinction, main-
tained that the matter which exists
under a substantial form is an in-
complete beings and an incomplete sub-
stance. The expression is not cor-
rect. For, if the matter which lies
under the substantial form were an
incomplete being, it would be the
office of the form to complete it.
Now, the substantial form can have
no such office ; for the form always
inchoates what the matter com-
pletes. It is always the term that
completes the act, whilst the act
actuates the term by giving it the
first being. Hence the matter
which lies under its substantial form
is not an incomplete entity. Nor
is it an entity destined to complete
the form; for, if the term which
completes a form were a being, such
a term would be a real subject, a§d
thus the form terminated to it would
not be strictly substantial, as it
would not give it the first being.
Moreover, the matter and the sub-
stantial form constitute one primi-
tive essence, in which it is impossi-
ble to admit a multiplicity of enti-
lative constituents; and therefore,
since the substantial form, which is
a formal source of being, is evident-
ly an entitative constituent, it fol-
lows that the matter lying under it
has no entity of its own, but is
merely clothed with the entity of
its form.
But, true though it is that the
matter lying under a substantial
form has no entity of its own, it is,
however, a rea^ term, as we have al-
ready intimated; hence it may be
called a reality. And since reality
and entity are commonly used as
synonymous, we may admit that the
formed matter is an entity, adjec-
tively, not substantively, just as we
admit that ivory is a sphere when it
lies under a spherical form. Nev-
ertheless the ivory, to speak more
properly, should be said to kaz^e
sphericity rather than to be a splure ;
for, though it is the subject of
sphericity, it is not spherical of its
own nature. In the same manner,
a body vivified by a soul is called
living ; but, properly speaking, it
should be styled having life^ be-
cause life is not a property of the
body as such, but it springs from
the presence of the soul in the
body. The like is to be said of
the being of the matter as actuated
by the substantial form. It is from
the form alone that such a matter
has its first being; and therefore
such a matter has only a borrowed
being» and is a real potency y not a
real entity. Such is, we believe,
the true interpretation of S. Au-
gustine's phrase: "nothing-some-
thing" and "being non- being" —
Nihil aliquid, et est non est, .
Nor is it strange that the matter
should be a recUity without being
an entity^ properly so called ; for the
like happens with all the real terms
of contingent things. Thus the
real term of a line (the point) is no
linear entity, though it certainly
belongs to the line, and is some-
thing real in the line; the rea!
term of time (the present instant,
or the nouf) is no temporal entity,
Substantial Generations.
107
as it has no extension, though it
certainly belongs to time, and is
something real in time; the real
term of a body (the simple ele-
ment) is no bodily entity, as it has
no bulk, though it certainly belongs
lo the body, and is something real
in it ; the real term of a circle (the
centre) is no circular entity, though
it certainly belongs to the circle,
and is something real in it. And
in like manner the real term of a
primitive contingent substance (its
potency) is no substantial entity,
though it evidently belongs to the
contingent substance, and is some-
thing real in it. In God alone,
whose being excludes contingency,
the substantial term (the Word)
stands forth as a true entity — a
most perfect and infinite entity —
for, as the term of the divine gene-
ration is not educed out of nothing,
it is absolutely free from all poten-
tiality, and is in eternal possession
of infinite actuality. Hence it is
that God alone, as we have above
remarked, can be said to be in the
fullest meaning of the terra.
As the best authors agree that
the matter which is under a sub-
stantial form is no being, but only
**a real potency," we will dispense
with further considerations on this
special point. What we have said
suffices 10 give our readers an idea
of the materia prima of the ancients,
and of the different manners in
which it has been understood.
Substantial form. — Coming now
to the notion of the substantial
form the first thing which deserves
special notice is the fact that the
phrase " substantial form " can be
interpreted in two manners, owing
to the double meaning attached to
the epithet "substantial." All the
forms which supervene to a speci-
fic nature already constituted have
been called "accidental," and all
the forms which enter into the con-
stitution of a specific nature have
been called " substantial." But as
the accident can be contrasted
with the essence no less than with
the substance of a thing, so the
substantial form can be defined
either as that which gives the first
being to a certain essence^ or as that
which gives the first being to a sub-
stance as such. The schoolmen, in
fact, left us two definitions of their
substantial forms, of which the
first is : " The substantial form is
that which gives the first being to
the matter " ; the second is : " The
substantial form is that which
gives the first being lo a thing."
The first definition belongs to the
form strictly substantial, for the re-
sult of the first actuation of matter
is a primitive substance; whereas
the second has a much wider range,
because all things which involve
material composition, in their spe-
cific nature, receive the first specific
being by a form which needs not
give the first existence to their ma-
terial components, and which, there-
fore, is not strictly a substantial
form. Thus a molecule of oxygen,
because it contains a definite num-
ber of primitive elements, cannot
be formally constituted in its spe-
cific nature, except by a specific
composition ; and such a composi-
tion is an essential, though not a tru-
ly substantial, form of the com-
pound, as we shall more fully ex-
plain in another article.
The strictly substantial form con-
tains in itself the whole reason of
the being of the substance ; for the
matter which completes it d jes not
contribute to the constitution of the
substance, except as a mere term —
that is, by simply receiving exist-
ence, and therefore without adding
any new entity to the entitv of the
form. Whence it follows that the
loS
Substantial Generaticifs.
form itself contains the whole rea-
son of the resulting essence. " Al-
though the essence of a being," says
S. Thomas, ** is neither the form
alone nor the matter alone, yet the
form .alone is, in its own manner,
the cause of such an essence." * It
cannot, however, be inferred from
this that the strictly substantial
form is a physical being. Physical
beings have a complete essence and
an existence of their own ; which is
not the case with any material
form. " Even the forms them-
selves," according to S. Thomas,
" have no being ; it is only the com-
pounds (of matter and form) that
have being through them." f And
again : " The substantial form itself
has no complete essence ; for in the
definition of the substantial form it
is necessary to include that of
which it is the form." J It is plain
that a being which has no complete
essence and no possibility of a
separate existence cannot be styl-
ed a physical being, but only a
metaphysical constituent of the
physical being.
The schoolmen teach that the
substantial forms of bodies are
educed out of the potency of matter.
This proposition is true. For the
so-called " substantial " forms of
bodies are not strictly substantial,
but only essential or natural forms,
as they give the first existence, not
to the matter of which the bodies
are composed, but only to the
bodies themselves. Now, all bodies
are material compounds of a certain
species, and therefore involve dis-
* Licet essentia, qua res denominatar em, noa
sit tantum forma, nee tantum materia, tamen hu-
jusmodi essentiae sda forma suo modo est causa.^
D* EtUe ei Esstniia^ c a.
f Etiam fonns non babent esse, sed composiU
h tbent esse per eas—5<rw. TheoL, p. i, q. 5, a. 4.
X Nee forma snbstaatialis completam e< a rnri a m
habet ; quia in definitione forms substantialisopor-
tet quod ponatur, id cujus est forma. — D* Entt tt
Essentia^ c. 5.
tinct material terms bound together
by a specific form of composition,
without which such a specific com-
pound can have no existence. The
specific form of composition is
therefore the essential form of a
body of a given species ; and such
is the form that gives the first beiag
to the body. To say that such a
form is educed out of the potency
of matter is to state an obvious
truth, as it is known that the com-
position of bodies is brought about
by the mutual action of the ele-
ments of which the bodies are con-
stituted, which action proceeds
from the active potency, and actu-
ates Xh^ passive potency of the mat-
ter of the body, as we shall explain
more fully in the sequel.
But the old natural philosophers,
who had no notion of primitive im-
extended elements, when affirming
the eduction of substantial forms
out of the potency of matter, took
for granted that such forms were
strictly substantial, and gave the
first being not only to the body,
but also to the matter itself of
which the body was composed. In
this they were mistaken ; but the
mistake was excusable, as chemistry
had not yet shown the law of defin-
ite proportions in the combination
of difierent bodies, nor had the
spectroscope revealed the fact that
the primitive molecules of all bodies
are composed of free elementary
substances vibrating around a com-
mon centre, and remaining substan-
tially identical amid all the changes
produced by natural causes in the
material world. Nevertheless, had
they not been biassed by the Ipse
dixity the peripatetics would have
found that, though accidental
forms, and many essential forms
too, are educed out of the potency
of matter, yet the strictly substan-
tial forms cannot be so educed.
Substantial Generations.
109
The matter may be conceived
either as formed or as unformed. If
it is formed, it is already in posses-
sion of its substantial form and of
its first being, which it never loses,
as we shall prove hereafter. There-
lore such a matter is not in potency
with regard to its first being ; and
thus no strictly substantial form
can be educed from the potency of
(he formed matter. If, on the con-
trary, the matter is yet unformed, it
is plain that such a matter cannot
be acted on by natural agents ; for
it has no existence in the order of
things, and therefore it cannot be
the subject of natural actions. How,
then, can it receive the first being }
Owing to the impossibility of ex-
plaining how the unformed matter
could be actuated by natural agents,
those who admitted the eduction
of substantial fonns out of the po-
tency of matter were constrained
to assume that \\iQ first matter had
iome reality of its own, and con-
Msted intrinsically, as Suarez teach-
es, of act and potency. But, though
It is true that the matter must have
some reality in order to receive
from natural agents a new form, it
is evident that such a new form
cannot be strictly substantial ; for
it cannot give the first being to a
matter already endowed with being.
Hence no strictly substantial fonn
can be naturally educed out of the
potency of matter.
If, then, a truly substantial form
could in any sense be educed out
of the potency of matter, such an
eduction should be made, not by
natural causes, but by God himself
in the act of creation ; for no agent,
except God, can bring matter into
existence. But we think that even
in this case it would .be incorrect
to say that the substantial form
ii educed out of the potency of
ukatter. For, although the un-
formed matter, and the noth^igness
out of which things are educed
by creation, admit of no real diflfer-
ence, yet the unformed matter, as a
privative non-entity, involves a for-
mality of reason, which absolute no-
thingness does not involve ; and
hence to substitute the unformed
matter for absolute nothingness as
the extrinsic term of creation, is to
present the fact of creation under a
false formality. God creates a sub-
Stance, not by educing its farm out
of a privative non-entity — that is,
out of an abstraction — but by educ-
ing the substance itself out of no-
thingness. And for this reason it
would be quite incorrect to call
creation an eduction of a substan-
tial form out of the potency of
matter.
There is yet another reason why
creation should not be so explain-
ed. For the philosophers who ad-
mit the eduction of substantial
forms out of the potency of matter,
assume, either explicitly or impli-
citly, that such a potency is real^
though they often call it **a pure
potency," as we have stated. Their
matter is therefore a r^^ subject of
substantial generations. Now, it is
obvious that creation neither pre-
supposes nor admits a previous real
subject. Hence, to say that crea-
tion is the eduction of a substantial
form out of the potency of matter,
would be to employ a very mischie- .
vous phrase, with nothing to justify
it, even if no other objection could
be raised against its use.
We conclude that strictly sub-
stantial forms are never educed out
of the potency of matter, but are
simply educed out of nothing in
creation. As, however, every such
form gives being to its matter, with-
out which it cannot exist, we com-
monly say that the whole substance,
and not its form as such, is educed
no
Substantial Gentratums.
out o( nothing. S. Thomas says :
** The term of creation is a being
in act ; and its act is its form *'* —
the form, evidently, which gives the
first being to the matter, and which
is therefore truly and properly sub-
stantial. Hence, before the posi-
tion of this act, nothing exists in
nature which can be styled " mat-
ter," whilst at the position of this
act, and by virtue of it, the mate-
rial substance itself is instantly
brought into existence. Accord-
ingly, the position of an act which
formally gives existence to its term
is the very eduction of the sub-
stance oat of nothing ; and the
strictly substantial form is educed
out of nothing in the very creation
of the substance, whereas the mat-
ter, at the mere position of such a
form, and through it immediately,
acquires its first existence. The
matter, as the reader may recollect,
is to its form what the centre of a
sphere is to the spherical form.
Hence, as the centre acquires its
being by the mere position of a
spherical form, so the matter ac-
quires its being by the mere posi-
tion of the substantial form, with-
out the concurrence of any other
causality.
This last conclusion may give
rise to an objection, which we can-
not leave without an answer. The
obje<:tion is the following^ If the
matter receives its first being
through the substantial form alone,
it follows that God did not create
the matter, but only the form itself.
We answer that when we speak
of the creation of matter, the word
" matter " means " material sub-
stance." For the term of creation,
as we have just remarked with S.
Thomas, is /^ Mng in act — that is.
* Creationu tenninui est ens actu ; ifMum aotaa
quod est actus est iottaauSum. Tkeoi.^ p. x, q. 66,
the complete being, as it physically
exists in the order of nature. Now,
such a being is the substance itself.
On the other hand, to create M^
being in act is to produce tA€ act
which is the formal reason of the
being ; and since the position of the
act entails the existence of a poten-
tial term, it is evident that God,
by producing the act, causes the
existence of the potential term.
But as this term is not a " real be-
ing," but only a " real potency,"
and as its reality is merely "bor-
rowed " from the substantial form,
it has nothing in itself which re-
quires making, and therefore it can-
not be the term of a special crea-
tion.
The old philosophers, who ad-
mitted the separability of the mat-
ter from its substantial form, and
who were for this reason obliged to
grant to such a matter an imper-
fect being, were wont to say that
the matter was con-created with the
form, and thus they seem to have
conceived the creation of a primi-
tive material substance as including
two partial creations. But, as a
primitive being includes but one act,
it cannot be the term of two ac-
tions; for two actions imply two
acts. On the other hand, the mat-
ter which is under the substantial
act has no entity of its own, as we
have shown to be the true and
common doctrine, and therefore
has no need of a special effection,
but only of a formal actuation.
Hence the creation of a primitive
material substance does not con-
sist of two partial creations. We
may, however, adopt the term ** con-
created** to express the fact that
the position of the act entails the
reality of the potential term, jpst
as the position of sphericity entails
the existence of a centre.
The preceding remarks have
Suisianiial Generations.
Ill
been made with the object of pre-
paring the solution of a difficulty
concerning the creation of matter.
For matter is potential, whilst God
is a pure act without potency ; but
a pure act without potency cannot
produce anything potential, since it
does not contain in itself any poten-
tiality nor anything equivalent to it.
Therefore the origin of matter can-
not be accounted for by creation.
The answer to this difficulty is
as follows : We grant that the mat-
ter, as distinguished from the form
which gives it the first being, and
therefore as a potential term of the
primitive substance, cannot be cre-
ated, for it is no being at all, but
only a potency of being; and yet
it does not follow that the material
substance itself cannot be created.
Of course God does not contain in
Himself, either formally or eminent-
ly, the potentiality of his own crea-
tures, but he eminently contains in
himself and can produce out of
himself aa endless multitude of acts
giving existence to as many poten-
tial terms. And thus God, by pro-
ducing any such act, causes the ex-
istence of its correspondent poten-
qr, which is not efficiently made,
Init only formally actuated, as has
been just explained. Creation is an
action, and action is the production
of an act ; hence " the term of crea-
tion is a being in aciy and this act is
the form," as St. Thomas teaches ;
the matter, on the contrary, or the
potency of the created being, is a
term coming out of nothingness by
formal actuation, and consequently
having no being of its own, but
owing whatever existence it has to
the act or form of which it is the
term; so that, if God ceased to
conserve such an act, the term
would instantly vanish altogether
without need of a special annihila-
tion. Nothingness is the source of
all potentiality and imperfection, as
God is the source of all actuality
and perfection. Hence even the
spiritual creatures, in which there
is no matter, are essentially poten-
tial, inasmuch as they, too, have
come out of nothing. This suffices
to show that God, though contain-
ing in himself no formal and no
virtual potentiality, can create a
substance essentially constituted of
act and potency. For we have
seen that, to create such a substance,
God needs only to produce an act
ad extra^ and that such an act con-
tains in itself the formal reason of
its proportionate potency ; because
** although the essence of a being is
neither the form alone nor the
matter alone, yet the form alone is
in its own manner (that is, by for-
mal principiation) the cause of such
,an essence."
And let this suffice respecting the
general notions of first matter and
substantial form.
CONTINUBD.
112 Tlie Leader of the Centrum in the Germajt Reic/istag^
THE LEADER OF THE CENTRUM IN THE GERMAN REICH-
STAG.
The Catholics of Germany have
suffered a great loss in the death
of Herman von Mallinkrodt, de-
puty to the Reichstag. Germany
now realizes what he was, and it is
indeed a pleasure for us to honor in
this periodical the memory of this
extraordinary man by giving a short
sketch of his life.
Herman von Mallinkrodt was
born in Minden (Westphalia), on
the $i\\ of February, 182 1. His
father, who was of noble birth and
a Prussian officer of state, was a
Protestant; his mother, nSe Von
Hartman, of Paderborn, was an ex-
cellent Catholic. All the children
of this marriage were baptized Cath-
olics — which is very seldom the
case in mixed marriages — and were
filled with the true Catholic spirit.
Like Herman, so also did his
brother and sister, who were older
than he, distinguish themselves by
their decidedly Catholic qualities.
George, who had become the
possessor of the old convent of
Boeddekken, founded in the year
837 by S. Meinulph, cherished a
special devotion towards this the
first saint of Paderborn, and rebuilt
the chapel, destroyed in the begin-
ning of this century by the Prussian
government. This chapel is great-
ly esteemed as a perfect specimen
of Gothic architecture, and is now
held in liigh honor, as being the
final resting-place of Herman von
Mallinkrodt. His sister, Pauline,
the foundress and mother-general
of the sisterhood of " Christian
Love," has become celebrated by
the success she has achieved in the
education of girls. (The principal
teacher of Pauline was the noble
convert and celebrated poetess,
Louisa Aloysia Hensel, in whose
verses, according to the criticism
of the Protestant historian Barthel,
more tender and Christian senti-
ments are expressed than are to be
found in any German production of
modern times.) These excellent
Sisters were also expelled, as being
dangerous to the state, and sought
as well as found a new field of use-
fulness in America, the land of
freedom.
The true Catholic discipline of
these three children they owe to the
careful training of their mother and
the pure Catholic atmosphere of Aix-
la-Chapelle, to which city their fa-
ther was sent as vice-president of the
government. Herman followed the
profession of his father, and studied
jurisprudence. The interest felt by
the young jurist in whatever con-
cerned the church is seen in the
following incident, which had an im-
portant influence on his whole life :
\Vhen the time had arrived for him
to pass his state examination, he re-
tired to the quiet of Boeddekken.
From different themes he selected
the one treating on the judicial rela-
tions between church and state. Not
being satisfied with the view taken
by certain authors, he endeavored to
arrive at a knowledge of the matter
by personal investigation, and after
fourteen months of close applica-
Tke Leader of the Centrum in the German Reichstag, 113
tion he succeeded in establishing a
f^FSieni which proved itself on all
sides tenable and in harmony with
the writings of the old canonists of
the church. The person to whose
judgment the production was sub-
mitted declared that the treatise,
although excellent, was too strong-
ly in favor of the church, but that
the anthor had permission to pub-
lish it, which, however, was not
done. Herman, nevertheless, as he
afterwards told one of his friends,
had never to retract one of the prin-
ciples he then maintained ; he had
only to let them develop themselves
more fully. As he in his youth did
not rest until he had become perfect
master of any theme he had to dis-
cuss, so also did he never in after-
hfe ascend the tribune, upon which
he won imperishable honors, until
he had digested the whole matter
in his mind. We make no men-
tion of the positions which Mallin-
krodt occupied as the servant of the
itatc. It is well known that his
strong Catholic sentiments were
for the Prussian government an
insurmountable objection to his
being elevated to a post corre-
sponding with his eminent ability,
until he, as counsellor of the govern-
ment at Merseburg, left the ungrate-
ful service of the state. It was,
however, his good fortune to apply
the talents which Almighty God
had given him in so full a measure,
tc his parliamentary duties for eight-
een years, from 1852 to 1874, the
short interruption from 1864 to 1868
excepted.
In his life his friends recognized
his merits, and in his death even
his enemies confessed that a great
man had passed away.
This prominent leader Almighty
<lod has taken from us in a sudden
and uncxi>ected manner. The last
Prussian Diet, at whose session he
VOL. XXI. — 8
was more conspicuous than ever be-
fore, had adjourned, and in paying
his farewell visits before his return
to his home in Nord-Brochen,
where he possessed a family man-
sion, he contracted a cold, which
finally developed itself into an in-
flammation of the lungs and of the
membrane covering the thorax. On
the fifth day of his sickness the man
who, by his indefatigable public
labors and the grief he felt for the
afflictions undergone by the church,
had worn out his life, passed to his
eternal reward, on the 26th of May,
in the 53d year of his age. He had
married Thecla, nie Von Bernhard,
a step-sister of his first wife, several
months before his death, and she
was present when he died. Placing
one hand in hers, he embraced with
the other the cross, which in life he
had always venerated and chosen
as his standard.
No pen can describe the heart-
felt anguish which the Catholic
people of Germany felt at their loss.
At the funeral services in Berlin
the distinguished members of all
parties were present. The govern-
ment alone failed to acknowledge
the merit of one who had so long
been an eminent leader in the
Reichstag. Paderborn, to which
city the body was conveyed, has
never witnessed such a grand fune-
ral procession as that of Von Mal-
linkrodt. From thence to Boeddek-
ken, a distance of nine miles, one
congregation after the other formed
the honorary escort, not counting
the crowd of mourners who had
gathered together at Boeddekken,
where the deceased was to be
buried in the chapel of S. Mei-
nulph. A large number of members
of the Centrum party, nearly all
the nobility of Westphalia, were
here assembled, and many cities oi
Germany sent deputies, who de-
1 14 Tlu Leader of the Centrum in the German Reichstag.
posited laurel wreaths upon the
coffin. It was an imposing sight
when his Excellency Dr. Windt-
liorst approached the open grave
to strew, as the last service of love,
some blessed earth upon the re«
mains of his dear friend, the tears
streaming meanwhile from his eyes.
During the funeral services the
bells of the Cathedral of Mflnster
tolled solemnly for two hours, sum-
moning Catholics from the different
districts to attend the High Mass
of Requiem for the beloved dead ;
so that the words of the Holy
Scriptures applied to the hero of
tlie Machabees can be truly applied
also to Von Mallinkrodt : **And
ail the people . . . bewailed him
with great lamentation ** (i Macha-
bees IX. 20). It is a remarkable fact
that even his opponents, who dur-
ing his lifetime attacked him with
all manner of weapons, could not
but bestow the most unqualified
praises upon him in death. It
would seem that the eloquence of
Von Mallinkrodt during his latter
years had been all in vain ; for al-
though every seat was filled as soon
as he ascended the tribune to speak,
and he was listened to with profound
attention, yet he exercised no in-
fluence upon the votes, for the rea-
son that they had previously been
determined upon. No one was
found who could reply to his for-
cible arguments, for they were un-
answerable. Not only his graceful
oratory, but the very appearance
of a man so true to his convictions,
had its effect even upon his oppo-
nents. It will not be out of place
for us to give a few of the tributes
paid to his memory by those who
differed from him in politics. Even
in Berlin, where titles are so plenti-
ful, the general sentiment was one
of sorrow. *' With respectful sympa-
thy," writes the Spener Gazette^ *' we
have to announce the une.xpected
death of a man distinguished not
only for talent, but for integrity —
•Herman von Mallinkrodt, deputy
to the Reichstag. He was sincerely
convinced of the justice of the cause
he espoused. Greater praise we can-
not bestow upon a friend, nor can
we refrain from acknowledging that
our late adversary always acted from
principle." "Von Mallinkrodt,"
says the correspondent of the Ber-
lin Progress^ "stood in the first
rank when there was question re-
garding the policy of the govern-
ment against the church ; no other
orator, not only of his own party,
but even of the opposition, could
compare with him in logical rea-
sonihg or in rhetorical skill. His
speeches give evident proof of the
rare combination of truth and ability
to be found in this great man."
The fault-finding Elberfelder Ga^
zeite testifies as follows to the elo-
quence of our deputy : ** Who that
has listened to even one of Von
Mallinkrodt's speeches can ever
forget the fascinating eloquence or
the picturesque appearance of the
orator — reminding one of the Duke
of Alba, by the perfect dignity of his
manner and the classic form of his
discourse.**" The Magdeburg corre-
spondent almost goes further when
he says : " He served his party with
such disinterestedness, and was
so indifferent to his own advance-
ment, that it would be well if all
political parties could show many
such characters — men who live ex-
clusively for one idea, and sacri-
fice every temporal advantage to
this idea. The Reichstag will find
it difficult to fill the vacuum caused
by the death of Von- Mallinkrodt.
In this all parties agree; and
members who combated the prin-
ciples of the deceased with the
greatest earnestness, nevertheless
The Leader of tlu Centrum in the German Reichstag, 1 1 5
lonfcss thai in energy and vigor
o! expression he was seldora equal-
led and never excelled by any one.'*
*• In regard to his exterior apjiear-
unce." the Magdeburg Gazette says :
" Von Mallinkrodt, with his erect per-
son, beautifully-formed head, stern
features, and flashing eyes, was a
fine specimen of a roan who knew
liov to control his temper, and not
give way to an outburst of passion
at an important moment. He was
a leader who, in the severest com-
bat, could impart courage and con-
fidence to his followers, and he
ktood as firm as a rock when any
attempt was made to crush him.
. . He will not be soon forgotten
by those with whom he has had in-
tellectual contests. Of Von Mal-
linkrodt, who stands alone among
men, it can be truly said : * He was
:i sreat man.* **
The reader will pardon us for se-
lecting from among the many tri-
bmes of respect paid to the memory
ttl Von Mallinkrodt one taken from
I he democratic Frankfort Gazette^
wilted by Jews, which journal at
otfier limes keeps its columns open
to the most outrageous attacks upon
i^e Catholic Church. It says with
^e.nt truth : ** The single idea of
i^c church entirely filled the mind
fi tliis extraordinary and wondeiful
man ; and firmly as he upheld the
Mstrm of MO'filer-Kratzig, as stead-
Ji*tly did he oppose the policy of
Falk. In this opposition he grew
stronger from session to session,
lie governing principle of his life
developed itself more and more
iitlly. and he became bolder in his
itti< k upon the ministers and their
,» rliamentary friends. Talent and
I'ararter were united in him; a
T e s^>n of the church, he was at
iiie same time a true son of mother
-irth, and his healthy organization
'! t. effect upon his disposition.
The last session of the Reichstag
saw him at the height of his useful-
ness; his last grand speech, in re-
ference to the laws against the
bishops, was, as his friends and op-
ponents acknowledge, the most im-
portant parliamentary achievement
since the beginning of the con-
flict. ... In him the Reichstag
loses not only one of its shining
lights, but also a character of irort
mould, such as is seldom found
preserved in all its strength in the
present unsettled state of public
affairs. We cannot join in the
requiem which the priests will sine;
around his catafalque, but his hon-
est opponents will venerate his me-
mory, for he was, what can be said
of but few in our degenerate times
— a tnte man,''
With these noble qualities Von
Mallinkrodt possessed the greatest
modesty ; he was accessible to
every one, cheerful and familiar in
the happy circle of his friends, re-
spectful to his political opponents,
just and reasonable to Protestants,
and devoted to his spiritual mo-
ther. the Catholic Church. Like
O'Connell, during his parliamentary
labors he had constant recourse to
prayer. "Pray for me!** were his
farewell words to his sister when
he went to Berlin to enter the arena
of politics. When he had conclud-
ed the above-mentioned last and
grand speech in the Reichstag, in
regard to the laws against the bi-
shops, with the words, Per crucem
aJiucetfty which he himself translat-
ed, " through the cross to joy/*
and when lie descended the tribune,
he went directly to the seat of Rev.
Father Miller, of Berlin, counsel-
lor of tiie bishop, stretched out his
hand to him, and said, ** You hnvt-
prnyed well !" It is said of hini
that before any important debate
in the chambers he went in the
1 1 6 The Leader of tlu Centrum in the German Reichstag.
morning to Holy Communion. The
people of Nord-Borchen tell one an-
other with emotion how, without ever
having been noticed by him, they
have observed their good Von Mal-
linkrodt pass hours in prayer in the
lonely chapel near Borchen. What
pious aspirations he made in that
secluded spot God alone knows.
He was always very fond of reciting
the Rosary, which devotion display-
ed itself particularly upon his
death-bed. He asked the Sister
who nursed him to recite the beads
with him, as his weakness prevent-
ed him from praying aloud. When
his wife approached his couch of
pain, after greeting her affectionate-
ly, he told her to look for his rosary
and crucifix, which she would find
lying beside him on the right. The
following day, when his sister, the
Superioress Pauline, had arrived in
Berlin, after a friendly salutation,
he said to her: "It is indeed good
that you are here ; say with me an-
other decade of the Rosary." It is
related of 0*Connell that in a de-
<:isive moment he would always re-
tire to a corner in the House of Par-
liament, in order to say the Rosary ;
it was also the habit of Von Mallin-
krodt.
The same living faith which ani-
mated him in life gave him also
^consolation in death. ** Think of
S. Elizabeth," said he to his wife,
Thecla; " she also became a widow
when young." When his wife, the
day previous to his death, spoke to
him of the love and grief of his five
children, tears filled his eyes ; but he
wiped them quietly away without
uttering a word, and looked up to
heaven. He explained to the SisteV
who attended him why during his
whole illness he had never felt any
solicitude concerning his temporal
or family affairs ; for, said he, " I
have confidence in God."
Another remarkable feature of
his last sickness, which testifies to
the peaceful state of mind of this
Christian warrior, who fought the
cause, but not the individual, was
the fact that he evinced real
satisfaction that his personal rela-
tions toward his political oppo-
nents had become no worse, but
even more friendly. It was this
sentiment which, when the fever
had reached its height, caused hii»i
to exclaim : ** I was willing to live
in peace with every one ; but jus-
tice must prevail! Should Chris-
tians not speak more like Chris-
tians when among Christians.'"
As Von Mallinkrodt lived by faith,
so also did he die, embracing the
sign of redemption; and thus he
passed away per crucem cui lucetn —
through the cross to joy.
An Exposition of the Church.
117
AN EXPOSITION OF THE CHURCH IN VIEW OF RECENT
DIFFICULTIES AND CONTROVERSIES AND THE PRE-
SENT NEEDS OF THE AGE.*
** ThcK axe not the time* to sit with folded arms, while all the enemies of God are occupied ia over-
tiwpvi^g every thing worthy of respect." — Pius IX., Jan. 13, 1873.
"* Yet, this diaage, tbb triumph, will cwne. I know not whether it will come during my life, during the
fifietftkispoorVtcar of Jesus Christ ; but that it must come, I know. The resurrection will take plaoe
aad vt shaS see the end of all impiety.*' — ^Pius IX., Anniversary of the Roman Plebiscite, 1872.
I. THE QUESTION STATED.
The Catholic Church throughout
the world, beginning at Rome, is in
JL suffering state. There is scarcely
a spot on the earth where she is
not assailed by injustice, oppression,
or violent persecution. Like her
divine Author in his Passion, every
member has its own trial of pain to
endure. All the gates of hell have
been opened, and every species of
Atuck, as by general conspiracy,
lus been let loose at once upon the
church.
Countries in which Catholics out-
number all other Christians put
together, as France, Austria, Italy,
Spain, fiavaria, Baden, South Amer-
ica, Brazil, and, until recently, Bel-
glum, are for the most part control-
led and governed by hostile mino-
mies, and in some instances the
minority is veYy small.
Her adversaries, with the finger
tif derision, point out these facts and
[troclaim them to the world. Look,
t.'iey say, at Poland, Ireland, Portu-
gal, Spain, Bavaria, Austria, Italy,
France, and what do you see.?
('ountries subjugated, or enervated,
or agitated by the internal throes
'f revolution. Everywhere among
Catholic nations weakness only and
incapacity are to be discerned.
* Thb article b reprinted, with the author's pefw
rjMM, friMB advance theeu c£ a pamphlet pub-
Utad hf B^ Montagu Pickering, Loodon.— Ed.
cir.
This is the result of the priestly do-
mination and hierarchical influence
of Rome I
Heresy and schism, false philoso-
phy, false science, and false art,
cunning diplomacy, infidelity, and
atheism, one and all boldly raise
up their heads and attack the
church in the face ; while secret
societies of world-wide organization
are stealthily engaged in undermin-
ing her strength with the people.
Even the Sick man-the Turk-who
lives at the beck of the so-called
Christian nations, impudently kicks
the church of Christ, knowing full
well there is no longer in Europe
any power which will openly raise a
voice in her defence.
How many souls, on account of
this dreadful war waged against the
church, are now suffering in secret
a bitter agony ! How many are
hesitating, knowing not what to do,
and looking for guidance ! How
many are wavering between hope
and fear ! Alas ! too many have
already lost the faith.
Culpable is the silence and base
the fear which would restrain one's
voice at a period when God, the
church, and religion are every-
where either openly denied, boldly
attacked, or fiercely persecuted. In
such trying times as these silence or
fear is betrayal.
The hand of God is certainly in
these events, and it is no less ccr-
n8
An Exposition of the Church.
tam ihat the light of divine failli
ought to discern it. Through these
riouds which now obscure the
church the light of divine hope
ought to pierce, enabling us to per-
ceive a better and a brighter future ;
for this is what is in store for the
church and the world. That love
which embraces at once the great-
est glory of God and the highest
happiness of man should outweigh
all fear of misinterpretations, and
urge one to make God's hand clear
to those who are willing to see, and
])oint out to them the way to that
happier and fairer future.
What, then, has brought about this
most deplorable state of things.^
How can we account for this appa-
rent lack of faith and strength on the
part of Catholics ? Can it be true,
as their enemies assert, that Catho-
licity, wherever it has full sway,
deteriorates society ? Or is it con-
trary to the spirit of Christianity
that Christians should strive with
all their might to overcome evil in
tliis world .^ Perhaps the Catholic
Church has grown old, as others
imagine, and has accomplished her
task, and is no longer competent to
unite together the conflicting inter-
ests of modern society, and direct
it towards its true destination ?
These questions are most serious
ones. Their answers must be
fraught with most weighty lessons.
Only a meagre outline of the course
of argument can be here given in so
vast a field of investigation.
II. REMOTE CAUSE OF PRESENT DIFFICUL-
TIES.
One of the chief features of the
history of the church for these last
tliree centuries has been its con-
flict with the religious revolution of
the XVIth century, properly call-
ed Protestantism. The nature of
Protestantism may be defined as the
exaggerated development of person-
al independence, directed to the
negation of the divine authority of
the church, and chiefly aiming at
its overthrow in the person of its
supreme representative, the Pope.
It is a fixed law, founded in the
very nature of the church, thai
every serious and persistent denial
of a divinely-revealed truth neces-
sitates its vigorous defence, calls
out its greater development, and
ends, finally, in its dogmatic defini-
tion.
The history of the church is re-
plete with instances of this fact.
One must suffice. When Arius de-
nied the divinity of Christ, whicli
was always held as a divinely-re-
vealed truth, at once the doctors of
the church and the faithful were
aroused in its defence. A general
council was called at Nice, and
there this truth was defined and fix-
ed for ever as a dogma of the CatKo-
lic faith. The law has always been,
from the first Council at Jerusalem
to that of the Vatican, that the ne-
gation of a revealed truth calls out
its fuller development and its ex-
plicit dogmatic definition.
The Council of Trent refuted and
condemned the errors of Protestant-
ism at the time of their birth, and
defined the truths against which
they were directed ; but, for wise
and sufficient reasons, abstained
from touching the objective point of
attack, which was, necessarily, the
divine authority of the church. For
there was no standing-ground what-
ever for a protest against the
church, except in its denial. It
would have been the height of ab-
surdity to admit an authority, and
that divine, and at the same time to
refuse to obey its decisions. It was
as well known then as to-day that
the keystone of the whole structure
of the church was its head. To
An Exposition of the Church.
119
OTcrthrow the Papacy was to con-
quer the church.
The supreme |K)wer of the church
lor a long period of years was the
t^rntrc around which the battle rag-
ed between the adversaries and the
thampions of the faith.
Tiic denial of the Papal authority
in the church necessarily occasion-
ed its fuller development. For as
long as this hostile movement was
a^rcssive in its assaults, so long
was the church constrained to
strengthen her defence, and make
i stricter and more detailed appli-
cation of her authority in every
sphere oi her action, in her hier-
archy, in her general discipline, and
m the personal acts of her children.
Every new denial was met with a
new defence and a fresh application.
ITic danger was on the side of re-
volt, the safety was on that of sub-
mission. The poison was an ex-
J^eraied spiritual independence,
liic antidote was increased obe-
dience to a divine external autho-
rity.
The chief occupation of the
church for the last three centuries
»as the maintenance of that authori-
ty conferred by Christ on S. Peter
4nd his successors, in opposition to
tljc efforts of Protestantism for its
overthrow ; and the contest was
tcnuinated for ever in the dogmatic
definition of Papal Infallibility, by
the church assembled in council in
the Vatican. Luther declared the
pope Antichrist. The Catholic
Church affirmed the pope to be the
Vicar of Christ. Luther stigmatized
the Sec of Rome as the seat of er-
ror, ITie council of the church de-
fmed the See of Rome, the chair of
S. Peter, to be the infallible inter-
preter of divinely-revealed truth.
Hjis definition closed the contro-
versy.
In this pressing necessity of de-
fending the pa])al authority of the
church, the society of S. Ignatius
was born. It was no longer the re-
futation of tlie errors of the Wal-
denses and the Albigenses that was
required, nor were the dangers to
be combated such as arise from a
wealthy and luxurious society. The
former had been met and oveicome
by the Dominicans; the latter by
the children of S. Francis. But
new and strange errors arose, and
alarming threats from an entirely
different quarter were heard. Fear-
ful blows were aimed and struck
against the keystone of the divine
constitution of the church, and 'mil-
lions of her children were in open
revolt. In this great crisis, as in
previous ones, Providence supplied
new men and new weapons to meet
the new perils. S. Ignatius, filled
with faith and animated with heroic
zeal, came to the rescue, and form-
ed an amiy of men devoted to the
service of the church, and special-
ly suited to encounter its peculiar
dangers. The Papacy was their
point of attack ; the members of
his society must be the champions
of the pope, his body-guard. The
papal authority was denied ; the
children of S. Ignatius must make
a special vow of obedience to the
Holy Father. The prevailing sin
of the time was disobedience; the
members of his company must aim
at becoming the perfect models of
the virtue of obedience, men whose
will should never conflict with the
authority of the church, /^r//i/^ ca-
daver. The distinguishing traits of
a perfect Jesuit formed the antithe-
sis of a thorough Protestant.
The society founded by S. Igna-
tius undertook a heavy and an
heroic task, one in its nature most
unpopular, and requiring above a'l
on the part of its members an entire
abnegation of that which men hold
I20
An Exposition of the Church.
dearest — their own will. It is no
wonder that their army of martyrs
is so numerous and their list of
saints so long.
Inasmuch as the way of destroy-
ing a vice is to enforce the practice
of its opposite virtue, and as the
confessional and spiritual direction
are appropriate channels for apply-
ing the authority of the church to
the conscience and personal ac-
tions of the faithful, the members
of this society insisted upon the
frequency of the one and the ne-
cessity of the other. In a short
period of time the Jesuits were
considered the most skilful and
were the most-sought-after confes-
sors and spiritual directors in the
church.
They were mainly instrumental —
by tlie science of their theologians,
the logic of their controversialists,
the eloquence of their preachers,
the excellence of their spiritual
writers, and, above all, by the in-
fluence of their personal example —
in saving millions from following in
tlie great revolt against the church,
in regaining millions who had gone
astray, and in putting a stop to the
numerical increase of Protestant-
ism, almost within the generation in
which it was born.
To their labors and influence it
is chiefly owing that the distin-
guishing mark of a sincere Catholic
for the last three centuries has
been a special devotion to the Holy
See and a filial obedience to the
voice of the pope, the common fa-
ther of the faithful.
The logical outcome of the exis-
tence of the society founded by S.
Jgnalius of Loyola was the dogmat-
ic definition of Papal Infallibility ;
for this was the final word of victory
of divine truth over the specific
error which the Jesuits were special-
ly called to combat.
III. PROXIMATE CAUSE.
The church, while resisting Pro-
testantism, had to give her princi-
pal attention and apply her naain
strength to those points which were
attacked. Like a wise strategist,
she drew off" her forces from the
places which were secure, and
directed them to those posts where
danger threatened. As she was
most of all engaged in the defence
of her external authority and organi-
zation, the faithful, in view of this
defence, as well as in regard to the
dangers of the period, were special-
ly guided to the practice of the vir-
tue of obedience. Is it a matter
of surprise that the character of
the virtues developed was more
passive than active } The weight
of authority was placed on tiie side
of restraining rather than of de-
veloping personal independent ac-
tion.
The exaggeration of personal
authority on the part of Protestants
brought about in the church its
greater restraint, in order that her
divine authority might have its
legitimate exercise and exert its
salutary influence. The errors and
evils of the times sprang from an
unbridled personal independence,
which could be only counteracted
by habits of increased personal de-
pendence. Coniraria contrariis cu-
rantur. The defence of the church
and the salvation of the soul were
ordinarily secured at the expense,
necessarily, of those virtues which
properly go to make up the strength
of Christian manhood.
The gain was the maintenance
and victory of divine truth and the
salvation of the soul. The loss
was a certain falling off* in energy,
resulting in decreased action in the
natural order. The former was a
permanent and inestimable gain.
The latter was a temporary, and
Aft Exposition of the Church.
121
tot irreparable, loss. There was
ro room for a choice. The failh-
i.i\ were placed in a position in
which it became their unqualified
•:Miy to put into practice the pre-
• '-f^t of our Lord when he said:
// is better for thee to enter into life
^ aimed or lame^ than, having two
'\tiids or two feet, to be cast into ever^
lasting f re. *
In the principles above briefly
^:atcd may in a great measure be
tound the explanation why fifty
millions of Protestants have had
ucQerally a controlling influence,
t(»r a long period, over two hundred
millions of Catholics, in directing
the movements and destinies of
r.ritions. To the same source may
i-c attributed the fact that Catholic
rations when the need was felt of
i man of great personal energy at
liie head of their affairs, seldom
hesitated to choose for prime minis-
itr nn indifferent Catholic, or a
IVotestant, or even an infidel.
These principles explain also why
Austria, France, Bavaria, Spain,
Italy, and other Catholic countries
ijve yielded to a handful of active
-nd determined radicals, infidels,
Jrws, or atheists, and have been
iom]>elled to violate or annul their
(oncordats with the Holy See, and
to change their political institutions
ir a direction hostile to the interests
'*f the Catholic religion. Finally,
J^crtin lies the secret why Catholics
arc at this moment almost every-
^H^re oppressed and persecuted
'•) \trt inferior numbers. In the
J^a'ural order the feebler are always
nidc to serve the stronger. Evi-
firnt weakness on one side, in spite
t iTi[K:riority of numbers, provokes
• the other, where there is con-
^^usncss of power, subjugation
jftd fi{»pression.
• S. Matthew xvtii. 8.
IV. IS THEkE A WAY OUr?
Is divine grace given only at the
cost of natural strength } Is a true
Christian life possible only through
the sacrifice of a successful natural
career? Are things to remain as
they are at present ?
The general history of the Catho-
lic religion in the past condemns
these suppositions as the grossest
errors and falsest calumnies. Be-
liold the small numbers of the faith-
ful and their final triumph over the
great colossal Roman Empire ! Look
at the subjugation of the countless
and victorious hordes of the North-
ern barbarians ! Witness, again, the
prowess of the knights of the
church, who were her champions in
repulsing the threatening Mussul-
man ; every one of whom, by the
rule of their order, were bound not
to flinch before two Turks! Call
to mind the great discoveries made
in all branches of science, and the
eminence in art, displayed by the
children of the church, and which
underlie — if there were only honesty
enough to acknowledge it — most of
our modern progress and civiliza-
tion ! Long before Protestantism
was dreamed of Catholic states in
Italy had reached a degree of
wealth, power, and glory which no
Protestant nation — it is the confes-
sion of one of their own historians —
has since attained.
There is, then, no reason in the
nature of things why the existing
condition of Catholics throughout
the world should remain as it is.
The blood that courses through our
veins, the graces given in our bap-
tism, the light of our faith, the
divine life-giving Bread we receive,
are all the same gifts and privileges
which we have in common with our
great ancestors. We are the chil-
dren of the same mighty mother,
ever fruitful of heroes and great
122
An Exposition of the Church,
men. The present state of things
is neither fatal nor final, but only
one of the many episodes in the
grand history of the church of
God.
V. WHICH IS THR WAY OUT?
No better evidence is needed of
the truth of the statements just
made than the fact that all Catho-
lics throughout the world are ill at
ease with things as they are. The
world at large is agitated, as it
never has been before, with prob-
lems which enter into the essence
of religion or are closely connect-
ed therewith. Many serious minds
are occupied with the question of
the renewal of religion and the re-
generation of society. The aspects
in which questions of this nature
are viewed are as various as the
remedies proposed are numerous.
Here are a few of the more impor-
tant ones.
One class of men would begin by
laboring for the reconciliation of
all Christian denominations, and
would endeavor to establish unity
in Christendom as the way to uni-
versal restoration. Another class
starts with the idea that the remedy
would be found in giving a more
thorough and religious education to
youth in schools, colleges, and uni-
versities. Some would renew the
church by translating her liturgies
into the vulgar tongues, by reducing
the number of her forms of devo-
tion, and by giving to her worship
greater simplicity. Others, again,
propose to alter the constitution of
the church by the practice of uni-
versal elections in the hierarchy, by
giving the lay element a larger share
in the direction of ecclesiastical
matters, and by establishing national
churches. There are those who
hope for a better state of things by
placing Henry V. on the throne of
France, and Don Carlos on that oi
Spain. Others, contrariwise, hav
ing lost all confidence in princes
look forward with great expectation'
to a baptized democracy, a \\<.Ay
Roman democracy, just as foriiicrl\
there was a Holy Roman Empire
Not a few are occupied with ib<
idea of reconciling capital with la
bor, of changing the tenure oi
property, and abolishing stand in{,
armies. Others propose a restora
tion of internationdl law, a congres*
of nations, and a renewed and inort
strict observance of the Decalogue
According to another school, theo-
logical motives have lost their hold
on the people, the task of directin|j
society has devolved upon science
and its apostolate has begun. 1'hert
are those, moreover, who hold that
society can only be cured by an im-
mense catastrophe, and one hardly
knows what great cataclysm is ttj
happen and save the human race.
Finally, we are told that the reign
of Antichrist has begun, that signs
of it are everywhere, and that wt
are on the eve of the end of the
world.
These are only a few of the pro-
jects, plans, and remedies which
are discussed, and which more or
less occupy and agitate the pul>*
lie mind. How much truth «)r
error, how much good or bad, eacli
or all of these theories contain,
would require a lifetime to iind
out.
The remedy for our evils must be
got at, to be practical, in another
way. Ifa new life be imparted it)
the root of a tree, its effects win
soon be seen in all its branches,
twigs, and leaves. Is it not possible
to get at the root of all our evils,
and with a radical remedy renew
at once the whole face of tilings ?
Universal evils are not cured by
specifics.
Ah Exposition of the Church.
123
VI. THE WAY OUT.
All things are to be viewed and
valued as they bear on the destiny
f^i man. Reh'gion is the solution
"f the problem of man's destiny.
Religion, therefore, lies at the root
•)f everything which concerns man's
true interest.
Religion means Christianity, to
all men, or to nearly all, who hold
to any religion among European
nations. Christianity, intelligibly
understood, signifies the church, the
Catholic Church. The church is
God acting through a visible or-
ganization directly on men, and,
through men, on society.
The church is the sum of all
problems, and the most potent fact
in the whole wide universe. It is
tncrefore illogical to look elsewhere
lor the radical remedy of all our
evils. It is equally unworthy of a
Catholic to look elsewhere for the
renewal of religion.
The meditation of these great
truths is the source from which the
iruipiration must come, if society is
10 be regenerated and the human
race directed to its true destina-
tion. He who looks to any other
quarter for a radical and adequate
remedy and for true guidance is
doomed to failure and disappoint-
ment.
tlL MISSION OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
It cannot be too deeply and firm-
if impressed on the mind that the
(burch is actuated by the instinct
of the Holy Spirit ; and to discern
Icarly its action, and toco-operate
vab it effectually, is the highest
employment of our faculties, and at
luc same time the primary source
'►( the greatest good to society.
Did we clearly see and under-
>'ind the divine action of the Holy
^I'lrii in the successive steps of the
•ujiory of the church, we would
fully comprehend the law of all true
progress. If in this later period
more stress was laid on the necessi-
ty of obedience to the external au-
thority of the church than in former
days, it was, as has been shown,
owing to the peculiar dangers to
which the faithful were exposed.
It would be an inexcusable mistake
to suppose for a moment that the
holy church, at any period of her
existence, was ignorant or forgetful
of the mission and office of the
Holy Spirit. The Holy Spi rit estab-
lished the church, and can he forget
his own mission? It is true that
he has to guide and govern through
men, but he is the Sovereign of men,
and especially of those whom he
has chosen as his immediate instru-
ments.
The essential and universal prin-
ciple which saves and sanctifies
souls is the Holy Spirit. He it was
who called, inspired, and sanctified
the patriarchs, the prophets and
saints of the old dispensation. 'I'he
saiTie divine Spirit inspired and
sanctified the apostles, the martyrs,
and the saints of the new dispensa-
tion. The actual and habitual
guidance of the soul by the Holy
Spirit is the essential principle of
all divine life. " I have taught the
prophets from the beginning, and
even till now I cease not to speak
to all." * Christ's mission was to
give the Holy Spirit more abundant-
No one who reads the Holy Scrip-
tures can fail to be struck with the
repeated injunctions to turn our
eyes inward, to walk in the divine
presence, to see and taste and listen
to God in the soul. These exhor-
tations run all through the inspired
books, beginning with that of Gene-
sis, and ending with the Revelations
* Thomas V. Rempia, book iiL c. 3.
124
An Exposition of Uu Church.
of S. John. " I am the Almighty
God . walk before me, and be per-
fect,*** was the lesson which God
gave to the patriarch Abraham.
*' Be still and see that I am God.^f
** O taste, and see that the Lord is
sweet; blessed is the man that
ho[>eth in him. "J God is the guide,
the light of the living, and our
strength. ** God's kingdom is with-
in you," said the divine Master.
** Know you not that you are the
temple of God, and that the Spirit
of God dwelleth in you V § " For
it is God who worketh in you both
to will and to accomplish, accord-
ing to his will," I The object of
divine revelation was to make known
and to establish within the souls
of men, and through them upon the
earth, tlie kingdom of God.
In accordance with the Sacred
Scriptures, the Catholic Church
teaches that the Holy Spirit is in-
fused, with all his gifts, into our
souls by the sacrament of baptism,
and that, without his actual prompt-
ing or inspiration and aid, no
thought or act, or even wish, tend-
ing directly towards our true desti-
ny, is possible.
The whole aim of the science of
Christian perfection is to instruct
men how to remove the hindrances
in the way of the action of the Holy
Spirit, and how to cultivate those
virtues which are most favorable to
his solicitations and inspirations.
Thus the sum of spiritual life con-
sists in observing and fortifying the
ways and movements of the Spirit
DfGodinour soul, emi)loying for
this purpose all the exercises of
j>rayer, spiritual reading, sacra-
ments, the practice of virtues, and
^'ood works.
That divine action which is the
* GencMS xvi'i. z. t Pkalm xlv. ii.
X Pialm xxxiii. 9. | t Corinth, iii. 16.
I Philip, u. 13.
immediate and principal cause of
the salvation and perfection of the
soul claims by right its direct and
main attention. From this source
within the soul there will gradually
come to birth the consciousness ot*
the indwelling presence of the Holy
Spirit, out of which will spring a
force surpassing all human strength,
a courage higher than all human
heroism, a sense of dignity excelling
all human greatness. The light the
age requires for its renewal can
come only from the same source.
The renewal of the age depends on
the renewal of religion. The re-
newal of religion depends upon a
greater effusion of the creative and
renewing power of the Holy Spirit,
The greater effusion of the Holy
Spirit depends on the giving of in-
creased attention to his movements
and inspirations in the soul. The
radical and adequate remedy for
all the evils of our age, and the
source of all true progress, consist
in increased attention and fidcHty
to the action of the Holy Spirit in
the soul. "Thou shalt send forth
thy Spirit, and they shall be created :
and thou shalt renew the face of
the earth."*
Vni. THE MEN THE AGE DEMANDS.
This truth will be better seen by
looking at the matter a little more
in detail. The age, we are told,
calls for men worthy of that name.
Who are those worthy to be called
men } Men, assuredly, whose in-
telligences and wills are divinely
illuminated and fortified. This is
precisely what is produced by the
gifts of the Holy Spirit ; they enlarge
all the faculties of the soul at onc«.
The age is superficial ; it needs
the gift of wisdom, which enables
the soul to contemplate truth in its
* l^«hn ctiL 30.
An Exposition of the Church.
125
ultbnate causes. The age is mate-
rialistic ; it needs the gift of intelli-
gence, by the light of which the in-
tdlect penetrates into the essence of
things. The age is captivated by a
\ ilsc and one-sided science ; it needs
the gift of science, by the light of
which is seen each order of truth in
Its true relations to other orders and
in a divine unity. The age is in dis-
order, and is ignorant of the way to
true progress ; it needs the gift of
coansel, which teaches how to
( hoose the proper means to attain
on object. The age is impious ; it
needs the gift of piety, which leads
the soul to look up to God as the
Heavenly Father, and to adore him
with feelings of filial affection and
love. The age is sensual and ef-
feminate ; it needs the gift of force,
»hich imparts to the will the
strength to endure the greatest bur-
dens and to prosecute the great-
er enterprises with ease and hero-
iMn. The age has lost and almost
forgotten God ; it needs the gift of
tear, to bring the soul again to God,
and make it feel conscious of its great
responsibility and of its destiny.
Men endowed with these gifts
arc the men for whom — if it but
knew it — the age calls : men whose
minds are enlightened and whose
»ills are strengthened by an in-
creased action of the Holy Spirit;
men whose souls are actuated by
ilic gifts of the Holy Spirit ; men
*hose countenances are lit up with
a heavenly joy, ^ho breathe an air
of inirard peace, and act with a holy
lil>crty and an unaccountable ener-
gy. One such soul does more to
Advance the kingdom of God tlian
icn» of thousands without such gifts.
Ihcse are the men and this is the
«.')• — if the age could only be made
'»iecand believe it — to universal
restoration, universal reconciliation,
lud universal progress.
IX. THE CHURCH HAS ENTERED ON THIS
WAY.
The men the age and its needs
demand depend on a greater infu-
sion of the Holy Spirit in the souls
of the faithful ; and the church has
been already prepared for this
event.
Can one suppose for a moment
that so long, so severe, a contest,
as that of the three centuries just
passed, which, moreover, has cost so
dearly, has not been fraught with
the greatest utility to the church }
Does God ever allow his church to
suffer loss in the struggle to accom-
plish her divine mission ?
It is true that the powerful and
persistent assaults of the errors of
the XVIth century against the
church forced her, so to speak, out
of the usual orbit of her move-
ment; but having completed her
defence from all danger on that
side, she is returning to her normal
course with increased agencies —
thanks to that contest — and is en-
tering upon a new and fresh phase
of life, and upon a more vigorous
action in every sphere of her exis-
tence. The chiefest of these agen-
cies, and the highest in importance,
was that of the definition concern-
ing the nature of papal authority.
For the definition of the Vatican
Council, having rendered the su-
preme authority of the church,
which is the unerring interpreter
and criterion of divinely-revealed
truth, more explicit and complete,
has prepared the way for the hiith-
ful to follow, with greater safety
and liberty, the inspirations of tht-
Holy Spirit. The dogmatic papal
definition of the Vatican Council
is, therefore, the axis on which turn
the new course of the church, the
renewal of religion, and the entire
restoration of society.
O blessed fruit ! purchased at the
126
An Exposition of the Church,
price of so bard a struggle, but
which has gained for the faithful an
increased divine illumination and
force, and thereby the renewal of
the whole face of the world.
It is easy to perceive how great a
blunder the so-called "Old Catho-
lics " committed in opposing the
conciliar definition. They profess-
ed a desire to see a more perfect
reign of the Holy Spirit in the
church, and by their opposition re-
jected, so far as in them lay, the
very means of bringing it about!
This by the way ; let us continue
our course, and follow the divine ac-
tion in the church, which is the in-
itiator and fountain-source of the
restoration of all things.
What is the meaning of these
many pilgrimages to holy places,
to the shrines of great saints, the
multiplication of Novenas and new
associations of prayer? Are they
not evidence of increased action
of the Holy Spirit on the faithful*?
Why, moreover, these cruel perse-
cutions, vexatious fines, and numer-
ous imprisonments of the bishops,
clergy, and laity of tlie church?
What is the secret of this stripping
llie cimrch of her temporal posses-
sions and authority ? These things
have taken place by the divine per-
mission. Have not all these inflic-
tions increased greatly devotion to
prayer, cemented more closely the
unity of the faithful, and turned the
attention of all members of the
church, from the highest to the low-
est, to look for aid from whence it
alone can come — from God?
These trials and sufferings of the
faithful are the first steps towards a
better state of things. They detach
from earthly things and purify the
human side of the church. From
tliem will proceed light and strength
and victory. Per cruccm ad lucem,
**If the Lord wishes that other per-
secutions should be sown, the
church feels no alarm ; on the con-
trary, persecutions purify her and
confer upon her a fresh force and a
new beauty. There are, in tnith,
in the church certain things which
need purification, and for tbi%
purpose those persecutions answer
best which are launched against
her by great politicians.** Such is
the language of Pius IX.*
These are only some of the movr
ments, which are public. But ho»
many souls in secret suffer sorely
in seeing the church in such tribu-
lations, and pray for her deliverance
with a fervor almost amounting to
agony! Are not all these but so
many preparatory steps to a Pente-
costal effusion of the Holy Spirit on
the church — an effusion, if not equal
in intensity to that of apostolk
days, at least greater than it in uni-
versality ? *• If at no epoch of the
evangelical ages the reign of Satan
was so generally welcome as in this
ourday,theaction of the Holy Spirit
will have to clothe itself with the
characteristics of an exceptional ex-
tension and force. The axioms of
geometry do not appear to us more
rigorously exact than this proposi-
tion. A certain indefinable presenti-
ment of this necessity of a new effu-
sion of the Holy Spirit for theactu.jl
world exists, and of this presenti-
ment the importance ought not ic
be exaggerated ; but yet it would
seem rash to make it of no ac-
count.**!
Is not this the meaning of the
presentiment of Pius IX., when he
said: "Since we have nothing, m
next to nothing, to expect from men.
let us place our conlkknce niorv
and more in (lod, whose heart j^
• January 15, 187a. This, and the sulMc(|fcr:
quotations of the wonb of Pius IX are taken fnxn
Actts <•/ ParflUs tic i'ims IX» Par Augustc Rou^«
scl. Paris : Palm^. 1874.
t Traitc du S. Esf>rit^ par Mgr (•.tome, tgf 4-
An Exposiiiaii of the Chvrch.
127
rrc|jaring, as it seems to me, to ac-
• *i:ni>1ish, in the moment chosen by
r.'iclf, a great prodigy, which will
:'i'. ihc whole earth with astonish-
Wjs not the same presentiment
• !orc the mind of De Maistre
^ :»Ern he penned the following lines :
" \V c are on the eve of the greatest
»* rtligious epochs ; ... it appears
*f> me that every true philosopher
ii !K choose between these two hy-
i> >tlurses : either that a new religion
I- jlnnit to be formed, or that Chris-
t.jnity will be renewed in some ex-
iMordinary manner ".^t
X. TWOPOLO ACTION OF THE IIOLV SPIRH .
IJcfore further investigation of
tH new phase of the church, it
- rtuld |>crhaps be well to set aside
.. doubt which might arise in the
' iinds of some, namely, whether
•>rre is not danger in turning the at-
' -niion of the faithful in a greater
'qjfee in the direction contemplat-
The enlargement of the field of
J '.u>n for the soul, without a true
^^owledge of the end and scope of
* ••external authority of the church,
*' "ild only open the door to delu-
^ n**. errors, and heresies of every
I^-* riptron, and would be in effect
rtly another form of Protestant-
Hn the other hand, the exclusive
>^ of the external authority of the
' urrh, without a proper under-
*'jnding of the nature and work of
! 'f Holy Spirit in the soul, would
f.'j'lcr the practice of religion for-
' -i, obedience servile, and the
*'arch sterile.
Ihc action of the Holy Spirit em-
iljcd visibly in the authority of
■ • rhiirch, and the action of the
• Iwttirjr la, 1871.
♦IH Mmcr, Scirin dt St. retertbttrg, Xe
Holy Spirit dwelling invisibly in the
soul, form one inseparable synthe-
sis ; and he who has not a dear
conception of this twofold action
of the Holy Spirit is in danger of
running into one or the other, and
sometimes into both, of these ex-
tremes, either of which is destruc-
tive of the end of the church.
The Holy Spirit, in the external
authority of the church, acts as the
infallible interpreter and criterion
of divine revelation. The Holy
Spirit in the soul acts as the divine
I.ife-Giver and Sanctifier. It is of
the highest importance thai these
two distinct offices of the Holy Spirit
should not be confounded.
The supposition that there can
be any opposition or contradiction
between the action of the Holy Spirit
in the supreme decisions of the au-
thority of the church, and the inspi-
rationsof the Holy Spirit in the soul,
can never enter the mind of an
enlightened and sincere Christian.
The same Spirit which through the
authority of the church teaches
divine truth, is the same Spirit
which prompts the soul to receive
the divine truths which he teaches.
The measure of our love for the
Holy Spirit is the measures of our
obedience to the authority of the
church ; and the measure of our
obedience to the authority of the
church is the measure of our love
for the Holy Spirit. Hence the sen -
tence of S. Augustine : " Quantum
quisque amat ecclesiam Dei, tanium
habet Spirilum Sanctum y There is
one Spirit, which acts in two differ-
ent offices concurring to the same
end — the regeneration and sanctifi-
cation of the soul.
In case of obscurity or doubt
concerning what is the divinely-
revealed truth, or whether what
prompts the soul is or is not an in-
spiration of the Holy Spirit, recourse
128
An Exposition of the Church.
must be had to the divine teacher
or criterion, the authority of the
church. For it must be borne in
mind that to the church, as repre-
sented in the first instance by S.
Peter, and subsequently by his suc-
cessors, was made the promise of
her divine Founder that " the gates
of hell should never prevail against
her." * No such promise was ever
made by Christ to each individual
believer. " The church of the liv-
ing God is the pillar and ground of
truth." f 'J'he test, therefore, of a
truly enlightened and sincere Chris-
tian, will be, in case of uncertainty,
the promptitude of his obedience
to the voice of the church.
From the above plain truths the
following practical rule of conduct
may be drawn : The Holy Spirit is
the immediate guide of the soul in
the way of salvation and sanctifica*
tion ; and the criterion or test that
the soul is guided by the Holy Spirit
is its ready obedience to the author-
ity of the church. This rule re-
moves all danger whatever, and
with it the soul can walk, run, or
fly, if it chooses, in the greatest
safety and with perfect liberty, in
the ways of sanctity.
XI. NEW PHASS OP THE CHURCH.
There are signs which indicate
that the members of the church
have not only entered upon a
deeper and more spiritual life, but
that from the same source has arisen
a new phase of their intellectual ac-
tivity
The notes of the divine institution
of the church — and the credibility
of divine revelation — with her con-
stitution and organization, having
l>een in the main completed on the
external side, the notes which now
require special attention and study
«&UiitK.jnri. 18.
1 1 TioMChy til. tj.
are those respecting her diviq
character, which lie on the inierrfi
side.
The mind of the church has Uc*
turned in this direction for soi|
time past. One has but to read ih
several Encyclical letters of t|
present reigning Supreme Pont
and the decrees of the Vatic
Council, to be fully convinced
this fact.
No pontiff has so strenuously u
held the value and rights of hum
reason as Pius IX.; and no couo
has treated so fully of the reUuioj
of the natural with the supematui
as that of the Vatican. It must
remembered the work of both w r
yet concluded. Great mission th
to fix for ever those truths so lo
held in dispute, and to open t
door to the fuller knowledge <
other and still greater verities I
It is the divine action of the H<
Spirit in and through the chur
which gives her external organi/
tion the reason for its existccu-
And it is the fuller explanation «
the divine side of the church ai
its relations with her human si<l
giving always to the former its di
accentuation, that will contribul
to the increase of the interior lii
of the faithful, and aid powerful
to remove the blindness of those*
whose number is much larger than
is commonly supposed — who ool)
see the church on her human side.
As an indication of these studies,
the following mere suggestions
conceruing the relations of the in-
ternal with the external side of ihj
church, are here given.
The practical aim of all true re-
ligion is to bring each indivitlual
soul under the immediate guidant c
of the divine Spirit. The dixiirc
Spirit communicates himself to &f
soul by means of the sacraments oi
the church. The divine Spirit acts
An Exposition of the Church.
129
as ihe interpreter and criterion of
revealed truth by the authority of
t'.ie church. The divine Spirit acts
i5 the principle of regeneration
ind sanctification in each Christian
^ »ul. The same Spirit clothes with
suitable ceremonies and words the
truths of religion and the interior
life of the soul in the liturgy and
de\'otions of the church. The di-
vine Spirit acts as the safeguard
of the life of the soul and of the
household of God in the discipline
of the church. The divme Spirit
established the church as the prac-
tMral and perfect means of bringing
all souls under his own immediate
guidance and into complete union
with God. This is the realization
of the aim of all true religion.
Thus all religions, viewed in the
a5f>ect of a divine life, find their
common centre in the Catholic
Omrch.
The greater part of the intellec-
tual errors of the age arise from a
ijtk of knowledge of the essential
relations of the light of faith with
:i»e light of reason ; of the connec-
tion between the mysteries and
tniths of divine revelation and those
■i«si.<>vcred and attainable by human
rtOMm ; of the action of divine grace
-iid the action of the human will.
riie early Greek and Latin fa-
thers of the church largely cultivat-
rtl this field. The scholastics great-
y increased the riches received
Tom their predecessors. And had
.Kit the attention of the church
.tccn turned aside from its course
U the errors of the XVIth century,
t ,c demonstration of Christianity
.»n its intrinsic side would ere this
ijve received its finishing strokes.
l>c lime has come to take up this
wc)rk, continue it where it was
interrupted, and bring it to comple-
tion. Thanks to the Encyclicals
of Pius IX. and the decisions of the
VOL XXI. —^
Vatican Council, this task will not
now be so difficult.
Many, if not most, of the distin-
guished apologists of Christian-
ity, theologians, philosophers, and
preachers, either by their writings
or eloquence, have already entered
upon this path. The recently-
published volumes, and those issu-
ing day by day from the press, in
exposition, or defence, or apology
of Christianity, are engaged in this
work.
This explanation of the internal
life and constitution of the church,
and of the intelligible side of the
mysteries of faith and the intrinsic
reasons for the truths of divine
revelation, giving to them their due
emphasis, combined with the exter-
nal notes of credibility, would com-
plete the demonstration of Chris-
tianity. Such an exposition of
Christianity, the union of the inter-
nal with the external notes of
credibility, is calculated to produce
a more enlightened and intense
conviction of its divine truth in the
faithful, to stimulate them to a
more energetic personal action ;
and, what is more, it would open
the door to many straying, but not
altogether lost, children, for their
return to the fold of the church.
The increased action of the Holy
Spirit, with a more vigorous co-
operation on the part of the faith-
ful, which is in process of realiza-
tion, will elevate the human per-
sonality to an intensity of force
and grandeur productive of a new
era to the church and to society —
an era diflicult for the imagination
to grasp, and still more difficult to
describe in words, unless we have
recourse to the prophetic language
of the inspired Scriptures.
Is not such a demonstration of
Christianity and its results antici-
pated in the following words?
I30
An Exposiiwn of the Church.
" We are about to see," said
Schlegel, ** a new exposition of
Christianity, which will reunite all
Christians, and even bring back the
infidels themselves." • "This re-
union between science and faith,"
says the Protestant historian Ranke,
** will be more important in its
spiritual results than was the dis-
covery of a new hemisphere three
hundred years ago, or even than
that of the true system of the world,
or than any other discovery of any
kind whatever."
XII. MISSION OP RACKS.
Pursuing our study of the action
of the Holy Spirit, we shall perceive
that a deeper and more explicit ex-
position of the divine side of the
church, in view of the characteris-
tic gifts of different races, is the
way or means of realizing the hopps
above expressed.
God is the author of the differing
races of men. He, for h is own good
reasons, has stamped upon them
their characteristics, and appointed
them from the beginning their
places which they are to fill in his
church.
In a matter where there are so
many tender susceptibilities, it is
highly important not to overrate
the peculiar gifts of any race, nor,
on the other hand, to underrate
them or exaggerate their vices or
defects. Besides, the different races
in modern Europe have been
brought so closely together, and
have been mingled to such an ex-
tent, that their differences can only
be detected in certain broad and
leading features.
It would be also a grave mistake,
in speaking of the providential mis-
sion of the races, to suppose that
they imposed their characteristics
on rt'ligion, Christianity, or the
church ; whereas, on the contrary,
it IS their Author who nas employed
in the church their several gifts foi
the expression and development of
those truths for which he specialh
created them. The church is God
acting through the different races
of men for their highest develop-
ment, together with their present
and future greatest happiness and
his own greatest glory. ** God
directs the nations upon the
earth."*
Every leading race of men, or
great nation, fills a large space in
the general history of the world.
It is an observation of S. Augustine
that God gave the empire of the
world to the Romans as a reward
for their civic virtues. But it is a
matter of surprise how large and
important a part divine Providence
has appointed special races to take
in the history of religion. It is here
sufficient merely to mention the
Israelites.
One cannot help being struck with
the mission of the Latin and Celtic
races during the greater period of
the history of Christianity. What
brought them together in the first
instance was the transference of
the chair of S. Peter, the centre of
the church, to Rome, the centre of
the Latin race. Rome, then, was
the embodied expression of a per-
fectly-organized, world-wide power.
Rome was the political, and, by its
great roads, the geographical, cen-
tre of the world.
What greatly contributed to the
predominance of the Latin race, and
subsequently of the Celts in union
with the Latins,was the abandon-
ment of the church by the Greeks
by schism, and the loss of the larg-
er portion of the Saxons by the er-
rors and revolt of the XVIth cen-
tury. The faithful, in consequence,
t Psalm Ixvi. 5.
An Exposition of the Church.
I3t
almost exclusively composed
of Latin-Celts.
The absence of the Greeks and
of so large a portion of the Saxons,
whose tendencies and prejudices in
many points are similar, left a freer
coarse and an easier task to the
church, through her ordinary chan-
neb of action, as well as through her
extraordinary ones — the Councils,
namely, of Trent and the Vatican —
to complete her authority and ex-
ternal constitution. For the Latin-
Celtic races are characterized by
hierarchical, traditional, and emo*
tional tendencies.
These were the human elements
which furnished the church with
the means of developing and com-
pleting her supreme authority, her
dirine and ecclesiastical traditions,
her discipline, her devotions, and,
in general, her aesthetics.
Xra. SOME OF THE CAUSES OF PROTES-
TANTISM.
It was precisely the importance
giren to the external constitution
and to the accessories of the
church which excited the antipa-
thies of the Saxons, which culmi-
niicd in the so-called Reforma-
tion. For the Saxon races and the
mixed Saxons, the English and
their descendants, predominate in
the rational element, in an ener-
getic individuality, and in great
practical activity in the material
order.
One of the chief defects of the
Saxon mind lay in not fully under-
uanding the constitution of the
church, or sufficiently appreciating
the essential necessity of her ex-
ternal organisation. Hence their
misinterpretation of the providen-
tial action of the Latin-Celts, and
their charges against the church of
formalism, superstition, and popery.
They wrongfully identified the ex-
cesses of those races with the
church of God. They failed to
take into sufficient consideration
the great and constant efforts the
church had made, in her national
and general councils, to correct the
abuses and extirpate the vices
which formed the staple of their
complaints.
Conscious, also, of a certain feel-
ing of repression of their natural
instincts, while this work of the
Latin- Celts was being perfected,
they at the same time felt a great
aversion to the increase of exter-
nals in outward worship, and to
the minute regulations in disci-
pline, as well as to the growth of
papal authority and the outward
grandeur of the papal court. The
Saxon leaders in heresy of the
XVIth century, as well as those of
our own day, cunningly taking ad-
vantage of those antipathies, unit-
ed with selfish political considera-
tions, succeeded in making a large
number believe that the question
in controversy was not what it
really was — a question, namely, be-
tween Christianity and infidelity —
but a question between Romanism
and Germanismi
It is. easy to foresee the result of
such a false issue ; for it is impos-
sible, humanly speaking, that a re-
ligion can maintain itself among a
people when once they are led to
believe it wrongs their natural in-
stincts, is hostile to their national
development, or is unsympathetic
with their genius.
With misunderstandings, weak-
nesses, and jealousies on both sides,
these, with various other causes,
led thousands and millions of Sax-
ons and Anglo-Saxons to resist-
ance, hatred, and, finally, open re-
volt against the authority of the
church.
132
4n Exposition of the Church,
XIV. PRESENT S*\XON PERSECUTIONS.
The same causes which mainly
produced the religious rebellion of
the XVIth century are still at
work among the Saxons, and are
the exciting motives of their pre-
sent persecutions against the
church.
Looking through the distorted
medium of their Saxon prejudices,
grown stronger with time, and
freshly stimulated by the recent
definition of Papal Infallibility,
they have worked themselves into
the belief — seeing the church only
on the outside, as they do — that
she is purely a human institution,
grown slowly, by the controlling
action of the Latin-Celtic instincts,
through centuries, to her present
formidable proportions. The doc-
trines, the sacrametits, the devo-
tions, the worship of the Catholic
Church, are, for the most part, from
tlieir stand-point, corruptions of
Christianity, having their source in
the characteristics of the Latin-
Celtic races. The papal authority,
to their sight, is nothing else than
the concentration of the sacerdotal
tendencies of these races, carried
to their culminating point by the
recent Vatican definition, which
was due, in the main, to the efforts
and tlie influence exerted by the
Jesuits. This despotic ecclesiasti-
cal authority, which commands a
superstitious reverence and ser-
vile submission to all its decrees,
teaches doctrines inimical to the
autonomy of the German Empire,
and has fourteen millions or more
of its subjects under its sway,
ready at any moment to obey, at
all hazards, its decisions. What is
to hinder this ultramontane power
from issuing a decree, in a critical mo-
ment, which will disturb the peace
and involve, perhaps, the overthrow
of that empire, the fruit of so great
sacrifices, and the realization of the
ardent aspirations of the Germanic
races? Is it not a dictate of self-
preservation and political pru-
dence to remove so dangerous an
element, and that at all costs, from
the state ? Is it not a duty to free
so many millions of our German
brethren from this superstitiouis
yoke and slavish subjection ? Has
not divine Providence bestowed
the empire of Europe upon the
Saxons, and placed us Prussians at
its head, in order to accomplish,
with all the means at our disposal,
this great worlc? Is not this a
duty which we owe to ourselves, to
our brother Germaijs, and, above all,
to God? This supreme effort is
our divine mission !
This picture of the Catholic
Church, as it appears to a large
class of non-Catholic German
minds, is not overdrawn. It ad-
mits of higher coloring, and it
would still be true and even more
exact.
This is the monster which the too
excited imagination and the deeply-
rooted prejudice of the Saxon mind
have created, and called, by way of
contempt, the " Latin," the " Ro-
mish," the " Popish " Church. It is
against this monster that they di-
rect their persistent attacks, their
cruel persecutions, animated with
the fixed purpose of accomplishing
its entire overthrow.
Is this a thing to be mar^'elled at,
when Catholics themselves abhor
and detest this caricature of the
Catholic Church — for it is nothing
else — more than these men do, or
possibly can do ?
The attitude of the German Em-
pire, and of the British Empire also,
until the Emancipation Act, ins-a-
vis to the Catholic Church as they
conceive her to be, may, stripped
of all accidental matter, be stated
An Exposition of the Church.
133
tbos : Either adapt Latin Christi-
anit}', the Romish Church, to the
Germanic type of character and to
ihe exigencies of the empire, or we
will employ all the forces and all
the means at our disposal to stamp
out Catholicity within our do-
minions, and to exterminate its ex-
istence, as far as our authority and
tnfluence extend !
XT. &XrVR.> OF THE SAXON RACES TO
THE CHURCH.
The German mind, when once it
is bent upon a course, is not easily
tamed aside, and tt)e present out-
look for the church in Germany is
not, humanly speaking, a pleasant
one to contemplate. It is an old
and common saying that " Truth is
mighty, and will prevail." But why ?
** Troth is mighty" because it is
calculated to convince the mind, cap-
ttviie the soul, and solicit its utter-
roost devotion and action. " Truth
»ill prevail," provided it is so pre-
vtBted to the mind as to be seen
really as it is. It is only when the
truth is unknown or dis^gured that
:he sincere repel it.
The return, therefore, of the
Saxon races to the church, is to be
hoped for, not by trimming divine
truth, nor by altering the constitu-
tion of the church, nor by what are
cillcd concessions. Their return
IS to be hoped for, by so presenting
the divine truth to their minds that
they can see that it is divine truth.
This will open their way to the
fhnrch in harmony with their genu-
ine instincts, and in her bosom they
▼ill find the realization of that ca-
reer which their true aspirations
point out for them. For the Holy
Spirit, of which the church is the
organ and expression, places every
M)ul, and therefore all nations and
racei, in the imnoediate and perfect
relation with their supreme end,
God, in whom they obtain their
highest development, happiness, and
glory, both in this life and in the
life to come.
The church, as has been shown,
has already entered on this path
of presenting more intimately and
clearly her inward and divine side
to the world; for her deepest and
most active thinkers are actually
engaged, more or less consciously,
in this providential work.
In showing more fully the rela-
tions of the internal with the exter-
nal side of the church, keeping in
view the internal as the end and
aim of all, the mystic tendencies
of the German mind will truly ap-
preciate the interior life of the
church, and find in it their highest
satisfaction. By penetrating more
deeply into the intelligible side of
the mysteries of faith and the in-
trinsic reasons for revealed truth
and the existence of the church, the
strong rational tendencies of the
Saxon mind will seize hold of, and
be led to apprehend, the intrin-
sic reasons for Christianity. The
church will present herself to their
minds as the practical means of es-
tablishing the complete reign of the
Holy Spirit in the soul, and, conse-
quently, of bringing the kingdom
of heaven upon earth. This is the
ideal conception of Christianity,
entertained by all sincere believers
in Christ among non-Catholics in
Europe and the United States.
This exposition, and an increased ac-
tion of the Holy Spirit in the church
CO- operating therewith, would com-
plete their conviction of the divine
character of the church and of the
divinity of Christianity.
All this may seem higlily specu-
lative and of no practical bearing.
But it has precisely such a bearing,
if one considers, in connection with
it, what is now going on throughout
134
An Exposition of the Church.
the Prussian kingdom and other
parts of Germany, including Swit-
zerland. What is it which we see in
all these regions ? A simultaneous
and persistent determination to de-
stroy, by every species of persecu-
tion, the Catholic Church. Now,
the general law of persecution is
the conversion of the persecu-
tors.
Through the cross Christ began
the redemption of the world ;
through the cross the redemption
of the world is to be continued and
completed. It was mainly by the
shedding of the blood of the mar-
tyrs that the Roman Empire was
gained to the faith. Their con-
querors were won by the toil, heroic
labors and sufferings of saintly
missionaries. The same law holds
good in regard to modem persecu-
tors. The question is not how
shall the German Empire be over-
thrown, or of waiting in anticipation
of its destruction, or how shall the
church withstand its alarming per-
secutions.^ The great question is
how shall the blindness be removed
from the eyes of the persecutors of
the church, and how can they be
led to see her divine beauty, holi-
ness, and truth, which at present
are hidden from their sight } The
practical question is how shall the
church gain over the great German
empire to the cause of Christ }
O blessed persecutions ! if, in ad-
dition to the divine virtues, which
they will bring forth to light by the
sufferings of the faithful, they serve
also to lead the champions of the
faith to seek for and employ such
proofs and arguments as the Saxon
mind cannot withstand, producing
conviction in their intelligence, and
striking home the truth to their
hearts; and in this way, instead of
incurring defeat, they will pluck
out of the threatening jaws of this
raging German wolf tne sweet fruit
of victory.
This view is eminently practical,
when you consider that the same
law which applies to the persecu-
tors of the church applies equally
to the leading or governing races-
This is true from the beginning of
the church. The great apostles
S. Peter and S. Paul did not stop
in Jerusalem, but turned their eyes
and steps towards all-conquering,
all-powerful Rome. Their faith
and their heroism, sealed with their
martyrdom, after a long and bloody
contest, obtained the victory. The
imperial Roman eagles became
proud to carry aloft the victorious
cross of Christ ! The Goths, the
Huns, and Vandals came ; the con-
test was repeated, the victory too ;
and they were subdued to the sweet
yoke of Christ, and incorporated in
the bosom of his church.
Is this rise of the Germanic Em-
pire, in our day, to be considered
only as a passing occurrence, and
are we to suppose that things will
soon again take their former course J
Or is it to be thought of as a real
change in the direction of the
world's affairs, under the lead of
the dominant Saxon races ? If the
history of the human race from its
cradle can be taken as a rule, the
course of empire is ever northward.
Be that as it may, the Saxons have
actually in their hands, and are re-
solutely determined to keep, the
ruling power in Europe, if not in
the world. And the church is a di-
vine queen, and her aim has always
been to win to her bosom the im-
perial races. She has never failed
to do it, too!
Think you these people are for
the most part actuated by mere
malice, and are persecuting the
church with knowledge of what
they arc doing .^ The question is
An Exposition of the Church.
135
not of their prominent leaders and
ihc actual apostates. There may
be future prodigal sons even
amongst these. Does not the
church suffer from their hands in
a great measure what her divine
Founder suffered when he was nail-
ed to the cross, and cried, " Father,
forgive them, they know not what
they do " ?
The persecutors in the present
generation are not to be judged as
those who were bom in the church,
and who, knowing her divine char-
acter, by an unaccountable defec-
tion, turned their backs upon . her.
Will their stumbling prove a fatal
fall to all their descendants ? God
ibrbid ! Their loss for a time has
proved a gain to the church, and
their return will bring riches to
both, and through them to the
whole world ; " for God is able to
ingraft them again.*
The Catholic Church unveils to
the penetrating intelligence of the
Saxon races- her divine internal life
and beauty ; to their energetic in-
dividuality she proposes its eleva-
tion to a divine manhood ; and to
their great practical activity she
opens the door to its employment
in spreading the divine faith over
the whole world !
That which will hasten greatly
the return of the Saxons to the
chnrch is the progressive action of
the controlling and dissolving ele-
locnts of Protestantism towards the
entire negation of all religion. For
the errors contained in every here-
sy* which time never fails to pro-
doce, involve its certain extinction.
Many bom in those errors, clearly
foreseeing these results, have al-
ready returned to the fold of the
church. This movement will be
^delated by the naore rapid dis-
*S. Ptaft Spwde to tke KooMBt, id. 93.
solution of Protestantism, conse-
quent on its being placed recently
under similar hostile legislation in
Switzerland and Germany with the
Catholic Church. "The blows
struck at the Church of Rome,**
such is the acknowledgment of one
of its own organs, ** tell with re-
doubled force against the evangel-
ical church.*'
With an intelligent positive move-
ment on the part of the church, and
by the actual progressive negative
one operating in Protestantism, that
painful wound inflicted in the
XVIth century on Christianity will
be soon, let us hope, closed up and
healed, never again to be reopen-
ed.
XVI. MIXED SAXONS RETURNING.
Christ blamed the Jews, who were
skilful in detecting the signs of
change in the weather, for their
want of skill in discerning the signs
of the times. There are evidences,
and where we should first expect
to meet them — namely, among the
mixed Saxon races, the people of
England and the United States — of
this retum to the true church.
The mixture of the Anglo-Saxons
with the blood of the Celts in form-
er days caused them to retain, at
the time of the so-called Reforma-
tion, more of the doctrines, wor-
ship, and organization of the Cath-
olic Church than did the thorough
Saxons of Germany. It is for the
same reason that among them are
manifested the first unmistakable
symptoms of their entrance once
more into the bosom of the church.
At different epochs movements
in this direction have taken place,
but never so serious and general as
at the present time. The charac-
ter and the number of the converts
from Anglicanism to the Catholic
Church gave, in the beginning, a
136
An Exposition of the Church.
great alarm to the English nation.
But now it has become reconciled
to the movement, which continues
and takes its course among the
more intelligent and influential
classes, and that notwithstanding
the spasmodic cry of alarm of Lord
John Russell and the more spiteful
attack of the Right Hon. William E.
Gladstone, M. P., late prime minister.
It is clear to those who have eyes
to see such things that God is be-
stowing special graces upon the
English people in our day, and that
the hope is not without solid founda-
tion which looks forward to the
time when England shall again take
rank among the Catholic nations.
The evidences of a movement to-
wards the Catholic Church are still
clearer and more general in the
United States. There is less preju-
dice and hostility against the church
in the United States than in Eng-
land, and hence her progress is
much greater.
The Catholics, in the beginning
of this century, stood as one to
every two hundred of the whole
population of the American Repub-
lic. The ratio of Catholics now is
one to six or seven of the inhabi-
tants. The Catholics will outnum-
ber, before the close of this century,
all other believers in Christianity
put together in the republic.
This is no fanciful statement, but
one based on a careful study of sta-
tistics, and the estimate is moder-
ate. Even should emigration from
Catholic countries to the United
States cease altogether — which it
will not — or even should it greatly
diminish, the supposed loss or dim-
inution, in this source of augmenta-
tion, will be fully compensated by
the relative increase of births among
the Catholics, as compared with
Oiat among other portions of the
poDulation.
The spirit, the tendencies, andjj
the form of political government
inherited by the people of the Unit J
ed States are strongly and distinc-'
tively Saxon *, yet there are no more
patriotic or better citizens in th<-
republic than the Roman Catho-
lics, and no more intelligent, practi-
cal, and devoted Catholics in the
church than the seven millions of
Catholics in this same young and
vigorous republic. The Catholic
faith is the only persistently pro-
gressive religious element, compar-
ed with the increase of population,
in the United States. A striking
proof that the Catholic Church
flourishes wherever there is honest
freedom and wherever human na-
ture has its full share of liberty \
Give the Catholic Church equal
rights and fair play, and she will
again win Europe, and with Europe
the world.
Now, who will venture to assert
that these two mixed Saxon nations,
of England and the United States,
are not, in the order of divine Pro-
vidence, the apix)inted leaders of
the great movement of the return
of all the Saxons to the Holy Catho-
lic Church ?
The sun, in his early dawn, first
touches the brightest mountain-
tops, and, advancing in his course,
floods the deepest valleys with his
glorious light ; and so the Sun of di-
vine grace has begun to enlighten
the minds xvi the highest stations in
life in England, in the United States,
and in Germany ; and what human
power will impode the extension of
its holy light to the souls of the
whole population of these coun-
tries t
XVII. TRANSITION OF THE LATIN-CKLTS
Strange action of divine Provi-
dence in ruling the nations of this
earth ! While the Saxons are about
An Exposition of tJu Church.
137
to pass from a natural to a super-
luitaral career, the Latin-Celts are
impatient for, and have already en-
tered upon, a natural one. What
Joes this mean ? Are these races
to change their relative positions
before the face of the world ?
The present movement of transi-
tion began on the part of the Latin-
Celtic nations in the last century
sLjDong the French people, who of
:dl these nations stand geographi-
cally the nearest, and whose blood
is most mingled with that of the
Saxons. That transition began in
violence, because it was provoked
to a premature birth by the circum-
stance that the control exercised
by the church as the natural mod-
erator of the Christian republic of
Europe was set aside by Protes-
tantism, particularly so in France,
in consequence of a diluted dose of
the same Protestantism under the
name of Gall ican ism. Exempt from
this salutary control, kings and the
aristocracy oppressed the people at
their own will and pleasure ; and
the people, in turn, wildly rose up
a their might, and cut ofif, at their
«jwn will and pleasure, the heads of
the kings and aristocrats. Louis
XrV'.. in his pride, said, "L'Etat
<■ «t moi ! " The people replied, in
tceir passion, " L'Etat c'est nous !"
Under the guidance of the church
the transformation from feudalism
to all that is included under the
tuJe of modem citizenship was ef-
lectcd with order, peace, and bene-
fit to all classes concerned. Apart
from this aid, society pendulates
from despotism to anarchy, and
^rom anarchy to despotism. The
French people at the present mo-
ment are groping about, and eam-
wtly seeking after the true path of
I'togrcss, which they lost some time
l>«k by their departure from the
Christian order of society.
The true movement of Christian
progress was turned aside into de-
structive channels, and this move-
ment, becoming revolutionary, has
passed in our day to the Italian and
Spanish nations.
Looking at things in their broad
feat;ires, Christianity is at this mo-
ment exposed to the danger, on the
one hand, of being exterminated by
the persecutions of the Saxon races,
and, on the other, of being denied
by the apostasy of the Latin-Celts.
This is the great tribulation of the
present hour of the church. She
feels the painful struggle. The de-
structive work of crushing out
Christianity by means of these hos-
tile tendencies has already begun.
If, as some imagine, the Christian
faith be only possible at the sacri-
fice of human nature, and if a nat-
ural career be only possible at the
sacrifice of the Christian faith, it
requires no prophetic eye to foresee
the sad results to the Christian re-
ligion at no distant future.
But it is not so. The principles al-
ready laid down and proclaimed to
the world by the church answer sat-
isfactorily thes'e difficulties. What
the age demands, what society is
seeking for, rightly interpreted, is
the knowledge of these principles
and their practical application to its
present needs.
For God is no less the author of
nature than of grace, of reason than
of faith, of this earth than of heaven.
The Word by which all things
were made that were made, and the
Word which was made flesh, is one
and the same Word. The liglu
which enlighteneth every man that
Cometh into this world, and the
light of Christian faith, are, althou<;h
differing in degree, the same light.
" There is therefore nothing so
foolish or so absurd,** to use tlie
words of Pius IX. on the same sub-
t38
An Exposition of the Church.
|ect, "as to suppose there can be
any opposition between them."*
Their connection is intimate, their
relation is primary ; they are, in es-
sence, one. For what else did
Christ become man than to estab-
lish the kingdom of God on earth,
as the way to the kingdom of God
in heaven ?
It cannot be too often repeated to
the men of this generation, so many
of whom are trying to banish and
forget God, that God, and God
alone, is the Creator and Renewer
of the world. The same God who
made all things, and who became
man, and began the work of regen-
eration, is the same who really acts
in the church now upon men and
society, and who has pledged his
word to continue to do so until the
end of the world. To be guided
by God's church is to be guided by
God. It is in vain to look else-
where. "Society," as the present
pontiff has observed, ** has been en-
closed in a labyrinth, out of which
it will never issue save by the hand
of God." t The hand of God is the
church. It is this hand he is ex-
tending, in a more distinctive and
attractive form, to this present gen-
eration. Blessed generation^ if it
can only be led to see this out-
stretched hand, and to follow the
path of all true progress, which it
so clearly points out !
XVI II. PERSPECTIVK OF THB FUTURE.
During the last three centuries,
from the nature of the work the
* Encydical to the Gennan bishops, 1854.
tjanuarjr 34i zSyt.
church had to do, the weight of hei
influence had to be mainly exerted
on the side of restraining human
activity. Her present and future
influence, due to the completion of
her external organization, will be
exerted on the side of soliciting in-
creased action. The first was ne-
cessarily repressive and unpopular;
the second will be, on the contrary,
expansive and popular. The one
excited antagonism; the other
will attract sympathy and cheerful
co-operation. The former restraint
was exercised, not against human
activity, but against the exaggera-
tion of that activity. The future
will be the solicitation of the same
activity towards its elevation and
divine expansion, enhancing its
fruitfulness and glory.
These different races of Europe
and the United States, constituting
the body of the most civilized na-
tions of the world, united in an in-
telligent appreciation of the divine
character of the church, with their
varied capacities and the great
agencies at their disposal, would be
the providential means of rapidly
spreading the light of faith over the
whole world, and of constituting a
more Christian state of society.
In this way would be reached a
more perfect realization of the pre-
diction of the prophets, of the
promises and prayers of Christ, and
of the true aspiration of all noble
souls.
This is what the age is calling for,
if rightly understood, in its count-
less theories and projects of re-
form.
Odd Stories.
139
ODD STORIES.
IX
KURDIG.
Th£ sun was setting in the vale
of Kashmir. Under the blessing
of its rays the admiring fakir would
again have said that here undoubt-
edly was the place of the earthly
paradise where mankind was bom
in the morning of the world.
Something of the same thought
may have stirred the mind of a
dvtrfed and hump-backed man
with bow-legs, who, from carrying
on his shoulders a heavy barrel up
the ftcep and crooked path of a
hilUide, stopped to rest while he
I'wked mournfully at the sun.
Herds of goats that strayed near
^ini, and flocks of sheep that grazed
below, might have provoked their
deforaacd neighbor to envy their
shapely and well -clad beauty and
peaceful movements. Could he
have found it in his heart to curse
the sun which had seemed to view
»iih su^ complacency his hard toils
Mnid the burden and heat of the
<iar, the compassionate splendor of
iti last look upon field, river, and
mountain would still have touched
his souL As it was, he saw that
earth and heaven were beautiful,
Mid that he was not. Whether he
ottered it or not, his keen, sad eyes
and thoughtful face were a lament
that his hard lot had made him the
one ugly feature in that gentle
*cenc. No, not the only one; he
shared his singularity with the little
pttn snake that now crawled near
h» feet. Yet even this reptile, he
thought, could boast its sinuous
beauty, its harmony with the order
of things ; for it was a perfect snake,
and he — ^well, he was scarce a man.
Soon, however, better tli oughts
took possession of his mind, and,
when he shouldered his barrel to
climb the hill, he thought that one
of those beautiful peris, whose mis-
sion it is to console earth's sorrow-
ing children ere yet their wings are
admitted to heaven, thus murmured
in his ear, with a speech that was
like melody : " O Kurdig, child of
toil! thy lot is indeed hard, but
thou bearest it not for thyself
alone, and thy master and rewarder
hath set thee thy task ; and for this
thou shalt have the unseen for thy
friends, love for thy thought, and
heaven for thy solace." As he as-
cended the hill it seemed to him
that his load grew lighter, as if by
help of invisible hands. He looked
for a moment on the snake which
hissed at him, and though but an
hour ago, moved by a feud as old
as man, he would have ground it in
hate beneath his foot, he now let it
pass. The crooked man ascended
the hill, while the crooked serpent
passed downward; and it was as
if one understood the other. At
length the dwarf Kurdig reached
the yard of the palace, which stood
on a shady portion of the emi-
nence, but, as he laid down his bur-
den with a smile and a good word
before his employer, suddenly he
140
Odd Stories.
felt the sharp cut of a whip across
the shoulders. He writhed and
smarted, feeling as if the old ser-
l)ent had stung him.
Kurdig was one of those hewers
of wood and drawers of water whose
daily being in the wonderful vale
of Kashmir seemed but a harsh con-
trast of fallen man with the paradise
that once was his home. When he
did not carry barrels of wine, or
fruit-loads, or other burdens to the
top of the hill, he assisted his poor
sister and her child in the task of
making shawls for one of a number
of large shawl-dealers who gave em-
ployment to the people of the valley.
With them the dearest days of his
life were spent. At odd times he
taught the little girl the names of
flowers, the virtues of herbs, and
even how to read and write — no
small accomplishments among pea-
sant folk, and only gained by the
dwarf himself because his mind was
as patient and as shrewd as his body
was misshapen. His great desire
for all useful knowledge found ex-
ercise in all the common stores of
mother- wit and rustic science which
the unlettered people around pre-
served as their inheritance. How to
build houses, to make chairs, ovens,
hats ; how to catch fish and con-
duct spring-waters ; how to apply
herbs for cure and healing; how to
make oils and crude wine — these
things he knew as none other of all
the peasantry about could pre-
tend to know. He had seen, too,
and had sometimes followed in
the hunt, the beasts of the forest;
nor was he, as we have seen, afraid
of reptiles. He could row and
swim, and while others danced he
could sing and play. This variety
of accomplishments slowly acquired
for the dwarf an influence which,
though little acknowledged, was
widespread. In all the work and
play of the rude folk around him
he was the almost innocent and
unregarded master-spirit. The im-
provement of their houses owed
something to his hand, and their
feasts were in good part planned by
him; for, while he acted as their
servant, he was in truth their mas-
ter. To cure the common fevers,
aches, hurts, he had well-tried
simples, and his searches and ex-
periments had added something
new to the herbal remedies of his
fathers. All his talents as doctor,
musician, mechanic, arfd story-tel-
ler his neighbors did not fail to
make use of, while the dwarf still
kept in the background, and his
ugliness, whenever accident had
made him at all prominent, was
laughed at as much as ever. Even
the poor creatures his knowledge
had cured, and his good-nature had
not tasked to pay him, uttered a
careless laugh when they praised
their i)hysician, as if they said :
" Well, w^ho would have thought
the ugly little crook-back was so
cunning?"
Yet there was one who never
joined in the general smile which
accompanied the announcement of
the name of Kurdig. This was his
sister's child. Never without pain
could she hear his name jestingly
mentioned; always with reverence,
and sometimes with tears, she spoke
of him. The wan, slender child
had grown almost from its feeble
infancy by the side of the dwarf.
When able to leave her mother's
sole care, he had taught the child
her first games and songs, and step
by step had instructed her in all
the rude home-lessons prevalent
among the country people — how to
knit, to weave, to read and to write,
according to the necessities of her
place and condition. The wonder
was that from a pale and sickly in-
New Publications.
HI
fa-t the child grcir as by a charm,
ji icr the eye of the dwarf, into a
I Homing girl, whose quiet and
-iu\)lc demeanor detracted nothing
xvxs'Si her peculiar loveliness, and
made her habits of industry the
more admirable. There was, then,
one being in the world whom the
dwarf undoubtedly loved, and by
whom he was loved in return.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
TkiTmi/iiio the False Infalubiuty
or Tire Popes, etc. By the late Bishop
Fesfler. Translated by Father St.
)<ihij. of ibe Edgbaston Oratory. New
York : The Catholic Publication 80-
ci«tT. 1875.
Dr. Fcssler was Bishop of St. Pollen
;o Aosfria, and the Secretary General of
*« Council of the Vatican. He wrote
•his pamphlet as a reply to the apostate
Or Sdiultc. \i was carefully examined
*ni approved at Rome, and the author
'treired a complimentary letter from the
P"r«c for the i^ood service he had ren-
■'cTcd to ihc cause of truth. The true
I'jJlibiliiy which the author vindicates
^thatinfiUibiliiy of the Pope in defin-
^7 doifmas of Catholic faith and con
♦^-ranlng heresies, which was defined as
Ciiholic dogma br the Council of the
l^itican. The false infallibility which he
^\^^% is the travesty of ihe true doc-
»">e. faUcly imputed by Schuhe and
^^«^:$ to the Catholic Church as her au-
'^'»ritaiiTe teaching expressed in the de-
^-Jtt'on of the Vatican Council. This
i*ctriDc of infallibility falsely imputed
^rfewTits the Pope as claiming inspira-
'n, power to create new dogmas, infal-
''^■iiy as a private doctor, as a judge of
'intnilar cases, and as*a ruler. Such an
"jWlibility was not defined by the Coun-
cu of the Vatican, has never been as-
*«^td by the popes, is not maintained
T •'»nv school of theologians, and is,
»'jrrovrr. partly in direct contradiction
I' 'he Catholic doctrine, partly manifest-
'ft^'^.and as for the rest without any
■^'d or probable foundation. This false
•n^llibility must, however, be carefully
«''tin;5u\chcd from the theological doc
jrmr which extends the infallibility of
»< church and of the Pope as to its
objective scope and limit : beyond the
sphere of pure dogma, or the Catholic
faith, strictly and properly so-called ;
over the entire realm of matters virtu-
ally, mediately, or indirectly contained
in, related to, or connected with the body
of doctrine which is formally revealed,
and is either categorically proposed or
capiible of being proposed by the church
as of divine and Catholic faith. Bishop
Fesslcr confines himself to that whicli
has been defined in express terms by the
council, and must be held as an article
of faith by every Catholic, under pain of
incurring anathema as a heretic. This
definition respects directly the Pope,
speaking as Pope, as being the subject,
of whom the same infallibility is predicat-
ed which is predicated of the Catholic
Church. The object of infallibility is
obliquely defined, and only so far as
necessary to the precise definition of the
subject, which is the Pope speaking ex
cathedrd. As to the object, or extension
of infallibility, no specific definition-^^has
been made. The definition is generic
only. That is, it gives in general terms
those matters which are in the genus of
faith and morals, as the object of infalli-
ble teaching. Tlie truths formally re-
vealed arc the basis of all doctrine in
any way respecting faith and morals
which is theological ; and they control all
doctrine which is philosophical, concern-
ing our relations to God and creatures, at
least negatively. Therefore, taken in
its most restricted sense, infallibility in
faith and morals must denote infallibility
in teaching and defining these formally-
revealed truths. So much, then, respect-
ing the object, is necessarily de fide^ and
is held as such by every theologian and
every instructed Catholic.
142
New Publications.
As to the farther extension of infelli-
bility, or the specific definition of all the
matters included in the term " de fide et
moribus," the fathers of the council
postponed their decisions to a later day,
and probably will consider them when
the council is re-assembled. In the
meantime, we have to be guided by the
teaching of the best theologians whose
doctrine is consonant to the practice of
the Holy See. We may refer the curious
reader to Father Knox's little work,
WfuH does iht Church Speak Infallibly?
as the safest source of information con-
cerning this important point. As a mat-
ter of fact, the popes do teach with au-
thority many truths which are not articles
of faith, and condemn many opinions
which are not heresies. Moreover, they
command the faithful to assent to their
teaching, and frequently punish those
who refuse to do so. It is much more
logical, and much more consonant to
sound theological principles, to believe
that they are infallible in respect to every
matter in which they justly command our
absolute and irrevocable assent, than to
believe that we are bound to render this
obedience to a fallible authority. But
of the obligation in conscience to submit
to all the doctrinal decisions of the Holy
See there is no question. And this obli-
gation is very distinctly and emphatically
declared by Pius IX., with the concur-
rence of the universal episcopate, in the
closing monition of the First Decree of
the Council of the Vatican.
"Since it is not enough to avoid
heretical pravity, unless those errors also
are diligently shunned which more or
less approach it, we admonish all of the
duty of observing also those constitu-
tions and decrees in which perverse
opinions of this sort, not here expressly
enumerated, are proscribed and prohibit-
ed by this Holy See."
The Archbishop of Westminster's Re-
ply TO Mr. Gladstone.
Bishop ULI.ATHORNEONTHE same SUBJECT.
Bishop Vaughan on the same.
Lord Robert Montagu on the same,
etc.— All published by The Catholic
Publication Society. New York : 1875.
The Archbishop of Westminster has
the intellectual and moral as well as the
ecclesiastical primacy in the Catholic
Church of England, and in this contro-
versy he leads the band of noble cham-
pions of the faith which Mr. Gladstone's
audacious war-cry has evoked. The il
lustrious 6ucce8.<i0r of S. Ansel m and S
Thomas 4 Becket has a remarkably clea
insight into the fundamental principle:
of theology and canon law, an unswerv
ing logical consistency in deducing thci
connections and consequences, a loy;»
integrity in his faith and devotion to ware
Christ and his Vicar, a lucidity of sivli
and language, an untiring activity, daunt
less courage, tactical skill, and abundanct
of resources in his polemics, which com-
bine to make him a champion and leadei
of the first class in ecclesiastical warfare —
a very Duguesclin of controversy. In che
present pamphlet he has defined the
issues with more precision, and brou^t
the main force of Catholic principles more
directly and powerfully into colli ston
with his adversary's opposite centre, than
any other of the remarkably able antago-
nists of Mr. Gladstone.
We refer our readers to the pamphlet
itself for a knowledge of its line of argu-
ment. We will merely call attention to
a few particular points in it which are
noteworthy. In the first place, we desire
to note the exposition of one verj' impor-
tant truth frequently misapprehended
and misstated. This is, namely, that
the doctrine of Papal Infallibility was
not, before the Council of the Vatican, a
mere opinion of theologians, but the cer>
tain doctrine of the church, proximate
to faith, and only questioned since the
Council of Constance by a small number,
whose opinion was uevera prohadledtetriiu,
but only a tolerated error. The archbishop,
moreover, shows briefly but clearly how
this error, whose intrinsic mischief iras
practically nullified in pious Galltcans by
their obedience to the Holy See, and the
overpowering weight which the concur-
rence of the great body of the bishops
with the Pope always gave to his dog-
matic decrees, was threatening to become
extremely active and dangerous if longer
tolerated ; and that the definition of the
Council of the Vatican was therefore not
only opportune and prudent, but neces-
sary.
He shows, moreover, that the violent
and aggressive party which stirred up
the conflict now raging was the party of
faithless men who wore the mask of
Catholic profession, with their poliiic.il
and anti-Catholic accomplices, whose un.
successful ruse de guerre^ at the time of the
council, was only the preliminary manceu
vre of a systematic war on the church.
New Publications.
MS
TW oDcbanged position of Catholics
ibce the couDcil, in respect to civil al-
IcgiaQce ; the essential similarity of that
positioQ, doctrinallj, with that of all per-
tooswbo maintain the supremacy of con>
science and divine law ; its greater prac-
itol security for stability of government
isd political order over any other posi-
tioQ; the firm basis for temporal sove-
icigBtysmd independence which Catholic
doctrine gires to the state; and the
great Tariation of practical relations be-
tutea church and state from their condi-
doQ It a former period which altered cir-
cniBsiances have caused, are clearly
and ably developed. We are pleased to
obicrre ibe positions laid down in our
ow editorial anicle on " Religion and
State in our Republic *• sustained and con-
Irmed by the archbishop's high authority.
Anericans must be especially gratified at
tbe warm eulogium upon Lord Balti-
norc and the primitive constitution of
ibc Maiyland colony.
Among the numerous other replies to
Mr. Gladstone, besides those already no-
ticed in this magazine, the pamphlets
« Bishop Vaughan, Bishop UUathome,
iftd Lord Robert Montagu are especially
lemarfcable and worthy of perusal. Each
of then has its own peculiar line of argn-
■wi and individual excellence, and they
»pp!ement each other.
The want of sympathy with Mr. Ghid-
'tooe generally manifested in England
«<1 America, and the respectful interest
*o»n in the exposition of Catholic prin-
ciples by bis antagonists, are specially
»onhT of remark. We are under great
oWlgations to Mr. Gladstone for the fine
W>nunityhe has afforded us of gaining
"ich a hearing, and he has thus indirectly
»d nnlntcntionally done the cause of
Cwholic troth a very great service, which
»oae of our opponents candidly, though
»«h considerable chagrin, have ac-
kiowledged.
Thi Ministry of S. John Baffist.
% H. ]. Coleridge, S.J. London :
Boms k Gates. 1875. (New York :
Sold by The Catholic Publication So-
ciety.)
Father Coleridge hasdevoted himself to
•«fT extensive and critical studies, with
^iatemion of publishing a new life of
^'i«. This volume is the first instal-
JJ^ It is learned and critical without
'*|0f dry or abstruse. ' It can be relied on,
'•^'^fore, for scbolariy accuracy, and at the
same time enjo3red for its literary beauties.
The author has a felicity of diction and a
talent for historical narration, which, com-
bined with his solid learning, make him
singularly competent for the important
and delightful task be has undertaken
and so successfully commenced.
Life of Father Henry Young. By
Lady Georgiana Fuller ton. London :
Bums&Oates. 1875. (New York : Sold
by ^The Catholic Publication Society.)
This remarkable and somewhat eccen-
tric priest lived and died in Dublin,
though he exercised his apostolic minis-
try also in many other parts of Ireland.
He was undoubtedly a saint, and in
some respects strikingly like the venera-
ble Cur6 of Ars. The author has written
his life in her usual charming style, and
it is not only edifying, but extremely cu«
rious and entertaining.
The Lily and the Cross. A Tale of
Acadia. By Prof. James De Mille.
Boston and New York : Lee & Shep-
ard. 1875.
Here we have a kind of quasi-Catholic
tale, written by a Protestant. As a story
it has a good deal of stirring incident
and dramatic power, mingled with a fine
spice of humor. The writer shows no
unkind or unfair disposition toward Ca-
tholics or their religion, and the priest in
the story, as a man, is a noble and heroic
character. His Catholicity, however, is
too weak even for the most extreme left
of liberal Catholics.
The Veil Withdrawn {Le Mot de
VEnigme). Translated, by permission,
from the French of Mme. Craven, au-
thor of A Sister's Stoty, Fleurange, etc.
New York : The Catholic Publication
Society. 1875.
In its didactic aspects we consider The
Veil Withdrawn superior to its imme-
diate predecessor, Fleurange^ inasmuch
as its moral purpose is more decided
and apparent ; and we believe Mme.
Craven has been very opportune in the
choice of the principal lesson which her
book inculcates, as well as felicitous in
the manner in which it is conveyed.
There is perhaps no peril to which .1
frank, confiding young matron is more
exposed at the present day than that con-
stituted by the circumstances which
formed the temptation of the heroine of
this novel, and which she so heroically
Literary Bulletin,
disposed to offer to Father St. Jobu, in paoeirg. a
word of gratitude, while proffering; him, for our
own part, a sentence or two of earnest congral nla-
tlou. 'What he has hero done he has not onlj
well done, but in doing it be has chosen the
happiest moment. It was a noble work on the
part of the late Bishop of St. Polten penning this
treatise. And it is a srood work on the part of
Father St. John translating it at a moment, for
ail CathoMcs here in England, so singularly op-
portnne. It is so sledge-hammer a blow upon
the mistaken argument of Mr. Gladstone that it
little lets than pulverizes it. In this sense Dr.
Fefsler's 'True aftd False lofalUbility ' might
very appropriately be bound up into a volume—
a9 one of the overwhelming answers to Mr. Glad-
stone— with the pamphlets directly written to
that end by the Archbishop of Westminster, by
the Bishop of Birmingham, by Dr. Nei^man, and
by Monsignor Capel— a volume that ought to in-
clude among its contents, also, the Pastorals of
the Bishops of BU*mi ogham, Clifton, and Sal-
ford."
The London TalUi notices The Trtie and
Fahe In/allibint» qf tlit Popea^ by Dr. Fcsslcr,
as follows :
"The original treatise appeared as early as
1871. It was from the pen of a late Austrian
bi&hop, who acted as Sccretary-OeDcral to the
Vatican Council, and is accompanied by a brief
of congratulation from the Boly Father. In
every way it is a remarkable production. The
wonder is that it was not long ago put into
British currency ; it ought to have been, yet we
are glad it was not Had it been known here to
any extent, we should not have had^e Earpos-
tulation; without that we could not have had
the replies which it has called forth; and with-
out these the general public must have remained
in their blissful ignorance about real infallibility.
As a literary or political iffort i\iQ Erpodvla-
t'wn is now considered quite unworthy of the
importance it has received from the Catholic
answers ; but viewed in the light of these, wo
may say that * the gome was worth the candle.'
*'If Biehop Fesilcr had actually written in
answer to the BxpoeitulaHon, ho could hardly
have been more successful in its refutation than
he has been in this pamphlet; for, putting aside
the few incidental or collateral questions which
Mr. Gladstone lias introduced into the general
argument, the principles and bearings of Infalli-
bility axe so clearly laid down, so rigidly defined,
and so guarded against plaui<iblo mistake or mis-
statement, tliat the Austrian bishop has cutaway
Ihe whole ground from under the British ex-
premier. •
'* Nay, wo have here a general answer to the
accusations of Lord A cton, inasmuch as we are
shown how to deal with arguments drawn from
the acta and writings of past popes, independent
of their truth or falsity in point of history. Very
sensitive and nervous Catholics mast bo gratified
to find that the mcdJo'val goblins mitk vlu'li
they were threatened as about to rue op tna
the graves of the ' Dark Ages,* with gofj Uadi
and the general garb of murder, may eaiilj ^
stripped of shroud and sheet, and tmn oit bci
'boglcb* artcr aU.
*' Now, this close applicati n of tbe GettJi
pamphlet to our special case in thif coDtrotcifi
arises out of the fact that a certain Dr. seiihi,
a quondam Catholic, and a reputed ranoftift.u*
iected to the Vatican Decrees precisely oo Vm
same grounds, with pretty nearly the nm
manipulation of matter and evdnlion of upi
ment, and, on several Important heads, vitk rf
most the same words, as those of Mr. GladMow
supplemented by Lord Acton. From this n^M
• be arguM that the subject was open to iCfi
palpable attack in its salient points that d flfefot
minds at different times, and in diffettotplsefl
could light upon the same objections asd tk^
same general mode of treatment. PotsEblr sotj
the abstract ; but in this j>articaUr iaftvfl
there is to be accounted for the Mune llUie tiid
of throwing more or less ehade into traaststiBi
and of an occasional suppression of InporiA
periods or phrases in extracts. In order to
matters into that light and relief wkkh
must have to Justify such aspect as the
gave them. We argue from this that
I'llathorne was near the mark in tradof
controversy to a German origin, and htn
strong suspicion that but for Or. Sdmltt
should not have had either the SrpotinlMUm
or the historical evidences ; at all events, in tki
same form as we now have than. What lie AN
singly Mr. Gladstone and Lord Acton bare doiH
conjointly; and if the thice did not nse the «M
pen, they have dipped into the same izkftaod.
" The great lines of Mr. Gladstone's argsoM
will do for those of Dr. ScBulte. Rome bts
gated to itself the unqualiBed and nnresti
right of pronouncing, at will and with an
blc judgment, on every point of doctrine,
over the whole sphere of morality. Further, l|
f;1aims the right to universal obedience io
matters of church discipline, without cbal!
and in such wise that it mtist be considered
doing so on the strength of a qiiasl-tifalifbilit?
for ' surely it is allownble to say that thif tiib
chapter on universal obedience Is a formidsH
rival to the fourth chapter, on Infallibility.* toJ
if anything, more ominous and more awfnl. li
consequence of all this, Catholics csnsoi H
trusted in their civil allegiance, and oonrfft
must forfeit their meotal and moral freedom : *M
now things are not as heretofore, since Rone ba
changed and has repudiated ancient kistorj
This was the burden of the story which lis
Acton illustrated with a feweeiect« well-ad Jptn
and clevcrly-ccnceived historical pictures.
'' Those wh ) have road this elaborate and rl
laborated work will find the same pretty pl^
clearly outlined by Dr. Schnlte, and as complet^l
unravelled in the present pamplUet by Dr. Y<*^
Literary Bulletin,
«r. Th;y wll! Had ilsp idtas to.-> tnrfnltkc to be
■etiilE3t9c akio. For inataucc. Dr. Schulte ^ayn,
* The icfkllible tcftchiog office of tho chnrch can
**• ettcad to all *abjects and dcpartmctn of
'» life which h%vc any bcarii-g upon Uia
iJ coodaci'; which forcibly rcmiuds ub of a
irkftbl^ pa4«a?e that Niyji, * I cft'c not to a^k
'ft^wt be drei^ i»r tatters of hnman life, such as
•»• c»cap« frura th« description and boaadary of
m-nals. I mbmft that duty Is a power which
n«r»witb D9 In the moroin^, and goca to rest
witfc ne et nii^ht. U im co-exten^lvc with the ac-
tu% or oar intelligence. It la the ehuduw which
'*^ « to «», g-) whtrc we will, and wh ch only
lu when we leave the light of life.' The
* apealL<t of a great change having taken
oa Jnly IS, 1370, which rendered hi* old
' sAteaable, and forced hlra and every fa-
tooee of two awkward alternatives; and
idea that since then no non-Catholic aove-
or government U safe, but ranst do the
•1 to protect and etrengthen Itself againrt
Ifce Pkpscy. A free iranslatioo of the lo*„'lc and
laafiaiuut here expressted will occur to readers
*if the ErpotUlaUoj^. If wo raleUke not, Dr.
Iktello has spoken too of ptst history, when
rt*»cd faa the light of p*pal Infalllbliiiy, as •a
nrrr diaifreeable so bject fur us to conlemplato ' ;
•■* w»«« Much more mistaken If the same idea
** i^Us'langoag) does not introdace a letter
i« Ik* TiaMs of last November. Both Mr. Glad-
\ aad Lord Acton are familiar with Gorman
and not noacqoainted with a particular
1 ta which that lest has been used In strong
Itioo to tne diffusion of Rjman letters and
n^tblag lA Soman character.
"Dr. Fcasler. then, in refuting Schulte. has
<«» «^ '•me kind office to Mr. Oladstono and
^kn; aad he has done it thoroughly. Any-
ttim more complete and cruilUng It would be
fcwi to flad. The premises are first clearly
twqttawaj ; then follow the inferences, deduc-
ttsa^ and illnstratiODs, one aitcr another, till
bryond a most evident heap of iucon-
w» and of pertcrse idea*, and faulty
t^iris leiK tot Dr. Schulte to crow from. U Mr.
iikAiluui!) aad Lord Acton have any interest
ta Kfca fcmainder, they arc heartily welcome to
'** i"t proportion ; for no oae will begrudge
»*»ibt share and wear of their well-earned
Mnria, The whole book teems with doctrioc,
kii*ory, taformation. and tutercsf. The tran^Ia-
••w. h is needless to say, has dono full jut«ticu
•*rWar%lBal.'
, niathome*t parophkt, Mr. Glad-
Xatpoatulatlon XTnraveUed, is di-
•tfid lato tho following heads :
I. Tba Bonrcea of Mt. Gladstone's Inspiration.
It Mr. (Ilsdstone's Ol^-ct and Motives.
At Vr. GtadstoDo's Misconceptions.
IV. Mr. GlMUtooa's ** rnfallibliiTy" and the
f*<^'f laklUWUty.
V. Mr. Gladstone's *' Obedience" and the
Church's Obedicocc.
VI. Mr. 0:ad8tonc'd "Syllabus" and thet
Pajw's Syllabus.
VII. An Apostrophe to Mr. Gladstone.
Tho London TabUt very justly remarks that
"it literally takes Mr. Gladstone's Expostulation
to pieces, aud destroys it down to its foundation."
The Lond m TabUt considers '* Mr. Gladstone
as a real benefactor to the Catholic csuse In
England by el citing these statements of doc-
trine from authorities who have the national car
to an unprecedented degree'. His appeal to the
passions and pr« jndicss of our nation has been a
complete failure. What he has done Is to attract
the attention of a vast number of educatetl
people to a question of the deepest moment, and
ouc which tho more it Is really studied aud in-
quired Into, the more It is certain to give great
light and dispel much Ignorance from the minds
of upright and cioscieutious men such as we see
around us.''
Ijetter firom Br. Newman.
The following' letter Jrom Very Rev. John
Henry Newman, D.D., appears in the London
TatUt of February 27. It is addressed to the
editor of that paper, and is peculiarly interestln;;
from the fact that Dr. Newman was supposed ta
have referred to the editor of the Taf)Ut among
others when he wrote in his recent pamphlet :
'* There are those among as, it must bo cot-fesscd.
who for years past have conducted themselves as
If no responsibility attached to wild words and
overbearing deeds ; who have stated truths In
tho most paradoxical form, and stretched prin-
ciples till they were close upon snapping ; and
who at length, having done their liett to set the
bouse on Ore, leave to others the task of patting
out the flame " :
**To TUB Bditob or thk Table r :
"Sir : I have \i-aited before writing to yon, lett
I sh uld be premature In doing so. Now I may
safely act upon the impulse which 1 have ft It
since your first notice, on January 2.3 last, of my
Letter to the Duke of Norfolk.
** Let me, then, return to you my bcs; tlmnk.i
for thegencious re€e))tion you have given to that
Letter. I use the word * generous ' with a defi-
nite meaning, and as implying, as its correlati\e
on my pan, ray great gratification and, I may
say, gratitude.
*' I trust, too, that the tone of your remarks
upon mo may impress on outsiders that there arc
not those serious d>fi'erenccs of opinion between
Catholics which they are so ready to believe.—
1 am, s!r, your fa'thful servant,
"Joii>f n. NEW!aAN.
•*TuB Oa.*TonT, Feb. 15, 1875."
Messrs. Cunningham & Son, Philadelphia,
have in pre«s, and will publish soon, a new
volnme of poems by Mi!<8 Donnelly, e&titied
Domua Dei, a collection of Religious and Me-
morial Poems.
Literary Bulletin.
BOOKS OF THE MONTH.
Undek tt»is head we intend to give a list of all
ihc new Catholic Books published in tliis country
<»ch month, as well is all those published in Eng-
land and for sale here. Publishers will please
send a special copy to the publisher for the p
pose of having its title inserted here. AH
books mentioned below can be ordered of 1
Catholic PuBLrcA-noN Society.
AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS.
TAe y'atiean f>€cree9 and Cirit AUtgi' Vatican Council. Translated by Ambrose
anee. In Answer to Mr. Glad.stone. By His John, M.A., of the Oratory ol St, Philip Nt
Grace Archbishop Manning, x vol. lamo, Edgbaston, Birmingham. lamo, paper,
pspcr SOqXa. so f.
Uadilone. I vol. ,amo, paper i?J cts. ^^^^^ ^y J^^^^^ ^f ^^ Augistine i.r
Sifkop Uliaikorne'9 Hepty io Mr. Glad' ptper 9S <
ilont, X vol. i2mo, paper 4?^ cts. ^he above five books are published by 1
2'ke True and ike Falae InfaVibittfy of Ike Catholic Publication Society, New Y ork.
l^pet. A Controversial Reply to Dr. Schulte.
By Dr. Joseph Fessler, late Bishop of St. Pol- Seren Sloriet* By Udy Ful'erion. Ba
ten in Austria, and Secretary- General to the more: Kelly, Piet& Co S/ ^
FOREIGN BOOKS.
Sngliih CathoHc Directory ^f 00
Life of Father Henry Younff, By Lady
Kulierton Sf 75
The IPubtle Life of Our LordJetue Chri$i.
By the Kev. H. J. Coleridge, S.J. Part 1.
S3 35
Our La<fy's 1>o^ryi or, How England Gained
and Lost this Title. A CompiUtion by the
Rev. T. E. Bridgelt, C.Ss.R. ^L^rown 8vo,
436 pages. With four illusiraiions.'^ By H. W.
Brewer, Esq SA 50
like "Prieonerofihe Temple: or. Discrowned
and Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Morris.
sa ^5
J^urgatory Surreyed; or, A Particular Ac-
count of the Happy and yet Thrice Unnappy
State of the Souls There. Ed ited by Dr. An-
dcrdon ^f 60
The Perfect Lay brother.
uicdo
By Felix Cum-
S3 :i5
I.ivei of the Irish ifainte. By Rev. J. O' Han-
loa. N OS. I, 2,3, 4,5 now ready. Price per No.
GOcti,
:f>irectoty for JVopiees of every fielipioue '
Order, particularly those t>troted to the
Fducatton of louth S/ 35
On Some f^pular Errors Concerning
i^olitics and Hetigion, By Lord hobert
Montagu, M. P. x vol. xamo S^ 00
Ihe Letter-Vooks of Sir Hmias ^ulet.
Keeper of Mary, ^ueeo of Scots. Edited by
John Morris, S.J. x vol. 8vo .*. ...S5 35
The Dialogues of S,m Gregory the Great.
Edited by Htnry James Coleridge, S.J. .J?J 00
. .Mtiy 7'ap*r$'a : or. Thoughts on the Litanies
ot Lorettu. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick,
SJ.
The Life of Luisa De CarraJaU By Lady
Pullcrton S3 50
..Heditations of St. Anselm. A new Trans-
lation. ByM.R. With Prefaci by His Grace
•the Archbishop of Westminster $3 50
of Anglican Or^tinatii'
By B. E. Eslcourt, M.
Jhe Question
Diecussed, By _. _.
F.A.S., Canon of S. Chads Cathedral, H
mingham. With an appendix of oriffinai d<
umenls and photographic fac-similcs. x v
8vo S7 i
The Life of the Dlessed John Serehman
By Francis Golde. x vol. xamo S^^ '
Dr, A'eft^man's Lectures on Jusiiflcatio\
X vol. izmo S3 -
Dr* ^Sftman's Ecclesiastical and The
topical Tracts • A new volume of the rci*"^
ol'Dr. Newman's works St C
The f\>pe and the Emperor, Nine L<
turcs delivered in the Church of S. John ti
Evaneelist. Bath. By the Very Rev. J. I
Sweeney, O.S.B..D.D •. S^ ^
Who is Jesus Christ ? Five Lecture* dcfi
crcd at the Catholic Church. Swansea. By ti
Right Rev. Dr. Hedley, O.S.B., Buhop Aux
iary of Newport and Menevia tS3 ei
Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, I
Helen Ram. i vol. larao S3 ^
^ace through the Truth ; or, Essa^-^
Subjects connecied with Dr. Puscy's hire
con. By Rev. T. Harper, S.J. Second Skr'*
—Part L~Dr. Puscy's First Supposed P*f
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MONTHI.Y MAGAZINE
OF
Ieneral Literature and Scienc
MAY 187s
Contents,
Mr Clad
rcprt*»i cm Gi-
rlie Golden
Alitor S.u-M-
i.rrt fatujc of
145
162
3CX»
332
233
2SO
X. The First Jubilee, -
XL Gievilfr and SainuSimon,
Xll Dom Guerftnger and Soles-
mes, - , - •
XIIL Legend of rbe Blunifsalpe,
XIV, New Pijhiicutioris, -
Tt»«» Voung Catholtc** lUu^tralcd FSb
Rmder — Ihe Syllabus f »f the People
— Pnsiicripl to n Lclitr :iddre«scd
Hi* firace tUc Duke of Norfoik-
ft4)na1 Rcn«iri«HC<!'nc«r«t— Our [_i4
Dowry— Ru UK Jnbilsti tKjs— S
Stnrie»^Rcadings from the Old T«i
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXL, No. 122.— MAY, 1875.
PIUS IX. AND MR. GLADSTONE'S MISREPRESENTATIONS.
The recent conduct of the Right
Ho&orable William Ewart Gladstone
lias filled his former friends and ad-
oiirtrs with anger and sorrow, and
die nobler among his enemies with
artonishment and pity. He has
imc much to convert the defeat of
t)M liberal party in Great Britain,
which might have been but tempo-
ory, into absolute rout and lasting
co&fiision ; for its return to power is
impossible as long as the alienation
of the Irish Catholic members of
f^rliametot continues. The more
paerous of Mr. Gladstone's politi-
es foes cannot but deplore that the
once mighty opponent, whom they
ncceeded in chiving from office,
hitiby his own behavior, fallen into
fOttething very like contempt. His
itrictures on the Vatican decrees
md the Sp€ech€s of Pius IX. possess
Httie merit in a literary point of
t* , being written in the bad style
i mon to Exeter Hall controver-
\ its, and being full of inaccura-
« , misrepresentations, and over-
i ts. They have accordingly re-
« 1 from the leading critical
journals in Great Britain either
open censure or that faint praise
which is equally damning. The
Fall Mall Gazette observes that, if
Mr. Gladstone goes on writing in
a similar strain, no one will heed
what he writes. The wild assault
made by him upon Catholics is not
only perceived by others to be
causeless and gratuitous, but is free-
ly confessed by himself to be un-
called for and unwarranted. Speak-
ing of the ^questions, whether the
Pope claimed temporal jurisdiction
or deposing power, or whether the
church still teaches the doctrine
of persecution, he says in his Ex-
postulation (page 26) : " Now, to no
one of these questions could the
answer really be of the smallest im-
mediate moment to this powerful
and solidly-compacted kingdom.'*
Again, in the Quarterly Review arti-
cle (page 300), he asserts that the
" burning " question of the deposing
power, " with reference to the pos-
sibilities of life and action, remains
the shadow of a shade !" Why,
then, does Mr. Gladstone apply the
to Act of Coi^rsM, in the yew 1875, by Rev. I. T. Hbckbs, io the Office of the .
iXbnAui of Congreti, at Washington, D. C.
146 Pius IX, and Mr. Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
torch to quicken the flame of the
burning controversy, which he af-
firms to be beyond the range of
practical politics? Why does he
summon the " shadow of a shade "
to trouble, terrify, or distress* his
fellow-countrymen ? Has he for-
gotten the history of his country,
which teaches him that these very
questions were among those which
brought innocent men to the block,
and caused multitudes to suffer the
tortures of the rack and the pains
of ignominious death? We read
in Hallam {Constitutional Hist, of
England) that one of the earliest
novelties of legislation introduced
by Henry VHI. was the act of Par-
liament of 1534, by which " it was
n^ade high treason to deny that ec-
clesiastical supremacy of the crown
which, till about two years before,
no one had ever ventured to assert.
Bishop Fisher, almost the only in-
flexibly honest churchman of that
age, was beheaded for this denial."
Sir Thomas More met the same
fate. Burleigh, in a state paper in
which he apologizes for the illegal
employment of torture in Eliza-
beth's reign, includes among the
questions " asked during their tor-
ture " of those ** put to the rack,"
the question, ** What was their own
opinion as to the pope's right to
deprive the queen of her crown ?"
In those days, then, the mere opin-
ions of Catholics concerning papal
supremacy were torturing and be-
heading questions — questions of
the rack, the block, and the stake.
Now they are " burning " questions^
in a metaphorical sense, and lead to
wordy strife, polemical bitterness,
and to widening the breach between
two sections of Queen Victoria's
subjects, which all wise men during
late years have deplored and striven
to lessen, but which Mr. Gladstone
deliberately sets himself to widen-
Into the causes which have pro
voked Mr. Gladstone to attack
Catholics and the Pope it is not
necessary to enter. Corrupt or
impure motives are not imputed i<>
him. Nor is it here intended to
discuss the theological part of ihr
subject, which has already been ex
haustively dealt with by Dr. John
Henry Newman, Archbishop Man-
ning, Bishops Ullathorne, Vaughan,
and Clifford, Monsignor Ca[>el,
and others. The aim of the pre-
sent writer is to point out the inac-
curacies of Mr. Gladstone in his
Expostulation and his Quarterly
Review article on the Speeches of
Pius IX., to exhibit his general un-
trustworthiness in his references
and quotations, and to bring for-
ward the real instead of the traves-
tied sentiments of the Pope.
Now, to honest and fair examina-
tion of documents which concern
their faith Catholics have no ob-
jection. On the contrary, they
desire sincerely that Protestants
should read, mark, learn, and in-
wardly digest them. Nothing but
good to the Catholhc Church can
result from impartial study of such
documents as the Vatican decrees,
the Encyclical and Syllabus of Pius
IX., to which, in his Expostulation y
Mr. Gladstone made such extensive
reference. Catholics give him a
cordial assent when^he says : " It is
impossible for persons accepting
those decrees justly to complain
wten such documents are subject-
ed in good faith to a strict exam-
ination as respects their compati-
bility with civil right and the obe-
dience of subjects." But Catholics
and all upright Protestants must
join in condemning as unjust and
unfair that bad habit common to
controversialists of a certain class,
who aim at temporary victory foi
themselves and their party, careless
Pius IX, and Mr. Gladstone s Misrepresentations,
147
of the interests of eternal verity.
There are partisan writers who cite
portions of a document, in the be*
lief that the mass of readers will have
DO knowledge of the entire, and
who take extracts hap-hazard from
secondary sources, without troub-
ling themselves to search the au-
thentic or original documents.
Wilful inaccuracy and purposed
misquotations are not, as has al-
ready been stated, to be imputed to
Mr. Gladstone. But it often oc-
curs that carelessness and pre-
judice lead distinguished writers
into errors similar to those pro-
duced by malice, and equally or
more detrimental. It so happens
that Mr. Gladstone, in describing
and quoting the Vatican decrees,
the words of Pius IX., the Syllabus
and Encyclical^ has published state-
ments so incorrect and so mislead-
ing as to subject the author, were
he less eminent for honor and scru-
polons veracity, to the charge either
of criminal ignorance or of wilful
intention to mislead. For example, .
he cites, at pages 32-34 of his Ex-
p&stulaiion^ the form of the present
Vatican decrees as proof of the
wonderful ** change now consum-
mated in the constitution of the
I<atin Church " and of " the present
degradation of its episcopal order."
He wfs the present Vatican decrees,
being promulgated in a strain differ-
ent from that adopted by the Coun-
cil of Trent, are scarcely worthy to
be termed "the decrees of the
Council of the Vatican." The
Trent canons were, he says, real
canons of a real council, beginning
thus : " Hsec Sacrosancta," etc.,
"Synodus," etc., ** docet " or "sta-
tuit •• or " decemit," and the like ;
md its canons, " as published in
Rome, are Canones et Decreia Sacro^
^ffti (Ecumenici Concilii Tridentiniy
ind so forth. But wha* we have
now to do with is the Constitutio
Dogmatica Prima de EccUsid Christi
edita in Sessione tertia of the Vatican
Council. It is not a constitution
made by the council, but one pro-
mulgated in the council. And who
is it that legislates and decrees }
It is Pius ^iscopuSy servus servo rum
Dei; and the seductive plural of
his docemus et declaramus is simply
the dignified and ceremonious
* we ' of royal declarations. The
document is dated *Pontificatus
nostri Anno XXV.,' and the humble
share of the assembled episcopate
in the transaction is represented by
seuro approbante concilio,** Mr. Glad-
stone, stating that the Trent canons
are published as Canones et Decreta
Sac. (Ecum, Concilii Tridentini^ and
particularizing in a foot-note the
place of publication as ** Romae : in
Collegio urbano de Propaganda
Fide, 1833," leads his readers
wrongfully to infer that there exists
no similar publication of the Vati-
can decrees. However, the very
first complete edition of the Vati-
can decrees, printed especially for
distribution to the fathers of the
council, bears this title: Acta et
Decreta Sacrosancti CEcumenici Con-
cilii Vaticani in Quatuor Prioribus
Sessionibus — Eoma ex Typographia
Vaticana, 1872. What Mr. Glad-
stone appears to have quoted are
the small tracts, containing portions
of the decrees, for general use, one
of which is entitled Dogmatic Con-
stitution concerning the Catholic Faiths
Published in the Third Session^ while
another is entitled The First Dog-
matic Constitution of the Church of
Christ, Published in the Fourth Ses-
sion. Mr. Gladstone has not scru-
pled to take one of these tracts as his
text-book, misstating its very title ;
for he quotes it as " edita in sessione
tertia " instead of " quarta," and
deriving from it, instead of from
148 Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
the authentic Acta et Decreta^ his
materials for charging the decrees
with a change of form " amounting
to revolution.** Had the Acta in
their complete version been before
him, he could not truthfully have
said "the humble share of the
assembled episcopate in the trans-
action is represented by scuro ap-
probante concilio "; for he would
have found it distinctly stated, and
apparently as reason for their con-
firmation by the Pope, that the
decrees and canons contained in
the constitution were read before,
and approved by, all the fathers of
the council, with two exceptions —
" Decreta et Canones qui in consti-
tutione niodo lecta continentur,
placuerunt patribus omnibus, duo-
bus exceptis, Nosque, sacro appro-
bante concilio, ilia et illos, ut lecta
sunt, definimus et apostolica auc-
toritate confirmamus." Why does
Mr. Gladstone call attention to the
date as being *' Pontificatus nostri
Anno XXV."? Is it in order to
show that the Vatican despises the
other mode of computation, or is it
to exhibit his own minute accuracy
in quoting? In either case Mr.
Gladstone was wrong, for the date
in the Comtitutio Dogmaiica before
him was as follows : " Datum
Romas, etc., Anno Incarnationis
Dominicae 1870, die 18 Julii. Pon-
tificatus Nostri, Anno XXV." And
why should Mr. Gladstone describe
as " seductive " the plural of the
Pope's "docemus et declaramus,"
and assert that plural form to be
" simply the dignified and ceremo-
nious * We * of royal declarations " ?
Did he mean to impute to the use
of the plural number a corrupt in-
tention to make people believe that
ihe *we* included the bishops as
• well as the Pope? Did he mean
also to impute to the use of the
plural an arrogant affectation of
royal dignity? If such were the
purpose of Mr. Gladstone, it can
only be said that such rhetorical
artifices are unworthy of him and
are not warranted by truth. The
* we * is simply the habitual form
of episcopal utterances, employed
even by Protestant prelates in their
official acts. It is evident, more-
over, that the use of the plural
docemus or declaramusy and the em-
ployment of the formula sacro ap^
probante concilio^ denounced by Mr.
Gladstone as innovations, have
ancient precedents in their favor.
The Acta Synodcdia of the Eleventh
General and Third Lateran Council,
held under Pope Alexander III. in
1 1 79, are thus worded : " Nos . • .
de concilio fratrum nostrorum et
sacri approbatione concilii . . . de-
crevimus " or ** statuimus." The
same form, with trifling variation,
was employed in 1225 by Innocent
III. in another General Council, the
Fourth Lateran. Mr. Gladstone
thinks *' the very gist of the evil we
. are dealing with consists in follow-
ing (and enforcing) precedents of
the age of Innocent III.," so that it
may be useless to cite the General
Council of Lyons in 1245, under
Innocent IV., with its decrees pub-
lished in the obnoxious strain, " In-
nocentius Episcopus^ servus servorum
Deiy etc.^ sacro prcRsente concilio ad rei
memoriam sempiternam.'* The lan-
guage of another General Council at
Lyons, in 1274, under Gregory X.,
" Nos . . . sacro approbante con-
cilio, damnamus," etc., and the
language of the Council of Vienne,
in 131 1, under Clement V., "Nos
sacro approbante concilio . . . dam-
namus et reprobamus,** come per-
haps too near the age of Innocent
III. to have weight with Mr, Glad-
stone. But he cannot object on
this score to the Fifth I«ateran Coun-
cil, begun in 1512 under Julius II.,
Pius IX, and Mr. Gladstone s Misrepresentations.
149
and finished in 1517 under Leo X.
In this General Council, the next
before that of Trent, Pope Leo was
present in person, and by him, just
as by Pius IX, in the Vatican Coun-
cil, all the definitions and decrees
were made in the strain which Mr.
Gladstone calls innovating and re-
volutionary, namely, in the style,
**Leo Episcopus servus servorum
Dei ad perpetuam rei memoriam,
sacro approbante concilio." Leo
X. uniformly employed the plural
statuimus et ordinamus in every
session of that council. Pius IX.
followed the example of Leo X., and
obeyed precedents set him by popes
who presided in person — not by
legates, as at Trent — at General
Couiicils held in the years 11 79,
1225,1244, 1274, 1311, and 1517.
Accordingly, " the change of form
in the present, as compared with
other conciliatory (j/V) decrees,"
.turns out on examination to be no
revolution, but, on the contrary, ap-
pears to have in its favor precedents
the earliest of which has seven cen-
turies of antiquity. And yet to
this alleged change of form, and to
this alone, Mr. Gladstone appealed
in evidence of ** the amount of the
wonderful change now consummat-
ed in the constitution of the Latin
Church " and of " the present degra-
dation of its episcopal order " !
The Encyclical zxi^ Syllabus of 1864
have been treated by Mr. Gladstone
in the same loose, careless, and un-
fair way as he treated the Vatican
decrees. He promised, at page 15
of his Expostulation^ to *' state, in the
fewest possible words and with re-
ferences, a few propositions, all the
holders of which have been condemn-
ed \i\\t italics are Mr. Gladstone's]
by the See of Rome during my own
generation, and especially within
the last twelve or fifteen years.
And in order," so proceeds Mr.
Gladstone, '' that I may do nothing
towards importing passion into
what is matter of pure argument, I
will avoid citing any of the fearful-
ly energetic epithets in which the
condemnations are sometimes cloth-
ed." The references here given by
Mr. Gladstone are to the Encycli-
cal letter of Pope Gregory XVI. in
1 83 1 — a date, it may be noticed,
rather more ancient than " the last
twelve or fifteen years " — and to the
following documents, which at page
16 of his pamphlet are thus detail-
ed : The Encyclical "of Pope
Pius IX., in 1864"; "Encyclical
of Pius IX., December 8, 1864";
'* Syllabus of March 18, 1861 " ; and
the "Syllabus of Pope Pius IX.,
March 8, 1861." Here are appa-
rently five documents deliberately
referred to, the first an Encyclical
of Gregory XVI. ; the second an
Encyclical of Pius IX., in 1864 ; the
third another Encyclical of Pius
IX., dated December 8, 1864 ; the
fourth a Syllabus of March i8th,
1861 ; and the fifth another Sylla-
bus of the 8th of March, 1861. Yet
these apparently five documents, to
which reference is made by Mr. Glad-
stone with so much seeming particu-
larity and exactitude of dates, are
in reality two documents only, and
have but one date — namely, the 8th
of December, 1864 — on which day
the Encyclicaly with the Syllabus at-
tached, was published by Pius IX.
At page 67 of his pamphlet Mr.
Gladstone *' cites his originals," and
curiously enough, by a printer's
error, assigns the Encyclical of Gre-
gory XVI. to Gregory XIV. But
he cites from two sources only —
namely, the Encyclical and Syllabus
of 1864. That Encyclical contains
a quotation from an Encyclical of
Gregory XVI., which and the Sylla- '
bus are positively the only docu-
ments actually cited. By a series
150 Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstones Misrepresentations.
of blunders, all of which cannot be
charged to the printer — and in a work
which has arrived at the " sixteenth
thousand" edition printers' errors
are hardly allowable — the two do-
cuments, with their one date, have
been made to do duty for five docu-
ments, ascribed gravely to as many
different dates !
Moreover, Mr. Gladstone's asser-
tion that he will state " a few pro-
positions, all the holders of which
have been condemned by the " Holy
See," is inaccurate, as far as his ex-
tracts from the Encyclical and the
Syllabus — the only documents to
which he appeals — are concerned ;
for in them no ** holders " of any
propositions are condemned, nor is
there a single anathema directed
against any individual. The errors
only are censured. Mr. Gladstone
cannot illustrate any one of his
eighteen propositions by a single
epithet which could with truth be
called " fearfully energetic." Asa
matter of fact, there are no epithets
at all attached to any condemna-
tions in the eighty propositions of
the Syllabus, When, therefore, Mr.
Gladstone professes, in order to
do nothing " towards importing pas-
sion," that he will " avoid citing any
of the fearfully energetic epithets
in which the condemnations are
sometimes clothed," he plays a rhe-
torical trick upon his readers.
In truth, had he quoted the entire
of the Encyclical and Syllabus^ he
would not have been able to make
his hypocritical insinuation that he
might have culled, if he wished, more
damaging extracts. Catholics have
to lament, not that he quoted too
much, but that he quoted too little;
not that he quoted with severe
rigor, but that he quoted with ab-
solute unfaithfulness. It is justice,
not mercy, which Catholics demand
from him, and which they ask all
the more imperatively because he
has himself laid down the axiom :
*' Exactness in stating truth accord-
ing to the measure of our intelli-
gence is an indispensable condition
of justice and of a title to be
heard."
It was urged by some persons
that Mr. Gladstone gave sufficient
opportunities for correcting the ef-
fect of his inaccuracies by publish-
ing in an appendix the Latin of
the propositions he professed to
quote. But so glaring is the con-
trast between the "propositions"
in English and the same in Latin
that a writer in the Crviltd Caitdica
exclaims in amazement : " Has he
[Mr. Gladstone] misunderstood the
Latin of the quoted texts ? Has he
through thoughtlessness travestied
the sense ? Or has his good faith
fallen a victim to the disloyalty of
some cunning Old Catholics who
furnished him with these proposi-
tions V Mr. Gladstone has assert-
ed that Pius IX. has condemned
" those who maintain the liberty of
the press," " or the liberty of con-
science and of worship," " or the lib-
erty of speech." On referring to the
Latin original of these the first three
of his eighteen propositions, it is
found that Pius IX. has given no oc-
casion for such a monstrous asser-
tion. The Pope has merely condemn-
ed that species of liberty which every
man not a socialist or communist
must from his heart believe worthy
of censure. Gregory XVI. called this
vicious sort of liberty by the name
of delirium^ and Pius IX., in his
Encyclical^ terms it the " liberty of
perdition." It is a liberty "espe-
cially pernicious {maxime exitialem)
to the Catholic Church and the sal-
vation of soulis," and the claim to it
is based on the error " that liberty
of conscience and of worship is the
proper right of every man ; that it
Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
151
ought to be proclaimed and assert-
ed bj law in every well^onstituted
society ; and that citizens have an
iDherent right to liberty of every
kind, not to be restrained by any
authority, ecclesiastical or civil, so
that they may be able, openly and
publicly, to manifest and declare
their opinions, of whatever kind, by
speech, by the press, or by any other
means." Such is the sort of liberty
which the Encycliced condemns,
which is not the general liberty of
the press, or of conscience and wor^*
ship, as Mr. Gladstone would have
it, but that sort of liberty which
might be better termed licentious-
ness — 2. liberty, that is, which knows
no bridle or restraint, whether hu-
man or divine, and which refuses
to be kept in check by any authori-
ty, ecdcsiasticalor civil — " omnimo-
dam Hbertatei](i nulli vel ecclesias-
tici, vel civili auctoritate coarctan-
dam." The Expostulation has been
widely circulated among the learn-
ed, and also in a sixpenny edition
Among the masses. It is evident
that thousands of persons accustom-
ed to entertain a high opinion of the
veracity of great men in Mr. Glad-
stooe^ position will take his state-
moits upon trust, and never dream
o( testing, even had they the requi-
site acquaintance with a dead lan-
guage, the accuracy of his transla-
tions and quotations. To abuse
the confidence of this section of the
pttblic is a sin severely to be repro-
bated.
The Speeches of Pius /AT.— which,
it would appear, were not read by
Mr. Gladstone until after he wrote
the Expostulation — have been by him
criticised in the Quarterly Review
uaoieffcifully and unfairly. He did
not take into consideration the cir-
ciuBstance that these speeches are
not elaborate orations, but are mere-
ly the unprepared, unstudied utter-
ances of a pontiff so aged as to be
termed by the reviewer himself a
" nonagenarian," borne down with
unparalleled afflictions, weighted
with innumerable cares, and oppress-
ed with frequent and at times se-
rious illnesses. The speeches them-
selves were not reported verbatim or
in extenso. No professional short-
hand writer attended when they
were delivered, and they were not
spoken with a view to their publi-
cation. But every word which
comes from the lips of Pius IX. is
precious to Catholics ; and as some
of these speeches were taken down
by various hands and appeared in
various periodicals, it was thought
proper to allow a collection of them
to be formed and published by an
ecclesiastic, Don Pasquale de Fran-
ciscis, who himself took notes of
the greater number of these Dis-
courses. This gentleman is describ-
ed by Mr. Gladstone as "an ac-
complished professor of flunkyism
in things spiritual," and one of the
" sycophants " about the Pope who
administer to His Holiness " an
adulation, not only excessive in its
degree, but of a kind which to an
unbiassed mind may seem to border
on profanity." Mr. Gladstone is
fond of insinuating that his own
mind is " unbiassed " or " dispas-
sionate," and that he would by no
means " import passion " into a con-
troversy where calm reasoning alone
is admissible. But, in point of fact,
as the Pall Mall Gazette has point-
ed out, he shows himself the bigoted
controversialist instead of the grave
statesman. Forgetting the genius
of the Italian people, and the differ-
ence between the warm and impul-
sive natives of the South and the
phlegmatic Anglo-Saxons; forget-
ting, mlso, the literary toadyism of
English writers not many years ago,
and the apparently profane adula-
152 Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
tion paid to British sovereigns, he
attacks Don Pasquale for calling
the book of the Pope's speeches " di-
vine,*' and accuses him of downright
blasphemy. Dr. Newman, in one
of his Lectures on the Present Posi-
tion of Catholics in England^ has
given an humorous account of the
way in which foreigners might be
induced to believe the laws and
constitution of England to be pro-
fane and blasphemous. This he
did by culling out a series of sen-
tences from Blackstone and others,
such as ^* the king can do no wrong,"
" the king never dies," he is " the
vicar of God on earth." Thus im-
peccability, immortality, and omni-
potence may be claimed for the
British monarch ! Moreover, the
subjects of James I. called him ** the
breath of their nostrils "; he himself,
according to Lord Clarendon, on
one occasion called himself " a
god "; Lord Bacon called him "some
sort of little god " ; Alexander Pope
and Addison termed Queen Anne
" a goddess," the words of the lat-
ter writer being : " Thee, goddess,
thee Britannia's isle adores." What
Dr. Newman did in good-humored
irony Mr. Gladstone docs in sober
and bitter earnest. He picks out
epithets here and there, tacking on
the expressions of one page to those
of another, and then flings the col-
lected epithets before his reader as
proof of Don Pasquale's profanity.
The temperament of Italians in
the present day may or may
not furnish a valid defence, in
respect to good taste, for Don Pas-
quale. But it is certain that the
phrases used by the latter, when
taken in their context and inter-
preted as any one familiar with
Italian ideas would interpret them,
afford slight basis for the i^ious
charge of profanity — a charge which
Mr. Gladstone urges not only by
the means already pointed out, but
by other means still more repre-
hensible, namely, by fastening on
Don Pasquale expressions which he
did not employ. Thus, at page 274
of the RevieWy Mr. Gladstone^ in
reference to the ** sufferings pre-
tended to be inflicted by the Ital-
ian kingdom upon the so-calW
prisoner of the Vatican," adds,
" Let us see how, and with what
daring misuse of Holy Scripture,
they are illustrated in the author-
ized volume before us. *Hc and
his august consort,' says Don Pas-
quale, speaking of the Comte and
Comtesse de Chambord, * were pro-
foundly moved at such great afflic-
tions which the Lamb of the Vati-
can has to endure.' " It seems, in
the flrst place, rather strained to
term the application of the word
** lamb" to Pius IX., or any other
person, a " daring misuse of Holy
Scripture." Many a man, when ex-
pressing pious hope under disaster,
exclaims, '* The Lord tempers the
wind to the shorn lamb," using or
misusing, as the case may be, not
the language of Holy Scripture, but
the words of the author of Tris-
tram Shanifyy to whose works, we
believe, the epithet " holy " is not
commonly applied. If Pius IX.
had been termed *'the lamb of
God," then indeed Holy Scripture
might have been used or misused ;
but the single word " lamb," even
in the phrase "lamb of the Vati-
can," is no more an allusion, pro-
fane or otherwise, to the GospeN
than it is to the Rev. Laurence
Sterne. In the second place, the
expression, be it proper or impro-
per, was not used by Don Pasquale.
Turning to volume ii. of the Dis-
corsiy page 545, as Mr. Gladstone
directs us, we find the words were
not employed by Don Pasquale, but
by the writer of an article in the
Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone* s Misrepresentations,
153
Umt2^ Caitoiiea/ Pages 545 and
546, the pages cited, contain a
notice of the presentation to the
Comte and Comtesse de Charobord
of the first volume of the Discorsi ;
for the article is dated in 1872, and
the second volume was not printed
until 1873. So that it appears the
naughty word was not only not
used by Don Pasquale, but did not
in reality form part of the " author-
ized volume," being merely found
in a newspaper extract inserted in
an appendix. In this same news-
paper extract the Comtesse de
Chambord is said to have called
the first volume of the Discorsi " a
continuation of the Gospels and the
Acts of the Apostles." This state-
ment rests on the authority of the
writer in the Unitdr Caitoiica^ but
is brought up in judgment not only
against Don Pasquale, but against
the Pope himself, who is held by
Mr. Gladstone to be responsible for
cveT3rthing stated either by Don
Pasquale in his preface or by any
other persons in the appendices to
the Discorsi /
Concerning the Pope, Mr. Glad-
stone, at page 299 of the Review^
thus writes: "Whether advisedly
or not, the Pontiff does not, except
once (vol. i. 204), apply the term
[infallible] to himself, but is in
other places content with alleging
his superiority, as has been shown
above, to an inspired prophet, and
with commending those who come
to bear his words as words pro-
ceeding from Jesus Christ (i.
335)." At page 268 of the Review
it is also said that Don Pasquale, in
his preface, p. 171 calls the voice of
Pius IX. ** the voice of God," and
that the Pope is " nature that pro-
tests " and ** God that condemns."
If, however, in order to test the
worth of these assertions of Mr.
(iladstone, we turn to the passages
he has cited, it will be discovered
that Pius IX. did not even onre
apply the term infallible to himself;
for he, in the passage cited, applied
it not to himself individually, but
to the infallible judgment [giudi-
zio infaJlibiie) in principles of revela-
tion, as contrasted with the author-
itative right of popes in general.
Nor did Pius IX. assert any ** su-
periority to an inspired prophet "
by saying {Review^ p. 276, Discorst^
vol. i. 366): "I have the right to
speak even more than Nathan the
prophet to David the king." The
right to speak upon a certain occa-
sion does not surely contain of
necessity an allegation of superiori-
ty nor imply a claim to inspiration !
Nor did Pius IX. commend " those
who came to hear his words as
words proceeding from Jesus
Christ " ; for he merely said, in reply
to a deputation : ** I answer witli
the church; and the church her-
self supplies to me the words in the
Gospel for this morning. You are
here, and have put forth your senti-
ments ; but you desire also to hear
the word of Jesus Christ as it issues
from the mouth of his Vicar." That
is to say : You shall have for an-
swer " the word of Jesus Christ " —
meaning this day's Gospel — spoken
by, or as it issues from, or which
proceeds (cheesce) out of, the mouth
of his Vicar. The words, " He is
nature that protests, he is God that
condemns," are evidently metapho-
rical expressions of the editor,
harmless enough ; for, as Pius IX.
cannot be both God and nature
literally, the metaphorical applica-
tion is apparent to the meanest
comprehension. It is true that
Don Pasquale, in his preface, page
16, ascribes to Pius IX. this lan-
guage : " This voice which now
sounds before you is the voice of
Him whom I represent on earth "
154 ^i^ I^' ^^ ^^' Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
(la VOCE di colui che im terra lo rap-
presento) ; but, turning to Don Pas-
quale's reference (vol. i. p. 299) to
verify the quotation, it is found
that the editor made a serious mis-
take, by which the entire character
of the passage was altered. The
Pope had just contrasted himself
(the vox clamantis de Vaticano) with
John the Baptist (the tHfx clamantis
in deserto). " Yes," he adds, '* I
may also call myself the Voice ; for,
although unworthy, I am yet the
Vicar of Christ, and this voice which
now sounds before you is the voice
of him who in earth represents
liim " (^ la voce di colui y che in terra lo
rappresenta). Don Pasquale impru-
dently put the word " voce " in cap-
ital letters, changed " lo " into
*' lo," and *' rappresenta " into
" rappresento." The Pope simply
said that his voice, as it cried from
the Vatican, was the voice of the
\'icar of Christ. And in the belief
of all Catholics so it is.
The charge of " truculence " is
brought against the Pope by Mr.
(Gladstone. " It is time to turn," he
says {Review,, p. 277), '* with what-
ever reluctance, to the truculent and
wrathful aspect which unhappily
prevails over every other in these
Discourses.** The first proof of
this " truculence " is, it seems, the
fact that the ^Uadres, or at least
the skeletons and relics of the old
papal government over the Roman
states, are elaborately and careful-
ly maintained.*' One would sup-
I)Ose that these cadres were main-
tained with the bloodthirsty inten-
tion of making war on Victor
Emanuel. But Mr. Gladstone does
not say so ; nay, he insinuates in a
foot-note that their maintenance is
for a purpose far from truculent.
** We have seen it stated from a
good quarter," so Mr. Gladstone
writes, " that no less than three
thousand persons, formerly in tKe
papal employment, now receive
some pension or pittance from ti^c
Vatican. Doubtless they are eac-
pected to be forthcoming on all
occasions of great deputations, £ts
they may be wanted, like the supers
and dummies at the theatres." It
appears from the Discorsi that tlie
Pope received in audience deputa-
tions from the persons formerly
in the papal employment on twen-
ty-one occasions, between Septem-
ber, 1870, and September, 1873. On
fourteen of these occasions the
impiegati were received on days
when no other deputations attended.
On the other occasions, althougli
other deputations were received on
the same days^ the ex-employees
were never mixed up with other
deputations, but were always placed
in separate rooms for audience.
Mr. Gladstone has not die least
ground for insinuating that these
unfortunate persons, who refused to
take the oath of allegiance to Vic-
tor Emanuel, and thereby forfeited
employment and pay, were ever
called upon like supers or dummies
to make a show at great deputa-
tions. If these ex-employees receive
pay from the Pope, it surely is no
proof of papal ** truculence." But
" none of these," so asserts Mr.
Gladstone {Revieuty p. 278), " ap-
pear at the Vatican as friends, co-
religionists, as receivers of the Pon-
ti^Ts alms, or in any character
which could be of doubtful inter-
pretation. They appear as being
actually and at the moment his
subjects and his military and civil
servants respectively, although only
in disponibUii^y or, so to speak, on
furlough; they are headed by the
proper leading functionaries, and
the Pope receives them as persons
come for the purpose of doing
homage to their sovereign." The
Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone s Misrepresentations.
155
references given for this somewhat
confused statement are pages %%
and 365 of volume i., where the
Pope very naturally speaks of " the
tldeUty shown by them to their
M>vereign," and of their "faith,
constancy, and attachment to re-
ligion, to God, and to the Vicar of
Jesus Christ, their sovereign." It
was in consequence of the intro-
duction by Victor Emanuel, into
the several government departments
in Rome, of an oath of allegiance
10 the head of the state— -an oath
not demanded previously under the
Papal rule — that these i/npiegati re-
signed their situations, their con-
sciences not permitting them to take
iheoath. It was no wonder, then, that
Pius IX. should notice their fidelity
to himself. But he makes no asser-
tion whatever to the effect that these
rtvil and military servants are mere-
Ir on furlbugh or in disponidilitd,
I'hat they do appear as pensioners
i*n the bounty of Pius IX. may be
proved, in spite of Mr. Gladstone's
denial, by reference to the Discorsiy
Ji pages 38, 50, 99, 182, 235, 308,
460, and 472 of volume i. and pages
2S' J^t and 122 of volume ii. It
cannot be expected that we should
quote all these passages at length,
but we will quote a few of them,
fhe ex-civil servants, on 13th July,
I &7 2, approached His Holiness to ex-
press ^ their sincere devotion and
gratitude for what he had done for
their sustentation and comfort un-
der most distressing circumstances."
11k police officials, seven days after-
wards, were introduced by Mgr.
lUndi ; and one of them, the Mar-
(uis Pio Capranica, read an address,
in which the persons whom Mr.
(iladstone calls *' the scum of the
r»rth •• (RevieWy p. 278) thank the
l*ope for extending to them and
iheir "* families his fatherly munifi-
cence." On the 27th of Decem-
ber, 187 1, the ex-military officials,
through Gen. Kanzler, laid at the
foot of the Pope their protestations
of unalterable fidelity, their prayers
for the prolongation of his life, and
their gratitude for his generosity in
alleviating the distress and misery
of many families of his former
soldiers. But perhaps the " trucu-
lence " of Pius IX. may be discover-
ed, if not in his con: passion and
generosity to his ex-servants, at
least in his admonitions to them to
furbish up their arms and keep
their powder dry. Mr. Gladstone
asserts {RnieWy p. 297) that "blood
and iron " are " in contemplation
at the Vatican." " No careful
reader of this authoritative book
(the Speeches) can doubt that these
are the means by which the great
Christian pastor contemplates and
asks — ay, asks as one who should
think himself entitled to command —
the re-establishment of his power
in Rome." Now, the Pope can
ask or command this "blood and
iron " assistance from none so well
as from his ex-soldiers, and from
the civil and military officials still
loyal to their chief It happens,
however, that no " careful reader "
of the Pope's speeches to his former
soldiers or servants can discover a
trace of this ** truculent " purpose
of His Holiness. He rarely men-
tions a weapon ; but when he does,
it is to remind his audience (as at
p. 197, vol. i.) that " we must not
combat with material weapons, but
spiritually — that is to say, with unit-
ed prayers." He reminds some
young soldiers (vol. i. p. 69) that
" prayer is the terrible weapon for
use specially in the actual grievous
condition of affairs, by which
weapon alone can the complete
triumph of the church and religion
be obtained." When he would
place before some of his faithful
158
Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone's Misrepresentations.
which no one gives heed* They
beg, that is, every pretext, even the
most frivolous and the furthest frora
truth, provided it be suited to give
us annoyance and to excite princes
against the church. Some persons
wished that I should explain and
make more clear the conciliar defi-
nition. This I will not do. It is
clear in itself, and has no need of
further comments and explanations.
Its true sense presents itself easily
and obviously to whoever reads the
decree with a dispassionate mind.'*
Doubtless the deposing power is
one of the " rusty tools " which
Rome, according to Mr. Gladstone,
has " refurbished and paraded
anew." But what man with a dis-
passionate mind can read the au-
thentic version of the words put
by Mr. Gladstone incorrectly before
the public without coming to the
conclusion that the " refurbishing
and parading anew " of the deposing
power is altogether a creation of
Mr. Gladstone's " brain-power,"
and that Pius IX., so far from show-
ing a disposition to employ again
" the rusty tool," actually manifests
an intention to undervalue it and
lay it aside ? Some persons would
** refurbish " up the deposing pow-
er by connecting it with infallibil-
ity, and the Pope denounces their
attempt as absurd and malicious.
The abstract right of pontiffs to de-
pose princes and release subjects
from allegiance is referred by Pius
JX. not to the infallibility which
would give it new lustre, but to the
pontifical authority, which in old-
en time was strong and powerful,
but which at present is scarcely re-
cognized by the kingdoms of the
world. The exercise of this right
is delicately touched upon, in such
a way as to suggest not the least
disposition to resume the right by
putting it in practice^ It was in*
deed " sometimes, ia extreme cir-
cumstances " — tahxdta in supreme
circosUMXc-^xercistd by popes in
those times when the pontiff was
acknowledged " the Supreme Judge
of Christianity," and when the Holy
See, by the common consent of na-
tions, was the tribunal to which ap-
peal was made in the great con-
tests of sovereigns and nations.
Then indeed this right was extend-
ed to ** the gravest interests of na-
tions and of rulers " ; but now all is
different—" aflatto diverse." So far
from " parading anew " the abstract
right, and " furbishing " it up for
present use, the Holy Father indig-
nantly repudiates the malicious al-
legation by declaring that the
right itself was but seldom exer-
cised in ancient times, and then
only under special conditions such
as are not likely to be found in
modern days. " Hypotheses " may
of course be imagined by those who
wish " to give annoyance and ex-
cite princes against the church.'*
But these "hypotheses," as the
Pope remarks, are not serious. No
one pays heed or attention to them.
They are " ipotesi, alle quali niuno
pensa." The limits of the obedi-
ence of subjects to sovereigns are
clearly set forth by Pius IX. in his
address to an Austrian deputation
on the 1 8th of June, 1871. " Sub-
mission and respect to authority
are the principal duties of truly good
subjects. But at the same time I
must remind you," says the Pope,
"that your obedience and fidelity
have a limit to be observed. Be
faithful to the sovereign whom God
has given to you, and obey the laws
which govern yop ; but when neces-
sity calls, let your obedience and
fidelity not advance beyond, but
be arrested at, the steps of the al-
tar." You have "duties to the
taws as subjects, and to your con-
Tlie Bath of the Golden Robin. 1 59
«iences as Christians." "Unite ployed in the consistorial ^^proces-
these duties well, and let your jwj" for the appointment of a bishop
supreme rule be the holy law of to a diocese in which heretics
God and his church/' The state usurped the churches and impeded
of mind of that man who can find the profession and practice of true
nothing in the Speeches of Pius IX, religion : Illius status potius est de-
sare matter for ridicule, sarcasm, plorandus quam recensendus — It is a
2nd invective is not to be envied, condition which is rather to be de-
It reminds .one of the phrase em- plored than described.
THE BATH OF THE GOLDEN ROBIN.
The sun beams over Laurelside
To Ana-lo-mink water,
And nature smiles in rural pride
At all the gifts he brought her.
The merry greenwood branches hold
More cheer than castle's rafter,
The gurgling river ne'er is old
With sly and mellow laughter.
How welcome is the soothing sound
Of mingling water speeding
O'er pebbly bed with laugh and bound,
Through wooded banks receding !
Ah ! pleasant 'tis to close one's eyes.
And let the murmurous measure
With liquid tones of gay surprise
Fill up the fancy's pleasure.
But ere my hooded eyes could wake
Sweet fancy's happy scheming,
Came Robin Oriole to break
My sleepless, dulcet dreaming.
For Rob outshines the glowing day,
And in the sun's dominions
Seems like a ball of fire at play
On elfin sable pinions.
f 6c The Bath of the Golden Robin.
He glints the orchard's dropping dew,
Illumes the maple's mazes,
Dispels the pine-shade passing through,
And in the sunshine blazes !
And sweeping to a mossy bank,
The wings the flame deliver
Where fern-encloister'd pebbles flank
An eddy from the river.
Here, by the stxeam-indented path.
As master Rob did spy it.
Thought he, What chance for Sunday bath !
So tempting, cool, and quiet.
He quaintly eyed the little pool.
And hopt so self-confiding,
And peek'd around, like boy from school.
To see none near were hiding.
Then, listening, seem'd to mark the tone
Made by the eddies' patter ;
But bravely sprang upon a stone,
And plunged with splash and spatter.
The bath came only to his knees.
But, ducking as he flutters,
Against his throat the water sprees.
And round his body sputters.
It leapt in bubbles, as his crest
And wings were merrily toiling ;
You'd think his rufiled, fiery breast
Had set the water boiling.
He stopt short in his merry ways
As coy as any lady.
And, flutt'ring, sent a diamond haze
Around his bath so shady.
Then popt out on the olive moss
So softly deep and luscious ;
Then skimm'd the blue-eyed flow'rs across,
And perch'd within the bushes.
The Bath of the Gotdem Robin. i6i
He perk'd his head like dandy prig,
Now feeling fine and fresher ;
And took the air upon a twig,
That scarcely felt his pressure.
Full suddenly he scann*d his shank.
As though he had not reckon 'd
One dip enough, flew to the bank.
And gayly took a second I
Oh ! how the jolly fellpw dashed
The little waves asunder !
Dove in his head and breast, and splashed
His pinion -feathers under.
Then standing up, as though to rest,
He looked around discreetly ;
Again with zest the pool caress'd,
And made his bath completely.
Out hopt he where the sun-fed breeze
Came streamward warmly tender —
A brilliant prince of Atomies
Amid this mountain splendor.
Oh, balmy is the mountain air
Of May with sunlight in it !
And blest is he from town-wrought care
Who can in greenwood win it.
But sun on Robin's radiant coat,
All drench'd, he fear'd might spoil it,
So to an alder grove did float
To make his feathery toilet
I
He pick'd his wings and smoothed his neck,
Arranged his vest's carnation,
And flew out without stain or speck
To dazzle all creation !
TOL. XXI.— II
l62
Are You My Wife?
ARE YOU MY WIFE ?
; AUTHOK or ** A lALOM Ot PASS BBFOKB TSB WAS«" ^ HiniHat
CHAPTER IV.
' nOS ▼!., WT^
" Here you are, you naughty lit-
tle maiden, gadding about the
country when I want you to be at
home to talk to roe !" exclainmd
Sir Simon, as Franceline burst into
the cottage full of her little adven-
ture. " Where have you been all
this time ?"
" Only to see Miss Merrywig,
and then I came home by the
fields."
'* And was any poor mortal lucky
enough to meet you coming through
the rye ?" inquired Sir Simon face-
tiously.
Franceline didn't see the point a
bit ; but she blushed as if she did,
and Sir Simon was not the man to
let her off.
" Oh ! so that's it, is it ? Come,
now, and tell me all about it," he
said, drawing her to a low seat be-
side his arm-chair, the only one in
the establishment, and which his
host always insisted on his taking.
" You must let me into the secret ;
it's very shabby of you to have got
one without consulting me. Who
is he, and where did you .meet
him.V'
" One is Mr. Aarlton," replied
Franceline naively; "but I don't
know who the other is. I never saw
him before. Tell me who he is,
monsieur.^"
" Tell you ! Well, upon my
word, you are a pretty flirt ! You
don't even know his name ! A
very nice young lady !"
" Is he a Frenchman, monsieui >
I think he must be from the way
he bowed. Is he a friend of yours .^
Nobody else knows Frenchmen
here but you. Do tell me who he
is."
" He's not a Frenchman," said
Sir Simon, "and he'll never for-
give you for mistaking him for one,
I can tell you. If you were a man,
he would run you through the
body for it just as soon as he'd
look at you!"
"Mon Dieu!" cried Franceline,
opening her eyes wide with wonder,
"then I don't care to know any
more about him. I hope I shall
never see him again."
" Yes, but you shall, though, and
I'll take care to tell him," declared
Sir Simon.
"What is it? What is it.>" called
out M. de la Bourbonais, looking
up from a letter that he was writing
against time to catch the post.
"What are you both quarrelling
about again ?"
"Petit p^re, monsieur is so un-
kind and so disagreeable !"
**And Mile. Franceline is so
cruel and so inquisitive !"
"He won't tell roe who that
strange gentleman is, petit p^re.
Canst thou tell me ?"
" Oh ! ho ! I thought we didn't
care to know !" laughed Sir Simon
with a mischievous look.
"Tell me, petit p^re !" said
Franceline, ignoring her tormentor's
taunt ; and going up to her father,
she laid her head coaxingly against
his.
He looked at her for a monent
Are You My Wife?
163
with 1 strange expression, and then
said, half speaking to himself, while
be stroked her hair, " What can
il matter to thee ? What is one
strange face more or less to thee
or me?" Then turning to Sir
SiiBOD, who was enjoying the sight
of the young girl's innocent curi-
osity, and perhaps revolving possi-
ble eventualities in his buoyant
mind, the co\int said, " Who is it,
Harness?"
" How do I know ?" retorted his
friend. ** A strange gentleman that
bows like a Frenchman is not a
\ery lucid indication."
**I met him coming out of your
gale, walking with Mr. Charlton,"
ciplaincd Franceline. " He's taller
than Mr. Charlton — as tall as you,
monsieur — and he wore a moustache
like a Frenchman. I never saw any
ooe like him in England."
Fraoceline's recollections of
France were mostly rather dim,
but, like the memories of child-
hood, those that survived were very
vi?id.
""M he must be a Frenchman,
1 can make nothing out of it," said
Sir SimOD.
**Vayons, Harness," laughed the
tounl, ** don't be too unmerciful!
Curiosity in a woman once led to
terrible consequences."
"Well, I'll tell you who he is
In fact, I came here to-day on pur
pose to tell you, and to ask when I
could bring him to see you. He's
the nephew of my old school-chum,
lie Wioton, a very nice fellow, but
not the least like a Frenchman,
whatever his bow and his mous-
tache may say to the contrary. "
** Do you mean Clide De Winton,
the poor young fellow who . . . ?"
** Precisely," replied Sir Simon ;
'^hc's been a rover on the face of
the earth for the last eight or nine
years. This is the first time I've
seen him since I said good-by to
him on the steamer at Marseilles,
and met you on my way back.
He's been all over the world since
then, I believe. You'll find he has
plenty to say for himself, and his
French is number one."
"And the admiral — is he with
him ? " inquired Raymond.
" I'm expecting him down to-
morrow, rtow long is it since you
saw him ?"
" H^ ! ... let us not count the
years, nion cher! We were all
young then."
" We're all young now," protest-
ed the hearty baronet. "Men of
our time of life never grow old;
it's only these young ones that can
afford that sort of thing," nodding
toward Franceline, who, since she
found her Frenchman was no
Frenchman, appeared to have lost
all interest in him, and was busily
tidying her father's table. " As to
the admiral, he's younger than ever
he was. By the way, I don't intend
to let him cut me out with a certain
young lady ; so let me see no flirta-
tion in that quarter. I'll not stand
it. Do you hear me. Miss France-
line'**
"Yes," was the laconic rejoin
der, and she went on fixing some
loose papers in a letter-press.
" Yes, Monsieur le Comte is at
home ; but, as monsieur knows, he
never likes to be^isturbed at this
hour," replied A^^lique, who was
knitting the family stockings in the
wee summer-house at the end of
the garden.
" Oh! I'll answer for it he won't
mind being disturbed this time,"
said Sir Simon. " Tell him it's his
old friend, the admiral, who wants
to see him."
Before Ang^lique had got her
needles under way and risen, a
i64
Are You My Wife?
cry of jubilant welcome sounded
from the closed shutters of the
little room where the count was
hard at work in the dark. " Mon
cher De Vinton I how it rejoices
me to embrace you." And the
Frenchman was in his friend's arms
in a minute. ** My good Ang6-
lique, this is one of our oldest
friends I Where is mademoiselle ?
Fetch her on the instant I Mon
cher De Vinton *"
The four gentlemen — for Glide
was there — went laughing and shak-
ing hands into the house, and
groped their way as best they could
into Raymond's study. He had
the sensible foreign habit of keeping
the shutters closed to exclude the
heat, and the admiral nearly fell
over a 'stool in scrambling for a
chair.
** My dear Bourbonais, we're none
of us bats, and darkness isn't a help
to the flow of soul," said Sir Simon ;
" so, by your leave, I'll throw a
little light on the subject." And
he pushed back the shutter.
Before their eyes had recovered
the blinding shock of the light
coming suddenly on the darkness,
a light foot was pattering down the
stairs, and Franceline glided into
the room. The effect was very
much as if a lily had sprouted up
from the carpet. An involuntary
" God bless my soul !" broke from
the admiral, and Glide started to
his feet. " My daughter, mes-
sieurs," said M. ere la Bourbonais,
with a sudden touch of the courtier
in his manner, as he took her by
the hand, and presented her to
them both. Franceline bowed to
the young man, and held out her
hand to the elder one. The admi-
ral, with an unwonted impulse of
gallantry, raised it to his lips, and
then held it in both his own, looking
steadily into her face with an open
stare of fatherly admiration. He
had seen many lovely women in his
day, and, if report spoke true, the
brave sailor had been a very fair
judge of the charms of the gentler
sex ; but he had never seen any-
thing the least like this. Perhaps it
was the unexpected contrast of the
picture with the frame that took:
him so much by surprise and height-
ened the effect ; but, whatever it was,
he was completely taken aback, and
stood looking at it speechless and
bewildered.
" Do you mean to tell me that
this wild rose belongs to him /" he
said at last, addressing himself to
Sir Simon, and with an aggressive
nod at Raymond, as if he suspected
him of having pilfered the article
in question, and were prepared to
do battle for the rightful owner.
" He says so," averred the baro-
net cautiously.
" He may say what he likes,"
declared the admiral, " my belief is
that he purloined it out of some
fairy's garden."
" And my belief is that you pur-
loined that!" snubbed Sir Si-
mon. ** You never had as much
poetry in you as would inspire a
fiy; had he, Glide .J»"
Raymond rubbed his spectacles,
and put them on again — his usual
way of disposing of an awkward
situation, ^nd which just now help-
ed to conceal the twinkle of inno-
cent paternal vanity that was danc-
ing in his gray eyes.
*' No, you usedn't to be much of
a poet when I knew you, De Vin-
ton," he said.
" No more he is now," asserted
the baronet. "^Vhat do you say,
Glide V
" The most prosaic of us may be-
come poets under a certain pres-
sure of inspiration," replied the
young man, with an impercepible
Are You My Wife?
I6S
movement of his head in the direc-
tion of Franceline, who blushed
under the speech just enough to
justify the adrairal's wild-rose
simile. She drew her hand laugh-
ingly away from his, and then, when
everybody had found a seat, she
pushed her favorite low stool close
to her father's chair, and sat down
by his knee.
The friends had a great deal to
say to each other, although the
presence of Glide and Sir Simon
prevented their touching on cer^
tain episodes of the past that were
brought vividly to Raymond's mind
by the presence of one whom he
had not seen since they had taken
place. This kept all painful sub-
jects in the background ; and in
spite of a wistful look in Raymond's
eyes, as if the sailor's weather-
beaten face were calling up the
ghost of by-gone days-r-joys that
had lived their span and died, and
sorrow that was not dead, but sleep-
ing — he kept up the flow of conver-
sation with great animation. Mean-
while, the two young people were
pushed rather outside the circle.
Glide, instead of entering on a tite-
i'trte, as it was clearly his right and
his duty to do, kept holding on by
the fringe of his uncle's talk, feign-
ing to be deeply interested in it,
while all the time he was thinking
of something else, longing to go
and sit by Franceline, and talk to
her. It was not shyness that kept
him back. That infirmity of early
youth had left him, with oth^r out-
ward signs of boyhood. The fea-
tures had lost their boyish expres-
sion, and matured into that of the
man of the world, who had seen life
and observed things by the road
with shrewd eyes and a mind that
had learned to think. Glide had
ripened prematurely within the
last eight years, as men do who
are put to school to a gre'at sorrow.
He and liis monitress had, not part-
ed company, but they had grown
used to each other. Sometimes he
reproached himself for this with a
certain bitterness. It seemed like
treason to have forgotten ; to have
put his grief aside, railed it off, as
it were, from his life, like a grave
to be visited at stated times, and
kept trimmed with flowers that
were no longer watered with tears.
He accused himself of being too
weak to hold his sorrow, of having
let it go from want of strength to
keep it. Enduring grief, like endur-
ing love, must have a strong, rich
soil to feed upon. The thing we
mourn, like the thing we love, may
contain in itself all good and beauty
and endless claims upon our con-
stancy ; but we may fail in power
to answer them. The demand may
be too great for the scanty measure
of our supply. It is harder to be
faithful in sorrow than in love.
Glide had realized this, and he
could never think of it without a
pang. Yet he was not to blame.
What he had loved and mourned
was only a mirage, a will-o'-the
wisp, the ideal creation of his own
trusting heart and generous imagina-
tion. He was angry with himself
because the thunderbolt that had
fallen in his Garden of Eden, and
burnt up the leaves of his tree of
life, had not toni it up by the roots
and killed it. ($txx lives have deep-
er roots than we know. Even when
they are torn quite up we some-
times plant them again, and they
grow afresh, striking their fibres
deeper than before, and bringing
forth richer fruit. But we refuse
to believe this until we have tasted
of the fruit. Glide sat apparently
listening to the cheery, affectionate
talk of his uncle and Raymond ; but
he was all the while listening to
i66
Are You My Wifef
his own thoughts. What was there
in the sight of this ivory-browed,
mystic-looking maiden to call up
so vividly another face so utterly
different from it ? Why did he hear
the sea booming its dirge like a
reproach to him from that lonely
grave at St. Valery, as if he were
wronging or wounding the dead by
resting his eyes on Franceline?
Yet, in spite of the reproach, he
could not keep them averted. Her
father sometimes called her Clair
de June, It was not an inappropriate
name ; there was something of the
cold, pure light of the moon in her
transparent pallor, and in the sha-
dows of her eyes under the long,
black lashes that lent them such a
soft fascination. Glide thought so,
as he watched her; cold as the
face might be, it was stirring his
pulse and making his heart beat as
he never thought to feel them stir
and beat again.
" Are ces messieurs going to stay
for supper?" said Ang^lique, put-
ting her nut-brown face in at the
door. " Because, if they are, I must
know in time to get ready."
" Why, Ang^lique, I never knew
you want more than five minutes to
prepare the best omelette soufflee I
ever get anywhere out of the Palais
Royal !** said Sir Simon.
"Ah ! monsieur mocks me," said
Ang^lique, who was so elated
by this public recognition of her
omelet talent thU if Sir Simon
was not embraced by the nut-
brown face on the spot, it was one
of those hair-breadth escapes that
our lives are full of, and we never
give thanks for because we never
know of them. " Persuade De
Vinton and our young friend here to
stop and test it, then !" exclaimed
M. de la Bourbonais, holding out
both hands to the admiral in his
genial, impulsive way. " The garden
is our salU-h-niat^er in this hot
weather, so there is plenty of room."
There was something irresistible in
the simplicity and cordiality of
the offer, and the admiral was about
to say he would be delighted, when
Sir Simon put in his veto : " No, no,
not this evening. You must come
and dine with us, Bourbonais; I
want you up at the house this even-
ing. But the invitation will keep.
We'll not let Ang^lique off her ome-
lette soufflSe ; we'll come and attack
it to-morrow, if these rovers don't
bolt, as tliey threaten to do."
And so the conference was bro-
ken up, and Raymond accompanied
his guests to the garden-gate, pro-
mising to follow them in half an
hour.
It was a rare event for M. de la
Bourbonais to dine at DuUerton
Court ; he disliked accepting its
grand-seignior hospitality, and when-
ever he consented it was understood
there should be nobody to meet
him. " I have grown as unsocial
as a bear from long habit, mon
cher," he would be sure to say
every time Sir Simon bore down on
him with an invitation. "I shall
turn into a mollusk by-and-by.
How completely we are the crea-
tures of habit !" To which Sir
Simon would invariably reply with
his Johnsonian maxim : " You should
struggle against that sort of thing,
Bourbonais, and overcome it "; and
Raymond would smile, and agree
with hkn. He was too gentle and
too thoroughbred to taunt his friend
with not following it himself, which
he might have done with bitter
truth. Sir Simon was tire slave of
habits and of weaknesses that it was
far more necessary to struggle against
than Raymond's harmless little
foibles. There are some men who
spend one-half of their lives in
cheating others, and the other half
Are You My Wife t
167
in trying to cheat themselves. Sir
Simon Harness was one of these.
Cheating is perhaps a hard word to
apply to his efforts to keep up a
delusion which had grown so en-
tirely his master that he could
scarcely see where the substance
ended and where the shadow began.
Vet his whole life at present was a
cheat. He had the reputation of
being the largest land-owner and
the wealthiest man in that end of
the county, and he was, in reality,
one of the poorest. The grand aim
of his existence was to live up to
this false appearance, and prevent
the truth from coming out. It
would be a difficult and useless un-
dertaking to examine how far he was
originally to blame for the state of
active falsehood into which he and
hb circumstances had fallen. There
is no doubt that his father was to
blame in the first instance. He
had been a very splendid old gen-
tleman, Sir Alexander Harness, and
had lived splendidly and died
heavily in debt, leaving the estate
considerably mortgaged. He had
not been more than twenty years
dead at the time I speak of, so that
his son, in coming into possession,
found himself saddled with the
paternal debts, and with the con-
firmed extravagant habits of a life-
time. This made the sacrifices
which the payment of those debts
necessitated seem a matter of simple
impossibility to him. The only
thing to be done was to let the
Court for a term of years, send away
the troops of misnaiped servants
that encumbered the place, sell
off the stud, and betake himself
to the Continent and economize.
Thus he would have paid off his
incumbrances, ana come back in-
dependent and easy in his mind.
Bat, unluckily, strong measures of
this sort did not lie at all in Sir
Simon's way. He talked abou
going abroad, and had some indefi-
nite notion of " pulling in. " He did
run off to Paris and other continen-
tal places very frequently ; but as he
travelled with a courier and a valet,
and with all the expenses insepara-
ble from those adjuncts, the excur-
sions did not contribute much to-
wards the desired result. Things
went on at the Court in the old
way ; the same staff of servants was
kept up ; the same number of para-
sites who, under pretence of pay-
ment for some small debt, had lived
in the Court for years, until they
came to consider they had a vested
life-interest in the property, were
allowed to hang on. The new mas-
ter of Dullerton was loath to do
sucli a shabby thing as to turn them
out ; and they were sure to die off
after a while. Then there was the
stud, which Sir Alexander had been
so proud of. It had been a terrible
expense to set it up, but, being up, it
was ^a pity to let it down ; when
things were going, they had a way
of keeping themselves going. There
had always been open house at the
Court from time immemorial. In
the shooting season people had
come down, as a matter of course,
and enjoyed the jovial hospitalities
of the old squire ever since Duller-
ton had belonged to him. While his
son was there he could not possibly
break through these old habits;
they were as saMed as the family
traditions. By-aiia-by, when he saw
his way to shutting up the place
and going abroad, it might be man-
aged. Meanwhile, the old debts
were accumulating, and new ones
were growing, and Sir Simon was
beginning less than ever to see his
way to setting things right. If that
tough old Lady Rebecca Harness,
his step-mother, would but take
herself to a better world, and leave
I68
Are You My Wife?
him that fifty thousand pounds that
reverted to him at her demise, it
would be a great mercy. But Lady
Rebecca evidently was in no hurry
to try whether there was any plea-
santer place than this best of all pos-
sible worlds, and, in spite of her
seventy years, was as hale as a wo-
man of forty. This was a trying
state of things to the light-temper-
ed, open-handed baronet ; but the
greatest trial to him was the fear in
which he lived of being found out.
He was at heart an upright man.
And it was his pride that men look-
ed up* to him as one whose charac-
ter and principles were, like Caesar's
wife, above suspicion. He had
lived up to this reputation so far ;
but he was conscious of a growing
fear that with the increase of diffi-
culties there was stealing on him a
lessening of the fine moral sense
that had hitherto supported him
under many temptations. His em-
barrassments were creating a sort of
mental fog around him ; he was be-
ginning to wonder whether his theo-
ries about honesty were quite where
they used to be, and whether he
was not getting on the other side
of the border-line between con-
science and expediency. Outside
it was still all fair ; he was the most
popular man in the county, a capi-
tal landlord — in fact, everybody's
friend but his own. The only per-
son, except the family lawyer, who
was allowed to ^ok at the other
side of the picture, was M. de la
Bourbonais. Sir Simon was too
sympathetic himself not to feel the
need of sympathy. He must occa-
sionally complain of his hard fate to
some one, so he complained to Ray-
mond. But Raymond, while he
gave him his sincerest sympathy,
was very far from realizing the ex-
tent of the troubles that called it
forth. The baronet bemoaned him-
self in a vague manner, denouncing
people and things in a general sweep
every now and then ; but between
times he was as gay and contented
as a man could be, and Raymond
knew far too little of the ways
of the world and of human nature
to reconcile these conflicting evi-
dences, and deduce from them the
facts they represented. He couM
not apprehend the anomaly of a
sane man, and a man of honor, be-
having like a lunatic and a swind-
ler ; spending treble his income in
vanity and superfluity, and for no
better purpose than an empty bub-
ble of popularity and vexation of
spirit. Of late, however, he had
once or twice gained a glimpse into
the mystery, and it had given him
a sharp pang, which Sir Simon no
sooner perceived than he hastened
to dispel by treating his lamenta-
tions as mere irritability of temper,
assuring Raymond they meant no-
thing. But there was still an un-
easy feeling in the latter's mind.
It was chiefly painful to him for
Sir Simon's sake, but it made him
a little uncomfortable on his own
account. With Raymond's puncti-
lious notions of integrity, the man
who connived at wrong-doing, or
in the remotest way participated in
it, was only a degree less culpable
than the actual wrong-doer; and if
Sir Simon had come to the point of
being hard up for a fifty-pound note
to meet a pressing bill, it was very
unprincipled of him to be giving
dinners with Johannisberg and To-
kay at twenty shillings a bottle, and
very wrong of his friei\ds to aid and
abet him in such extravagance. One
day Sir Simon came in with a cloud-
ed brow to unburden himself about
a fellow who had the insolence to
write for the seventh time, demand-
ing the payment of his " little bill,"
and, after a vehement tirade, wound
Are You My Wifef
169
up by asking Raymond to go back
and dine with him. " We'll have
up a bottle of your favorite Chdteau
Margaux, and drink confusion to the
duns and the speedy extermination
of the race," said the baronet.
"Come and cheer a fellow up, old
boy ; nothing clears away the blue
devils like discussing one's worries
over a good glass of claret." Ray-
mond fought off, first on the old
plea that he hated going out, etc. ;
but, finding this would not do, he
confessed the truth. He hinted del-
icately that he did not feel justified
in allowing his friend to go to any
expense on his account. The inno-
cence and infantine simplicity of
this avowal sent Sir Simon into
such a hearty fit of laughter that
Raymond felt rather ashamed of
himself, and began to apologize
profusely for being so stupid and
having misunderstood, etc., and de-
clared he would go and drink the
bottle of Chiteau Margaux all to
himself. But after this Sir Simon
was more reticent about his embar-
rassments ; and as things went on at
the Court in the old, smooth, magnifi-
ctnt way, M. de la Bourbonais began
to think it was all right, and that his
friend's want of money must have
been a mere temporary inconven-
ience. In fact, he began to doubt
this evening whether it was not all
a dream of his that Sir Simon had
ever talked of being "hard up."
When he entered the noble dining-
room and looked around him, it
was difficult to believe otherwise.
Massive silver and costly crystal
sparkled and flashed under a
shower of light from the antique
branching chandelier ; wax-lights
clustered on the walls amidst sol-
finn Rembrandt heads, and fascin-
ating Reynoldses, and wild Salvator
Rosas, and tender Claudes, and
Knoy Canalettos. It was not in
nature that the owner 01 all this
wealth and splendor should know
what it was to be in want of money.
Sir Simon, moreover, was in his ele-
ment; and it would have puzzled
a spectator more versed than Ray-
mond in the complex mechanism
of the human heart to believe that
the brilliant host who was doing
the honors of his house so delight-
fully had a canker gnawing at his
vitals. He rattled away with the
buoyant spirits of five-and-twenty ;
he was brimful of anecdote, and
bright with repartee. He drew
every one else out. This was what
made him so irresistibly charming
in society ; it was not only that he
shone himself, but he had a knack
of making other people shine. He
made the admiral tell stories of his
seafaring life, he drew out Clide
about Afghanistan, and spirited M. .
de la Bourbonais into a quarrel
with him about the dates of the
Pyramids ; never flagging for a mo-
ment, never prosing, but vaulting
lightly from one subject to another,
and all the while leaving his guests
under the impression that they were
entertaining him rather than he
them, and that he was admiring
them a vast deal more than he ad-
mired himself. A most delightful
host Sir Simon was.
" Nothing cheers a man up like
the sight of an old friend ! Eh, De
Winton?" he exclaimed, falling
back in his chptir, with a thumb
thrust into each waistcoat pocket,
and his feet stretched out to their
full length under the mahogany,
the picture of luxury, hospitality,
and content.
" Much you know about it !"
grunted the admiral, filling his glass
— ** a man that never wanted to be
cheered up in his life !"
Sir Simon threw back his head
and laughed. It was wine to him
I70
Are You My Wife?
to be rated such a good fellow by his
old college chum.
They kept it up till eleven o'clock,
puffing their cigars on the terrace,
where the soft summer moon was
shining beautifully on the fawns
playing under the silver spray of
the fountain.
" ril walk home with you, Ray-
mond," said Sir Simon when the
chime of the stable-clock reminded
the count that it was time for him
to go.
It was about ten minutes' walk to
The Lilies through the park ; but as
the night was so lovely, the baronet
proposed they should take the long-
er way by the road, and see the
river by moonlight. They walked
on for a while without speaking.
Raymond was enjoying the beauty
of the scene, the gold of the fields
and the green of the meadows, all
shining alike in silver, the identity
of the trees and flowers merged in
uniform radiancy ; he fancied his
companion was admiring it too, until
the latter broke the spell by an un-
expected exclamation : " What an
infernal bore money is, my dear fel-
low ! I mean the want of it."
" Mon Dieu !" was the count's
astonished comment. And as Sir
Simon said nothing more, he looked
up at him uneasily : " I thought
things had come all right again,
mon cher V*
" They never were right ; that's
the deuce of it. If I'd found them
right, I wouldn't have been such an
ass as to put them wrong. A man
needn't be a saint or a philosopher
to keep within an income of ten
thousand pounds a year ; the diffi-
culty is to live up to the name of it
when you haven't got more than
the fifth in reality. A man's life
isn't worth a year's purchase with
the worry these rascally fellows give
one — a set of low scoundrels tjiat
would suck your vitals with all the
pleasure in life, just because you
happen to be a.gentleman. Here's
that architect fellow that ran up'
those stables last year, blustering
and blowing about his miseral;>le
twelve hundred pounds as if it was
the price of a cathedral ! I told
the fellow he'd have to wait for his
money, and of course he was all
readiness and civility, anything to
secure the job; and it's no sooner
done than he's down on me with a
hue-and-cry. He must have his
money, forsooth, or else he'll be
driven to the painful necessity of
applying through his man of busi-
ness. A fellow of his kind threat-
ening me with his man of business !
The impertinence of his having a
man of business at all ! But I dare
say it's a piece of braggadocio ; he
thinks he'll frighten the money out
of me by giving himself airs and
talking big. I'll see the scoundrel
further ! There's no standing the
impudence of that class nowadays.
Something must be done to check
it. It's a disgrace to the country to
see the v/ay they're taking the up-
per hand and riding rough-shod
over us. And mark ray words if
the country doesn't live to regret
it ! We landed proprietors are the
bulwark of the state; and if they
let us be sent to the wall, they had
better look to their own moorings.
Mark my words, Bourbonais !"
Bourbonuis was marking his
words, but he was too bewilder-
ed to make any sense out of
them. ** I agree with you, mon
cher, the lower orders are becoming
the upper ones in many ways ; but
what does that prove V*
" Prove ! It proves there's some-
thing rotten in the state of Den-
mark !" retorted Sir Simon.
** But how does that affect the
case in question? I mean what
Are You My Wtfef
171
has it to do with this architect's
biU ?"
*• It has this to do with it : that
if this fellow's father had attempted
ihc same impertinence with my
father, he'd have been sent to the
right-about ; whereas he may insult
me, not only with impunity, but
with effect ! That's what it has to
do with it. Public opinion has
changed sides since my father lived
like a gentleman, and snapped* his
lingers at these parasites that live
by socking our blood."
Raymond knew that when Sir
Simon got on the subject of the
** lower " orders and their iniquities,
there was nothing for it but to give
him his head, and wait patiently
till he pulled up of his own accord.
VVlien at last the baronet drew
breath, and was willing to listen,
he brought him back to the point,
and asked what he meant to do
about the twelve-hundred-pound
Irtll. Did he see his way to paying
it ? Sir Simon did not. It was a
vurious fact that he never saw his
way to paying a bill until he had
contracted it, and until his vision had
l)een sharpened by some disagree-
able process like the present, which
lorccd him to face the alternative
of paying or doing worse. These
new stables had been a necessary
expense, it is true, and he was very
forcible in reiterating the fact to
Raymond ; but the latter had a
provoking way of reverting to first
principles, as he called it, and, after
Isearing his friend's logical demon-
stration as to the absolute necessity
which had compelled him to build —
the valuable horses that were being
damaged by the damp of the old
stables ; the impossibility of keep-
ing up a hunting stud without pro-
per accommodations for horses and
men ; the economy that the outlay
tas sure to be in the long run, the
saving of doctor's bills, etc.; the
"vet." was never out of the house
while the horses were lodged in
the old stables — M. de la Bour-
bonais said : ** But, mon cher, why
need you keep a hunting stud, why
keep horses at all, if you can't afford
it?"
This was a question that never
crossed Sir Simon's mind, or, '\{ it
did, it was dismissed with such
a j>ereraptory snub that it never
presented itself again. It was
peculiarly irritating to have it
thrust on him now, at a moment
when he wanted some soothing
advice to cheer him up. The idea,
put into words and spoken aloud
by another, was, however, not as
easily ignored as when it passed
silently through his own mind ; it
must be answered, if only by shut-
ting the door in its face.
" My dear Raymond," said the
baronet in his affectionate, patroniz-
ing way, "you don't quite under-
stand the matter; you look at it
too much from a Frenchman's
point of view. You don't make al-
lowance for the different conditions
of society in this country. There
are certain things, you see, that a
man must do in England ; society
exacts it of him. A gentleman must
live like a gentleman, or else he
can't hold his own. It isn't a mat-
ter of choice."
" It seems to me it is, though,"
returned Raymond. " He may
choose between his duty to his con-
science and his duty to society."
" You can't separate them, my
dear fellow ; it's not to be done in
this country. But that's shifting
the question too wide of the mark,"
observed Sir Simon, who began to
feel it was being driven rather too
close. " The thing is, how am I to
raise the wind to quiet this archi-
tect? It is too late to discuss the
172
Are You My Wife t
wisdom of building the stables ;
they are built, and they must be paid
for."
" Sell those two hunters that you
paid five hundred pounds apiece
for ; that will go a long way towards
it," suggested the count.
The proposition was self-evident,
but that did not make it the more
palatable to Sir Simon. He mut-
tered something about not seeing
his way to a purchaser just then.
Raymond, however, pressed the
matter warmly, and urged him to
set about finding one without delay.
He brought forward a variety of ar-
guments to back up this advice, and
to prove to his friend that not only
common sense and justice demand-
ed that he should follow it, but that,
from a selfish point of view, it was
the best thing he could do. " Trust
me," he cried, " the peace of mind it
will bring you will largely compen-
sate for the sacrifice." Sacrifice!
It sounded like a mockery on Ray-
mond de la Bourbonais' lips to ap-
ply the word to the sale of a couple
of animals for the payment of a fool-
ish debt ; but Raymond, whatever
Sir Simon might say to tlie contra-
ry, made large allowance for their
relative positions, and was very far
from any thought of irony when he
called it a sacrifice.
** You're right ; you're always
right, Raymond," said the baronet,
leaning his arm heavily on the
count's shoulder, and impercepti-
bly guiding him closer to the river,
that was flowing on like a message
of peace in the solemn, star-lit si-
lence. " I'd be a happier man if I
could take life as you do, if I were
more like you."
" And had to black your own
boots ?" Raymond laughed gently.
" I shouldn't mind a rap black-
ing my boots, if nobody caw me."
" Ah ! that's just it ! But when
people are reduced to black their
own boots, they're sure to l>e
seen. The thing is to do it, and
not care who sees us."
" That's the rub," said Sir Simon ;
and then they walked on without
speaking for a while, listening to a.
nightingale that woke up in a wil-
low-tree and broke the silence with
a short, bright cadence, ending in
a trill that made the very shadows
vibrate on the water. There is a
strange unworldliness in moonlight.
The cold stars, tingling silently in
the deep blue peace so far above
us, have a voice that rebukes the
strife of our petty passions more
forcibly than the wisest senuao.
The cares and anxieties of our lives
pale into the flimsy shadows that
they are, when we look at them in
the glory of illuminated midnight
heavens. What sheer folly it all
was, this terror of what the world
would say of him if he sold his hun-
ters I Sir Simon felt he could laugh
at the world's surprise, ay, or at its
contempt, if it had met him there
and then by the river's side, while
the stars were shining down upon
him.
" Simon," said M. de la Bour-
bonais, stopping as they came with-
in a few steps of The Lilies, ** I am
going to ask you for a proof of
friendship." He scarcely ever call-
ed the baronet by his name, and
Sir Simon felt that, whatever the
proof in question was, it was stir-
ring Raymond's heart very deeply
to ask it.
" I thought we had got beyond
asking each other anything of that
sort; if I wanted a service from
you, I should simply tell you so,"
replied the baronet.
" You are right. That is just
what I feel about it. Well, what I
want to say is this : I have a hun-
dred pounds laid by. I don't want
Are You My Wi/et
173
ii at present ; there is no knowing
when I may want it, so I will draw
it to-morrow and take it to you."
Raymond made his little announce-
ment very simply, but there was a
tremor in his voice. Sir Simon
hardly knew what to say. It was
impossible to accept, and in^)0ssi-
ble to refuse.*
•*It*s rather a good joke, my
offering to lend you money !** said
Raymond, laughing and walking on
35 {{ he noticed nothing. "But
you know the story of the lion and
the mouse."
" Raymond, you're a richer man
than I am," said Sir Simon; "a
far happier one," he added in his
own romd.
"Then you'll take the hundred
pounds ?"
** Yes ; that is to say, no. I can't
say positively at this moment ; we'll
talk it over to-morrow. You'll
come up early, and we'll talk it
over. You see, I may not want it
after all. If I get the full value
of Nero and Rosebud, I shouldn't
want it."
**But you may not find a pur-
chaser at once, and a hundred
pounds would keep this man quiet
till you do," suggested Raymond.
"My dear old boy!" said the
baronet, grasping his hand — they
were at the gate now — " I ought to
be ashamed to own it ; but the fact is,
Roxham — you know Lord Roxham
in the next county ? — offered me a
thousand pounds for Rosebud only
two days ago. I'll write to him to-
morrow and accept it. I dare say
he'd be glad to take the two."
" Oh ! how you unload my heart !
Good-night, mon cher ami. A de-
main !" said Raymond.
On his way home Sir Simon look-
ed stem realities in the face, and
came to the determination that a
change must be made ; that it was
not possible to get on as he was,
keeping up a huge establishment,
and entertaining like a man of ten
thousand a year, and getting deeper
and deeper into debt every day.
Raymond was right. Common
sense and justice were the best
advisers, and it was better to obey
their counsels voluntarily while
there was yet time than wait till it
was too late, and he was driven to
extremities. This architect's bill
was a mere drop in the ocean ; but
it is a drop that every now and
then makes the flood run over, and
compels us to do something to stem
the torrent. As Sir Simon turned
it all in his mind in the pre-
sence of the stars, he felt very
brave about the necessary meas-
ures of reform. After all, what did
it signify what the world said of
him ? Would the world that criti-
cised him, perhaps voted him a
fool for selling his hunters, help
him when the day of reckoning
came ? What was it all but empti-
ness and vanity of vanities ? He
realized this truth, as he sauntered
home through the park, and stood
looking down over the landscape
sleeping tinder the deep blue dome.
Where might he and his amuse-
ments and perplexities be to-mor-
row — that dim to-morrow, that
lies so near to each of us, poor
shadows that we are, our life a
speck between two eternities ? Sir
Simon let himself in by a door on
the teyace, and then, instead of
going straight to his room, went
into the library, and wrote a short
note to Lord Roxham. It was
safer to do it now than wait till
morning. The morning was a
dangerous time with Sir Simon for
resolves like the present. It was
ever to him a mystery of hope, the
awakening of the world, the setting
right and cheering up of all things
174
Are You My Wife f
by the natural law of resurrec-
tion.
The admiral and Glide had plan-
ned to leave next day ; but the wea-
ther was so glorious and the host
was so genial that it required no
great pressing to make them al-
ter their plans and consent to re-
main a few days longer.
" You know we are due at Bour-
bonais' this evening," said Sir Si-
mon. ** The old lady will never for-
give me if I disappoint her of
cooking that omelet for you."
So it was agreed that they would
sup at The Lilies, and M. de la
Bourbon ais was requested to con-
vey the message to Ang^lique
when, according to appointment,
he came up early to the Court.
He had no opportunity of talking it
over with Sir Simon ; the admiral
and Glide were there, and other
visitors dropped in and engaged
his attention. The baronet, how-
ever, contrived to set him quite at
rest ; the grasp of his hand, and
the smile with which he greeted his
friend, said plainer than words :
" Gheer up, we're all right again !"
He was in high spirits, welcoming
everybody, and looking as cheer-
ful as if he did not know what a
dun meant. He fully intended to
whisper to Raymond that he had
written about the horses to Lord
Roxham ; but he was not able to
do it, owing to their being so sur-
rounded.
" Do you ride much, Mc^ieur le
Comte V said Glide, coming to sit
by Raymond, who, he observed,
stood rather aloof from the people
who were chatting together on com-
mon topics.
" No," said Raymond ; " I prefer
walking, which is fortunate, as I
don't possess a horse."
" If you cared for it, that wouldn't
be an impediment^ I fancy " said
the young man. " Sir Simon would
be only too grateful to you for
exercising one of his. He has a
capital stud. I've been looking at
it this morning: He's a first-rate
judge of horse-flesh."
** That is the basis of an Eng-
lishman's education, is it not ?" said
the count playfully.
" Which accounts, perhaps, for the
defects of the superstructure," re-
plied Glide, laughing. " It is rather
a hard hit at us, Monsieur le
Gomte ; but I'm afraid we deserve
it. You have a good deal to put
up with from us one way or an-
other, I dare say, to say nothing of
our climate."
" That is a subject that I never
venture to touch on," said Ray-
mond, with affected solemnity. '' I
found out long ago that his climate
was a very sore point with an Eng-
lishman, and that he takes any dis-
respect to it as a personal offence,**
** A part of our general conceit,"
observed Glide good-lmmorcdly.
" I've been so long out of it that I
almost forget its vices, and only
remember its virtues."
" What are they ?" inquired Ray-
mond.
*' Well, I count it a virtue in a
wet day to hold out the hope to
you of seeing it clear up at any
moment ; whereas, in countries
that are blessed with a good cli-
mate, once the day sets in wet, you
know your doom ; there's nothing
to hope for till to-morrow."
" There is something in that, I
grant you," replied Raymond
thoughtfully ; " but the argument
works both ways. If the day sets in
fine here, you never know what it
may do before an hour. In fact, it
proves, what I have long ago made
up my mind to, that there is no
climate in England — only weather.
Just now it is redeeming itself; I
Are You My Wifef
1/5
never saw a lovelier day in France.
Shall we come out of doors and en-
joy it?"
They stepped out on to the ter-
race, and turned fr6m the flowery
parterre, with its fountain flashing
in the sunlight, into a shady avenue
of lime-trees.
Glide felt very little interest in
Itaymond's private opinion of the
climate. He wanted to make him
talk of himself, as a preliminary to
talk of his daughter ; and, as usual
when we want to lead up to a sub-
ject, he could hit on nothing but
the most irrelevant commonplaces.
Chance finally came to his rescue in
the shape of a stunted palm-tree that
was obtruding its parched leaves
through the broken window of a
neglected orangery. Sir Simon
had had a hobby about growing
oranges at the Court, and had giv-
en it up, like so many other hob-
bies, after a while, and the orangery,
that had cost so much money for a
time, was standing forlorn and half-
empty near the flower-garden, a
trophy of its owner's fickle purpose
and extravagance.
** Poor little abortion !" exclaim-
ed the count, pointing to the starv-
ed palm-tree, " it did not take
kindly to its exile.*'
** Exile is a barren soil to most
of us," said Clide. " We generally
prove a failure in it."
** I suppose because we are a fail-
ure when we come to it," replied
Raymond. *' We seldom try exile
until life has failed to us at home."
He looked up with a quick smile as
he said this, and Clide answered
him with a glance of intelligent and
respectful sympathy. As the two
men looked into each other's face.
It was as if some intangible barrier
»erc melting away, and confidence
were suddenly being established in
its place.
Clide had never pronounced his
wife's name since the day he had
let his head drop on the admiral's
breast, and abandoned himself to
the passion of his boyish grief. It
was as if the recollection of his
marriage and its miserable ending
had died and been buried with
Isabel. The admiral had often
wondered how one so young could
be so self-contained, wrapping him-
self in such an impenetrable reserve.
The old sailor was not given to
speculating on mental phenomena
as a rule; but he had given this
particular one many a five minutes*
cogitation, and the conclusion he
arrived at was that either Clide
had taken the matter less to heart
than he imagined, and so felt no
need of the solace of talking over
his loss, or that the sense of hu-
miliation which attached to the
memory of Isabel was so painful
to him, as a man and aDe Winton,
that he was unwilling to recur to it.
There may have been something of
this latter feeling mixed up with
the other impalpable causes that
kept him mute; but to-day, as he
paced up and down under the fra-
grant shade of the lime-trees with
M. de la Bourbonais, a sudden
desire sprang up in him to speak of
the past, and evoke the sympathy
of this man, who had suffered, per-
haps, more deeply than himself.
They were silent for a few minutes,
but a subtle, magnetic sympathy
was at iprk bet^^een them.
" I too have had my little glimpse
of paradise, only to be turned out,
like so many others, to finish my
pilgrimage alone/' said Raymond
abruptly.
" No, not alone," retorted Clide ;
" you have a daughter, who must be
a great delight to you."
*' Ah ! you are right. I was un-
grateful to say alone ; but you can
176
Are You My Wife?
understand that that other solitude
can never be filled up. That is to
say," he added, looking up with a
brightening expression in his keen
eyes, that sparkled under project-
ing brows, made more prominent by
bushy black eyebrows, ** not at my
age ; at yours it is different. When
sorrow comes to a man at the close
of his half-century, it is too late to
plant again ; he cannot begin life
anew. There is no future for him
but courage and resignation. But
at your age everything is a begin-
ing. While we are young, no matter
how dark the sky is, the future
looks bright ; to-morrow is always
full of hope and glad surprises
when we are young."
" I don't feel as if I were young,"
said Glide ; " it seems to me as if
I had outlived ray youth. You
know there are experiences that
do the work of years quite as well
as time ; that make us old prema-
turely?"
" 1 know it, I can believe it,"
replied Raymond; "but neverthe-
less the spring of youth remains. It
only wants the help of time to heal
its wounds and restore its power of
working and enjoying."
The young man shook his head
incredulously.
"You don't believe it yet; but
you will find it out by-and-by,"
insisted Raymond ; " that is, if you
wish it and strive for it. We are
most of us asleep until sorrow
wakes us up and stingsfus into
activity ; then we begin to live real-
ly, and to work."
" Then I'm afraid I have been
awakened to no purpose," remark-
ed Glide rather bitterly. " I certain-
ly have not begun to work."
" Perhaps unawares you have all
this time been preparing yourself
for work — for some appointed task
that you would never have been fit-
ted for without the experiences of
the last years."
"Well, perhaps you are right,"
assented his companion. Tliey
walked on through the flower-be<ls
for a few moments without speaJc-
ing. Then Raymond broke tiic
silence : " Why should you go away
again, wandering about the GontU
nent, and indulging in morl>i<i
memories, when you have such a
noble mission before you at home !
Youth, intelligence, and a splendid
pattimony — what a field of useful-
ness lies before you ! Is it permit-
ted to leave any field untilled when
the laborers are so few ?" The same
thought had occurred to Glide dar-
ing the last twenty-four hours with
a persistency that he was not very
earnest in repelling. " Indulging
in morbid memories !" That was
what his step>mother was now con-
stantly reproaching him with. He
resented it from her ; but Raymond
did not excite his resentment, it
was too much as if a father were ex-
postulating with his son. The pa-
ternal tone of the remonstrance call-
ed, moreover, for fuller confidence
on his part, and, yielding to the fas-
cination of the sympathy that was
drawing him on and on, he resolved
there and then to give it. He told
M. de la Bourbonais the history of
his life from the beginning: his
loveless childhood, his boyhood,
starved of all spiritual food, his
youth's wild passion, the loneliness
of his later years, and his present
dissatisfied longings. He laid bare
all that inner life he had never un-
folded to any human being before.
It was a touching and desolate pic-
ture enough, and one that called
out Raymond's tenderest interest
and compassion. He listened to
the story with that breathless, un-
divided attention that made Sir Si-
mon so delight in him as a listener;
Are You My Wife?
^77
^nwering by an inarticulate excla-
inacion now and then, interrupting
liere and there to put in a question
tiai showed how closely he was fol-
lotting every turn in the narrative,
md how fully and completely he
iiiidcrstood and entered into every
I»i>ascof feeling the speaker describ-
ed. When Glide had finished, he
x:cmed to understand himself bet-
ter than he had ever done before.
E\cry question of the listener seem-
ed to throw a new and stronger
li^ht on what he was telling him ;
It was like a key opening unexpect-
ed mysteries in the past and in his
uva mind, showing him how from
the very starting his whole theory
uf life had been a mistake. Life
was now for the first time put under
the laws of truth, and through that
transparent medium every act and
cifcurasiance showed altogether dif-
ferently; hidden meanings came out
'>f what had hitherto been mere
blols, what he had called accidents
jnd mischances ; every detail had
•1 form and color of its own, and fit-
led into the whole like the broken
pieces of a puzzle. He had been
learning and training all the time
•bile he fancied he was only suffer-
■%\ he had unawares been drink-
in;; in that moral strength that is
•uly to be gained in wrestling with
"•orrow. The revelation was start-
ling; but Glide frankly acknowledg-
«i it, and in so doing felt that he
^ras tacitly committing himself to
tbc new line of conduct which must
logically follow on this admission,
'f it was worth anything. There
Qittst be an end of sentimental re-
;;trt5 and morbid despondings. He
"Bo^t, as Raymond said, begin to
I'fictisc the lesson he had paid so
^r to learn; he must begin to live
and to work ; he must, by faithful-
ness and courage in the future, atone
for the folly and selfishness of the
past.
It may appear strange, perhaps
incredible, that a mere passing con-
tact with a stranger should have so
suddenly revealed all this to Glide,
stirred him so deeply, and impelled
him to a definite resolution that
was to change the whole current of
his life. But which of us cannot
trace to some apparently chance
meeting, some word heedlessly ut-
tered, and perhaps not intended for
us, a momentous epoch in our lives ?
We can never tell who may be the
bearer of the burning message to
us, nor in what unknown tongue it
may be spoken. All that matters
to us is that we hearken to it, and
follow where the messenger beck-
ons. M. de la Bourbonais had no
idea that he was performing this
office to Glide ; nor did anything
that he actually said justify the
young man in looking upon him in
the light of a herald or an interpre-
ter. It was something rather in the
man himself that did it ; a voice
that spoke unconsciously in his
voice. There is a power in truth
and simplicity more potent than
any eloquence ; and truth and sim-
plicity radiated from Raymond
like an atmosphere. His presence
had a light in it that impressed you
insensibly with the right view of
things, and dissipated worldliness
and selfi[#ness ahd morbid delu-
sions as the sun clears away the
mists. Perhaps along with this im-
mediate influence there was another
one which acted unawares on Glide,
adding to the pressure of Ray-
mond's pleading the softer incen-
tive of an ideal yet possible reward.
TO tl CONTINUBIX
VOL XXI. — 12
17-
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
DRAPER'S CONFLICT BETWEEN RELIGION AND SCIENCE.
The author of this volume be-
came known to the public of New
York a little over twenty years ago
through a hand-book of chemistry,
written at a time when that science
was emerging into its present
niaturity. Almost simultaneously
appeared from his pen a treatise
on Human Physiology^ when it like-
wise was running a swift- race to its
splendid proportions of to-day, im-
pelled by the labors of Claude Ber-
nard, Beaumont, and Bichat. Those
works were received at the time with
xnuch favor by American teachers
of both named sciences as being
clear and succinct compilations of
the labors of European investiga-
tors, while containing some origi-
nal observations of undoubted sci-
entific merit. Thus, the perception
of the influence of endosmosis and
exosmosis on the functions of re-
spiration and circulation, and the re-
ference of pitch, quality, and intensi-
ty of sound to different portions of
the anatomical structure of the ear,
constitute a valid claim, on Dra-
per's part, as a contributor to mod-
ern physiology. As a chemist,
though painstaking and observant,
he failed to keep pace with Euro-
pean researches, and so his book has
been superseded in our Ahools and
colleges by later and more thor-
ough productions. Indeed, it may
be said that his work on physiolo-
gy likewise is rapidly becoming ob-
solete, its popularity having ced-
ed place to the excellent treatises
of Daltonand Austin Flint, Jr.
♦ HiMt0ry^f tkt Conflict httmten Rcligiom and
Scienct, By John W. Dn«)or. New York; D.
Appkton ft Co. 1874.
Had he in time recognized li
exclusive fitness for experiments
chemistry and physiology, his nan
might rank to-day with those c
Liebig and Lehmann ; but son
disturbing idiosyncrasy or malev^
lent influence inspired him with til
belief that he was destined for higl
er pursuits, and he burned to em!
late Gibbon and Buckle. On \\
heels of the late civil war, accon
ingly, appeared from his ambitiol
pen a book with the pretentioi
title of History of the American Citk
Wary in which he strove to prov
that the agencies which precipi
tated that sad quarrel dated back
thousand years ; that thermal band
having separated the North froi
the South, the two sections coul
not agree; that the conflict is nr
yet over, and will be ended onl
when both sides recognize the Ea-
as the home of science, and mak
their salam to the rising sun. \V
speak not in jest ; the book, we b<
lieve, is still extant, and may I
consulted by the curious in sue
matters. Though the History o
the American Civil War did xa
meet with flattering success, the ne
apostle of Islamism was not discou
aged. No more trustworthy as
historian than Macaulay, he lacke
the verve and eloquence of th;
brilliant essayist, and his bantlir
fell into an early decline.
But there still was Buckle, in ai
other department of intellectual at
tivity, whom it might be vouchsafe
him to outsoar; and so, Daedala
like, having readjusted his win^
by means of a fresh supply of wa:
he took a swoop into the Intel/d
Draper^ s Confiict between Religion and Science.
179
fytf/ Development of Europe with pre-
cisely the results which befell his
rlasacal prototype. Here indeed
vos a wide field for the display
i)f that i>eculiar philosophy of his
which anathematizes the Pentateuch
and the pope, and apotheosizes the
locomotive and -the loom. Ac-
i.ordingly, we find the Development
10 be a bitter attack on the church
and all ecclesiastical institutions,
▼ith alternate rhapsodical praises
of material progress and scientific
discoveries.
In the view taken by Dr. Draper
the Papacy defeated the kindly in-
tents of the mild-mannered Ma-
bmnet; but with the death of Pio
KoDo or some immediate successor
the pleasant doctrines of Averroes
tnd Buddha will reassert them-
selves, and we shall all finally be
absorbed in the great mundane soul.
As we have said, in alluding to the
HisUrj of the American Civil War^
these are not mere idle words ;
they carry their black and white
attestation in every page of the
w?rk referred to.
But we must hasten to the volume
under review. It is entitled His-
tmpf the Conflict between Religion
**/ Science, The title of the book
^ indeed the fittest key to its pur-
i>ose. It predicates this conflict on
I'le first page ; it assumes it from
tne start, and, instead of proving
lis existence, interprets statements
^ misstatements by the light of
t)iat assumption. Of this the rea-
der is made painfully aware from
toe very outset, and his sense of
logic and fair play is constantly
•ihockcd by the distortion of very
mtny histotical facts and the truth-
ful presentment of a few in support
of what is a plain and palpable as-
ftimption. The book is therefore
a farrago of falsehoods, with an oc-
casional r?y of truth, all held to-
gether by the slender thread of a
spurious philosophy.
In the preface the author promis-
es to be impartial, and scarcely has
he proceeded eight short pages in
his little volume before a cynical
and sneering spirit betrays hiui in-
to errois which a Catholic Sunday-
school child would blush to com
mit. On page 8 he says : " Imma-
culate Conceptions and celestial
descents were so currently receiv-
ed in those days that whoever had
greatly distinguished himself in the
affairs of men was thought to be of
supernatural lineage." And a little
further on : ** The Egyptian disci-
ples of Plato would have looked
with anger on those who rejected
the legend that Perictione, the mo-
ther of that great philosopher, a
pure virgin, had suffered an imma-
culate conception." This is but a
forestalment of the wrath held in
store by our author for the dogma
proclaimed in 1854, a derisive com-
parison of it with the gross myths
of the superstitious Greeks. And
yet how conspicuous does not the
allusion render his ignorance of the
Catholic doctrine! For evidently
the reference to a pure virgin sub-
jected to an immaculate conception
through the agency of a God re-
veals Draper*s belief that the Catho-
lic dogma of the Immaculate Con-
ception consists in the conception
of Christ in the womb of the Virgin
Mary without human intervention.
Surely sonSe malign agent had warp-
ed his judgment when he assumed
to expound Catholic doctrine ; had
"^ Made the eye blind, and closed the passages
Through which the ear convenes with the
heart."
But this is not the only point
concerning which we would refer
persons curious about Catholic doc-
trines to Dr. Draper, and those
who would like to become acquaint-
i8o
Draper 5 Conflict between Religion and Science.
cd with Catholic tenets never pro-
ninlg:ited by any council from Nice
to the Vatican. On two occasions,
lipeaking of Papal Infallibility, he
dijilinctly avers that it is the same
;i* omniscience ! On page 352 he
stays: "Notwithstanding his infalli-
bility, which implies omniscience,
His Holiness did not foresee the
issue of the Franco-Prussian war."
And again on page 361 : " He cannot
t liim infallibility in religious affairs,
;ind decline it in scientific. Infalli-
bility embraces all things. If it holds
good for theology, it necessarily
holds good for science." Here is
C!atlio!ic doctrine h la Draper!
Presumptuous reader, be not delud-
ed by the belief that the Vatican
Council expressly confines infallibil*
ily to purely doctrinal matters ; it
could not have done so! Does
not Dr. Draper as explicitly affirm
that the dogma of infallibility im-
|ilic8 omniscience.^ His individual
r^pcrience no doubt Wad much to
du With his extension of the term;
for. knowing himself to be a good
f hcniist and physiologist, he doubt-
mi not that by the same title he
wns a sound philosopher and a
kct'U-eyed observer of events. If
it holds good in chemistry and phy-
siology, it necessarily holds good in
philosophy and history. It is a re-
newal of the old belief of the Stoics,
as expounded by Horace, who says
ih^it the wise man is a capital shoe-
maker and barber, alone handsome
:md a king. But these' are blem-
ishes which assume even the appear-
untc of bright spots shining out by
contrast with the deeper darkness
which they stud.
riiu radical error of the book is
tvviiri>ld. It first confounds with
tht- Catholic Church a great num-
Wx of singular subjects to which
that universal predicate cannot be
a|>i»lied, loosely and vaguely refer-
ring to this incongruous chimei
a great number of acts which c^i
not be imputed to the church at a
in any proper sense. It next mak<
the mistake of applying the stam
ard of estimation which is justly a]
plicable only to the present time 1
epochs long past and in many r
spects diverse from it. For instanc
the personal acts of prelates are r
ferred to the church considered :
an infallible tribunal. Only an \\
noramus in theology needs to be ii
formed that the infallible church
the body of the episcopate teachin
or defining in union with the heat
or the head of the episcopate teacl
ing and defining, as the principal 01
gan of the body, that which is e?
plicitly or implicitly contained i
the revealed deposit of faith. Ac
ministration of affairs, decisions o
particular cases, private opinion
and personal acts, even official aci
which are not within the categor
above stated, do not pertain to th
sphere of infallibility ; therefor
when Dr. Draper charges again:
the church acts which are worth
of censure, or which are by him s
represented, and we detect in th
case the absence of some one con
dition requisite to involve thechurcl
in the sense stated, we retort tha
he either knows not what he say
or is guilty of wilful misrepresenta
tion. Yet his book is an unbrokei
tissue of such charges. And no
only are those charges improperly
alleged, but they are for the mos
part substantially false.
At a time, for instance, when lh<
placid influence of Christianity hac
not supplanted in men's hearts tht
fierce passions which ages of pagan-
ism had nurtured there, a band of
infuriated monks murdered and
tore to pieces the celebrated H}^^^
tia, in resentment of some real 01
fancied affront offered to S. Cyril.
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
i8i
kc crime was indeed unpardona-
5, and perhaps S. Cyril was re-
;s in its punishment; but we
igfat as well lay to the charge of
c New York Academy of Medi-
ic the revolting deeds perpetrated
' individual members of the medi-
I profession, as hold the church
countable for this crime. Both
ganixations have repeatedly ex-
essed their abhorrence of what
orality condemns, and it is only
xc that the one as well as the other
\ judged by its authoritative teach-
gs and practices. Yet Dr. Dra-
!r draws from his quiver on this
xasion the sharpest of arrows to
&ry in the bosom of that church
burh could stain her escutcheon
r this wanton attack on philosophy.
H>i>atia and Cyril! Philosophy
Ml bigotry ! They cannot exist
kgether." Do not the melodramat-
.sarroandings with which Draper's
raphic pen invests the murder of
iiis woman readily suggest an epi-
wle in the history of a certain
night of rueful mien when he
lorgcd a flock of sheep, believing
ait be saw before him " the weal-
.:>' inhabitants of Mancha crowned
rub golden ears of com; the ancient
■Hspnngof the Goths cased in iron ;
nose who wanton in the lazy cur-
cntof Pisverga, those who feed their
numerous flocks in the ample plains
ft icre the Guadiana pursues its
wandering course — in a word, half
I vorid in arms " ? He charges, and
itehold seven innocent sheep fall
^*-<tiins to his' prowess. Flushed
'"th this victory, and covetous of
^rc^b laurels, our author whets his
* >d« for another thrust at that most
•'dlouh of doctrines — Papal Infalli-
'■litjr. The management of the at-
•^k will serve as a specimen of Dr.
I drapers mode of critical warfare;
'* wtU show how neatly he puts for-
%^ assertion for proof, ai^d in
what a spirit of calm and dignified
philosophy he concludes the case
against the church.
A compatriot of his, who had
changed the homely name of Mor-
gan for the more resonant one of
Pelagius, feeling that the confines
of the little isle which gave him
birth were too narrow for a soul
swelling with polemics, hied to Rome,
where his theological fervor was
speedily cooled by Pope Innocent
I. Pelagius denied the Catholic
doctrine of grace, asserting the suf-
ficiency of nature to work out sal-
vation. S. Augustine pointed out
the errors of Pelagius and of his as-
sociate, Celestius, which were ac-
cordingly condemned by Pope In-
nocent. If we accept Dr. Draper
as an authority in ecclesiastical his-
tory, a much-vexed question con-
nected with this very intricate, af-
fair is readily solved, and we are
taught to understand how indiscreet
were the fathers of the Vatican
Council in decreeing the infallibili-
ty of the pope. He says : "It hap-
pened that at this moment Innocent
died, and his successor, Zosimus.
annulled his judgment and declar-
ed the opinions of Pelagius to be
orthodox. These contradictory
decisions are still often referred to
by the opponents of Papal Infalli-
bility."
Now, so far from this being the
case, Zosimus, after a considerable
time of charitable waiting, to give
Celestius an opportunity of recon-
sidering his errors and being recon-
ciled to the church, formally repeat-
ed the condemnation pronounced
by his predecessor, and effectual-
ly stamped out Pelagianism as a
formidable heresy. But since our
weight and calibre are so much less
than Dr. Draper's as not to allow
our assertion to pass for proof, wc
will dwell a momeol on the histori*
1 82
Draper's Conflict between Religion and Science,
cal details of the controversy. Be-
fore the death of Innocent, Celestius
had entered a protest against his
accuser, Paulinus, on the ground of
misrepresentation, but did not fol-
low up his protest by personally
appearing at Rome. The succes-
sion of the kind-hearted Zosimus
and the absence of Paulinus appear-
ed to him a favorable opportunity
for doing this, and he accordingly
wrote to Zosimus for permission to
present himself. Though the pope
was engrossed at the time by the
weighty cares of the universal
church, his heart yearned to bring
back the repentant Celestius to the
fold of Christ, and he accorded to
him a most patient hearing. Only
a fragment of Celestius* confession
remains, but we have the testimony
of three unsuspected witnesses, be-
cause determined anti-Pelagians,
concerning the part taken in the
matter by the pope. S, Augustine
says : " The merciful pontiff, see-
ing ut first Celestius carried away
by the heat of passion and presump-
tion, hoped to win him over by
kindness, and forbore to fasten more
firmly the bands placed on him by
Innocent. He allowed him two
months for deliberation." Else-
where S. Augustine says {Epist.
Paulin.y const. 693, Labb^^ t. 2) that
Celestius replied to the interroga-
tories of the pope in these terms :
" I condemn in accordance with
the sentence of your predecessor.
Innocent of blessed memory.**
Marius Mercator, who lived at the
time of these occurrences, says that
Celestius made the fairest promises
and returned the most satisfactory
answers, so that the pope was great-
ly prepossessed in his favor {Labb/,
t. 2, coll. 151 2). Zosimus at length
saw through the devices of the
wily Celestius, who, like all danger-
ous heretics, dAired to maintain
^is errors while retaining coinn
nion with the church, and, in a let
written to the bishops of Afri
formally reiterated against Pelag
and his adherents the condemnai
of the African Council. Only fr
ments of the letter remain, but
know that thereafter some of
most violent Pelagians submitted
the Holy See. With what imp
ing dignity Dr. Draper waves as
these facts, and coolly asserts tl
Zosimus annulled the judgment
his predecessor, and declared 1
opinions of Pelagius to be ortl
dox ! But this is only a sam;
of similar flagrant misstatemei
in which the book abounds. I
even immediately after, referring
Tertullian's eloquent statement
the principles of Christianity,
says that it is marked by a compl*
absence of the doctrines of origii
sin, total depravity, predestinati<
grace, and atonement, and tl
therefore these doctrines had r
been broached up to this tin
Certainly not all of them, for t
church does not teach the doctri
of total depravity ; but the stai
ment, being of the nature of
negative proof, possesses no vah
and only shows on how slender
peg our author is ready to ha
a damaging assertion against t
church. Having thus triumphant
demonstrated that Tertullian is n
the author of the doctrine of tl
faH of man, he recklessly lays it
the door of the illustrious Bish<
of Hippo. He says* " It is to
Augustine, a Carthaginian, that \
are indebted for the precision c
our views on these importai
points." We wonder did Dr. Drajx
ever read these words of S. Paul 1
the Romans : '* Wherefore as 1
one man sin entered into this worh
and by sin death : and so f\<^:xi
passed upon all men, in whom a
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
183
have sinned" (Epist. Rom. v. 12).
Yet S- Paul lived before Tertullian
or S. Augustine. Draper next sen-
tentiously adds : " The doctrine de -
dared to be orthodox by ecclesi-
isticai authority is overthrown by
t;te unquestionable discoveries of
modem science. Long before a hu-
man being had appeared upon the
earth, millions of individuals — nay,
lucre, thousands of species, and even
genera — had died ; those which re-
main with us are an insignificant
fraction of the vast hosts that have
(ossed away." Admirably reason-
ed ! A million or more megatheria
and megalosauri floundered for a
, while in the marshes of an infant
vorld,and died ; therefore Adam was
not the first man to die, for through
him death did not enter into the
, world. Had S. Paul anticipated
the honor of a dissection at the
hands of so eminent a wielder of
the scalpel, he no doubt would
lave stated in his Epistle that when
he spoke of death entering into the
world through the sin of one man,
he meant, not death to frogs and
«ukes, or bats and mice, but death
to human beings alone. He would
tbas have helped Dr. Draper to the
^^oidance of one exegetical error
Jt least. Another assertion of il-
limitable reaches rapidly follows:
** Astronomy, geology, geography,
uthropology, chronology, and in-
<ieed sill the various departments
of human knowledge, were made to
conform to the Book of Genesis";
that is to sty, ecclesiastical author-
ity prohibits us from seeking else-
'^herc than in the pages of Holy
^Vrit such knowledge as is contain-
ed in Gray's Anatomy or Draper's
Chtmistry and Physiology, Where
I't your pi^es justijuatives for this
(non>trous assertion. Dr. Draper?
[)id not the church, in the heyday
^ ber temporal power, warn Galileo
not to invoke the authority of the
Scriptures in support of his doctrine
for the reason that they were not
intended to serve as a guide in
purely scientific matters? And
here indeed is the true key to the
conflict between that philosopher
and the church. Has not the same
sentiment, moreover, been explicit-
ly affirmed by every commentator
from S. Augustine himself down to
Maldonatusand Cornelius ^ Lapide,
when considering chapter x. verse 13
of the Book of Josue ? Not a single
document, extant or lost, can be re-
ferred to as justifying Draper's ex-
traordinary assertion that the Book
of Genesis, " in a philosophical
point of view, became the grand
authority of patristic science." Of
course it is readily perceived that
the term patristic science, as used
by Dr. Draper, is not the science
commonly known as patrology, but
natural science, as understood and
taught by the fathers. Chief among
those whose officious intermeddling
in scientific matters excites the
spleen of Dr. Draper is, as before
stated, S. Augustine, Bishop of Hip-
po. ** No one," he says, " did more
than this father to bring science and
religion into antagonism ; it was
mainly he who diverted the Bible
from its true office, a guide to puri-
ty of life, and placed it in the per-
ilous position of being the arbiter
of human knowledge, an audacious
tyranny over the mind of man."
The rash dogmatism of these words
scarcely consists with the spirit
Draper arrogates to himself— the
spirit of calm impartiality. So far
from having striven to make Scrip-
ture the arbiter of science, S. Au-
gustine studied to bring both into
harmony, and, with this end in view,
put the most liberal interpretation
on those passages of Holy Writ
which might conflict with, as yet,
1 84
Draper s Conflict between Reli^on and Science.
unmade scienrific discoveries. For
this reason he hints at the possibility
of the work of creation extending
over indefinite periods of time, as
may, he says, be maintained con-
sistently with the meaning of the
Syro-Chaldaic word which stands
indifferently for day and indefinite
duration. The saint's chief anxie-
ty is to uphold the integrity of the
Book of Genesis against the numer-
ous attacks of pagan philosophers
and paganizing Christians. The
necessity of doing this was para-
mount at the time, for the Jews and
their doctrines were exceedingly
obnoxious to Christian and Gen-
tile ; and since the church recogniz-
ed the divine inspiration of the
Hebrew Scriptures, the task of vin-
dicating their genuineness devolv-
ed on her theologians. But Dr.
Draper overlooks this essential
fact, and places S. Augustine in the
totally false light of wantonly be-
littling science by making it square
with the letter of the Bible. But
it is not as a censor alone of S. Au-
gustine's opinions that Dr. Draper
means to figure; he follows him
into the domain of dogmatic theo-
logy, and, having there erected a
tribunal, cites him to its bar. He
quotes at length the African bi-
shop's views on the fundamental
dogmas of the Trinity and creation,
having modestly substituted Dr.
Pusey's translation for his own.
The saint expresses his awe and
reverence in face of the wondrous
power and incomprehensible works
of the Creator, and Dr. Draper
calls him rhetorical and rhapsodi-
cal. No wonder. The mind becomes
subdued to the shape in which it
works ; and since the vigorous years
of Dr. Draper's life were spent in
the laboratory, investigating secon-
dary causes and the properties of
matter, it is not to be supposed that
he can enter at once into close
sympathy with souls which have
fed on spiritual truths.
" What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba ? ^
But the crowding errors of the
book warn us to hasten forward.
Having consigned S. Augustine
to never-ending oblivion, our un-
tiring athlete of the pen eloquently
sketches step by step the progres-
sive paganization of Christianity.
The first thing to be done, he says,
was to restore the worship of Isis
by substituting for that numen the
Blessed Virgin Mary. This substi-
tution was accomplished by the
Council of Ephesus, which declared
Mary to be the Mother of God,
and condemned the contradicting
proposition of Nestorius. Is it
proper to treat this niaiserie with
irony or indignation } We will do
neither, but will respectfully refer
Dr. Draper either to Rohrbacher's
History of the Church, or Orsini's
Devotion to the Blessed Vir^in^ to
convince him of the priority of this
devotion to the times of S. Cyril
and Nestorius. The matter is too
elementary and well known to jus-
tify us in occupying more space
with its consideration. Therefore,
passing over frivolous charges of
this sort, let us seize the underly-
ing facts in this alleged paganiza-
tion of Christianity. The church
does not teach the doctrine of com-
plete spiritual blindness, and is
willing to admit on the part of
pagans the knowledge of many reli-
gious truths in the natural order.
Prominent among these is a belief
in the existence of God, the im-
mortality of the soul, and a system
of rewards and punishments in the
future life. The propositions of
De Lamennais, refusing to pure
reason the power of establishing
these truths, were formally con-
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
185
defnned by Gregory XVI. In ad-
dition, it is part of theological
teaching that certain portions of
the primitive revelation made to the
patriarchs flowed down through
succeeding generations, corrupted,
it is true, and sadly disfigured, yet
substantially identical, and tinged
the various systems of belief in
vogue among the nations of the
earth. It is almost unnecessary to
point out the numberless analogies
which exist between the Hebrew
doctrines and the myths of Grecian
and Roman polytheism. The unity
of God was universally symbolized
by the admission of a supreme
being, to whom the other deities
were subject. The fall of man, a
flooded earth and a rescued ark
find their fitting counterparts in the
traditions of most races. Here,
then, we find one source of possi-
ble agreement between Christianity
and the pagan system without re-
wrting to Dr. Draper's ingenious
process of gradual pagan ization.
If, before the Christian revelation,
human reason could have partially
lifted the veil which hides another
life, and if a defiled current of tra-
dition could have borne on its bo-
som fragments of a primitive reve-
lation, surely it is not necessar}'
(0 suppose a compromise between
Christianity and paganism by vir-
tue of which the former finds itself
io accord on certain points with
the latter. fiut a still stronger
rcuK»n for the alleged resemblances
and analogies between the two sys-
tems may be found in the common
nature of those who accepted them.
There is no sentiment in the hu-
man heart more potent than vene-
ration, especially as its objects as-
cend in the scale of greatness.
Man's first impulse is to bow the
head before the grandeur of na-
ture's mighty spectacles, before the
rushing cataract and the sweeping
storm, and to adore the Being
whose voice is heard in the tem-
pest, who dwells in a canopy of
clouds and rides on the wings of
the wind. Filled with this senti-
ment, he builds temples, he offers
sacrifices, eucharistic and propitia-
tory, he consecrates his faculties to
the service of his God, and ap-
plauds those of his fellows who,
yielding to a still higher reveren-
tial influence, devote themselves in
a special manner to the promotion
of the divine glory and honor.
For this reason not only the
Vestal Virgins themselves deemed
celibacy an honorable privilege
which drew them nearer to the
Deity, and gloried in its faithful
practice, if history is at all truth-
ful ; but their self-sacrifice invest-
ed them with a special halo in the
eyes of the multitude. Had Dr.
Draper shared the ennobling senti-
ments of these pagan women, he
would never have uttered tiie base
slander on humanity — which puts
his own manhood to the blush, and
brands the warm-blooded days of
his single life — that "public celibacy
is private wickedness."
Animated by the same sentiment
of rendering all things subject to
the Divinity, men consecrated to
him the fruits of the earth, and in-
voked his blessing On the seedling
buried in the soil. Familiar objects
became typical of divine attributes,
as water of the purity of Diana, and
salt of the incorruptibility of Saturn ;
hence the sprinkling of the aqua
iustralis among the Romans on all
solemn occasions, and the use of
salt in their sacrifices. Even the
scattering of a little dust on the
forehead was to them expressive of
the calm and tranquillity of death
succeeding to the storms and pas-
sions of life. No doubt, had Dr.
186
Draper's Conflict between Religion and Science.
Draper recalled those lines of
Virgil :
^ Hi motus animorum atque hsc certamina tanta
Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt,**
he would, in accordance with his
peculiar logic, have perceived in
the ceremonies of Ash-Weduesday
another instance of a return to pa-
ganism. Without entering at great-
er length into those spontaneous
expressions of reverence towards
the Deity which abound in every
religious system, and which well up
from the human heart as a neces-
sary confession of its dependence
on a higher cause, we will hasten to
the conclusion, implied in them,
that there is an identity of external
worship in all religions which, so
far, proclaims an identity of origin.
What, therefore, Dr. Draper pro-
nounces to be a paganization of
Christianity is nothing more than
acceptance by it of those features
of older creeds which are founded
on truth, and spring from the con-
stitution of human nature.
What though the Romans did
pay homage to Lares and Penates,
to river gods and tutelary deities ;
should that fact stigmatize as idol-
atrous or heathenish the reverence
exhibited by Christians towards the
Blessed Virgin and the saints.^
Does not the fact rather indicate,
by its very universality, that it is
part of the divine economy, and
that such worship best represents
the wants of the human heart } As-
suredly, this is not intended as a
vindication of pagan practices, but
aimed to show that, in the struggles
of the human heart to satisfy its
cravings, an undeserting instinct
guides it along a path which, how-
ever tortuous and winding, leads in
the end to truth. Draper's charge
of paganization in all respects re-
sembles Voltaire's assertion that
Christianity is a counterfeit of
Buddhism.
That noted infidel contended
that celibacy, monasticism, mendi-
city, voluntary poverty, humility,
and mortification of the senses, were
so many features of Buddhism un-
blushingly borrowed by the Chris-
tian Church. But, like the other
misstatements of Voltaire, made
through pure love of mischief, this
one has been refuted time and again.
It has been shown that the ethics
of Buddha flow from the dogma
that ignorance, passion, and desire
are the root of all evil, and, this
principle granted, nothing could be
more natural than the moral sys-
tem thence resulting. In the Chris-
tian code, on the contrary, purity,
voluntary poverty, and mortification
of the senses are practised for their
own sake; not for the purpose of
enlightenment or the extirpation
of ignorance, but that our natures
may thereby become purified. No
matter, therefore, how strong and
striking analogies may be, the differ-
ence in principle destroys the theo-
ries of Voltaire and Draper; for simi-
lar consequences often proceed from
widely differing premises. We see
this fact impressively exhibited in
the practice of auricular confession
as it exists among the followers of
Gautama. According to them, the
evil tendencies of the human heart
are manifold and varied, and, to be
successfully combated, must be di-
vided into classes. Thus the sin
of sensuality admits of a division
into excess at table and concupis-
cence of the flesh, the latter being
in turn subdivided into lust of the
eye and lust of the body, evil
thoughts, evil practice^;, etc. We
have here in reality a true system
of casuistry. Faults should be
confessed with sorrow and an ac-
companying determination not to
Draper's Confiict between Religion and Science.
187
repeat them ; nay, even wrongs must
be repaired as far as possible, and
stolen property be restored. Such
are the views which have been
firmly held by the disciples of
Buddha from time immemorial.
Thtis we find confession and its
concomitant practices established
among the Buddhists on grounds of
pure reason ; and surely the' fact
is no argument against the same
practice in the Christian Church,
nor does the existence of the prac-
tice among Christians necessarily
denote a Buddhic origin. The
explanation is still the same that
practices and beliefs founded on
the wants of human nature are uni-
versal, circumscribed neither by
church nor creed. We believe,
therefore, that Dr. Draper's philo-
sophy of gradual paganization is
not tenable ; and if we strip it of a
certain veneer of elegant verbiage,
we shall find a rather dull load of
unsupported assertion beneath :
** Deiimt in piscem mulier focmosa superne.*'
The whole account of this pretended
paganization breathes a spirit of
bitterness and malignity that makes
one perforce smile at the title-page
of the book, on which is inscribed
the name of that sweet daughter of
philosophy, Science. The reader
is constantly startled by volleys of
assertions, contemptuous, blasphe-
mous, ironical, and derisive. In-
deed, it may be said that hatred of
Catholic doctrine and usages is the
attendant demon of Dr. Draper's
life, the wraith that haunts him day
and night. He says that it was for
the gratification of the Empress
Helena the Saviour's cross was dis-
*^overed ; that when the people em-
braced the knees of S. Cyril after
the Blessed Virgin was declared
Mother of God, it was the old in-
stinct peeping out — their ancestors
would have done the same for
Diana ; that the festival of the Puri-
fication was invented to remove the
uneasiness of heathen converts on
account of the loss of their Luperca-
lia^ox feasts of Pan ; that quantities
of dust were brought from the
Holy Land, and sold at enormous
prices as antidotes against devils,
etc., ad nauseam. Through all this
rodomontade we perceive not a
single attempt at proof, only an un-
broken tissue of unsupported asser-
tion. It is said ; it is openly stat-
ed ; there is a belief that — these
are Draper's usual formularies
whenever an obscure but impure
and blasphemous tradition is relat-
ed by Jiim. When, however, he
surpasses himself in obscenity, he
drops even this thin disguise of
reasoning, and boldly asserts. But
with matter of this sort we will not
stain our pages. Indeed, these vile
and obscure traditions seem to have
a special charm for our author.
Worse, however, than this packing
of silly and stupid fables ii.to his
book is the implied understanding
that the church is answerable for
them all. She it is who falsifies
decretals, invents miracles, dis-
covers fraudulent relics, beholds
apparitions, sanctions the trial by
fire, massacres a whole cityful, and
perpetrates every crime in the cal-
endar. Surely, she were a very
monster of iniquity, the real scarlet
lady, the beast with seven heads,
were the half true of her which Dr.
Draper lays at her door. There is
in it, however, the manifest intent
and outline of a crusade against the
church and the institutions slie fos-
ters ; the shadowing forth of a pur-
pose to array against her, what is
more formidable than Star Chamber
or Inquisition — the feelings of unre-
flecting millions who are allured by
the glamour of manner to the utter
1 88
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
disregard of matter. But it must
be remembered that Exeter Hall
/ fanaticism has never found a ge-
nial home on this side of the Atlan-
tic, and we are not afraid that
the stupid conglomeration of silly
charges brought against the church
by Dr. Draper, more akin to fatu-
ous drivel than to the dignified
and scholarly arraignment of a
philosopher, will do more than pro-
voke a pitying smile. His feeble
blows fall on adamantine sides which
have oft resisted shafts aimed with
deadlier intent than these :
** Telumque imbelle sine ictu
Conjedt."
But there is another explanation of
the successive accumulation of doc-
trines and practices in the church
which will perhaps come more
within the reach of Dr. Draper's
appreciation, as it throws light on
the history of science itself, and
underlies the growth of every sys-
tem of philosophy. We speak of
the doctrine of development. Dra-
per unfolded, even pathetically, the
impressive picture of science spring-
ing from very humble beginnings,
and growing dauntlessly, despite
bigotry and persecutions, into that
colossal structure of to-day which,
according to him, shelters the high-
est hopes and aspirations of men,
and assures to them a glorious fu-
ture of absorption into the univer-
sal spirit — viz., annihilation. ** Ab
exiguis profccta initiis, eo creverit
ut jam magnitudine laboret sua."
This gradual development he pro-
claims to be the natural expansion
and growth of science, on which
theory he predicts for it an unend-
ing career of glory — ** crescit occulto
velut arbor aevo." But he is indig-
nant that the church did not spring
into existence, like Minerva from
the brain of Jupiter, armed cap-a-
pie, in the full bloom of her matu-
rity and charms. Because she did
not do so, every advance on her
part was retrogressive, and her
growth was the addition of ^' a
horse's neck to a human head."
She borrowed, compromised, and
substituted ; so that, if we believe
Dr. Draper, no oUa podrida could
be composed of more heterogene-
ous elements than the Christian
Church.
She placed under contribution
not only paganism, but Mahome-
tanism, and filched a few thoughts
from Buddha, Lao-Tse, and Con-
fucius. The least courtesy wc
might expect from Dr. Draper is
that we may be allowed to attempt
to prove that Christianity, like every
system entrusted to the custody of
men, is necessarily affected on its
secular side by that wardship, and
so far is subject to the same condi-
tions. But no ; he condemns in ad-
vance, and so fastens the gyves of
his condemnation on the church as
apparently not to leave even a loop-
hole of escape, or a possible ration-
al explanation of the successive
events of her history.
But enough of this. Even to
the most ordinary mind the thin
veil of philosophy in which Dr. Dra-
per wraps his balderdash of pagan i-
zation is sufficiently easy of pene-
tration.^ And what does he offer to
the Christian who would range him-
self under the new banner } In
what attractive forms does Draper
present his science to win the sym-
pathies and sentiments of men, and
make them forego the hopes of
eternal happiness whispered on the
cross '> Here is one : Ex uno disee
omnes. When Newton succeeded
in proving that the influence of the
earth's attraction extended as far
as the moon, and caused her to re-
volve in her orbit around the earth,
Draper^ s Conflict between Religion and Science.
189
ne was so overcome by the flooding
of truth upon his mind that he was
compelled to call in the assistance
of another to complete the proof.
A pretty picture, no doubt, and a
fit canonization of science. But
let us contrast it with a Xavier ex-
piring on the arid plains of an east-
em isle, far away from the last com-
forting words and soothing touch
of a friend, yet happy beyond ex-
pression in the ^firmness of his faith,
while clasping in his dying hands
the cruciBx, which to him had
been no stumbling-block, but the
incitement to labor through ten
years of incomparable suffering
anoong a degraded race. Or place
it beside a Vincent de Paul, who
from dawn to darkness traversed
the slums of Paris, picking up waifs,
the jetsam and flotsam of society,
washing them, feeding them, dress-
ing their sores, and nursing tKem
more tenderly than a mother. Or
(finirast its flimsy sentimentality
with the motives which sped mis-
^|y»a^ies across unknown oceans,
♦>vcr the Andes, the Himalayas, and
the Rocky Mountains, and into the
i(c-bound wildernesses of Canada,
to subdue the savage Iroquois by the
mildness of the Gospel ; to found a
new golden age on the plains of
Paraguay; to preach the evangel
of peace and purity through the
wide limits of the Flowery King-
dom; and to seal with their blood
the ceaseless toil of their lives.
" Qua regio ia term nostri non plena laboris ?
(^>aa caret ora cruore nostro ? "
Dr. Draper, evidently, has not
read the Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire in vain. Not only
does the same anti-Christian spirit
breathe through his pages, but he
has seized the stilted style of Gib-
bon, deemed philosophical, which
is never at home but when soaring
amid the clouds. There is a pomp
and parade of philosophy, an as-
sumption of dignified tranquillity, a
tone of mock impartiality, which
vividly recall the defective qualities
of Gibbon's work. But in study-
ing these features of style, which
necessitate a deal of dogmatism,
Draper has allowed himself to be
betrayed into numberless errors in
philosophy. Perhaps an illustra-
tion or two will help to give point
to our remarks. On page 243 he
writes: "If there be a multiplicity
of worlds in infinite space, there is
also a succession of worlds in infi-
nite time. As one after another
cloud replaces cloud in tlie skies,
so this starry system, the universe,
is the successor of countless others
that have preceded it, the prede-
cessor of countless others that will
follow. There is an unceasing meta-
morphosis, a sequence of events,
without beginning or end."
Is not this
*' A i»thles« branch beneath a fungoDs rind '* ?
Is Dr. Draper aware that Gas-
sendi, Newton, Descartes, and Leib-
nitz devoted the highest efforts of
their noble intellects to the consi-
deration of time and space, and
would long have hesitated before
thus flippantly affixing the epithet
" infinite " to either ? What is space
apart from the contained bodies }
If it contains nothing, or rather if
there is nothing in space, space it-
self is nothing; it merely represents
to us the possibility of extended
bodies- And if it is nothing, how
can it be infinite ? The applica-
tion of the word infinite to time is
still more inappropriate. There
can be no such thing as infinite
time. Let us take Dr. Draper's
own successive periods, though em-
bracing millions of year**, and we
contend that there must be some
I90
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
beginning to them. For if there is
no beginning to them, they are al-
ready infinite in number — that is,
they are already a number without
beginning or end. But this cannot
be. For we can consider either
the past series of periods capable
of augmentation by periods to come;
and what then becomes of Draper's
infinity? For surely that is not
infinite which is susceptible of in-
crease. Or we can consider the past
series minus one or two. of its pe-
riods — a supposition equally fatal to
the notion of infinity. Time, then,
is of a purely finite character, and
is nothing else than the successive
changes which finite beings un-
dergo. More nonsensical still is
the notion of *' a sequence of events
without beginning or end." We
must discriminate here between an
actual sepies and a potential series
q{ events, which Dr. Draper forgets
to do; for on the distinction a great
deal depends. An actual series can
never be infinite, for we can take
it at any given stage of its progress,
whether at the present moment or
in the past, and consider it increas-
ed by one ; but any number suscep-
tible of increase can be represented
by figures, since it is finite, that is,
determinate. It cannot be said that
it extends into the past without
l^gginning, for the dilemma always
recurs that it is either finite or
infinite ; if finite, it must be repre-
sented by figures, and that de-
stroys the idea of a non-beginning;
and if it is infinite, it cannot be
increased, which is absurd. And
if we ask for a cause for any one
event in the reputed unending se-
ries, we are referred to the event
immediately preceding, which in
turn has for its cause another prior
event. If, however, we inquire for
the cause of the whole series, we
arc told that there is none such;
there is naught but an eternal suc-
cession of events. Is not this, as
some author says, as if we were to
ask what upholds the last link in a
chain suspended from an unknown
height, and should receive the an-
swer that the link next to the last
supports it, and the third supports
the two beneath, and so on, each
higher link supports a weightier
burden.^ If then we should ask,
What is it that supports the whole ?
we are told that it supports itself.
Therefore a finite weight cannot
support itself in opposition to the
laws of gravitation ; much less can
another finite weight twice as heavy
as the first, and less and less can it
do so as the weight increases ; but
when the weight becomes infinite,
nothing is required to uphold it.
The reasoning is entirely analogous
to Draper's, who speaks of cloud
replacing cloud in the skies with-
out beginning, without end. " Quos
Deus vult perdere prius dementat.*'
Bacon has well said that the exclu-
sive consideration of secondary
causes leads to the exclusion of
God from the economy of the uni-
verse, while a deeper insight reveals
of necessity a First Cause on which
all others depend. This is exactly
the trouble with Dr. Draper. He
will not lift his purblind gaze from
the mere phenomena of nature to
their cause, but is satisfied to re-
volve for ever in the vicious circle
of countless effects without a cause*
If we are to judge by the additional
glow which pervades what he has
written concerning the nebular hy-
pothesis, he unquestionably consi-
ders that theory a conclusive proof
of the non-interference of the Deity
in the affairs of the universe.
Now, we have no particular fault
to find with the nebular hypothesis.
It is only an explanation of a change
which matter has undergone. It
Draper* s Conflict between Religion and Science.
191
does not affect the question of crea-
tion whether matter was first in a
state of incandescent gasi or sprang
at the bidding of the eternal fiat
into its manifold conditions of to-
day. Indeed, we will grant that
there is a plausibility in the theory
which to many minds renders it
fascinating ; but that does not make
matter eternal and self-conserving.
It is entirely consistent with the
dogma of creation that God first
made matter devoid of harmonious
forms and relations, and that these
slowly developed in accordance
with the laws he appointed. There
is nothing inconsistent in supposing
lliat our terrestrial planet is a frag-
ment struck off from the central
mass, and that, after having under-
gone numerous changes, it at last
settled down into a fit abode for
man. The church never expressed
herself pro or con ; for no matter
how individual writers may have
felt and written, no matter how
much they may have sought to place
this or that physical theory in an-
tagonism with revealed truth, the
church never took action, for the
reason that the question lies beyond
the sphere of her infallible judg-
ment until it touches upon the re-
vealed doctrine. It is Dr. Draper,
therefore, who strenuously seeks to
draw inferences from modem physi-
cal theories, so as to put them in
conflict, not only with revelation, but
with the truths of natural theology.
After having given an outline of the
nebular hypothesis, he says : ** If
such be the cosmogony of the solar
system, such the genesis of the
planetary worlds, we are constrain-
ed to extend our view of the do-
minion of law, and to recognize its
agency in the creation as well as in
the conservation of the innumerable
orbs that throng the universe."
Now, what he means by extending
our views of the dominion of law is
to make it paramount and supreme.
But what is this law ? If its agency
is to be recognized in the creation
of the innumerable orbs that throng
the universe, it certainly must have
existed prior to that event, else Dr.
Draper uses the word creation in a
sense entirely novel. Now, suppos-
ing, as we are fairly bound to do,
that Dr. Draper attaches to the
term creation its ordinary significa-
tion, we will have the curious spec-
tacle of law creating that of which
it is but the expression. We can-
not perceive what other meaning
we are to extract from the saying
that we must recognize the agency
of law in the creation of the uni-
verse. Law is, therefore, the crea-
tor of the universe ; that is to say,
" The general expression of the con-
ditions under which certain assem-
blages of phenomena occur " (Car-
penter's definition of law) ushered
into existence the cause of those
phenomena. Can anything more
absurd be conceived ? But apart
from the notion of law being at the
bottom of creation, how can Dr.
Draper, consistently with his ideas
of " infinite space," " infinite time,"
" sequence of events without be-
ginning or end," admit such a thing
as creation at all? Creation is
the transition of a portion of the
eternal possibles in the divine
mind from a state of possibility into
one of physical existence, at the
bidding of God's infinite power.
Supposing, then, that it is in this
sense Dr. Draper uses the word
creation, he must of necessity dis-
card the doctrine of the eternity of
matter, and his nugct canora con-
cerning " the immutability of law,"
" law that dominates overall," " un-
ending succession of events," be-
come the frothings of a distempered
mind. But when a person writes in
192
Draper's Conflict between Religion and Science.
accordance with no fixed principles,
only as the intellectual caprice of
the moment dictates, he necessarily
falls into glaring and fatal incon-
sistencies. For not many pages af-
ter this implied admission of crea-
tion, even though it be the inane
creation bylaw, he saysr: "These
considerations incline us to view
favorably the idea of transmutations
of one form into another rather
than that of sudden creations. Crea-
tion implies an abrupt appearance,
transformation a gradual change.**
He thus again rejects the doctrine
of creation in almost the same
breath in which he spoke of it as
brought about by the agency of law.
The question here occurs, Are the
notions of creation and law an-
tipodal ? Can they not coexist ?
For our own part, we see nothing
inconsistent in the supposition that
(lod created the universe, under
stable laws for its guidance and
(onservation. The very simplicity
of the compatible existence of the
two i)uzzles us to know what objec-
tion to it the ingenuity of Dr. Dra-
per has discovered. For it must
be understood that his stated in-
compatibility is a wearisome as-
sumption throughout — wearisome,
for the mind, ever on the alert to
find a reason for the statement, with-
draws from the hopeless task tired
and disgusted. For instance, at the
close of his remarks concerning the
nebular theory he says : ** But
again it may be asked, * Is
there not something profoundly
impious in this ? Are we not
excluding Almighty God from the
world he has made?' '* The words
are sneeringly written. They are
supposed to contain their own re-
j)ly, and the writer passes on to
something else. He does not at-
tempt to prove that the nebular
hypothesis is at variance with crea-
tion, except with such a view of
the act as he himself entertains.
And this brings us to the consid-
eration of his views concerning this
sublime dogma. Draper evidently
supposes that creation took place
by fits and starts, as figures pop
out in a puppet-show. Hence he
is constantly contrasting the grand-
eur of a slow development, an ever-
progressing evolution, with the un-
philosophical idea of sudden and
abrupt creations. Though we fail
to perceive anything derogatory to
the infinite wisdom of the Creator
in supposing that he launched
worlds into existence perfect and
complete, the idea of creation in
the Christian sense does not neces-
sarily imply thijs. We hold that the
iron logic of facts forces us to the
admission of creation in general, in
opposition to the senseless doctrine
of unbeginning and unending series
and sequences; and while we do
not pretend to determine the man
ner in which God proceeded with
his work, we likewise hold that the
gradual appearance of planet after
planet of the innumerable orbs
that stud the firmament, of genus
after genus, and species after spe-
cies, can be far more philosophical-
ly referred to the positive act of an
infinite power than to the vague
operation of law. Draper, there-
fore, shivers a lance against a wind-
mill when he sets up his doctrine
of evolution against a purely im-
aginary creation. While he thus ar-
raigns the doctrine of creation as
shortsighted and unphilosophical,
it is amusing to contemplate the
substitute therefor which his sys-
tem offers. On page 192 he says :
" Abrupt, arbitrary, disconnected
creative acts may serve to illustrate
the divine power; but that con-
tinuous, unbroken chain of organ-
isms which extends from palaeozoic
Draper's Conflict between Religion atid Science.
193
formations to the formations of re-
rent times — ^a chain in which each
link hangs on a preceding and sus-
tains a succeeding one— demon-
strates to us not only that the pro-
duction of animated beings is gov-
erned by law, but that it is by law
that it has undergone no change.
In its operation through myriads of
jges there has been no variation,
no suspension." We have already
l>roved that whatever is finite or
contingent in the actual order
must necessarily have had a begin-
ning — a fact which Draper himself
seems to admit when he speaks of
the creative agency of law ; and
the question arises what it is which
Dr. Draper substitutes for the crea-
tive act Creation by law is an
absurdity, since law is but the ex-
pression of the regularity of phe-
nomena, once the fact of the uni-
verse has been granted. Unbegin-
ning and unending series are not
only an absurdity, but a palpable
evasion of the difficulty. We have,
tiierefore, according to Dr. Draper,
.1 tremendous effect without a
rause. When we view the many-
Mdcd spectacle of nature, the star-
bespangled empyrean, the endless
forms of life which the microscope
reveals, the harmony and order of
the universe, we naturally inquire,
^^^^ence sprang this mighty pano-
ranu } What all-potent Being gave
It existence ? Draper's answer is, It
had no beginning, it will have no
end—/./., it began nowhere, it will
end nowhere. There it is, and be
■atisfied. The Christian replies
that it is the work of an eternal,
necessary, and all-perfect Being,
who contains within himself the
reason of his own existence, and
*ho$c word is sufficient to usher
«Wo being countless other worlds
of far vaster magnitude than any
that now exist.
VOL. XXI.— 13
Throughout the whole book are
scattered references to this supre-
macy of law over creation, and tlie
inference is constantly deduced
that every curse which has befallen
humanity, every retarding influence
placed in the way of human pro-
gress, has proceeded from the doc-
trine of creation. Creation alone
can give color to the doctrine of
miracles, and creation renders im-
possible the safe prediction of as-
tronomical events. For these rea-
sons Draper condemns it, not only
as an intellectual monstrosity, but
as morally bad. While we admit
that the possibility of miracles does
depend on the admission of an in-
telligent Cause of all things, it by
no means follows that the same ad-
mission invalidates the safe predic-
tion of an eclipse or a comet.
Draper's words touching the mat-
ter are such a curiosity in their
way that we cannot forbear quot-
ing them. On page 229 he says :
"Astronomical predictions of all
kinds depend upon the admission
of this fact: that there never has
been and never will be any inter-
vention in the operation of natural
laws. The scientific philosopher
affirms that the condition of the
world at any given moment is the
direct result of its condition in the
preceding moment, and the direct
cause of its condition in the subse-
quent moment. Law and chance
are only different names for me-
chanical necessity."
Parodying the words of Mme.
Roland, we might exclaim, O Phi-
losophy ! what follies are commit-
ted in thy name. Just think of it,
reader, because God is supposed
to superintend, by virtue of his
infinite intelligence, the processes
of universal nature, with the power
to derogate from the laws he
himself appointed, he must be
194
Draper* s Conflict between Religion and Science.
so capricious that constancy, har-
mony, and regularity are strangers
to him. Supposing we take for
granted the possibility of miracles,
it does not ensue that God is about
to disturb the regularity of the uni-
verse at the bidding of him who
asks. The circumstances attending
the performance of a miracle are so
obvious that there can be no room
for doubting the constancy of law
operation. Thus the promotion of
an evidently good purpose, which
is the prime intent of a miracle,
precludes the caprice which alone
could render unsafe the prediction
of a physical occurrence. As well
might we question the probable
course a man of well-known probity
and discretion will pursue under
specified circumstances, with this
difference : that as God is infinitely
wise, in proportion is the probabil-
ity great that he will not depart
from his usual course, except for
most extraordinary reasons. And
if the safety of a prediction de-
pending on such circumstances
is not as great as that which de-
pends on mechanical necessity, we
must base our scepticism on very
shadowy grounds. Father Secchi
can compute the next solar eclipse
as well as Dr. Draper; and if he
should add, as he undoubtedly
would, D. v., nobody will therefore
be inclined to question the accu-
lacy of his calculations or doubt
the certainty of the occurrence.
In preference, however, to the ad-
mission of a free agency in the
affairs of the universe, he subscribes
to the stoicism of Grecian philoso-
phy, which subjects all things to a
stern, unbending necessity, and
makes men act by the impulse and
determination of their nature.
"This system offered a support in
their hour of trial, not only to many
illustrious Greeks, but also to some
of the great philosophers, states-
men, generals, and emperors of
Rome— a system which excluded
chance from everything, and assert-
ed the direction of all events by
irresistible necessity to the promo-
tion of perfect good ; a system of
earnestness, sternness, austerity, vir-
tue — a protest in favor of the com-
mon sense of mankind. And {>er-
haps we shall not dissent from the
remark of Montesquieu, who affirms
that the destruction of the Stoics
was a great calamity to the human
race; for they alone made great
citizens, great men." Men can
therefore be great in Draper's
sense when they can no longer l>e
virtuous ; they can acquire fame and
win the gratitude of posterity when
they can no longer merit ; in a
word, mechanical necessity; the
same inexorable fatality which im-
pels the river-waters to seek the
sea, which turns the magnet to the
north, and makes the planets run
their destined courses, presides over
the conduct of men, and elevates,
ennobles their actions. Free-will
is chance ; Providence an imperti-
nent and debasing interference; and
virtue the firmness, born of necessi-
ty, which made Cato end his days
by his own hand. Such is Draper's
substitute in the moral order for
the teachings of Christianity — a sys-
tem inevitably tending to build a
Paphian temple on the site of every
Christian church, and to revive the
infamies which the pen of Juvenal
so scathingly satirized, and for
which S. Paul rebuked the Romans
in terms of frightful severity and
reprobation. For what considera-
tion can restrain human passions,
if men deem their actions to be a
necessary growth or expansion of
their nature, if the good and bad in
human deeds are as the tempest
that wrecks, or the gentle dews
Draper* s Conflict between Religion and Science.
I9S
that fructify and animate the vege-
table world ? His whole book is a
cumbersome and disjointed argu-
ment in favor of necessity, as op-
posed to free agency ; of law, as op-
posed to Providence. The manner
iii his refuting the existence of di-
vine Providence is so far novel and
original that we are tempted to re-
produce it for those of our readers
who prefer not to lose time by pe-
rusing the work in full. On page
243 he says : " Were we set in the
midst of the great nebula of Orion,
how transcendently magnificent the
scene! The vast transformation,
the condensations of a fiery mist
into worlds, might seem worthy of
the immediate presence, the super-
vision, of God ; here, at our distant
station, where millions of miles are
inappreciable to our eyes, and suns
seem no bigger than motes in the
air, that nebula is more insignifi-
cant than the faintest cloud.
Galileo, in his description^ of the
constellation of Orion, did not think
it worth while so much as to men-
lion it. The most rigorous theolo-
gian of those days would have seen
nothing to blame in imputing its
origin to secondary causes; no-
thing irreligious in failing to invoke
the arbitrary interference of God in
its metamorphoses. If such be
the conclusion to which we come
respecting it, what would be the
conclusion to which an Intelligence
seated in it would come respecting
us? It occupies an extent of space
millions of miles greater than that
of our solar system ; we are invisi-
We from it, and therefore absolute-
ly insignificant. Would such an
Intelligence think it necessary to re-
quire for our origin and ipainte-
nance the immediate intervention
of God ?" That is to say, we are too
insignificant for God's notice, be-
cause larger worlds roll through
space millions of miles from us, and
God would have enough to do, if at
all disposed to interfere, in looking
after them, without occupying his
important time with terra and her
Liliputian denizens.
It is evident from this passage
that Draper's mind can never rise
to a grand conception. It would
not do to tell him that the Intelli-
gence which superintends and con-
trols the universe "reaches from
end to end powerfully, and disposes
all things mildly" ; that his infinite
ken "numbers the hair of our
heads," notes the sparrow's fall, and
sweeps over the immensity of space
with its thronging orbs, by one and
the same act of a supreme mind.
The furthest is as the nearest, the
smallest as the greatest, with Him
who holds the universe in the
hollow of his hand, and whose om-
nipotent will could create and con-
serve myriad constellations greater
than Orion. In the passage just
quoted Dr. Draper commits the
additional blunder of confounding
creation in general with a special
view conveniently entertained by
himself. His objection to creation,
as before remarked, proceeds on
the notion that creation is necessari-
ly adverse to slow and continuous
development, such as the facts of
nature point out as having been
the course through which the world
has reached its present maturity.
He does not seem able to under-
stand that, creation having taken
place, the whole set of physical
phenomena which underlie recent
physical theories may have come to
pass, as he maintains ; only we must
assign a beginning. His whole
disagreement with the doctrine of
creation is founded on this principle
of anon-beginning, though he vainly
strives to make it appear that he
objects to it as interfering with
196
Draper^ s Conflict bettveen Religion and Science,
regular, progressive development.
On page 239 he says : ** Shall we,
then, conclude that the solar and
the starry systems have been called
into existence by God, and that he
has then imposed upon them by his
arbitrary will laws under the con-
trol of which it was his pleasure
that their movements should be
made ?
" Or are there reasons for believ-
ing that these several systems came
into existence, not by such an arbi-
trary fiat, but through the operation
of law?" The shallowness of this
philosophy the simplest can sound.
As well might we speak of a nation
or state springing into existence
through the operation of those laws
which are subsequently enacted for
its guidance. Prayer and the pos-
sibility of miracles are equally as-
sailed by Draper's doctrine of
necessary law. His argument
against the former is very closely
akin to J. J. Rousseau's objection to
prayer. " Why should we," says the
pious author of Entile^ " presume to
hope that God will change the order
of the universe at our request?
Does he not know better what is
suited to our wants than our short-
sighted reason can perceive, to say
nothing of the blasphemy which
sets up our judgment in opposi-
tion to the divine decrees ?" The
opposition of Draper and Tyndall
to prayer proceeds exactly on the
same notion — the absurdity, namely,
of supposing that our petitions can
ever have the effect of changing the
fixed and unalterable scheme of
the universe. Tyndall went so far
as to propose a prayer-gauge by
separating the inmates of a hospital
into praying and non-praying ones,
and seeing what proportion of the
two classes would recover more
rapidly. Those three distinguished
philosophers evidently never under*
stood the nature and conditions of
prayer, else they would not hold
such language. God changes no-
thing at our instance, but counts
our prayer in as a part of the very
plan on which the universe was
projected. In the divine mind
every determination of our will is
perceived from eternity, as indeed
are all the events of creation. But
we admit a distinction of logical
priority of some over others. Thus
God's knowledge of our determina-
tion to act is logically subsequent
to the determination itself^ since
the latter is the object of the divine
knowledge, and must have a logical
precedence over it. Prayer, then, is
compatible with the regularity of
the universe and infinite wisdom,
because God, having perceived our
prayer and observed the conditions
accompanying it, determined ia
eternity to grant or to withhold it,
and regulated the universe in accor-
dance with such determination.
Our prayers have been granted or
withheld in the long past as regards
us, but not in the past as regards
God, in whom there is no change
nor shadow of a change. It is evi-
dent from this how absurd is T)m-
dall's notion of testing the efficacy
of prayer in the manner he propos-
ed, and how unjust is Draper's
constant arrow-shooting at shrine-
cures and petitions for health ad-
dressed to God and to his saints.
Nor does the granting of a prayer
necessarily imply a departure from
the natural course of events. The
foreseen goodness and piety of a
man can have determined God to
allow the natural order and se-
quence of events to proceed in such
a manner as to develop conform-
ably to his petition. In this there
is no disturbance of the. natural
order, since the expression means
nothing else than the regularity
Draper's Cotiflict between Religion and Science.
197
with which phenomena occur in
their ustial way — a fact entirely con-
sistent with the theory of prayer.
It is true, however, that the his-
tory of the church exhibits many
well-authenticated examples of
prayers being granted under cir-
cumstances which implied the per-
formance of a miracle or a suspen-
sion of the effects of law. To this
Draper opposes three arguments:
first, the inherent impossibility of
miracles; secondly, the capricious
disturbance of the universe which
would ensue ; and, thirdly, the im-
possibility of discerning between
miracles and juggling tricks or the
marvellous achievements of science.
To the first argument we would re-
turn an argumentum ad hominem.
While Dr. Draper sneeringly repu-
diates a miracle which implies a
derogation from physical law, he
unwittingly admits a miracle ten-
fold more astounding. The argu-
ment was directed against Voltaire
long years ago, and has been re-
peatedly employed since.
Suppose, then, that a whole city-
ful of people should testify to the
resurrection of a dead man from the
grave ; would we be justified in re-
jecting the testimony on the sole
ground of the physical impossibility
of the occu rrence ? We would there-
by suppose that a whole population,
divided into the high and low bom,
the ignorant and the educated, the
good and the bad, with interests,
passions, hopes, prejudices, and as-
pirations as wide apart as the poles,
should secretly conspire to impose
on the rest of the world, and this
so successfully that not even one
would reveal the gigantic deception.
History abounds in instances of
ibc sort, in recitals of sudden cures
witnessed by thousands, of con-
flagrations suddenly checked, of
plagues disappearing in a moment ;
and if we are pleased to refuse the
testimony because of the physical
impossibility, we are reduced to the
necessity of admitting, not a miracle,
but a monstrosity in the moral or-
der. It is true that Dr. Draper
quietly ignores this feature of the
case, and is satisfied with the objec-
tion to the possibility of miracles
on physical grounds, without taking
the pains to inquire whether cir-
/cumstances can be conceived in
which this physical possibility may
be set aside. Complacently resting
his argument here, the " impartial **
doctor, whose lofty mind ranges in
the pure ether of immaculate
truth, accuses the church of filling
the air with sprites whose duty it
is to perform miracles every mo-
ment. Recklessly and breathlessly
he repeats and multiplies the old,
time-worn, oft-refuted, and ridicu-
lous stories which stain the pages
of long-forgotten Protestant contro-
versialists, and which well-informed
men of today not in communion
with the church would blush to re-
peat, as likely to stamp their intelli-
gence with vulgarity and credulity.
Not so with Dr. Draper; for not
only does he rehash what for years
we have been hearing from Peck-
sniffs and Chadbands usque adnaw
seamy but he introduces his stale
stories in the most incongruous
manner. Shrine-cures, as he calls
them, he finds to have gone hand
in hand with the absence of carpet-
ed floors, and relic-worship with
smoky chimneys, poor raiment, and
unwholesome food. No doubt his
far-seeing mind has been able to
discover a necessary relation be-
tween those things which the ordi-
nary judgment would pronounce
most incongruous and dissonant.
Draper not only refuses to recog-
nize the long and laborious efforts
of the church to ameliorate the
19^
Draper s Conflict between Religion and Science.
condition of the masses, to lift them
from the misery and insanitary sur-
roundings into which they had sunk
during the night of Roman deca-
dence, and in which the internecine
feuds of the robber barons and
princes, of feudal masters and vas-
sals, had left them, but he impu-
dently charges the church with
being the author of their wrongs
and wretchedness. It is true the
same charge has been made before
by vindictive and passionate writers,
and it receives no additional weight
at the hands of Dr. Draper by be-
ing left, like Mahomet's coffin, with-
out prop or support. Since Mait-
land's work first disabused English-
men of the opinions they had formed
concerning mediaeval priest-craft
and church tyranny, no writer has
had the hardihood to revive the
exploded slanders of Stillingfleet
and Fletcher, till this latest anti-
papist felt that he had received a
mission to do so.
Draper's belief that the admitted
possibility of miracles would tend
to disturb the regular succession of
natural phenomena is simply pue-
rile ; for miracles occur only under
such circumstances as all men un-
derstand to preclude caprice and ir-
regularity. Thus the daily-recur-
ring mystery of transubstantiation
still takes place upon our altars, and,
so far as that tremendous fact is
concerned, we might all cling to the
idea of necessary, immutable law;
for no order is disturbed, no planet
fails to perform its accustomed revo-
lution. As for its being impossible
for Catholics to distinguish between
real miracles and juggleries, it is
very evident that, in keeping with
his general opinion of believers in
miracles, he must rate their stand-
ard of intelligence at an exceeding-
ly low figure. A miracle supposes
a derogation of the laws of the
physical world, and is never accept-
ed till its character in this sense has
been thoroughly proved. A Pro-
testant writer of high intelligence,
who not long since was present in
Rome at an investigation into the
evidence adduced to prove the
genuineness of certain miracles at-
tributed to a servant of God, in
whose behalf the title of venerable
was demanded, remarked that, had
the same searching scrutiny been
employed in every legal case which
had fallen under his observation, he
would not hesitate to place implicit
confidence in the rigid impartiality
of the judge, the logical nature of
the evidence, and the unimpeach-
able veracity of the witnesses. Dr.
Draper, therefore, supposes, on the
part of those whom he claims to be
incapable or unwilling to discrimi-
nate between miracles, in the sense
defined, and mere feats of legerde-
main, an unparalleled stupidity or
contemptible roguery. Since, how-
ever, he constitutes himself supreme
judge in the case, we will place in
juxtaposition with this judgment
another, which will readily show to
what extent his discriminating sense
may be trusted. On page 298 he
says : " The Virgin Mary, we are
assured by the evangelists, had ac-
cepted the duties of married life,
and borne to her husband several
children." As this is a serious ac-
cusation, and the doctor, in present-
ing it, desires to maintain his high
reputation as an erudite hermeneu-
tist and strict logician by adducing
irrefi-agable proofs in its support,
he triumphantly refers to S. Matt. i.
25. " And he knew her not till she
brought forth her first-born." We
are reluctant to mention, when it is
question of the accuracy of so learn-
ed a man as Dr. Draper, that among
the Hebrews the word untU denotes
only what has occurred, without
Draper s Conflict bitivccn Religion ami Seienee.
199
regard to ihc future; as when God
says : " 1 am till you grow old."
If Draper's exegesis is correct con-
cerning S. Matt. i. 25, then we must
infer that God as surely implies, in
the words quoted, that he will
cease to exist at a specified time,
as he explicitly states he will exist
till that time. But, not satisfied
with this display of Scriptural erudi-
tion, he refers, in support of the same
statement, to S. Matt. xiii. 55, 56 ;
and, because mention is there made
of Jesus* brethren and sisters, the
latest foe to Mary's virginity con-
chides that these were brothers and
sisters by consanguinity. What a
large number of brothers and sisters
our preachers of every Sunday must
have, who address by these endear-
ing terms their numerous congrega-
tions ! If, however, Dr. Draper de-
sires to ascertain who these breth-
ren and sisters were, he will find
that they were cousins to our di-
vine Saviour; it being a favored
rustoro among the Jews ,thus to
style near relatives. S. Matt, xxvii.
$6 and S- John xix. '25 will define
the exact relation the persons in
question bore to the Saviour. Such
are the penetration, profundity, and
erudition of the man who brands
M imbeciles, dupes, and rogues the
major part of Christendom! But
perhaps it may be said that herme-
ncutics are not Draper's /iv/^, owing
to hii supreme contempt of the New
and Old Testaments, and that he has
won his laurels in the field of philoso-
phy. We have already hinted that
his perspicuity in philosophical dis-
cussions is in advance of Ids subtle-
ty, for the reason that he keeps
well on the surface, and exhibits a
commendable anxiety not to ven-
ture beyond his depth. At times,
however, an intrepidity, born of ig-
norance, overcomes his native ti-
midity, and, with amazing confi-
dence, he plaj*s the oft-assunicd rok
of the bull in a china-shop. Mix-
ing himself up with the .Arian dis'
putc concerning the Blessed Trini-
ty, he inclines to the anti-Trinitarian
view, because a son cannot be co-
eval with his father I The carnal-
minded Arius thus reasoned, and it
is no wonder Dr. DrajK'r agrees
with him. Had Dr. Draper taken
down from his library shelf the
Sitinma of S. Thomas, the great
extinguisher of Draper's philoso-
phical beacon, Averrocs, he would
have received such enlightenment as
would have made him blush to con-
cui in a proposition so utterly un])hi-
losophical. The Father, as principle
of the Son*s existence, is co-existent
with him as God, and logically
only prior to him as father, just
as a circle is the source whence
the equality of the radii springs;
though, given a circle, the equa-
lity of the radii co-exists, and,
if an eternally existing circle be
conceived, an eternal equality of
radii ensues. The priority is there-
fore one of reason, viz., the priority
of a cause to a co-existing effect.
But we have said satis superque
concerning Draper and his book.
We deplore, not so much the pub-
lication of the volume, as the un-
healthy condition of the public
mind which can hail its appearance
with welcome. As an appetite for
unnatural food argues a diseased
state of the bodily system, so we in-
fer that men's minds are sadly
diseased when they take pleasure
in what is so hollow, false, and
shallow as Dr. Draper's latest ad-
dition to anti-Catholic literature.
We have been obliged to suppress
a considerable portion of the criti-
cisms we had prepared on particu-
lar portions of this rambling pro-
duction, in order not to take up too
much space. We consider it not
20O
•Stray Leaves from a Passing; Lift.
to be worth the sp4fce we have
actually given to its refutation.
And yet, of such a book, one of our
principal daily papers has been so
unadvised or thoughtless as to say
that it ought to be made a fext-beoh
To this proposition we answer by
the favorite exclamation of the wife
of Sir Thomas More: " Tilley-
Valley ! "
STRAY LEAVES FROM A PASSING LIFE.
CHAPTER II.
A DINNER AT THE GRANGE — A PAIR OF OWLS.
As we passed up the gravel walk
of the Grange a face was trying
its prettiest to look scoldingly out
of the window, but could not suc-
ceed. When the eyes lighted upon
my companion, face and eyes to-
gether disappeared. It was a face
that I had seen grow under my
eyes, but it had never occurred to
me hitherto that it had grown so
beautiful. Could that tall young
lady, who did the duties of mis-
tress of the Grange so demurely, be
the little fairy whom only yesterday
I used to toss upon my shoulder
and carry out into the barnyard to
see the fowls, one hand twined
around my neck, and the other wav-
ing her magic wand with the ac-
tion of a little queen — the same
magic wand that I had spent a
whole hour and a half — a boy's
long hour and a half — in peeling
and notching with my broken pen-
knife, engraving thereon the cabal-
istic characters " F. N.," which, as
all the world was supposed to know,
signified " Fairy Nell " ? And that
was "Fairy" who had just disap-
peared from the honeysuckles.
Faith ! a far more dangerous fairy
than when I was her war-horse and
she my imperious queen.
I introduced my companion as
an old school-fellow of mine to my
father and sister. So iine-Iooking
a young man could not fail to im-
press my father favorably, who, not-
withstanding his seclusion, had a
keen eye for persons and appear-
ances. How so fine-looking a
young man impressed my sister I
cannot say, for it is not given to me
to read ladies* hearts. The dinner
was passing pleasantly enough, when
one of those odd revulsions of feel-
ing that come to one at times in
the most inopportune situations
came over me. I am peculiarly
subject to fits of this nature, and
only time and years have enabled
me to overcome them to any ex-
tent. By the grave of a friend who
was dear to me, and in presence of
his weeping relatives, some odd re-
collection has risen up as it were
out of the freshly-dug grave, and
grinned at me over the corpse s
head, till I hardly knew whether the
tears in my eyes were brought
there by laughter or by grief. Just
on the attainment of some success,
for which I had striven for monthscr
years, may be, and to which I had
devoted every energy that was in
me, while the flush of it was fresh on
my cheek and in my heart, and the
congratulations of friends pouring
in on me, has come a drear feeling
like a winter wind across my sum- •
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
201
mer garden to blast the roses and
wither the dew-laden buds just
opening to the light. Why this
is so I cannot explain ; that it
is so I knoir. It is a mockery
of human nature, and falls on the
harmony of the soul like that ter-
rible ^*ha! ha!** of the fiend who
stands by all the while when poor
Fauisl and innocent Marguerite
are opening their hearts to each
other.
" And so, Mr. Goodal, you are an
old friend of Roger*s ? He has told
me about most of his friends. It is
strange he never mentioned your
name before."
** It b strange," I broke in hur-
riedly. " Kenneth is the oldest of
alUtoo. I found him first in the
thirteenth century. He bears his
yean well, does he not. Fairy ?"
My father and Nellie both look-
ed perplexed. Kenneth laughed.
** What in the world are you talk-
ing about, Roger?** asked my father
m amazement.
** Where do you think I found
him.' Burrowing at the tomb of
the Herberts, as though he were
uuious to get inside and pass an
evening with them."
**And judging the past by the
present, a very agreeable evening I
should have spent,'* said Kenneth
** Well, sir, I will not deny that
yOQ would have found excellent
company," responded my father,
pleased at the compliment. '* The
Herberts . . ." he began.
**For heaven's sake, sir, let them
rest in their grave. I have already
wrfeitcd Mr. Goodal with the his-
tory of the Herberts." Kenneth
vas about to interpose, but I went
on : ** A strangely-mixed assembly
the Herberts would make in the
other world ; granting that there is
another world, and that the mem-
bers of our family condescend to
know each other there."
" Roger !" said Nellie in a warn-
ing tone, while my father reddened
and shifted uneasily in his chair.
" If there be another world and
the Herberts are there, it is impos-
sible that they can live together en
famille. It can scarcely be even
a bowing acquaintance," I added,
feeling all the while that I was as
rude and undutiful as though I
had risen from my chair and dealt
my father a blow in the face. He
remembered, as I did not, what
was due to our guests and said
coldly :
** Roger, don't you think that you
might advantageously change the
subject ? Mr. Goodal, I am very
far behind the age, and not equal to
what I suppose is the prevailing
tone among clever young gentlemen
of the present day. I am very old
fogy, very conservative. Try that
sherry."
The quiet severity of his tone
cut me to the quick. The spirit
of mischief must have been very
near my elbow at that moment.
Instead of taking my lesson in good
part, I felt like a whipped school-
boy, and, regardless of poor Nellie's
pale face and Kenneth's silence,
went on resolutely :
** Well, sir, my ancestors arc to
me a most interesting topic of con-
versation» and I take it that a Her-
bert only shows a proper regard for
his own flesh and blood if he in-
quire after their eternal no less
than their temporal welfare. What
has become of all the Herberts, I
should dearly like to know V*
" I know, sir, what will become
of one of them, if he continues his
silly and unmannerly cynicism,"
said my father, now fairly aroused.
He was very easily aroused, and I
wonder that he restrained himself
202
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
so long. ** I capnot imagine, Mr.
Goodal, what possesses the young
men of the present day, or what
tliey are coming to. Irreverence
for the dead, irreverence for the
living, irreverence for all that is
worthy of reverence, seems to stamp
their character. I trust, sir, indeed
I believe, that you have better feel-
ings than to think that life and
death, here and hereafter, are fit
subjects for a boy's sneer. I am
sure that you have that respect for
church and state and — and things
established that is becoming a gen-
tleman. I can only regret that my
son is resolved on going as fast as
he can to — to — ** He glanced at
Nellie, and remained silent.
" I know where you would say,
sir ; and in the event of my happy
arrival there, I shall beyond doubt
meet a large section of the Herberts
who have gone before me — that is,
if church and things established are
to be believed. When one comes
to think of it, what an appalHng
number of Herberts must have
gone to the devil !"
" Nellie, my girl, you had better
retire, since your brother forgets
how to conduct himself in the pre-
sence of ladies and gentlemen."
But Nellie sat still with scared
face, and, though by this time my
heart ached, I could not help con-
tinuing:
** But, father, what are we to be-
lieve, or do we believe anything?
Up to a certain period the Herberts
were what their present head — whom
heaven long preserve ! — would call
rank Papists. Old Sir Roger,
whose epitaph I found Mr. Goodal
endeavoring to decipher this after-
noon, was a Crusader, a soldier of
the cross which, in our enlighten-
ment and hatred of idolatry, we have
torn down from the altar where he
worshipped, and overturned that
altar itself. Was it for love of
church and things established, as
we understand them, that he sailed
away to the Holy Land, and in his
pious zeal knocked the life out of
many an innocent painim? Wa^
good Abbot Herbert, whose monu^
mental brass in the chancel of Sj
Wilfrid's presents him kneeling and
adoring before the chalice that h^
verily believed to hold the bloo(^
of Christ, a worshipper of the sara^
God and a holder of the same faitli
as my uncle. Archdeacon Herbert
who denies and abhors the doctrine
of Transubstantiation, although his
two daughters, who are of the highes^
High-Church Anglicans, devoutly
believe in something approaching
it, and, to prove their faith, have en^
rolled themselves both in the Con^
fraternity of the Cope, whose re-
cent discovery has set Parliament
and all the bench of bishops abuzz?
Is it all a humbug all the way down,
or were the stout. Crusading, Ca-
tholic Herberts real and right,
while we are wrong and a religious
sham ? Does the Reformation mark
us off into white sheep and black
sheep, consigning them to hell and
us to heaven ? If not, why were
they not Protestants, and why are
we not Catholics, or why are we all
not unbelievers? Can the same
heaven hold all alike — those who
adored and adore the Sacrament as
God, and those who pronounce ad-
oration of the Sacrament idolatr)-
and an abomination ?"
My father's •only reply to this
lengthy and irresistible burst of
eloquent reasoning was to ask
Nellie, who had sat stone-still, and
whose eyes were distended in min-
gled horror and wonder, for a cui>
of coffee. My long harangue seem-
ed to have a soothing effect upon
my nerves. I looked at Goodal,
who was looking at his spoon. I
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life,
203
felt so Sony that I could have
wished all my words unsaid.
" My dear father, and my dear
Kennetfa, and you too, Nellie, pardon
mc- I have been unmannerly, gross-
ly so. I brought you here, Kenneth,
10 spend a pleasant evening, and
help us to spend one, and some evil
genius — a daimon that I carry about
with me, and cannot always whip
into good behavior — has had pos-
session of me for the last half-hour.
It was he that spoke in me, and not
my father's son, who, were he true
to the lessons and example of his
parent, would as soon think of com-
mitting suicide as a breach of hos-
pitality or good manners. Now,
as you are antiquarians, I leave
▼00 a little to compare notes, while
I take Fairy out to trip upon the
green, and console her for my pass-
iftg heresy with orthodoxy and
Tapper, who, I need not assure
you, is her favorite poet, as he is
of all true English country damsels.
There is the moon beginning to
rise; and there is a certain melt-
ing, a certain watery, quality about
Tapper admirably adapted to moon-
light"
The rest of the evening passed
more pleasantly. After a little we
all went out on the lawn, and sat
there together. The moonlight
nights of the English summer are
very lovely. That night was as a
thousand such, yet it seemed to me
that I had never felt the solemn
beauty of nature so deeply or so
sensibly before. S. Wilfrid's shone
oat high and gray and solemn in
the moon. Through the yew-trees
of the priory down below gleamed
the white tombstones of the church-
rwd. A streak of silver quivering
through the land marked the wan-
dering course of the Leigh. And
high up among the beeches and
ihe ehns sat we, the odors of the
afternoon still lingering on the air,
the melody of a nightingale near by
wooing the heart of the night with
its mystic notes, and the moonlight
shimmering on drowsy trees and
slumbering foliage that not a breath
in all the wide air stirred.
"There is a soft quiet in our
English nights, a kind of home
feeling about them, thart makes them
very lovable, and that I have ex-
perienced nowhere else," said Ken-
neth.
" Oh ! I am so glad to hear you
say that, Mr. Goodal."
" May I ask why. Miss Her-
bert?"
" Well, I hardly know. Because,
I suppose, I am so very English."
" So is Tupper, and Fairy swears
by Tupper. At least she would, if
she swore at. all," remarked her
brother, whose hair was pulled for
his pains.
" Were you ever abroad. Miss
Herbert ?"
" Never ; papa wished to take me
often, but I refused, because I sup-
pose again I am so very English."
"Too English to face sea-sick-
ness," said heJ brother.
" I believe the fault is mine, Mr.
Goodal," said her father. "You
see the gout never leaves me for
long together. I am liable at any
time to an attack; and gout is a
bad companion on foreign travel.
It is bad enough at home, as Nellie
finds, who insists on being my only
nurse; and I am so selfish that I
have not the heart to let her go,
and I believe she has hardly the
heart to leave me."
" Oh ! I don't wish to go. Cous-
in Edith goes every year, and we
have such battles when she comes
back. She cannot endure this
climate, she cannot endure the
people, she cannot endure the fash-
ions, the language is too harsh and
204
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
grating for her ear, the cooking is
barbarous — everything is bad. Now,
I would rather stay at home and
be happy in my ignorance than
learn such lessons as that/' said
honest Nellie.
" You would never learn such
lessons.**
" Don't you think so ? But tell
us now, Mr. Goodal, do not you,
who have seen so much, find Eng-
land very dull ?"
"Excessively. That is one of
its chief beauties. Dulness is one
of our national privileges; and Ro-
ger here will tell you we pride
ourselves on it."
" Kenneth would say that dul-
ness is only another word for what
you would call oCir beautiful home-
life," said the gentleman appealed
to. ,
" Dulness indeed ! I don't find it
dull," broke in Nellie, bridling up.
" No, the dairy and the kitchen ;
the dinner and tea ; the Priory on a
Sunday ; the shopping excursions
into Leighstone, where there is
nothing to buy ; the garden and the
vinery ; the visits to Mrs. Jones
and Mrs. Knowle^; to Widow
Wickham, who is blind; to Mrs.
Staynes, who is deaf, and whose
husband ran away from her be-
cause, as he said, he feared that he
would rupture a blood-vessel in
trying to talk to her; the parish
school and the charity hospital,
make the life of a well-behaved
young English lady quite a round
of excitement. There are such
things, too, as riding to hounds,
and a ball once in a while, and
croquet parties, and picnics, and
the Eleusinian mysteries of the tea-
table. Who shall say that, with all
these opportunities for wild dissipa-
tion, English country life is dull?"
** Roger wearies of Leighstone,
you perceive," said my father.
" Well, I was restless once myself-
but the gout laid hold of me early
in life, and it has kept its hold."
" Now, Mr. Goodal, in all your
wanderings, tell me where you have
seen anything so delightful as this ?
Have you seen a ruin more venera-
ble than S. Wilfrid's, nodding to
sleep like a gray old monk on the
top of the hill there } Every stone
of it has a history ; some of them
gay, many of them grave. Look at
the Priory nestling down below—
history again. See how gently the
Leigh wanders away through the
country. Every cottage and farm
on its banks I know, and those in
them. Could you find a sweeter
perfume in all the world than steals
up from my own garden here,
where all the fiowers are mine, and
I sometimes think half know me ?
All around is beauty and peace,
and has been so ever since 1 was a
child. Why, then, should I wisii
to wander.?"
Something more liquid even than
their light glistened in Fairy's eyes,
as she turned them on Kenneth at
the close. He seemed startled at
her sudden outburst, and, after a
moment, said almost gravely :
" You are right, Miss Herbert.
The beauty that we do not know
we may admire, but hardly love. It
is like a painting that we glance at,
and pass on to see something else.
There is no sense of ownership
about it. I have wandered, with a
crippled friend by my side, through
art galleries where all that was
beautiful in nature and art was
drawn up in a way to fascinate the
eye and delight the senses. Yet
my crippled friend never suffered
by contrast ; never felt his deformi-
ty there. Knowledge, association,
friendship, love — these are the great
beautifiers. The little that we can
really call our own is dearer to us
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
205
than all the world — is our world, in
fact. An Italian sunset steals and
enwraps the senses into, as it were,
a third heaven. A London fog is
one of the most hideous things in
this world; yet a genuine London-
er finds something in his native fog
dear to him as the sunset to the
Italian, and I confess to the barbar-
ism myself. On our arrival the
other day we were greeted by a
mellow, dense, smoke-colored fog,
)ucb as London alone can produce,
it vas more than a year since I had
>een one, and I enjoyed it. I
breathed freely again, for I was at
home. You will understand, then,
how I appreciate your enthusiasm
aboot Leigh stone; andifLeighstone
had many like Miss Herbert, I can
well understand why its people
should be content to stay at home. "
Nellie laughed. "I am afraid,
Mr. Goodal, that you have brought
hack something more than your
*a5tc for fogs and your homely
Saxon from Italy."
** Yes, a more rooted love for my
t>wn land, a truer appreciation of
my countrymen, and more ardent
^miration of my fair country-
women."
*Ah! now you are talking Ital-
ian. But, honestly, which country
do you find the most interesting
f»fallyou have seen?"
"My own. Miss Herbert."
' **Tbc nation of shop-keepers!"
ejaculated I.
** Of Magna Charta," interposed
my father, who, ready enough to
(ondemn his age and his country
himself, was Englishman enough to
allow no other person to do so with
mpanity.
** Of hearth and home, of cheer-
ful firesides and family circles,"
idded Nellie.
"Of work-houses and tread-
mills,** I growled.
" Of law and order, of civil and
religious liberty," corrected my fa-
ther.
" Which are of very recent intro-
duction and very insecure tenure,"
added I.
" They formed the corner-stone
of the great charter on which our
English state is built — a charter
that has become our glory and the
world's envy."
**To be broken into and rifled
Within a century ; to be set under
the foot of a Henry VI 11. and pin-
ned to the petticoat of an Elizabeth ;
to be mocked at in the death of a
Mary, Queen of Scots, and a Charles ;
to be thrown out of window by a
Cromwell. Our charters and our
liberties ! Oh ! we are a thrifty
race. We can pocket them all
when it suits our convenience, and
flaunt them to the world on exhibi-
tion-days. Our charter did not
save young Raymond Herbert his
neck for sticking to his faith during
the Reformation, though I believe
that same charter provided above
all things that the church of God
should be free ; and a Chief-Justice
Herbert sat on the bench and pro-
nounced sentence on the boy, not
daring to wag a finger in defence
of his own flesh and blood. Of
course the Catholic Church was
not the church of God, for so the
queen's majesty decreed; and to
Chief- Justice Herbert we owe these
lands, such of them as were saved.
Great heaMen ! we talk of nobility
— English nobility ; the proudest
race under the sun. The proudest
race under the sun, who would
scorn to kiss the Pope's slipper,
grovelled in the earth, one and all
of them, under the heel of an Eliza-
beth, and the other day trembled at
the frown of a George the Fourth !"
I need not dwell on the fact
that in those days I had a particu-
206
Stray Leaves frotn a Passing Life.
lar fondness for the sound of my
own voice. I gloried in what
seemed to me startling paradoxes,
and flashes of wisdom that loosened
bolts and rivets of prejudice, shat-
tered massive edifices of falsehood,
undermined in a twinkling social
and moral weaknesses, which, of
course, had waited in snug security
all these long years for my coming
to expose them to the scorn of a
wondering world. What a hero I
was, what a trenchant manner I had
of putting things, what a keen in-
tellect lay concealed under that
calm exterior, and what a deep
debt the world would have owed
me had it only listened in time to
my Cassandra warnings, it will be
quite unnecessary for me to point
out.
" I sxippose I ought to be very
much ashamed of myself," said
Kenneth good-humoredly ; "but I
still confess that I find my own
country the most interesting of any
that I have seen. It may be that
the very variety, the strange con-
tradictions in our national life and
character, noticed by our radical
here, are in themselves no small
cause for that interest. If we have
had a Henry VIII., we have had an
Alfred and an Edward ; if we have
had an Elizabeth, we have also had
a Maud ; if our nobles cowered be-
fore a woman, they faced a man at
Runnymede, and at their head were
English churchmen, albeit not En-
glish churchmen of the stamp of
to-day. If we broke through our
charter, let us at least take the
merit of having restored something
of it, although it is somewhat mor-
tifying to find that centuries of
wandering and of history and dis-
covery only land us at our old
starting-point."
" I give in. Bah ! we are spoil-
ing the night with history, while all
nature is smiling at us in her beau-i
tiful calm."
" Ah ! you have driven away llw?
nightingale ; it sings no more," saiilj
Fairy.
" Surely some one can console
us for its absence," said Kennethi
glancing at Nellie.
" I do not understand Italian,***
she laughed back.
" Your denial is a confession oV*
guilt. I heard Roger call you Fairy.^
There be good fairies and bad*
You would not be placed among thtf",
bad ?"
" Why not ?"
" Because all the bad fairies arrf
old."
" And ride on broomsticks," add-*-,
edi.
Unlike her brother, who had ntX,
a note of music in him. Fairy haci
a beautiful voice, which had had'
the additional advantage of a very
careful cultivation. She sang us a
simple old ballad that touched our
hearts; and when that was done
we insisted on another. Then the
very trees seemed to listen, the flow-
ers to open as to a new sunlight,
and shed their sweetness in sympa-
thy, as she sang one of those bal-
lads of sighs and tears, hope and
despair and sorrowful lamentation,
caught from the heart of a nation
whose feelings have been stirred to
the depths to give forth all that was
in them in the beautiful music that
their poet has wedded to words.
The ballad was " The Last Rose of
Summer," and as the notes died
away the foliage seemed to move and
murmur with applause, while after a
pause the nightingale trilled out
again its wonderful song in rivalry.
There was silence for a short time,
which was broken by Kenneth say-
ing:
"I must break up Fairy-land,
and go back to the Black Bull.'*
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
207
But of th is we would not hear. It
vas agreed that Kenneth should
lake up his quarters with us. The
conversation outlasted our usual
hours at Leighstone. Kenneth sus-
tained the burden ; and with a won-
derful grace and charm he did so.
He had read as well as travelled,
and more deeply and extensively
than is common with men of his
years ; for his conversation was full
of that easy and delightful illustra-
tioQ that only a student whose sharp
an^es have been worn off b^ con-
tact with the world outside nis stu-
dy can command and gracefully use,
leaving the gem of knowledge that
a man possesses, be it small or great,
pczfect in its setting. Much of
what he related was relieved by
tome shrewd and happy remark of
bb own that showed him a close
bbserver, while a genial good-nature
and tendency to take the best pos-
nbk view of things diffused itself
through all. It was late when my
father said :
'^Mr. Goodal, you have tempted
mc into inviting an attack of my
oU enemy by sitting here so long.
There is no necessity for your go-
inf to-morrow, is there, since you
ate simply on a walking tour?
Kofer is a great rambler, and there
aie many pretty spots about Leigh-
itMc, many an old ruin that will
rtpay a visit. Indeed, ruins are the
raoit interesting objects of these
days. My walking days, I fear, are
over. A visitor is a Godsend to us
down here, and, though you ram-
hlen soon tire of one spot, there is
more in Leighstone than can be
well seen in a day.*'
Tbos pressed, he consented, and
oar Hltle party broke up.
"Are you an owl!'* I asked
Kenneth, as my father and sister re-
tired.
** Somewhat," he replied, smiling.
" Then come to my room, and
you shall give your to-whoo to my
to-whit. I was born an owl, having
been introduced into this world, I
am informed, in the small hours;
and the habits of the species cling
to me. Take that easy-chair and
try this cigar. These slippers will
ease your feet. Though not a
drinking man, properly so called, I
confess to a liking for the juice of
the grape. The fondness for it is
still strong in the sluggish blood of
the Norse, and I cannot help my
blood. Therefore, at an hour like
this, a night-cap will not hurt us.
Of what color shall it be ? Of the
deep claret tint of Bordeaux, the
dark-red hue of Burgundy, or the
golden amber of the generous Span-
iard ? Though, as I tell you, not a
drinking man, I think a good cigar
and a little wine vastly improves
the moonlight, provided the quan-
tity be not such as to obscure the
vision of eye or brain. That is not
exactly a theory of my own. It
was constantly and deeply impress-
ed upon me by a very reverend
friend of mine, with whom I read
for a year. Indeed I fear his
faith in port was deeper than his
faith in the Pentateuch. The drunk-
ard is to me the lowest of animals,
ever has been, and ever will be.
Were the world ruled — as it is
scarcely likely to be just yet — by
my suggestions, the fate of the
Duke of Clarence should be the
doom of every drunkard, with only
this difference; that each one
be drowned in his own favorite li-
quor, soaked there till he dissolved,
and the contents ladled out and
poured down the throat of whoever,
by any accident, mistook the gutter
for his bed. You will pardon my
air ; in my own room I am supreme
lord and master. Kenneth, my
boy, I like you. I feel as though I
2o8
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
had known you all my life. That
must have been the reason for my
unruly, ungracious, and unmanner-
ly explosion down-stairs at dinner.
I have an uncontrollable habit of
breaking out in that style some-
times, and the effect on my father,
whom I need not tell you I love
and revere above all men living, is
what you see.**
He smoked in silence a few sec-
onds, and then, turning on me, sud-
denly asked :
" Where did you learn your theo-
logy?**
'l*he question was the last in the
world that would have presented it-
self to me, and was a little startling,
but put in too earnest a manner for
a sneer, and too kindly to give of-
fence. I answered blandly that I
was guiltless of laying claim to any
special theology.
" Well, your opinions, then — the
faith, the reasons, on which you
ground your life and views of life.
Your conversation at times drifts
into a certain tone that makes me
ask. Where or what have you
studied?'*
" Nowhere ; nothing ; every-
where ; everything ; everybody ; I
read whatever I come across. And
as for theology — for my theology,
such as it is — I suppose I am chiefly
indebted to that remarkably clever
organ of opinion known as the
Journal of the Age'"
A few whifl*s in silence, and then
he said :
" I thought so.'*
" What did you think ?**
*' That you were a reader of the
Journal of the Age, Most young-
sters who read anything above a
sj)orting journal or a sensational
novel are. I have been a student
of it myself — a very close student.
I knew the editor well. We were
at one time bosom friends. He
took me in training, and I recogniz-
ed the symptoms in you at once."
" How so ?**
" The Journal of the Age — ^and it
has numerous admirers and imita-
tors — is, in these days, the ablest or-
gan of a great and almost univer-
sal worship of an awful trinity thai
has existed since man was first cre-
ated ; and the name of that awful
trinity is — the devil, the world,
and the flesh.**
I stared at him in silent astonish-
ment. ^All the gayety of his man-
ner, all its softness, had gone, and
he seemed in deadly earnest, as he
went on :
** This worship is not paraded in
its grossest form. Not at all. It is
graced by all that wit can give and
undisciplined intellect devise. It
has a brilliant sneer for Faith, a
scornful smile for Hope, and a chill
politeness for Charity. I revelled in
it for a time. Heaven forgive me !
I was happy enough to escape."
** With what result ?"
" Briefly with this : with the con-
viction that man did not make this
world ; that he did not make him-
self, or send himself into it ; that
consequently he was not and could
never be absolutely his own roas-
ter ; that he was sent in and called
out by Another, by a Greater than
he, by a Creator, by a God. I be-
came and am a Catholic, to find
that what for a time I had blindly
worshipped were the three enemies
against whom I was warned to
fight all the days of my life."
" And iht Journal of the Age /"
** The editor cut me as soon as
he found I believed in (Jod in pre-
ference to himself. He is the
fiercest opponent of Papal Infalli-
bility with whom I ever had the
honor of acquaintance.'*
** I cannot say that your words
and the manner in which you
Siray Leaves from a Passing Life.
209
*peak them do not impress me.
Siill, it never occurred to me that
io insignificant a being as Roger
Herbert was worthy the combined
ittack of the three formidable ad-
versaries you have named. What
Ijave the devil, the world, and the
flesh to do with me?"
**Yes, there is the difficulty, not
cmly with Roger Herbert, but with
everybody else. It does seem
-strange that influences so powerful
jnd mysterious should be for ever
ranged against such wretched little
beings as we are, whom a toothache
tortures and a fever kills. Yet
sarely man's life on earth is not all
fever and its prevention, toothache
and its cure, or a course of eating,
doctoring, and tailoring. If we be-
lieve at all in a life that can never
end, in a soul, surely that is some-
thing worth thought and care. An
eternal life that must range itself on
wne side or the other seems worthy
of a struggle between the powers
tf good and evil, if good and evil
there be. Nay, man is bound of
iits own right, of his own free will,
of his very existence, to choose be-
tween one and the other, to be good
f't be bad, and not stumble on list-
!if«ly as a thing of chance, tossed
»t rill from one to the other. We
do not sufficiently realize the great-
tM of our obligations. We should
M disgraced if we did not pay
"ur tailor or our wine-merchant ;
Imt such a thought never presents
itself to us when the question con-
(tms God or the devil, or that part
'•>( us that does not wear clothes
ind does not drink wine."
He had risen while he was speak-
tig. and spoke with an energy and
^imestness I had never yet witness-
<^d in any man. Whether right or
«foiig, his view of things towered
s^bigh above my own blurred and
f^ooked vision that I felt myself
VOL. XXI. — 14
crouch and grow small before him.
The watch-tower of his faith planted
him high up among the stars of
heaven, while I groped and strug-
gled far away down in the darkness.
Oh ! if I could only climb up there
and stand with him, and see the
world and all things in it from that
divine and serene height, instead of
impiously endeavoring to build up
my own and others' little Babel that
was to reach the skies and enable
us to behold God. But conver-
sions are not wrought by a few
sentences nor by the mere emotions
of the heart ; not by Truth itself,
which is for ever speaking, for ever
standing before and confronting us,
its mark upon its forehead, yet we
pass it blindly by ; for has it not
been said that " having eyes they
see not, and having ears they hear
not".'
"Kenneth," I said, stretching out
my hand, which he clasped in both
of his, " the subject which has been
called up I feel to be far too solemn
to be dismissed with the sneer and
scoff that have grown into my
nature. Indeed, I always so re-
garded it secretly ; but perhaps the
foolish manner in which I have
hitherto treated it was owing some-
what to the foolish people with
whom I have had to deal from my
boyhood. They give their reasons
about this, that, and the other as
parrots repeat their lesson, witli
interjectory shrieks and occasional
ruffling of the poll, all after the
same pattern. You seem to me to be
in earnest; but, if you please, we
will say no more about it — at least *
now."
" As you please," he replied.
" Here I am at the end of my cigar.
So good-night, my dear boy. Well,
you have had my to-whit to yoiir
to-whoo."
And so a strange dav ended. I
t\0
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
sat thinking some time over our
conversation. Kenneth's observa-
tions opened quite a new train of
thought. It had never occurred
to me before that life was a great
battle-field, and that all men were,
as it were, ranged under two stan-
dards, under the folds of which they
were compelled to fight. Every-
thing had come to me in its place.
A man might have his private
opinions on men and things, as he
collects a private museum for his
own amusement ; but in the main
one lived and died, acted and
thought, passed through and out of
life, in much the same manner as
his neighbor, not inquiring and not
being inquired into loo closely.
Life was made for us, and we lived
it much in the same way as we
learned our alphabet, we never
knew well how, or took our medi-
cine, in the regulation doses. Some-
times we were a little rebellious,
and suffered accordingly; that was
all. Excess on any side was a
bore to everybody else. It was
very easy, and on the whole not un-
pleasant. We nursed our special
crotchets, we read our newspapers,
we watched our children at their
gambols, we chatted carelessly
away out on the bosom of the broad
stream along which we were being
borne so surely and swiftly into the
universal goal. Why should we
scan the sky and search beneath the
silent waters, trembling at storms
to come and treacherous whirlpools,
hidden sand-banks, and cruel rocks
on which many a brave bark had
gone down ? Chart and compass
were for others ; a pleasant sail only
for us. There was a Captain up
aloft somewhere ; it was his duty
and not ours to see that all was
right and taut — ours to glide along
in slumbrous ease, between eternal
banks of regions unexplored ; to
feast our eyes on fair scenes, and
lap our senses in musical repose.
That was the true life. . Sunken
rocks, passing storms, mutinies
among the crew, bursting of engines
— what were such things to us J Had
we not paid our fares and made our
provision for the voyage, and was
not the Captain bound to land us
safely at our journey's end, if he
valued his position and reputation?
The devil, the world, and the
flesh! What nightmare summoned
these up, and set them glaring hor-
ribly into the eyes of a peaceful
British subject .> What had the
devil to do with me or I with the
devil } What were the world and
the flesh .^ Take my father, now;
what had they to do with him?
Or Fairy ? Why, her life was as
pure as that sky that smiled down
upon her with all its starry eyes.
Let me see ; there were others, how-
ever, who afforded better subjects
for investigation. Whenever you
want to find out anything disagree-
able, call on your friends and neigh-
bors. There was the Abbot Jones,
now ; let us weigh him in the triple
scale. How fared the devil, the
world, and the flesh with the Abbot
Jones ? He was, as I said to Ken-
neth, a very genial man ; he had
lived a good life, married into an
excellent family, paid his bills, had
a choice library, a good table, was
an excellent judge of cattle, and a
preacher whom everybody praised-
Abbot Jones was faultless ! There
was not a flaw to be found in him
from the tip of his highly-polished
toe to the top of his highly- polished
head. He had a goodly income,
but he used it cautiously ; for Clara
and Alice were now grown up, and
were scarcely girls to waste their
lives in a nunnery, like my cousins,
the daughters of Archdeacon Her-
bert, who adored all that was sweetly
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
211
mortifying and secluded, yet, by one
of those odd contradictions in fe-
male and human nature generally,
never missed a-fJshion or a ball.
Yes, Abbot Jones was a good and
exemplary man. To be sure, he did
not walk barefoot or sandal-shod,
not alone among the highways,
where men could see and admire,
but into the byways of life, down
among the alleys of the poor, where
clustered disease, drunkenness, de-
spair, death ; where life is but one
long sorrow. But then for what
purpose did he pay a curate, unless
to do just this kind of dirty, apos-
tolic work, while the abbot devoted
himself to the cares of his family,
the publication of an occasional
pamphlet, and that pleasant draw-
ing-room religion that finds its
perfection in good dinners, sage
maxims, and cautious deportment 1
If the curate neglected his duty,
that was clearly the curate's fault,
ind not the abbot's. If the abbot
were clothed, not exactly in purple,
but in the very best of broadcloth,
ind fasted only by the doctor's
orders, prayed not too severely,
larcd sumptuously every day of his
fife, he paid for every inch of cloth,
every ounce of meat, every drop
of that port for which his table
was famous; for he still clung to
ibe clerical taste for a wine that at
one time assumed a semi-ecclesias-
Ucal character, and certain crumbs
from his table went now and then
to a stray Lazarus. Yes, he was a
faultless man, as the world went.
He did not profess to be consum-
ed with the zeal for souls. His life
did not aim at being an apostolic
one. He had simply adopted a
profitable and not unpleasant pro-
fession. If a S. Paul had come,
straggling, footsore, and weary, into
Ldghstone, and begun preaching
to the people and attacking shep-
herds wIk) guarded not their fold,
but quietly napped and sipped their
port, while the wolves of irreligion,
of vice and misery in every form,
entered in and rent the flock from
corner to corner, the abbot would
very probably have had S. Paul ar-
rested for a seditious vagrant and a
disturber of the public peace.
Take my uncle, the archdeacon ;
what thought he of the world, the
flesh, and the devil ? As for the
last-named enemy of the human
race, he did not believe in him. A
personal devil was to him "simply
a bogy wherewith to frighten chil-
dren. It was the outgrowth of
mediaeval superstition, a Christian-
ized version of a pagan fable. The
devil was a gay subject with Arch-
deacon Herbert, who was the wittiest
and courtliest of churchmen. His
mission was up among the gods of
this world ; his confessional ladies'
boudoirs, his penance an epigram, his
absolution the acceptance of an in-
vitation to dinner. He breathed in
a perfumed atmosphere ; his educat-
ed ear loved the rustle of silks ; he
saw no heaven to equal a coach-
and-four in Rotten Row during the
season. It was in every way fitting
that such a man should sooner or
later be a bishop of the Church Es-
tablished. He was an ornament to
his class — a man who could repre-
sent it in society as well as in the
pulpit, whose presence distilled dig-
nity and perfume, and whose views
were what are called large and lib-
eral — that is to say, no " views " at
all. What the three enemies had
to do with my uncle I could not
see. I could only see that he would
scarcely have been chosen as one
of The Twelve ; but then who would
be chosen as one of The Twelve in
these days ?
I went to the window and looked
out. The moon was going down
212
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
behind S. Wilfrid's, and Leighstone
was buried in gloomy shadow.
Down there below me in the
darkness throbbed \ thousands of
hearts resting a little in peaceful
slumber till the morning came to
wake them again to the toil and the
struggle, the pleasure and the pain,
the good and the evil, of another
day. The good and the evil. Was
there no good and evil waiting
down there by the bedside of every
one, to face them in the morning,
and not leave them until they re-
turned to that bedside at night?
Was there a great angel somewhere
up above in that solemn, silent,
ever-watchful heaven, with an open
scroll, writing down in awful letters
the good and the bad, the white
and the black, in the life of each
one of us ? Were we worth this care,
weak little mortals, human ma-
chines, that we were? What should
our good or our evil count against
the great Spirit, whom we are told
lives up above there in the passion-
less calm of a fixed eternity ? Did
we shake our puny fists for ever in
the face of that broad, bent heaven
that wrapped us in and overwhelm-
ed us in its folds, what effect would
it have ? If we held them up in
prayer, what profited it? Who
of men could storm heaven or
search hell ? And yet, as Kenneth
said, a life that could not end was
an awful thing. That the existence
we feel within us is never to cease ;
that the power of discriminating
between good and evil, define
them, laugh at them or quibble
about them as we may, can never
die out of us ; that we are irresisti-
bly impelled to one or the other ;
that they are always knocking at
the door of our hearts, for we
feel them there ; that they cannot
be blind influences, knowing not
when to come or when to go, but
the voices of keen intelligences
acting over the great universe,
wherever man lives and moves and
has his being; that they are not cre-
ations of our own, for they are inde-
pendent of us ; we may call evil
good and good wicked, but in the
end the good will show itself, and
the evil throw off its (iisguise in
spite of us — ^what does all this say
but that there is an eternal conflict
going on, and that, will he or will
he not, every man born into the
world must take a share in it ?
That being so, search thine own
heart, friend. Leave thy uncle,
leave thy neighbor, and come back
to thyself. Let them answer for
their share ; answer thou for thine.
Which is thy standard ? It cannot
be both. What part hast thou
borne in the conflict ? What giants
killed? What foes overcome?
Hast thou slain that doughty giant
within thee — thine own self? Is
there no evil in thee to be cast out ?
No stain upon the scutcheon of thy
pure soul ? No vanity, no pride, no
love of self above all and before
all, no worship of the world, no
bowing to Mammon or other strange
gods, not to mention graver blots
than all of these ? Let thy neigh-
bor pass till all the dross is purged
out of thee. There is not a liber-
tine in all the world but would
wish all the world better, provided
he had not to become better with
it. Thy good wishes for others are
shared by all. men alike, by the
worst as by the best. Begin at
home, friend, and root out and
build up there. Trim thy own gar-
den, cast out the weeds, water and
tend it well. The very sight of it
is heaven to the weary wayfarer
who, having wandered faraway from
his own garden, sinks down at thy
side, begrimed with the dust of the
road and the smoke of sin. You
Colder on s Autos Sacramcntales.
213
may tear him to pieces, you may
bcerate his soul, you may cast him,
bound hand and foot, into the out-
er darkness, yet never touch his
heart. But he will stand afar off
and admire when he sees thy gar-
den blowing fair, and all the winds
of heaven at play there, all the dews
of heaven glistening there, all the
sunshine of heaven beaming there ;
then will he come and creep close up
to thee, desiring to take off the shoes
from his feet, soiled with his many
wanderings in foul places. Then
for the first time he feels that he
has wandered from the way, will
see the stains upon him, and with
trembling fingers hasten to cast them
off, and, standing barefoot and hum-
ble before Him who made thee pure,
falter out at length, " Lord, it is
good for us to be here."
TO BB CONTINVBD.
CALDERON'S AUTOS SACRAMENTALES.
L baltassar's feast .♦
Or all Calderon's auios^ this is the
one which has been the most gen-
eraUy admired, both on account of
Its intense dramatic power and
popular character.
It has been translated several
times into German (see note at end
of previous article on the autos)y
ind into English by Mr. MacCar-
thy.
The latter says in his preface :
"This auto must be classed with
those whose action relates directly
to the Blessed Sacrament, because
it puts before us, in the profanation
of the vases of the Temple by Bal-
twsar, a type of the desecration of
t^c Holy Sacrament, and symbo-
''^« to us, in the punishment that
* Tkc mctncaJ tramtarions used in this article
*^ MUtancially thoK of Mr. D. F. MacCarthy,
•*•* woiks have been noticed before. We cannot
^^*m Urm again expressing our admiration and
vv^ at the succes^ul manner in which he has
"**^Bcdt(BcuIties ahoost insuperable, and which
** *e csa appreciate until he has himself attempted
^ tasthte Spanish ms^nanUt into correspcoding
follows this sacrilege, the magnitude
and sublimity of the Eucharistic
Mystery. Although this immediate
relation between the action of the
auto and the sacrament becomes
only manifestly clear in the last
scene, nevertheless all the pre-
ceding part, which is only prepar-
ing us for the final catastrophe,
stands in immediate connection
with it, and, through it, with the ac-
tion of the auto. The wonderful
simplicity of this relation,*and the
lively dramatic treatment of the
subject, allow us to place this auto^
justly, in the same category with
those that, comparatively speaking,
are easy to be understood, and
which, like The Great Theatre oftJu
Worlds have especial claims upon
popularity, even if many of its de-
tails contain very deep allusions,
the meaning of which, at first sight,
is not very intelligible."
The auto opens in the garden
of Baltassar's palace with a scene
between Daniel and Thought, who,
214
CalderoiCs Autos Sacrameniales.
dressed in a coat of many colors,
represents the Fool.
After a long description of his
abstract self he states that he has
this day been assigned to King Bal-
tassar*s mind, and ironically re-
marks that he, Thought, is not the
only fool, and apologizes for his
rudeness in not listening to Daniel:
** It were difficult to try
To keep up a conversation,
We being in our separate station.
Wisdom thou, and FoUy I."
Daniel answers that there is no
reason why they should not con-
verse, for the sweetest harmony is
that which proceeds from two dif-
ferent chords.
Thought hesitates no longer, and
informs Daniel that he is thinking
of the wedding which Babylon cele-
brates this day with great rejoic-
ings. The groom is King Baltassar,
son and heir of Nabuchodonosor;
the happy bride the fair Empress
of the East, Idolatry herself.
That the king is already wedded
to Vanity is no hindrance, as his
law allows him a thousand wives.
Daniel breaks forth in lamenta-
tions for God*s people and the
unhappy kingdom ; while clownish
Thought asks if Daniel himself is
interested in the ladies, since he
makes such an outcry over the
news, and insinuates that envy and
his captivity are the causes of his
grief.
With a flourish of trumpets enter
Baltassar and Vanity at one side,
and Idolatr}% fantastically dressed,
at the other, with attendants, fol-
lowers, etc.
The king courteously welcomes
his new wife, who replies that it is
riglu that she should come to*his
kini;doni, since here first after the
Flood idolatry arose.
The king declares that his own
idea, his sole ambition, has been
to unite Idolatry and Vanity, and
s story of hi
is the stOTj
iding, in thd
\ hundred an^
then suddenly becomes absorbed u
thought while fondly regarding hi
wives; to their questions as to th(
cause of his suspense he answer
that, fired by their beauty, he wishd
to relate the wondrous story of hi
conquests.
Wonderful indeed
which follows, extending,
original, through three
fifty uninterrupted lines.
In the introduction the king re^
lates the strange fate of his father,
Nabuchodonosor, whose worthy
successor he declares himself to be,
and describes his vaulting ambition,
which will not be satisfied until he
is the sole ruler over all the region
of Senaar, which beheld the build-
ing of the Tower of Babel ; this
leads to an account of the Deluge,
so poetical and characteristic that
we give its finest portion here : *
** First began a dew as soft
As those tears the golden sunrise
Kisseth from Aurora's lids ;
Then a gentle rain, as dulcet
As those showers the green earth drinks
In the early days of mimmer ;
From the clouds then water-lances.
Darting at the mountains, struck them ;
In the clouds their sharp points shimmerM,
On the mountains rang their but-enda ;
Then the rivulets were loosened.
Roused to madness, ran their currents.
Rose to rushing rivers, then
Swelled to seas of sseas O Summit
Of all wisdom ! thou alone
Knowest how thy hand can punish I
. . . Then a mighty sea-«torm rushed
Through the rents and rocky ruptures.
By whose mouths the great earth yawns,
When its breath resounds and rumbles
From internal caves. The air
. . . Roared confined, the palpitation
* We have already spoken of Spanish atmmauU
rhyme and the difficulty of its translatioo into cor-
responding English vene.
For those who are unacquainted with Speuusb
prosody the following explanation of what the
asonantt is may not be amiss.
Assonance consists simply in the nmilarity of the
final, or last two vowebin the line, t /., /»«« ,>ars^.
culf>asy gula^ sMiua, These all are considered w
rhyme because they have the same voweb, »-^.
honor ^ tol. hoy^ did^ cuatroy are eyampirt of single
asom antes in o.
Dean Trench calls this the ^* ghost and shadow d
a rhyme." How well Mr. MacCarthy has succeed-
ed in reproducing it the reader can see in the above
extract. The /Uff/r^ti/^x in the original are M-a, for
which Mr. MacCarthy has substituted m-^.
CalderorCs Autos Sacramentales.
215
Of iu fierce btenml pubes
Makipf the great hills to shake.
And the mighty rocks to tremble.
The strong bruUe <tf the sand,
Whkh the furious onset curbeth
Of the white horse of the sea
With its foam-race siWer frooted.
Loosened erery corbiag rein.
So that the great steed, exulting.
Rushed upon the prostrate shore,
Wick kmd neighing to o*emin it.*'
The ark alone is saved, and Nim-
rod resolves to anticipate a second
Deluge, and erect a more ambitious
refuge. The building of the Tower
of Babel and the Confusion of
Tongues then follow, and the king
closes his long monologue with the
determination to rebuild Nimrod*s
lower, urged to the task by the
opportune conjunction of Idolatry
and Vanity.
These express their gratification
it this lofty scheme, and offer to
perpetuate the fame of his great
deeds.
The king, exulting, exclaims:
"Who shall break this bond ?"
Daniel, advancing, "The hand
of God!" and returns the same
answer to the king's angry question,
'*What can save thee from my
power or defend thee V*
Baltassar is profoundly moved,
but spares Daniel because Vanity
loathes the captive and Idolatry
disdains his religion.
In the fourth scene the prophet
addresses the Most High, and cries :
*'Who can endure these offences,
these pretences of Vanity and dis-
plays of Idolatry ? Who will end
40 great an evil ?"
"I will^" answers Death, who en-
ters, wearing a sword and dagger,
and dressed symbolically in a cloak
<"ovcred with figures of skeletons.
Oaxul. ^ Awftjl shape, to whom I bow
T^foag^ the dudowy gloonu that screen thee.
Never until now I*Te seen thee :
Fesriiil r**— »*'*■* t who ait Chou ?*'
Death's answer in the following
monologue is most impressive and
beautiful. Our space, unfortunately,
will let us quote but a part :
»' Daniel, thou Prophet of the God ^ Truth,
I am the end of all who life beg^n,
The drop of venom in the serpent's tooth,
The cruel child of envy and of sin.
Abel first showed the world's dark door uncouth.
But Cain threw wide the door, and let me in ;
^nce then I've darkened o'er life s checkered path.
The dread avenger of Jehovah's wrath.
. . . The proudest palace that supremely stands,
'Gainst which the wildest winds in vain may beat ;
The strongest wall, that like a rock withstands
The shock of shells, the furious fire-ball's heat-
All are but easy triumphs di my hands.
All are but humble spoils beneath my feet ;
If against mt no palace-wall is prooi.
Ah I what can save the lowly cottage-roof?
Beauty, nor power, nor genius, can survive,
Naught can resist my voice when I sweep by ;
For whatsoever has been let to Uve,
It is my destined duty to see die.
With all the stem commands that thou mayst
give,
I am, God's Judgment, ready to comply ;
Yea, and so quickly shall my service run
Thait ere the word is said the deed is done !"
Death then recounts some of his
past achievements to prove his
readiness to inflict punishment on
the king.
Daniel, however, expressly for-
bids him to kill Baltassar, and gives
him leave only to awaken him to a
sense of coming woe and the fact
that he is mortal.
This Death does by appearing to
the king and showing him a small
book lost by him some time before
(i>., the remembrance of his mor-
tality, which he had forgotten), in
which is written his debt to Death.
He leaves the terror-stricken
monarch with an admonition to re-
member his obligation.
Thought, hovering between Vani-
ty and Idolatry, soon, however, ef-
faces the impression left by the ter-
rible visitor.
The king and Thought, lulled by
their combined flatteries, fall asleep,
while Death enters and delivers the
following monologue, which, as Mr.
MacCarthy truly says, " belongs un-
questionably to the deepest and
most beautiful poetry that has ever
flown from the pen of Calderon ":
2l6
Caldcrons Autos SacramentaUs.
Dbath. '* Man the rest of ilamber tries,
NcTer the reflection making
That, O God ! asleep and waking,
Every day he lives and dies ;
That a living cone he lies.
After each day's daily strife,
Stricken by an unseen knife,
In brief lapse of Ufe, not breath,
A repose which is not death ;
But what is death teaches life :
Sugared poison 'tis, which sinks
On the heart, which it o'eroometh.
Which it hindereth and benumbeth.
And can a man, then, live who poisoo drinkr /
*Tis forgetting, when the links
That gave life by mutual fretting
To the Senses, snap, or letting
The impns(»ed Five go free.
They can hear not, touch, or see :
And can a roan forget this strange forgetting ?
It is frenzy, that which moves
Heart and eyes to taste and see
Joys and shapes that ne'er can be :
And can a man be found who frenxy loves ?
*Tis a lethargy that proves
My best friend ; in trust for me.
Death's dull, drowsy weight bears he.
And, by failing limb and eye,
Teach<» man the way to die :
And can a man, then, seek this lethargy ?
'Tis a shadow, which is made
Without light's contrasted aid,
Moving in a spectral way,
Sad , phantasmal toe of day :
And can a man seek rest beneath such shade ?
Finally, 'tis well portrayed
As Death's Image : o'er and o'er
Men have knelt its shrine before.
Men have bowed the suppliant knee.
All illusion though it be :
And can a man this Image, then, adore ?
Since Baltassar here doth aieep.
Since he hath the poison drank.
Since he treads oblivion's blank,
Since no more his pulses lea^>,
Since the lethargy u deep.
Since, in horror and confusion,
To all other sights' exclusion.
He has seen the Image— seen
What this shade, this pmson.
What this frenzy, this illusion :
Since Baltassar sleepeth so,
Let him sleep, and never waken t
Be his body and soul o'ertaken
By the eternal slumber."
(He draws his sword, and is
about to kill him.)
Daniel rushes in and saves the
sleeper, who is dreaming a myste-
rious vision, which is visibly repre-
sented to the spectators.
The king on awakening is capti-
vated, as usual, by Idolatry, who
proposes to him a magnificent feast,
in which shall be used the sacred
vessels carried away from Jerusa-
lem.
' The feast is prepared ; the table
Death. ** No ; that i
Was the death of the soul ; the body's
This swift death-stroke representeth.**
The king, struggling with Death,
is forced to confess :
^ See Daniel, chap. t. to, it.
is brought in, on which are display-
ed the sacred vessels ; the attendants \
begin serving the banquet, while
Thought plays the courtfooL
In the midst of the revelry Death
enters, disguised as one of the
servants, and, when the king calls
for wine, presents him with one of
the golden goblets from the table,
with a mysterious aside referring to
the Lord's Supper, where the cup
contains both death and life, as it is
drunk worthily or unworthily.
The king rises and gives the
toast : " For ever, Moloch, god
of the Assyrians, live !"
A great clap of thunder is heard,
darkness settles on the feast, and a
fiery hand writes upon the wall the
fatal " Mane, Thecel, Phares."
Idolatry, Vanity, and Thought in
turn fail to interpret the mysterious
words, and the first named suggests
that Daniel should be summoned.*
The prophet comes and explains
the hidden meaning of the words,
declaring that God's wrath has been
aroused by the misuse of the sacred
vessels, which, until the law of
grace reigns on earth, foreshow the
Blessed Sacrament.
Baltassar and his wives tremble
at the solemn words. Thought, an
expression of the reproaches of his
master's conscience, turns against
the king, who laments the desertion
of his friends in the hour of need.
Death, during this scene, has been
approaching nearer and nearer, and
now draws his sword and stabs the
unhappy monarch, who cries :
** This is death, then I
Was the venom not suffideat
That I drank of?
Calderon's Autos Sacramentales.
217
** He wbo dares pro&ne God's cup,
Hia tie striketh dowi forever ;
He vbo snfuDy receives
Desecrates God's holiest vessel V
These are his last words. Idolatry
awakens from her dream, and longs
to sec the light of the law of grace
now while the written law reigns.
Death declares that it is fore-
shadowed in Gedeon's fleece, in the
manna, in the honey-comb, in the
lion's mouth, and in the shew-
bread.
Daxikl. ** If these embknift
9iov tt not, then be it shown
U the fun foreshadowing preaenoe
Of the feast here now transformed
Into Bread and Wine— stupendous
Miracle of God ; his greatest
Sacraaieat in type pr es ented.**
The scene opens to the sound
of solemn music ; a table is seen
inaDged as an altar, with a inon-
urance and chalice in the middle,
and two wax candles on each side.
The auto closes with Idolatry's
decbration that she is transformed
into Latria^ and the usual personal
address to the audience.
It TMl PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOR.
We have already remarked that
'V.c auto El Pinter de su Dcshonra
IS a uplica of a secular play bearing
viic same title.
It will not be out of place to give
1 short analysis of the latter, pre-
mising that it is one of the greatest
ofCaldcTon's tragedies.
In the first act the Governor of
Gaeta welcomes to his residence his
frWnd Don Juan Roca, whosq young
*ifc, Seraphine, soon becomes inti-
mate with the governor's daughter,
Portia, to whom she reveals the
*«crct that she has been ardently
lored by Portia's brother, Don
Mvaro, whose love she has as
ardently returned.
N«ws, however, was received of
^« shipwreck and death, and she
^Hy yielded to her father's urgent
requests, and gave her hand to Don
Juan.
The unhappy lady faints while
reciting her griefs, and Portia has-
tens for aid. At this moment a
stranger enters, perceives the un-
conscious lady, and bends over her
with an expression of the warmest
interest. Seraphine opens her eyes,
and with the cry "Alvaro!" faints
again.
Her old lover, saved from the
waves, has returned to find her
another's wife.
From this moment begins a
struggle between love and duty,
depicted with all the tenderness
and power of which the poet was
capable.
Seraphine attempts with all her
strength to master her love for
Alvaro, and tells him, with forced
coolness, how much she is attached
to her husband by duty and inclina-
tion.
During this interview a cannon
is heard — the signal announcing the
ajpproaching departure of Don
Juan's ship. Seraphine withdraws
to follow him to thpir home in
Spain, and leaves Alvaro in a state
of utter hopelessness.
The second act reveals to us Don
Juan (an enthusiastic lover of art)
in his home in Barcelona, painting
his wife's portrait.
The remembrance of the past
seems banished from Seraphine's
heart, and everything indicates a
state of peace and happiness.
Don Juan withdra\ys a moment,
when a sailor enters the room.
It is Don Alvaro, who, unable to
forget his love, has followed Sera-
phine to Barcelona. He overwhelms
her with his affection ; but she
shows him so firmly and eloquently
that his pleading is in vain that he
in turn resolves to conquer his pas-
sion and leave her for ever.
2l8
Calderon's Autos Sacratfuniales.
He still lingers near, but makes
no attempt to approach her again.
One day, during the Carnival,
Don Juan's villa takes fire. Sera-
phine is borne insensible from the
house by her husband, who confides
her to Don Alvaro, whom he does
not, of course, recognize, and re-
turns to help the others who are in
danger.
Don Alvaro, meanwhile, is left
w^ith Seraphine in his arms. His
love revives stronger than ever in
the terrible temptation, and he
bears the still insensible Seraphine
to his ship, and makes sail with the
greatest haste.
Don Juan does not return until
the ship is under way, discovers too
late that he has been deceived, and
throws himself into the sea in or-
der to overtake the fugitives.
In the last act we find Don Juan
at Gaeta, disguised as an artist, in
order to obtain more easily access
into private houses, and discover
who has stolen his wife.
He is introduced to Prince Ur-
bino, who commissions him to paint
the portrait of a beautiful woman
whom he has seen at a neighboring
forester's house, which he visits in
order to meet Portia secretly.
The same place has been chosen
by Don Alvaro to conceal Sera-
phine, who is the beautiful lady who
has attracted the prince's attention.
Don Juan repairs to the appoint-
ed spot, and erects his easel near
a window, through the blinds of
which he can see, unnoticed, the
fair one.
The artist discovers, with feelings
which can be imagined, his wife
asleep in the garden. She murmurs
words which prove her innocence.
But this cannot save her ; she must
be sacrificed to remove the stain on
her husband's honor.
Don Juan expresses his feelings
in a most powerful soliloquy, when
Alvaro enters and embraces the
sleeping Seraphine. At that instant
two shots are heard, and the inno-
cent and guilty fall bleeding to the
ground.
The auto founded on the above
play is, in the opinion of no less a
critic than Wilhelm Val Schmidt,
the first of its class, and withal
much less technical than is usua(
with these plays.
The dramatis persona include
the Artist, the World, Love, Lu-
cifer, Sin, Grace, Knowledge, Na-
ture(/.^., human xiature at first in a
state of innocence). Innocence, and
the Will (/>., free-will).
The first car represents a dragon,
which opens and discloses Luci-
fer, whose first speech proves the
trite remark about the devil quot-
ing Scripture ; for he immediately
proceeds to cite Jeremias and Da-
vid, who alluded to him as the dra
gon.
He then summons Sin, and re-
peats to her his partly-known his-
tory, which contains some singular
ideas.
He was the favorite of the Father
in his former home, where he saw,
before the original existed, the por-
trait of so rare a beauty that, in-
flamed with love, and to prevent
the Prince from marrying her, he
rebelled, and, placing himself at the
head of the other discontented
spirits, was defeated and doomed
to perpetual exile and darkness.
So far Sin is acquainted wilh
the story ; but from this point all is
new to her.
The greatest of Lucifer's suffer-
ings arises from his envy of the
Prince, who is all that is wise and
lovely : a learned theologian, legis-
lator, philosopher, physician, logi-
cian, astrologist, mathematician,
architect — "witness the palace of
Calderons Autos Sacramentales.
219
the world " — geometrician, rhetori-
cian, musician, and poet.
But none of these qualities so en-
rages and astonishes Lucifer as the
Prince's talent for painting. He
has already been engaged six days
on a landscape. At the beginning
the ground of the canvas was so
bare and rough that he only drew
on it the outline in shadowy figures-
The first day he gave it light ; the
second day he introduced heaven
and earth, dividing the waters and
the firmament ; the third day, see-
ing the earth so arid and bare, he
painted flowers in it and fruits, and
the fourth day the sun and moon.
He filled, the fifth day, the air and
waters with birds and fishes; and
this sixth day he has covered the
landscape with various animals.
Nothing of all this astonishes
Lucifer so much, as the Prince's in-
tention to embody in a palpable
form the ideal which was the cause
'»f Lucifer's faH.
The divine Artist has himself
rhosen the colors and selected clay
and occult minerals, which Lucifer
fears a breath may animate : " Since
if a breath can dissipate dust, I sus-
pect, I lament, I fear, that dust may
live by the inspiration of a breath."
Animated by this fear, Lucifer
has summoned Sin to aid him in
destroying this image, so that the
Prince may be The Painter of his
owtt Dishonor.
A palace appears, and near the
entrance the painting on an easel.
Lucifer and Sin retire; for the Artist,
Accompanied by the Virtues, comes
*o put a careful hand to his work.
Sin knows not where to conceal
Herself. Lucifer bids her hide in a
^avc in the bank of a stream.
Sin answers that she is afraid of
ihe water, because she foresees that
•t is to be (in the water of baptism)
tbc antidote to sin.
The flowers, grain, and vine all
terrify her, before which, as symbols
of some unknown sacrament, she
reverently bows.
She at last conceals herself in a
tree, which Lucifer calls from that
moment the tree of death.
The Artist enters. Innocence
bearing the palette. Knowledge the
mall-stick, and Grace the brushes.
He declares his intention to show
his power in the portrait his love
wishes to paint, and asks the atten-
dant Virtues to add their gifts to
Human Nature.
He proceeds to work, while the
Virtues call upon the sun, moon,
etc., to praise the Lord.
The Artist finishes his work by
breathing the breath of life into it.
The picture falls, and in its place ap-
pears Human Nature, who expresses
most vividly her wonder at her cre-
ation, and joins in the general an-
them, *• Bless the Lord." Lucifer
confesses that he and Sin are de
trop^ and they depart to seek some
disguise in which to return and
carry out their undertaking. While
the chorus repeats the praises of the
Lord, Human Nature naively asks,
" How can I bless him, if I do not
know him } Who w.ill tell me who
He is or who I am V*
The Artist advances and answers
her question. Nature demands who
he is. " I am who am, and have been,
and am to be ; and since thou hast
been created for Love's spouse, let
thy love be grateful."
*' What command dost thou lay
on me, my Love ? I wil^l never
break it."
" All that thou seest here is thine ;
that tree alone is mine."
Nature asks who can ever divert
her love, and is answered, "Thy
Free-will."
" What new spirit and force was
created in my new being bj that
220
Calderon^s Autos Sacramentales.
word, which told me that there was
something in me besides myself?
Voice, tell me, who is Free-will."
Free-will appears as a rustic, and
answers, " I."
Nature then proceeds to name
the various objects about her, ac-
companying each name with some
appropriate remark, and is led quite
naturally to indulge in some boast-
ing at her dominion over such a
beautiful and varied kingdom.
This is the moment Lucifer and
Sin select to appear in the disguise
of rustics. The latter remains con-
cealed in the tree ; the former intro-
duces himself to Human Nature as
a gardener, and says very gallantly
that he lost his last place on her ac-
count.
Nature hastens to turn a conver-
sation becoming somewhat person-
al by asking what he is cultivating.
" That beautiful tree."
" It is extremely lovely."
" There is something more singu-
lar about it than being merely love-
" What r
" Earth, who brought it forth, can
tell thee."
" I am earth, since I was formed
of earth ; so I will tell the Earth to
keep me no longer in suspense."
" Then speak to her, and thou
shalt see."
" Mother Earth, what is this hid-
den mystery ?"
Sin. " Eat, and thou shalt be as
God."
Then follow the Fall and a pow-
erful scene depicting Nature's con-
fusion and grief, as she is dragged
off by Satan as his slave, while Sin
claims Free-will as her prey.
The Artist enters and finds
Knowledge, Innocence, and Grace
in tears ; the latter informs him of
the Fall.
He thus reproaches his creation
for her ingratitude : " Wliat more
could I do for thee, my best design,
than form thee with my own hands ?
I gave thee my image, a soul that
cost thee nothing, and yet thou de-
sertest me for my greatest enemy."
He then pronounces the curse
upon Mankind and the Serpent, and
declares he will blot out the world,
the scene of their sin.
The clouds break and the sea
bursts its limits ; the Earth trembles
and struggles with the waves, and
in agony calls on the Lord for
mercy.
In the midst of this confusion
of the elements Human Nature is
heard crying for help.
Lucifer. "Why callest thou for
aid, if I, the only one whom it be-
hooves to give it, delight in seeing
thee annihilated.^"
Sin also makes the same declara-
tion. The World alone attempts to
save its queen.
At last the Artist casts her a plank,
saying, " Mortal, again see whom
thou hast deserted, and for whom;
since he whom thou hast offended
saves thee, and he whom thou
lovest abandons thee ! One day
thou wilt know of what this plank,
fragment of a miraculous ark, is
symbol."
The World, Nature, and Free-
will are saved; the latter enters,
bound with Sin, who declares that
Sin and Human Nature are so near-
ly the same that one cannot go
anywhere without the other.
We have said anachronisms are
frequent; the poet here even makes
his characters jest about it.
Human Nature. " Since here
there are no real persons, and Allego-
ry can traverse centuries in hours, it
seems to me that the salute the an-
gels are singing to this celestial
aurora declares in resounding
words . . ."
CakUron's Autos SacramentaUs.
221
Music. " In heaven and on
earth peace to man and glory to
God."
Free-will. " The story has made
a fine jump from the Creation to
the Flood, and I think there is go-
ing to be another, if I understand
ihat song aright — from the Deluge
to the Nativity !"
The chant continues, to the infi-
nite discomfort of Lucifer and Sin,
who at last determine in their rage
to disfigure Human Nature so that
her Creator himself could not rec-
ognize her.
Lucifer holds her hands, while Sin
brands upon her brow the sign of
slavery.
Lucifer then commands the
World to remain on guard, and let
no one enter without careful scru-
tiny, for fear lest the Artist may at-
umpt to avenge the wrong done him.
The Artist enters, accompanied
!»v Divine Love.
They are soon discovered by the
World, who exclaims : " Who goes
t;:ere?"
" Friends."
'* Your name ?**
^\Man."
**And the World, the faithful
>entinel of Sin, does not know how
ihou bast entered here ?"
" I did not come that Sin should
l^now me."
^/6o not know thee."
"So John will say."
'*By what door didst thou
••nter?"
**By that of Divine Love, who
•** companies me."
'*Whatis thy office .>"
"I was once an Artist in ascer-
tain allegory, and must still be the
same."
"Artist?"
'^Ycs, since I came to retouch a
figure of mine which an error has
Wotted."
•* Since thou art a painter thou
canst do me a favor ..."
" What is it ?"
The World then informs him that
there is a certain Spouse who has
been carried away from her hus-
band, and is now in the power of a
Tyrant, who is endeavoring to force
her to accompany him to another
world, the seat of his lule.
The Artist weeps, because he re-
members his own Spouse, whose fate
is similar to that of this one.
The world begs the Artist to
make a portrait of this fair discon-
solate one, that he (the World) may
wear it on his breast.
The Artist consents, and con-
ceals himself in order to work un-
observed.
The World goes in search of Hu-
man Nature, while the Artist looks
about for some hiding-place. Love
points to a cross near by, and says
that as the first offence was commit-
ted in a tree, this one will witness
his vengeance.
The Artist calls for his. colors,
and Love presents him with a box,
in opening which his hands are
stained a bloody red.
" Take this !"
" It is all carmine."
" I have no other color."
" Do not let it afflict thee. Love,
that blood must retouch what Sin
has blotted. The brushes !"
Love hands him three nails —
"Here they are!"
** How sharp and cruel ! What
can be the canvas for such brush-
es!"
Love gives him a canvas in the
shape of a heart — " a heart."
" Of bronze ?"
" Yes."
** How I grieve to see it so hard-
ened, when I intended to form in it
a second figure ! Give me the mall-
stick."
2f22
/ am the Door.
Love presents him with a small
lance. ** Here it is/*
" The point is steel ! Less cruel
instruments Innocence, Grace, and
Knowledge once gave me !**
" Be not astonished if these are
more cruel than those ; for then thou
didst paint as God, and now as
Man !"
While the Artist is working Na-
ture, Free-will, and Sin enter, and
later Lucifer, who, wearied of Na-
ture's continual lamentation, comes
to drag her to his realm.
Artist. " Why should I delay
my vengeance, seeing them together?
Give me, Love, the weapons which
I brought for this occasion !"
*' Thy voice is the lightning, this
weapon only its symbol ; but I de-
liver it to thee with sorrow !"
** When my offended honor is so
deeply concerned?"
" I am Love, and she is weeping ;
but I will direct my gaze to thy
wrongs, and without fail shall hit
the mark."
" My hand cannot err, traitrous
adulterers, who conspired against
me ; the honor of an insulted man
obliges me to this ! I am the Paint-
er of his own Dishonor ; die both
at one stroke !" (Fires. Lucifer
and Sin both fall.)
Love. " Thou hast hit Sin, and
not Human Nature !*
The Artist answers that it cannot
be said that his shot has failed, since
by this tree Nature lives, and Luci-
fer and Sin are killed
The Artist points to a fountain
of seven streams, and the Virtues,
and invites Human Nature to bathe
in the blood from his side, and be
restored to her original condition.
The auto closes with an expres-
sion of gratitude from Nature, and
the usual allusion to the Sacramen(
in whose honor the present festival
is celebrated.
I AM THE DOOR.
" To him that knodceth it shaB be opened."
Truly, I see Thou art ! — with nails hinged fast :
Yet faster barred and locked with bolts of love.
I, treasure seeking, through Thee would go past-
Than lock or hinges must I stronger prove ?
" A knock will do't." A knock ! Where durst I, Lord ?
" Knock at my heart ; there all my wealth is stored."
The Tragedy of the Temple.
223
THE TRAGEDY OF THE TEMPLE.
CONCLUDKD.
While the so-called King of
France was thus subjected to the
fierce and brutal caprice of one
man, there were thousands of loyal
hearts beating in pity for him, and
longing to liberate and crown him,
even at the price of their blood.
The faithful army of La Vendue
was fighting for him, and with a
courage and determinatjon that
caused some anxiety among the
good patriots as to the possible is-
tne of the campaign. The move-
ment was held up to ridicule ; the
young prince was mockingly styled
King of La Vendue. Neverthe-
less, the republicans were alarmed,
tnd the hopes of the royalists
were reviving. The Simons were
discussing these matters one even-
ing over the newspaper, when Si-
mon, looking at the forlorn, brok-
en-spirited little monarch, whose
cause was thus creating strife and
bloodshed far beyond his dungeon's
walls, exclaimed sneeringly : " I
»ay, little wolf-cub, they talk of set-
ting up the throne again, and put-
ting thee in thy father's place;
what wouldst thou do to me if they
made thee king ?" The boy raised
his dim blue eyes from the ground,
where they were now habitually
fixed, and replied : ** I would for-
give ihee !" Mme. Simon, in relat-
ing this incident long after,, said
that even her husband seemed for
I moment awed by the sublime
jimplicity of the answer.
They were both of them sick and
tired of their office by this time;
^e of the cruel work it involved,
he of the close confinement to
which it condemned them. He
tried to get released from his post,
and after some fruitless efforts suc-
ceeded. On the 19th of January,
1794, they left the Temple. The
patriot shoemaker died six months
afterwards on the guillotine. He
had no successor, properly speak-
ing, in the Tower ; in history he has
neither successor nor predecessor ;
he stands alone, unrivalled and un-
approachable, as a type of the ti-
ger-man, a creature devoid of one
humane, redeeming characteristic.
Other men whose names have be-
come bywords of cruelty or fero-
cious wickedness have at least had
the excuse of some all-absorbing
passion which, stifling reason and
every better instinct of their nature,
carried them on as by some over-
mastering impulse; but Simon
could not plead even this guilty ex-
cuse. His was no mad delirium of
passion, but a cold-blooded, deadly,
undying, unrelenting cruelty in the
execution of a murder that he had
no motive in pursuing except as a
means of adding a few coins more
to his salary. He entered on his
task of lingering assassination with
deliberate barbarity ; he was not
stimulated by the sense of personal
wrong, by a thirst for revenge, by
any motive that could furnish the
faintest thread of extenuation.
He rose every morning and went
to his victim as other men rise and
goto their studies or their work. He
devoted all his energies, all his in-
stincts, to coolly inflicting torture
224
The Tragedy of t/te Temple.
on a beautifuK engaging^ and inno-
cent little child. No, happily for
the world, he has no prototype in
its history; nor, for the honor of
humanity, has he ever found an
apologist. He is perhaps the only
monster of ancient or modern times
who has never found a sceptic or a
casuist to lift a voice in his behalf.
Nero and Trajan, Queen Elizabeth
and Louis XI., have had their
apologists; nay, even Judas has
found amongst the fatalists of some
Oerman school an infatuated fel-
low-mortal to attempt a defence of
the indefensible ; but no man has
yet been known to utter a word of
excuse for the brutal jailer of Louis
XVIL
And yet his departure, though it
rid the helpless captive of an ac-
tive, ever-present barbarity, can
hardly be said, except negatively,
to have bettered his position. The
Convention decreed that it was es-
sential to the nation's life and pros-
perity that the little Capet shduld
be securely guarded ; and as if the in-
sane precautions hitherto used were
not sufficient to secure a feeble, at-
tenuated child, he was removed to
a stronger and more completely
isolated dungeon, where henceforth
his waning life might die out quick-
er and more unheard of. There was
only one window to the room, and
this was darkened by a thick wood-
en blind, reinforced by iron bars
outside. The door was removed,
and replaced by a half-door with
iron bars above; these bars, when
unlocked, opened like a trap, and
through this food was passed to the
prisoner. The only light at night
was from a lamp fastened to the
wall opposite the iron grating.
Mme. Royale thus describes the
state of her brother in this new
abode, to which he was transfer-
red — whether by accident or design
we know not — on the anniversary^
of his father's death, January 21 :•
" A sickly child of eight years, he-
was locked and bolted in a great
room, with no other resource than
a broken bell, which he never rang,
so greatly did he dread the people
whom its sound would have
brought to him,; he preferred want-
ing any and every thing to calling
for his persecutors. His bed ha<l
not been stirred for six months, and
he had not strength to make it him-
self; it was alive with bugs and
vermin still more disgusting. His
linen and his person were covered
with them. For more than a year
he had np change of shirt or stock-
ings ; every kind of filth was allow-
ed to accumulate about him and in
his room ; and during all that pe-
riod nothing had been removed .
His window, which was locked as
well as grated, was never opened,
and the infectious smell of this hor-
rid room was so dreadful that no
one could bear it for a moment.
He might indeed have washed him-
self — for he had a pitcher of water
— and have kept himself somewhat
more clean than he did ; but over-
whelmed by the ill-treatment he had
received, he had not resolution to
do so, and his illness began to de-
prive him of even the necessary
strength. He never asked for any-
thing, so great was his dread of Si-
mon and his other keepers. He
passed his days without any kind
of occupation. They did not even
allow him light in the evening.
This situation affected his mind as
well as his body, and it is not sur-
prising that he should have fallen
into a frightful atrophy. The
length of time which he resisted
this treatment proves how good his
constitution must have originally
been."
While the boy-king was slowly
The Tragedy of the Temple.
22$
telitng away his remnant of misera-
ble life in the dark: solitude of the
Tower, thousands were being daily
immolated on the public places,
«here the guillotine, insatiable and
iudtfatigable, despatched its cart-
i(ads of victims. On the loth of
May Mme. Elizabeth, the most re-
vered and saintly of all the long
roU of martyrs inscribed on that
Uoody page, was sacrificed with
many other noble and interesting
women, amongst them the venera-
ble sister of M. de Malesherbes, the
courageous advocate of the king.
She was seventy-six years of age.
Bf a refinement of barbarity the
manicipals who conducted the
"batch" obliged Mme. Elizabeth
to wait to see her twenty-five com-
pinions executed before laying her
own head on the block. Each of
ihcm, as they left the tumbrel, asked
leave to embrace her; she kissed
them with a smiling face, and said
a few words of encouragement to
each. "Her strength did not fail
licr 10 the last," says Mme. Royale,
** and she died with all the resigna-
tion of the purest piety."
Mme. Royale was henceforth left
in perfect solitude like her brother.
She thus describes her own and the
l>auphin's life after the departure
<>f her beloved aunt, of whose death
^iie was happily kept in ignorance for
ilongtime: " The guards were often
dnink; but they generally left my
brother and me quiet in our respec-
tivcapartraents until the 9th Thermi-
<iyr» My brother still pined in soli-
tude and filth. His keepers never
vent near him but to give him his
meals; they had no compassion on
tli« unhappy child. There was one
'»f the guards whose gentle manners
^couraged me to recommend my
brother to his attention ; this man
ventured to complain of the severity
*»th which the boy was treated, but
VOL XXI. — 15
he was dismissed next day. I, at
least, could keep myself clean. I
had soap and water, and carefully
swept out my room every day. I
had no light. . . . They would not
give me any more books, but I had
some religious works and some
travels, which I read over and
over."
The fall of Robespierre, which
rescued so many doomed heads^
from the guillotine, and opened the
doors of their prison, had no such
beneficent effect on the fate of the
two royal children. . It gave rise^
however, to some alleviation of their
sufferings. Immediately on the
death of his cowardly and " incor-^
ruptible" colleague, Barras visit-
ed the Tower, and dismissed the
whole set of commissaries of the
Commune, who were forthwith de-
spatched to have their heads cut
off next day, while a single guardian
was appointed in their place.
Laurent was the man's name.
He had good manners, some edu-
cation, and, better than all, a human
heart. The lynxes of the Temple
eyed him askance ; he was not of
their kin, this Creole with the heart
of a man, and they mistrusted him.
It was not until two o'clock in the
morning that they conducted him
to the presence of his charge. He
tells us that when he entered the
ante-room of the dungeon he recoil-
ed before the horrible stench that
came from the inner room through
the grated door-way. Good heav-
ens ! was this the outcome of the
reign of brotherhood which talked
so mightily of universal love and
liberty ? It was in truth the most
forcible illustration of the gospel of
Sans-culottism that the world had
yet beheld. "Capet! Capet!"
cried the municipals in a loud voice.
But no answer came. More calling,
with threats and oaths, at last
226
The Tragedy of the Temple.
brought out a feeble, wailing sound
like the cry of some 'dying animal.
But nothing more could threats, or
even an attempt at coaxing, elicit.
Capet would not move; would not
come forth and show himself to the
new tutor. Laurent took a candle,
and held it inside the bars of the
noxious cage ; he beheld, croucJhing
on a bed in the furthest comer of
the dungeon, the body which was
confided to his guardianship. Sick-
ened with the sight, he turned away.
There was no appliance at hand for
forcing open tjie door or the grat-
ing. Laurent at once sent in an
account of what he had seen, and
demanded that this remnant of
child-life, that he was appointed to
watch over, should be examined by
proper authority. The next day,
July 30, some members of the
S(iret^ G^n^rale came to the Tower.
M. de Beauchesne tells us what they
saw : " They called to him through
the grating; no answer. They
then ordered the door to be open-
ed. It seems there were no means
of doing it.' A workman was call-
ed, who forced away the bars of
the trap so as to get in his head,
and, having thus got sight of the
child, asked him why he did not
answer. Still no reply. In a
few minutes the whole door was
broken down, and the visitors en-
tered. Then appeared a spectacle
more horrible than can be conceiv-
ed — a spectacle which never again
can be seen in the annals of a
nation calling itself civilized, and
which even the murderers of Louis
XVI. could not witness without
mingled pity and fright. In a dark
room, exhaling a smell of death and
corruption, on a crazy, dirty bed, a
child of nine years old was lying
prostrate, motionless, and bent up,
his face livid and furrowed by want
and suffering, and his limbs half
covered with a filthy cloth and
trowsers in rags. His features,
once so delicate, and his counte-
nance, once so lively, denoted now
the gloomiest apathy — almost in-
sensibility; and his blue eycN,,
looking larger from the meagreness
of the rest of his face, had lost all
spirit, and taken, in their dull immo-
vability, a tinge of gray and green.
His head and neck were eaten up
{ranges) with purulent sores ; his '
legs, arms, and neck, thin and angu-
lar, were unnaturally lengthened at
the expense of his chest and body.
His hands and feet were not hu-
man. A thick paste of dirt stuck
like pitch over his temples, and his
once beautiful curls were full of
vermin, which also covered his
whole body, and which, as well as
bugs, swarmed in every fold of the
rotten bedding, over which black
spiders were running. ... At the
noise of forcing the door the child
gave a nervous shudder, but barely
moved, not noticing the strangers.
A hundred questions were address-
ed him ; he answered none of them.
He cast a vague, wandering, un-
meaning look at his visitors, and at
this moment one would have taken
him for an idiot. The food they
had given him was still untouched ;
one of the commissioners asked him
why he had not eaten it. Still no
answer. At last the oldest of the
visitors, whose gray hairs and pater-
nal tone seemed to make an impres-
sion on him, repeated the question,
and he answered in a calm but re-
solute tone : * Because I want to
die !' These were the only words
which this cruel and memorable in-
quisition extracted from him."
Barras, the stuttering, pleasure-
loving noble of Provence, "a terror
to all phantasms, being himself of
the genus Reality " — Barras, who
had stood, like a bewildered, ship-
The Tragedy of the Temple.
227
wrecked man while the storm-wind
was whirling blood- waves round
about him, now enters and beholds
the royal victim whom it has taken
Dearly eighteen months of Simon
the Cordwainer's treatment " to |et
rid of*' — perishing, but still alive in
his den of squalor, darkness, and
fright. His knees were so swollen
that his ragged trowsers had become
painfully tight. Barras ordered
them to be cut open, and found the
joints "prodigiously swollen and
livid." One of the municipals, who
had formerly been a surgeon, was
permitted to dress the sores on the
head and neck; after much hesi-
tation^ woman was employed to
wash and comb the child, and at
Laurent's earnest remonstrance a
little air and light were admitted
into the damp room ; the vermin
were expelled as far as could be, an
iron hed and clean bedding replac-
ed the former horrors in which the
hoy had lain so many months, and
the grated door was done away with.
These were small mercies, after all,
and to which the vilest criminal
had a right. All the other rigors of
his prison were maintained. He
was still left to partial darkness and
complete solitude. Laurent, after
a while, wearied the municipals into
giving him leave to take him occa-
sionally for an airing on the leads.
The indulgence was perhaps wel-
come, but the child showed no signs
of pleasure in it ; he never spoke
or took the smallest notice of any-
thing he saw. Once only, when on
his way to the leads, he passed by
the wicket which conducted to the
fooras that his mother had occu-
pied; he recognized the spot at
once, gazed wistfully at the door,
and, clinging to I^au rent's arm, made
a sign for them to go that way. The
nunicipal who was on guard at the
foment saw what the poor little
fellow meant, and told him he had
mistaken the door ; it was, he said,
at the other side. But the child
had guessed aright. The kind-
hearted Laurent began soon to feel
his own confinement, almost as soli-
tary as the prince's, more than he
could bear. He petitioned to have
some one to assist him in his duties,
and, owing to some secret influence
of the royalists, a man named Go-
min, who was at heart devoted to
their cause, was appointed. The
only benefit which the young pris-
oner derived from the change of his
jailers was that civility and clean-
liness had replaced insolence and
dirt. For the rest, he was still lock-
ed up alone, never seeing any one
except at meal times, when the two
guardians and a municipal were pre-
sent, the former being often power-
less to control the insulting remarks
and gratuitous cruelty of the latter.
So the wretched days dragged
on, silent, monotonous, miserable.
Meanwhile, Paris was breathing free-
ly after the long night of Terror.
The Fraternity of the Guillotine was
well-nigh over, and the Jeunesse
dorU had flung away the red caps
and the Carmagnole^ and was dis-
porting itself with a light heart in
gaudy attire of the antique cut.
Fair citoyennes discarded the unbe-
coming and therefore, even to the
most patriotic among them, odious
costume of the republic, and deck-
ed themselves out in flowing Greek
draperies, binding theit hair with
gold and silver fillets like Clytem-
nestra and Antigone, and replac-
ing the sabots of the people with
picturesque sandals, clothing their
naked feet only in ribbons, despite
the biting cold of this memorable
winter. The death-beacons one by
one had been quenched, not by nim-
ble hands, like the lights of the ball-
room or the gay flame of the street,
228
The Tragedy of tlu Temple,
but in blood dashed freely over
their lurid glare. Terrified men
were emerging from their holes and
hiding-places ; nobles were return-
ing from exile ; there was a sudden
flaming up of merriment, an effer-
vescence of luxury, an intoxicating
thirst for pleasure, a hunger to eat
of the good things of life, of which
the reign of sans-culotHsm had
starved them. There were gay gath-
erings in all ranks ; in the highest
the bals des victimes^ where the guests
wore a badge of crape on their arm,
as a sign that they had lost a near
relative on the guillotine — none
others being admitted. So, while
the waltzers spun round to the clang
of brass music and in the blaze of
wax-lights, and all the world was
embracing and exchanging congrat-
ulations, like men escaped from im-
pending death, the tragedy in the
Tower drew to its end unheard and
unheeded. The King of La Ven-
due ate his dinner of ** bouilli and
dry vegetables, generally beans ";
the same at eight o'clock for sup-
per, when he was locked up for the
night, and left unmolested till nine
next morning. One day there came
a rough, blustering man to the pri-
son, who flung open the doors with
much noise, and talked like thun-
der. His name was Delboy. He
chanced to arrive at the dinner-
time. " Why this wretched food ?"
cried the noisy visitor, " \itluy were
still at the Tuileries, I would help to
starve them out ; but here they are
our prisoners, and it J6 unworthy of
the nation to starve them. Why these
blinds ? Under the reign of equa-
lity the sun should shine for all.
Why is he separated from his sister?
Under the reign of fraternity why
should they not see each other .^"
Then addressing the child in a gen-
tler tone, he said, " Should you not
like, my boy, to play with your sister }
If you forget your origin, I don't
see why the nation should remem-
ber it." He reminded the guar-
dians that it was not the little Ca-
pet's fault that he was his father's
soVi — it was his misfortune; he was
now only " an unfortunate child/*
and the " nation should be his mo-
ther." The only advantage the
unfortunate child derived from this
strange visit was that the lamp of
his dungeon was lighted henceforth
at dark. Gomin asked this favor
on the spot, and it was granted.
The commissioners were continu.al-
ly changed — a circumstance which
proved a frequent cause of suffering
and annoyance to the capti^, who
was the victim of their respective
tempers, often fierce and cruel as
those of his jailers of the earlier
days. These accumulated miseries
were finally wearing out his little
remnant of strength. The malady
which for some time past gave seri-
ous alarm to his two kind-hearted
friends, Laurent and Gomin, in-
creased with sudden rapidity, and
in the month of February, 1795,
assumed a threatening character.
He tould hardly move from ex-
treme weakness, and had lost all
desire to do so. When he went for
his airing, Laurent or Gomin had
to carry him in their arms. He let
them do so reluctantly ; but he was
now t )o apathetic to resist anything
The surgeon of the prison was call-
ed in, and certified that " the little
Capet had tumors on all his joints,
especially his knees ; that it was im-
possible to extract a word from him ;
that he never would rise from his
chair or his bed, and refused to
take any kind of exercise." This
report brought a deputation of
members of the S(iret^ G^n6rale,
who were so horrified at the state
of things they found that they drew
up the following appeal to their
The Tragedy of t lie Temple.
229
colleagues : " For the honor of the
naOoMj who knew nothing of these
horrors ; for that of the Convention,
which was, in truth, also ignorant of
them; and even for that of the
guilty municipality of Paris itself,
who knew all and was the cause of
all these cruelties, we should make
DO public report, but only state the
result in a secret meeting of the
committee." This confession is re-
volting enough; but it might find
some shadow of excuse, if, after hid-
ing the cruelties for the sake of
shielding the wretches who had
sanctioned them, these deputies
hid taken steps to repair the wrong-
doing, and to alleviate the position
of the victim; but, as far as the
evidence goes, nothing of the sort
was done.
The tomb-like solitude to which
the young prince had so long been
sabjected, added to the chronic
terror in which he had lived from
the time of his coming under Si-
mon's tutelage, had induced him to
miintain an obstinate, unbroken si-
lence. He could not be persuaded
to answer a question, to utter a
word. Yet it was evident enough
thit this did not proceed from stu-
pidity or insensibility, but that his
facahies still retained much of their
native vivacity and sensitiveness.
Uwi'm was so timid by nature that,
in spite of his affection for his little
charge, he seldom ventured on any
outward expression of sympathy,
^id he should be detected and
inadc, like so many others, to pay
the penalty of it. One day, how-
ever, that he chanced to be left
quite alone with him, he felt safe
to let his heart speak, and showed
great tenderness to the child ; the
W fixed a long, wistful look on his
^e, and then rose and advanced
t«midly to the door, his eyes still
Veiled on Gomin with an expres-
sion of entreaty too significant to
be misunderstood. " No, no,'* said
Gomin, shaking his head reluctant-
ly; "you know that cannot be."
'' Ohf I must see her" cried the
poor child. " Oh I pray, pray kt me
see her just once before I die /" Go-
min made no answ^er but by his
look of pity and regret, and, going
up to the child, led him gently
from the door. The young prince
threw himself on the bed with a
gesture of despair, and remained
there, senseless and motionless, so
long that his guardian at one mo*
ment, as he confessed afterwards,
feared he was* dead. Poor child!
The longing to see his mother had
of late taken the shape of a hope,
and he had been busy in his mind
as to how it could possibly be real-
ized ; this had been an opportunity,
he thought, and the disappointment
overwhelmed him. Gomin said
that, for his part, the sight of the
boy's grief nearly broke his heart.
The incident, he believed, hastened
the crisis, that was now steadily ad-
vancing. A few days after this oc-
currence a new commissary came
to inspect the prisoner, and, after
eyeing him curiously, as if he had
been a strange variety of animal, he
said out loud to Laurent and Go-
min, who were standing by, " That
child has not six weeks to live !"
Fearing the shock these words
might cause the subject of them,
the guardians ventured to say some-
thing to modify their meaning ; the
commissary tumtd on them, and
with a savage oath repeated, " I tell
you, citizens, in six weeks he will
be an idiot, if he is not dead!"
When he left the room, the young
prince gazed after him with a
mournful smile. The sentence, bru-
tally delivered as it was, had no
fears for him ; presently a few tear-
drops stole down his cheeks, and
230
The Tragedy of the Temple.
he murmured, as if speaking to
himself, " And yet I never did any
harm to anybody."
A new affliction now awaited
him. The kind and faithful Lau-
rent left him. His post in the Tow-
er, repulsive from the first, had be-
come utterly insupportable to him
of late, and on the death of his
mother he aj^plied to be liberated
from it. When he came to bid fare-
well to the unhappy child, whose lot
he had endeavored to soften as far
as his power admitted, the prince
squeezed his hand affectionately,
looked his regret at him, but uttered
no word.
Laurent was replaced by a man
named Lasne, formerly a soldier
in the old Gardes Fran^aises,
now a house-painter. For the
first few weeks after his arrival the
young prince was mute to him. as
he had been to his predecessor, un-
til the latter's persevering kindness
had disaimed timidity and mistrust.
A trifle at last broke the ice.
Lasne was in the habit of talking
to his little charge, making kindly
remarks, or telling stories that he
thought might amuse him, never
waiting for any sign of response.
One day he happened to tell him
of something that occurred when
he, Lasne, had been in the old
guard, and, being on guard at the
Tuileries, had seen the Dauphin
reviewing a regiment of children
which had been formed for his
amusement, and of which he was
colonel. The boy's countenance
beamed with a sudden ray of sur-
prise and pleasure, and he exclaim-
ed in a whisper, as if afraid of being
overheard, " And didst thou see me
with my sword ?" Lasne answered
that he had, and from this forth
tliey were fast friends. Bolder,
though scarcely more sympathiz-
ing, than either Laurent or Go-
min, Lasne determined to apply
at headquarters for some decisive
change in the prince's treatment.
He induced his colleague to join
him in signing a report to the ef-
fect that " the little Capet was in-
disposed." This was inscribed on
the Temple register ; but no notice
was taken, and in a few days they
both again protested in stronger
terms : " The little Capet is seri-
ously indisposed." No notice be-
ing taken of this, the brave men
wrote a third time : " The life of
little Capet is in danger!" This
finally brought a response. M. De-
sault, one of the first physicians in
Paris, was sent to visit the young
prince. He had come too late,
however* the malady which had
carried off the elder Dauphin had
taken too deep a hold on the child's
life to be now arrested or overcome.
Nothing could induce the prince to
answer a question or speak a word to
the doctor or in his presence ; and
it was only after great difficulty, and
at the earnest entreaties of his two
guardians, that he consented to
swallow the medicines prescribed.
By degrees, however, as it always
happened, the persistent kindness
and sympathizing looks and words
of M. Desault conquered his sus-
picions or timidity ; and though he
never plucked up courage to speak
to him, the municipals being always
present, he would take hold of the
doctor's coat, and thus express a
desire for him to prolong his visit.
This lasted three weeks.
Among the commissaries there
was a M. Bellenger, an artist, who
was deeply touched by the pitiable
condition of the child, and one day,
thinking to give him a moment's di-
version, he brought a portfolio of
drawings, and showed them to him
while waiting in his room for M
Desault to come. The novel
The Tragedy of tlie Temple.
231
amusement seemed to interest him
very little. He looked on listlessly,
as M. Bellenger turned over the
ketches for his inspection ; then, as
the doctor did not appear, the art-
ist said, "Sir, there is another
vketch that I should have much
pleasure in carrying away with me,
if it were not disagreeable to you."
The deferential manner, coupled
with the title "monsieur," so long
a foreign sound to the captive's ear,
startled and moved him. "What
sketch ?" he said, for the first time
breaking silence. " Your features •
if it were not disagreeable to you,
it would give me great pleasure."
'* Would it V* said the child and he
smilingly acquiesced. M. Bellen-
ger completed his sketch, and still
no doctor appeared ; he took leave
of the prince, saying he would come
at the same hour the following day.
He did so ; but M. Desault was
again unpunctual. The Jime for his
visit elapsed, and he neither came
nor sent a message. The com-
missary suggested that some one
should be despatched to inquire
the reason of his absence ; but even
so simple a step as this Lasne and
Gomin dared not venture on with-
out direct orders. They were dis-
cussing what had best be done,
when a new commissary arrived
aad satisfied all inquiries : " There
is no need to send after M. Desault ;
he died yesterday." This sudden
death was the signal for the wildest
conjectures. It was rumored that
ihc physician had been bribed to
poison the prince, and then io re-
BM)r8e had poisoned himself. In
times like those such a report was
cagCTly accepted, fed as it was by the
Dayslcry which surrounded the in-
«iatc of the Tower, and the vague
stories afloat concerning the char-
acter of the ill-omened dungeon and
t^ people who now ruled there.
But there was no foundation for
the story in actual facts. M. De-
sault was a man of unimpeachable
integrity, whose entire life gave the
lie to so odious a suspicion. " The
only poison which shortened my
brother's life," says Mme. Royale,
" was filth, made more fatal by
cruelty." The death of the kind
and clever physician, from whatev-
er cause it arose, was a serious loss
to the forsaken sufferer in the Tem-
ple. He remained for several days
without medical care of any sort,
until, on the 5th of June, M. Pelle-
tan, surgeon of one of the large hos-
pitals, was named to attend him. It
would seem as if the race of tigers
was dying out, except in the ranks
of the patriot municipals ; for all who
by accident approached the poor
child in these last days were filled
at once with melting pity, and
found courage to give utterance to
this feeling aloud. M. Pelletan
remonstrated with the utmost in-
dignation on the darkness and
closeness of the room where his
patient was lodged, and on the
amount of bolting and barring that
went on every time the door was
opened or shut, the violent crash
being injuriously agitating to the
child. The guardians were willing
enough to do away with the whole
thing, but the municipals observed
that there was no authority for re-
moving the bars or otherwise alter-
ing the arrangements complained
of. " If you can't open the window
and remove these irons, you cannot
at least object to remove him to
another room," said the doctor,
speaking in a loud and vehement
tone, as he surveyed the horrible
precincts. The prince started, and,
beckoning to this bold, unknown
friend, forgot his self-imposed
dumbness, and whispered, drawing
M. Pelletan down to him : " Hush '
2J2
The Tragedy of the Temple.
If you speak so loudi they will hear
you ; and I don't want them to know
I am so ill ; they would be frighten-
ed." He was alluding to the queen
and Mme. Elizabeth, whom he be-
lieved still living in the story
above. Every one present was
moved by the tender though tful-
ness the words betrayed, and the
commissary, carried away by sym-
pathy for the unconscious little
orphan, exclaimed : " I take it upon
myself to authorize the removal, in
compliance with Citizen Pelletan's
instruction.** Gomin, nothing
loath, immediately lifted the patient
in his arms, and carried him off to a
bright room in the little tower,
which had been formerly the draw-
ing-room of the keeper of the ar-
chives, and was now hurriedly pre-
pared for the accommodation of
this new inmate. His eyes had been
so long accustomed to the gloom
that they were painfully dazzled by
thfi sudden change into the full sun-
shine. He hid his face on Gomin 's
shoulder for a while, but by degrees
he became able to bear the light,
and drew long breaths, opening out
his little hands as if to embrace the
blessed sunshine, and then turned
a look of ineffable happiness and
thanks on Gomin, who still held
him in his arms at the open window.
When eight o'clock came, he was
once more locked up alone.
Next day M. Pelletan came ear-
ly to see him ; he found him ly-
ing on his bed, and basking placid-
ly in the sunny freshness of the
June air that was streaming in upon
him. " Do you like your new
room ?** inquired the doctor. The
child drew a long breath. " Oh !
yes," he said, with a smile that
went to every heart. But even at
this happy crisis the sting of the
old serpent woke up, as if to remind
the victim that it was not dead.
At dinner-time a new commissary.
a brute of the name of Hubert, and
fuU^ worthy of that abominable
name, burst into the room, and be-
gan to talk in the coarse, boister-
ous tones once so familiar to the
captive. " How now ! Who gave
permission for this? Since when
have carabins governed the repub-
lic ? This must be altered ! Yon
must have the orders of the Com-
mune for moving the wolf-cub."
The child dropped a cherry that he
was putting to his lips, fell back on
his pillow, and neither spoke nor
moved till evening, when he was
locked up for the night, and left to
brood alone over the terrible pros-
pect which Hubert's threats had
conjured up.
M. Pelletan found him so much
worse next day that he wrote to
the Sftret6 G^n<^rale for another
medical opinion ; and M. Duroan-
gier was ordered to attend. Before
they arrived the prince had a faint-
ing fit, which lasted so long that it
terrified his guardians. He had,
however, quite recovered from it
when the physicians came. They
held a consultation ; but it was a
mere form. Death was written on
every lineament of the wasted body.
All that science could do was to al-
leviate the last days of the fast-flit-
ting life. The two medical men
expressed surprise and anger at the
solitude to which the dying child
was still subjected at night, and in-
sisted on a nurse being immediate-
ly provided. It was not worth the
" nation's " while to refuse any-
thing now. The order for procuring
the nurse was at once given ; but
that night the old rule prevailed,
and the patient was again locked
up alone. He felt it acutely ; the
merciful change that had been ef-
fected in so many ways had revived
his hopes — the one hope to which
The Tragedy of the Temple.
^33
hk jornig heart had heen clinging in
siiencc, fondly and perseveringly.
When Gomin said good-night to
him, he murmured, while the big
tears ran down his face, ^' Still
ilooe, and my mother in the other
lon^r!" He was not to be kept
apart from her much longer. When
Lasne came next morning, he
thought him rather better. The
doctors, however, were of a different
opinion; they found him sinking
rapidly, and despatched a bulletin
to the Commune to this effect.
At II in the forenoon Gomin
came to relieve Lasne by the bed-
side of the captive. They remain-
ed a long time silent; there was
something solemn in the stillness
which Gomin did not like to break,
md the child never was the first
to speak. At last Gomin, bending
tenderly towards him, expressed his
sorrow at seeing him so weak and
exhausted. " Oh ! be comforted,"
replied the prince in a whisper ; " I
shall not suffer long now." Gomin
coald not control his emotion, but
dropt on his knees by the bedside,
ind wept silently; the child took
his band and pressed it to his lips,
while Gomin prayed. This was
the only ministry the son of S.
Louis was to have on his death-
bed — the tears of a turnkey, the
prayers of a poor, ignorant son of
toil ; but angels were there to sup-
plement the unconsecrated priest-
hood of charity, weeping in gentle
pity for the sufferings that were
soon to cease. Bright spirits were
hovering round the prisoner's couch,
toning their harps for his ears
ikrae.
Gomin raising his head from its
bowed attitude, beheld the prince
so still and motionless that he was
tiarmed lest another fainting fit
had come on. " Are you in pain V*
he asked timidly. '' Oh ! yes, still
in pain, but less; the music is so
beautiful!" Gomin thought he
must be dreaming. There was no
music anywhere ; not a sound was
audible in the room. " Where do you
hear the music?" he asked. " Up
there," with a glance at the ceiling.
" Since when V* '* Since you went
on your knees. Don't you hear it }
Listen !" And he lifted his hand,
and his large eyes opened wide, as
if he were in an ecstasy Gomin
remained silent, in a kind of awe.
Suddenly the child started up with
a convulsive cry of joy, and ex-
claimed, "I hear my mother's
voice amongst them !" He was
looking towards the window, his
lips parted, his whole face alight
with a wild joy and curiosity. Go-
min called to him, twice, three
times, asking him to say what he
saw. He did not hear him ; he made
no answer, but fell back slowly on
his pillow, and remained motion-
less. He did not speak again un-
til Lasne came to relieve Gomin.
Then, after along interval of silence,
he made a sign as if he wanted
something. Lasne asked him what
it was.
" Do you think my sister could
hear the music V* he said. " How
she would like it!" He turned his
head with a start towards the win-
dow again, his eyes opening with
the same expression of joyous sur-
prise, and uttered a half-inarticu-
late exclamation; then looking at
Lasne, he whispered : " Listen ! I
have something to tell you T' Lasne
took his hand, and bent down to
hear. But no words came — would
never more come from the child's
still parted lips. He was dead.
So ended the tragedy of the
Temple. There is nothing more to
tell. Why should we follow the
ghastly story of the stolen heart,
deposited in the ** vase with seven-
234
Substantial Generations.
teen stars," then surreptitiously ab-
stracted by the physician's pupil,
until all faith in the authenticity of
the alleged relic evaporates ?
Neither is it profitable to discuss
the controversy which arose over
the resting-place of the martyred
child ; for even in his grave he was
pursued by malignant disputations.
Enough for us to hear and to believe
that the son of the kings of France
was accompanied to the grave by
a few humane municipals and bj
his faithful friend Lasne; and thai
his dust still reposes in an obscure
spot of the Cemetery of S. Margaret
in the Faubourg St. Antoine, undis
turbed and undistinguished undei
its grassy mound beneath the sha-
dow of the church close by.
SUBSTANTIAL GENERATIONS.
II.
It is customary with most of the
peripatetic writers to assume that
the Aristotelic hypothesis of sub-
stantial generations, as understood
by S. Thomas and by his school,
cannot be rejected without upset-
ting the whole scholastic philosophy.
Nothing is more false. Suarez, than
whom no modem writer has labor-
ed more successfully in defending
and developing the scholastic phi-
losophy, rejects the fundamental
principle of the Aristotelic theory,
and maintains that no generation
of new compound substances is pos-
sible, unless the matter which is
destined to receive a new form pos-
sess an entity of its own, and be in-
trinsically constituted of act and
potency, contrary to the universal
opinion of the peripatetic school.
"The first matter," says he, "has
of itself, and not through its form,
its actual entity of essence^ though it
has it not without an intrinsic lean-
ing towards the form."* And
again : " The first matter has also of
* Dico ergo primo: Materia prima ex se, et ncn
intrinseceaforma, habet suam entitatem actualem
essendB, quamvis non habeat iUam nici cum intria-
•eca habitudia* ad famam.— />///. Mttm^h^ 13,
•ect. 4in.9*
itself and by itself its actual entity of
existence distinct from the existence
of the form, though it has it not
independently of the form. " * That
these two propositions clash with
the Aristotelic and Thomistic doc-
trine we need not prove, as we have
already shown that neither S. Tho-
mas nor Aristotle admitted in their
first matter anything but the mere
potency of being; and although
Aristotle sometimes calls the first
matter " a substance " and " a sub-
ject," he expressly warns us that
such a substance is in potency, and
such a subject is destitute of all in-
trinsic act.f Hence it is plain that
the first matter of Suarez is not the
first matter of the peripatetics;
whence it follows that the form
which is received in such a matter
is not a strictly substantial forra,
since it cannot give the first being
to a matter having a first initial be-
ing of its own. Hence the Suarc-
zian theory, though full of peripa-
* Dico tecimdo : BCateria prima edam habet ia «
et perse entitatem, seu actualitatem, existenti« dia>
tinctam ab exi«tentia fonue, quamvis iUam Habgat
dependenter a forma. — Uid. n, 13.
tSobjectum fecundum privatkoem.— Aiut. 1
Substantial Generations.
ns
tctic spirit, and formulated in the
common language of the peripatetic
schooU is radically opposed to the
rigid peripatetic doctrine, and de-
stroys its foundation. " If the first
matter," says S. Thomas, " had any
form of its own, it would be sorae-
ibing in act; and consequently
such a matter would not, at the su-
pervening of any other form, acquire
its first being, but it would only be-
come such or such a being; and
thus there would be no true sub-
stantial generation, but mere altera-
tion. Hence all those who assum-
ed that the first subject of genera-
tion is some kind of body, as air or
water, taught that generation is
nothing but alteration." * This re-
mark of the holy doctor may be
well applied to the Suarezian theory;
for in such a theory the first matter
is "something in act " and has " a
form of its own." And, therefore,
whoever adopts the Suarezian theo-
ry must give up all idea of truly
substantial generations. Yet no
one who has a grain of judgment
will pretend that Suarez, by framing
his new theory, upset the scholastic
philosophy.
The truth is that, as there are
two definitions of the substantial
form (qua dat primum esse materia :
fua ioU primum esse rei)^ so also
there are two manners of under-
standing the so-called " substantial "
generation ; and, whilst Aristotle
ind his followers assumed without
any good proof f that the specific
•8i aim ottteria pruna baberet aUquam fonnam
fBoprim, per earn esset aHquid actu ; et sic, quum
•■pCffiadnGer^tur alia forma, non simptidterinateria
fertaa csct, ted fkret hoc vel illud ens ; et sic ear-
wt geaeraiio Mcundom quid, et non simpliciter.
Uade oouet pooeates primum cubjectum es«e aliquod
eorpm, at aErem «t aquam, ponierunt generattonem
ideaeae quod alteratiooem.— /m 8. Metaph.y Icct.i.
t rardtaal Tolomei, who wo not only a well-read
na. b«t abo a peripatetic at heart, candidly con-
*»!«» that the peripatetic view of generation has
•ewr been substantiated. ** Depend upon it," says
K " either no sound argument can be adduced in
fvwf oC the peripatetic system, and we must, accord-
Hhr* iiaply poslalatt U ; or, if any proof can be
form of a generated compound gives
the first being to the matter of the
compound, and is, therefore, a strict-
ly substantial form, the modern
school demonstrates from the princi-
ples of the scholastic philosophy,
no less than from positive science,
that the specific form of a physical
compound does not give the first be-
ing to the matter of the compound,
but only to the compound nature it-
self ; and, therefore, is to be called
an essential rather than a truly and
strictly substantial form.*
The primitive material substance,
which is constituted of matter and
substantial form, cannot but be
physically simple — that is, free from
all composition of parts — though it
is metaphysically compounded, or
(as we would prefer to say) consti-
tuted of act and potency. This
being the case, it evidently follows
that all substance physically com-
pounded must involve in its essen-
tial constitution something else be-
sides the matter and the substantial
form ; for it must contain in itself
both that which gives the first being
to the physical components, and
that which gives the first being to
the resulting physical compound.
Hence in all substance which is
physically compounded of material
parts there are always two kinds
of formal constituents. The first
kind belongs to the components,
the second to the compound. The
first consists of the substantial
adduced, it consists in the sole argument from au-
thority." Crede mihi ; vel solidi nihil afferri potest
pro systcmate peripatetico adstruendo, adeoque sim-
pliciter erit postulandum ; vel unico a nobis allecto
aigumento (auctorilatis) satis est roboris ad ipsum
confirmandum.— /'A//. Mentis et Sensuum^ diss 8»
phys. gen. cond. a. And speaking of the argument
drawn from substantial changes, he declares it to be
a mere sophism : Est mera petitio principii, et
squivocatio inter materiam primam ab omnibus phi-
losophis admissam, el materiam primam AristoteK-
cam.— /*/<f. See Tongiorgi, Cosmol.y lib. i, c. a, n.
4aetseq. ...
« On the difference between substantial and e»-
lential forms, see The Cathouc Wokld, Novcmr
bcr,i873,p. X90,
236
Substantial Generations.
forms by which the components are
constituted in their substantial be-
ing ; which forms must actually re-
main in the compound; for the
substantial being of the components
is the material cause of the physi-
cal compound, and is the sole rea-
son why the physical compound re-
ceives the name of substance. Tire
second is the principle by which the
first components, or elements, are
formed into a compound specific
nature. In other terms, the speci-
fie compound is " a substance," be-
cause it is made up of substances,
or primitive elements, constituted
of matter and substantial form;
whilst the same specific compound
is "a compound " and is " of such
a specific nature," owing to the
composition, and to such a compo-
sition, of the primitive elements.
This composition is the essential
form of the material compound.
We may here remark that the
substantial forms of the component
elements, taken together, constitute
what may be called the remote for-
mal principle of the compound es-
sence {principium formate quody seu
remotum)j whilst the specific com-
position constitutes the proxifnate
formal principle of the same com-
pound essence {principium formate
quo, seu proximum). For, as each
primitive element is immediately
constituted by its substantial form,
so is the physically compound es-
sence immediately constituted -by
its specific composition.
It is hardly necessary to add that
the matter which is the subject of
the specific composition is not the
first matter of Aristotle, but a num-
ber of primitive substances, and
that these substances are endowed
with real activity no less than with
real passivity, and therefore contain
in themselves such powers as are
calculated to bind together the
parts of the compound system, in
this or in that manner, according
to the geometric disposition and
the respective distances of the
same. For^ as the power of matter
is limited to local action, it is the
local disposition and co-ordination
of the primitive elements that de-
termines the mode of exertion of
the elementary powers, inasmuch
as it determines the special condi-
tions under which the Newtonian
law has to be carried int6 execu-
tion. On such a determination the
specific composition and the speci-
fic properties of the compound na-
ture proximately depend.
The composition of matter with
matter is confessedly an accidental
entity, and arises from accidental
action. It would, however, be a
manifest error to pretend that such
a composition is an accidental form
of the compound nature. For no-
thing is accidental to a subject but
what supervenes to it ; whereas the
composition does not supervene to
the compound, but enters into its
very constitution. On the other
hand, the composition does not de-
serve the name of substantial form
in the strict sense of the word,
since it does not give the first be-
ing to the matter it compounds.
We might, indeed, call it a substan-
tial form in a wider sense ; for in
the same manner as a compound
of many substances is called **a
substance," so can the form of the
substantial compound be called
"substantial." But to avoid the
danger of equivocation, we shall
not use this epithet; and we pre-
fer to say that the specific compo-
sition is the natural or the essential
form of the material compound, so
far at least as there is question
of compounds purely material.
This essential or natural form may
be properly defined as tht act by
Substantial Generations.
237
leidtk a number of physical parts or
terms are formed into one compound
essencCy or, more concisely, the cut
which gives the first being to the sped'
He compound ; which la^er defini-
tion is admitted by the schoolmen,
though, as interpreted by them, it
leads to no satisfactory results, as
«e shall see presently.
The first physical compound
which possesses a permanent spe-
cific constitution is called '* a mole-
cule." Tfiosc physicists who as-
sume matter to be intrinsically ex-
tended and continuous, by the
name of molecule understand a lit-
tle mass filling the space occupied
by its volume, hard, indivisible, and
unchangeable, to which they also
^^ivc the name of " atom." But this
opinion, which is a relic of the an-
cient physical theories, is fast los-
ing ground among the men of sci-
ence, owing to the fact that mole-
t'jlcs are subject to internal move-
ments, and therefore composed of
diKrcte parts. Such discrete parts
must be simple and unextended ele-
ments, as we have demonstrated.
Hence a molecule is nothing but a
nwmbcr of simple elements (some at-
tractive and some repulsive) perma-
nfHtly connected by mutual cution in
one dynamical system. We say per-
^nanently connected ; because no
^3rstcm of elements which lacks
^lability can constitute permanent
substances, such as we meet every-
where in nature. Yet the stability
>f the molecular system is not an ab-
^ 'lute, but only a relative, unchange-
jMcncss; for, although the bond
*hich unites the parts of the mole-
(^ular system must (at least in the
case of primitive molecules) remain
always the same in hind, it can
Icvcn in the case of primitive mole-
cules) become different in degree
Within the limits of its own kind.
And thus any molecule can be alter-
ed by heat, by cold, by pressure, etc.,
without its specific constitution^ be-
ing impaired. A molecule of hy-
drogen is specifically the same at
two different temperatures, because
the change of temperature merely
modifies the bond of the constituent
elements, without destroying it or
making it specifically different ; and
the same is true of all other natural
substances.
The material constituent of a
molecular system is, as we have
said, a number of primitive ele-
ments. These elements may be
more or less numerous, and possess
greater or less power, either attrac-
tive or repulsive; on condition,
however, that attraction shall prevail
in the system ; for without the pre-
valence of attraction no permanent
composition is possible.
The y5?r/wa/ constituent of a mole-
cular system, or that which causes
the said primitive elements to be a
molecule, is the determination by
which the elements are bound with
one another in a definite manner,
and subjected to a definite law of
motion with respect to one another.
Such a determination is in each
of the component elements the re-
sultant of the actions of all the
others.
The matter of the molecular sys-
tem is disposed to receive such a de-
termination, or natural form, by the
relative disposition of the elements
involved in the system. Such a dis-
position is local; for the resultant
of the actions by which the ele-
ments are bound with one another
depends on their relative distances
as a condition.
The efficient cause of the molecu-
lar system are the elements them-
selves ; for it is by the exertion of
their respective powers that they
unite in one permanent system
when placed under suitable me-
238
Substantial Generations.
chanical conditions. The original
conditions under which the mole-
cules of the primitive compound
substances were formed must be
traced to the sole will of the Crea-
tor, who from the beginning dispos-
ed all things in accordance with the
ends to be obtained through them
in the course of all centuries.
Molecules may differ from one
another, both as to their matter and
as to their form. They differ in
matter when they consist of a dif-
ferent number of primitive ele-
ments, or of elements possessing
different degrees of active power
or of a different proportion of at-
tractive and repulsive elements.
They differ as to their form, when
their constitution subjects them to
different mechanical laws ; for as
the law of movement and of mutual
action which prevails within a
molecule is a formal result of its
molecular constitution, we can al-
ways ascertain the difference of the
constitution by the difference of the
law.
It is well known that the law ac-
cording to which a system of ma-
terial points acts and moves can be
expressed or represented by a cer-
tain number of mathematical form-
ulas. The equations by which the
mutual dynamical relations of the
elements in a molecular system
should be represented are of three
classes. Some should represent the
mutual actions to which such ele-
ments are subjected at any given
moment of time ; and these equa-
tions would contain differentials of
the second order. Other equations
should represent the velocities with
which such elements move at any
instant of time ; and these equations
would contain differentials of the
first order. Other equations, in
fine, should determine the place oc-
cupied by each of such elements at
any given moment, and consequent-
ly the figure of the molecular sys-
tem ; and these last equations would
be free from differential terras. The
equations exhibiting the mutual ac-
tions must be obtained from the
consideration of positive data, like
all other equations expressing the
conditions of a given problem. The
equations exhibiting the velocities
of the vibrating elements can be
obtained by the integration of the
preceding ones. The equations
determining the relative position
of the elements at any moment of
time will arise from the integratioi)
of those which express the veloci-
ties of the vibrating points. Had
we sufficient data concerning the
internal actions of a molecule, and
sufficient mathematical skill to car-
ry out all the operations required,
we would be able to determine with
mathematical accuracy the whole
constitution of such a molecule, and
all the properties flowing from such
a constitution. This, unfortunate-
ly, we cannot do as yet with regard
to the molecule of any natural sub-
stance in particular ; and, therefore,
we must content ourselves with the
general principle that those mole-
cular systems are of the same kind
whose constitution can be exhibited
fy mathematical formulas of the same
form^ and those molecules are of a
different kind whose constitution
is represented by mathemcUical form-
ulas of a different form. This prin-
ciple is self-evident ; for the form:-
las by which the mechanical rtln-
tions of the elements are determin-
ed cannot be of the same form, un-
less the conditions which they ex-
press are of the same nature ; where-
as it is no less evident that two
molecular systems cannot be of the
same kind when their mechanical
constitution implies conditions of a
different nature.
Substantial Generations.
239
Two molecules of the same kind
may differ accidentally — that is, as to
ibeix mode of being — without any
essential change in their specific
constitution. I'hus, two molecules
of hydrogen may be under different
pressure, or at a different tempe-
rature, without any specific change.
In this case, the mechanical rela-
tions between the elements of the
molecule undergo an accidental
change, and the equations by which
such relations are expressed are
also accidentally modified, inasmuch
as some of the quantities involved
in them acquire a different value ;
but the form of the equations, which
is the exponent of the specific na-
ture of the substance, remains un-
changed.
From these remarks four conclu-
sions can be drawn. The first is
that molecules consisting of a dif-
ferent number of constituent ele-
ments always differ in kind. For
it is impossible for such molecules
to be represented by equations of
the same form.
The second is that a molecule is
one owing to the oneness of the
common tie between its constituent
dements, and to their common and
stable dependence on one mechani-
cal law. Hence a molecule is not
9ne substanccy but one compound na-
tttre involving a number of substan-
ces conspiring to form a permanent
pnnciple of actions and passions
of a certain kind. In other terms,
a molecule is not unum substantiate ^
bat unum essentiale or unum natu-
rde.
The third is that the specific
forai of a molecule admits of differ-
ent degrees within the limits of its
s^ies. This conclusion was quite
unknown to the followers of Aris-
totle; and S. Thomas reprehends
Avcrroes for having said that the
fonns of the elements (fire, water,
air, and earth) could pass through
different degrees of perfection,
whilst Aristotle teaches that they
are in indivisibili^ and that every
change in the form changes the
specific essence.* Yet it is evident
that as there can be circles, ellipses,
and other curves having a different
degree of curvature, while preserv-
ing the same specific form, so also
can molecules admit of a different
degree of closeness in their consti-
tution without trespassing on the
limits of their species. So long as
the changes made in a molecule do
not interfere with the conditions on
which the form of its equations de-
pends, so long the specific constitu-
tion of the molecule remains unim-
paired. Mathematical formulas are
only artificial abridgments of meta-
physical expressions ; and their ac-
cidental changes express but the
accidental changes of the thing
which they represent. On the other
hand, it is well known that the
equations by which the specific
constitution of a compound system
is determined can preserve the
same form, while some of the quan-
tities they contain receive an in-
crease or a decrease connected
with a change of merely accidental
conditions.
The fourth conclusion is that a
number of primitive molecules of
different kinds may combine to-
gether in such a manner as to im-
pair more or less their own individ-
uality by fixing themselves in a new
molecular system of greater com-
plexity. Likewise, a molecular sys-
tem of greater complexity is suscep-
tible of resolution into less complex
systems. These combinations and
resolutions are the proper object
of chemistry, which is the science of
the iawSy principles^ and conditions of
•Summa TheoU, p. i, q. ?<»«• 4-
240
Substantial Getierations.
the specific changes of natural sub-
stances, and to which metaphysi-
cians must humbly refer when
treating of substantial generation,
if they wish to reason on the solid
ground of facts.
We have thus briefly stated what
we hold to be the true scientific
and philosophic view of the consti-
tution of natural substances; and
as we have carefully avoided all
gratuitous assumptions, we feel
confident that our readers need no
further arguments to be convinced
of its value as compared with the
hypothetical views of the old physi-
cists. As, however, the conclusions
of the peripatetic school concerning
the constitution and generation of
natural substances have still some
ardent supporters, who think that
the strictly substantial generations
and corruptions are demonstrated
by unanswerable arguments, we
have yet to show that such pretend-
ed arguments consist of mere as-
sumption and equivocation.
The first argument in favor of
the old theory may be presented
under the following form : " Every
natural substance is unum per se —
that is, substantially one. There-
fore no natural substance implies
more than one substantial form.'*
The antecedent is assumed as evi-
dent, and the consequent is proved
by the principle that ** from two
beings in act it is impossible to
obtain a being substantially one."
Hence it is concluded that all nat-
ural substances, as water, flesh, iron,
etc., have a substantial form which
gives to the first matter the being
of water, of flesh, of iron, etc.
This argument, instead of prov-
ing the truth of the theory, proves
its weakness; for it consists of a
peiifio principii. What right has
the peripatetic school to assume
that every natural substance is unum
per se substantially ? A substance
physically simple is, of course, un-
um per se substantially ; but water,
flesh, iron, and the other natural
substances are not physically sim-
ple, since they imply quantity of
mass and quantity of volume,
which presuppose a number of ma-
terial terms actually distinct, and
therefore possessing their distinct
substantial forms. No compound
substance can be unum per se as a
substance ; it can be unuhi per se
only as a compound essence ; and
for this reason every natural sub-
stance contains as many substantial
forms as it contains primitive ele-
ments, whereas it has only one es-
sential form, which gives the first
being to its compound nature.
This one essential form is, as we
have explained, the specific compo-
sition of its constituent elements.
The principle " From two beings
in act it is impossible to obtain a
being substantially one " is perfectly
true ; but it will be false if, instead
of " substantially," we put ** essen-
tially "; for all essences physically
compounded result from the union
of a certain number of actual be-
ings, and yet every compound es-
sence is unum per se essentially,
though not substantially. For, as
unum per accidens is that which has
something superadded to its essen-
tial principles, so unum per se is
that which includes nothing in it-
self but its essential principles ; and
consequently every essence, as such,
is linumper se, whether it be physi-
cally simple or not — that is, whether
it be one substance or a number
of substances conspiring into a
specific compound. Hence flesh,
water, iron, and every other na-
tural substance may be, and are,
unum per se, notwithstanding the
fact that they consist of a number
of primitive elements and contain
Sukstof^ial GeTurations.
24!
as many substantial fonns as com-
ponents.
It is therefore manifest that this
first argument has no strength.
No ancient or modem philosopher
has ever proved that any natural
xubstance is substantially one. To
prove such an assertion it would be
necessary to show that the physical
compound is physically simple;
whicl^we trust, no one will attempt
to show. Even Liberatore, whose ef-
forts to revive among us the peripa-
tetic theory have been so remarka-
ble, seems to have felt the utter im-
possibility of substantiating such an
arbitrary supposition by anything
lilc a proof, as he lays it down
without even pretending to investi-
gate its value. "True bodies,"
Mys be — " that is, bodies which are
mbstances, and not mere aggre-
gates of substances — are essentially
constituted of matter and substan-
tial form."* Indeed, if a body is
not an aggregate of substances, it
must be evident to every one that
the essence of that body is exclu-
sively constituted of matter and
substantial form. But where is a
body to be found which is not an
*lgwgatc of substances — that is, of
primitive elements } The learned
•iQthor omits to examine this essen-
tial point, clearly because there are
neither facts in science nor argu-
ments in philosophy by which it
•m be settled favorably to the
peripatetic view. Thus the whole
theory of substantial generations,
inderstood in the peripatetic sense,
rests on a mere assumption contra-
«iicted, as we know, by natural sci-
••nce no less than by metaphysical
reasoning.
The second argument of the peri-
' Vta eoipotm, qvs aiiiiinifli sttbfUntue sunt,
t MO asffregata snlMtaiitUnun, coroponunt!|r
m. ex nuteria et forma fubstandaH.—
M4iapk. S^ecUU.^ P* x« o* 53*
VOL. XXI. 16
patetic school is as follows : When
the matter has its first being, all
form supervening to it is accidental ;
for the matter which has its first be-
ing cannot receive but a being secun-
dum quid — that is, a mode of being
which is an accident. But the na-
tural substance cannot be constitut-
ed by an accidental form. There-
fore the form of the natural sub-
stance does not supervene to any
matter having its first being, but
itself gives the first being to its
matter, and therefore is a strictly
substantial form.
Our answer is very plain. We
admit that, when the matter has
its first being, all supervening form
is accidental to it ; and we admit,
also, that the composition of mat-
ter with matter is an accidental en-
tity, and gives to the matter an
accidental mode of being. This,
however, does not mean that the
specific composition is an accidental
form of the compound nature.
Composition, as compared with sub-
stance, is an accident ; but, as com-
pared with the essence of the com-
pound, is an essential constituent,
as we have already remarked; for
it is of the essence of all physi-
cal compounds to have a number
of substances as their matter, and
a specific composition as their form.
In other terms, the essence of a
physical compound involves sub-
stance and accident alike ; but
what is an accident of the compo-
nent substances is not an accident
of the compound essence. Hence
the proposition, ** The natural sub-
stance cannot be constituted by an
accidental form," must be distin-
guished. If " natural substance "
stands for the primitive substances
that constitute the matter of the
compound nature, the proposition is
true ; for all such substances have
their strictly substantial forms, as
242
Substantial Generations.
is obvious. If " natural substance "
stands for the compound nature
itself, inasmuch as it is a compound
of a certain species, then the pro-
position must be subdistinguished.
For, if by " accidental form " we
understand an accident of the com-
ponent substances, the proposition
will be false; for, evidently, the
compound nature is constituted by
composition, and composition is an
accident of the components. Whilst,
if the words " accidental form *' are
meant to express an accident of the
compound nature, then the proposi-
tion is true again ; for the composi-
tion is not an accidental, but an es-
sential, constituent of the com-
pound, as every one must concede.
Yet " essential " is not to be con-
founded with " substantial " ; and
therefore, though all natural sub-
stances must have their essential
form, it does not follow that such a
form gives the first being to the
matter, but only that it gives the
first being to the specific compound
inasmuch as it is such a compound.^
Had the peripatetics kept in view,
when treating of natural substances,
the necessary distinction between the
essential and the strictly substantial
forms, they would possibly have
concluded, with the learned Card.
Tolomei, that their theory was " a
groundless assumption," and their
arguments a** begging the question."
But, unfortunately, Aristotle's au-
thority, before the discoveries of
modern science, had such a weight
with our forefathers that they
scarcely dared to question what
they believed to be the cardinal
point of his philosophy. But let
us go on.
A third argument in favor of the
old theory is drawn from tiie con-
stitution of man. In man the soul
is a substantial form, the root of all
his properties, and the constituent
of the human substance. Henc<
all other natural substances, it ii
argued, must have in a simila
manner some substantial principh
containing the formal reason of
their constitution, of their natura
properties, and of their operations
" The fact that man is composec
of matter and of substantial forn
shows," says Suarez, " that in na-
tural things there is a substantial
subject naturally susceptible of J)e-
ing informed by a substantial act
Such a subject (the matter) is
therefore an imperfect and incom-
plete substance, and requires to be
constantly under some substantial
act."* Whence it follows that all
natural substance consists of mat-
ter actuated by a substantial form.
This argument, according to Sco-
tus and his celebrated school, is
based on a false assumption. Man
is not one subsiancty but one nature
resulting from the union of two
distinct substances, the spiritual
and the material ; and to speak of
a human substance as one is nothing
less than to beg the whole question.
Every one must admit that the
human soul is the natural form of
the animated body, and that, inas-
much as it is a substance and not
an accident, the same soul may be
called a " substantial " form ; but,
according to the Scotistic school,
to which we cannot but adhere on
this point, it is impossible to admit
the Thomistic notion that the soul
gives the first being to the matter
of the body, so as to constitute one
substance with it ; and accordingly
it is impossible to admit that the
soul is a strictly '* substantial " form
* Hominis ergo compositio ex nuUeria et form
substantial! ostendit, esse in rebus natarafibus quod-
dam subjectum naturale natura sua aqptum ut iafor-
metur actu aliquo substantiali ; erico tale subjectua
imperfectum et incomplctum est in j^enere substa»-
tije ; petit ergo esse semper sub aliquo acta sabsu»i>
tiali.---Suarex, Dis^. Meta/k. 15, sect, r, n. 7.
Substantial Generations.
243
m the rigid peripatetic sense of the
word; and thus the above argu-
ment, which is based entirely on
the unity of human substance^ comes
to naught.
This is not the place to develop
the reasons adduced by the Scotists
and by others against the Thomistic
school, or to refute the arguments
by which the latter have supported
their opinion. We will merely re-
mark that, according to a principle
aniversally received, by the Tho-
mists no less than by their oppo-
nents {Actus est qui distinguit)^ there
can be no distinct substantial terms
without distinct substantial acts;
and consequently our body cannot
have distinct substantial parts, un-
kis it has as many distinct substan-
tia] acts. And as there is no
donbt that there are in our body a
peat number of distinct substantial
parts (as many, in fact, as there are
primitive elements of matter), there
is no doubt that there are also a
peat number of distinct substantial
acts. It is not true, therefore, that
the human body (or any other
body) is constituted by one " sub-
rtantial" form. The soul is not
defined as the first act of matter^ but
It is defined as the first act of a phy-
sical organic body ; which means
that the body must possess its own
fkfsical being and its bodily and
organic form before it can be in-
formed by a soul. And surely such
a body needs not receive from the
soul what it already possesses as a
condition of its information ; it
must therefore receive that alone in
regard to which it is still potential;
and this is, not the first act of be-
ing, but the first act of life. But if
the soul were a strictly " substan-
tial " form according to the Thomis-
tic opinion, it should be the first act
#/ matter as such, and it would
fcatc no need of a previously-form-
ed physical organic body; for the
position of such a form would, of
itself, entail the existence of its sub-
stantial term. We must therefore
conclude that the human soul is
called a " substantial " form, simply
because it is a substance and not
an accident,* and because, in the
language of the schools, all the " es-
sential " forms have been called
" substantial," as we have noticed
at the beginning of this article.
We believe that it is owing to this
double meaning of the epithet " sub-
stantial " that both S. Thomas and
his followers were led to confound
the natural and essential with the
strictly substantial forms. They
reasoned thus: "What is not acci-
dental must be substantial *'; and
they did not reflect that " what is
not accidental may be essential^*
without being substantial in the
meaning attached by them to the
term.
But since we cannot here dis-
cuss the question concerning the
human soul as its importance de-
serves, let us admit, for the sake of
the argument, that the human soul
gives the first being to its body, and
is thus a strictly substantial form
in the sense intended by our op-
ponents. It still strikes us that no
logical mind can from such a par-
ticular premise draw such a general
conclusion as is drawn in the ob-
jected argument. Is it lawful to
apply to inanimate bodies in the
conclusion what in the premises is
asserted only of animated beings }
Or is there any parity between the
form of the human nature and that
of a piece of chalk } The above-
* This reason 18 given by Snares: ** Homo constat
forma substantial! utintrinseca causa. . . . Namani-
ma rationalis substantia est et non accidens, ut patet,
quia per se roanet separata a corporc, quum sit im-
mortalis ; est ergo per se subsistens et independent
• subjecto. Non ergo est acddens, sed substantia '*
^Dit/. Mttn^h. 15, sect. 1, n. 6.
244
Substantial Gtneratwns.
mentioned Card. Tolomei well re-
marks that " such a pretended par-
ity is full of disparities, and that
from the human soul, rational,
spiritual, subsistent, and immortal,
we cannot infer the nature of those
incomplete, corruptible, and cor-
poreal entities which enter into the
constitution of purely material
things."*
That "all natural substances
must have some substantial princi-
ple " we fully admit. For we have
shown that in every natural com-
pound there are just as many sub-
stantial forms as there are primitive
elements in it, and therefore there
is no doubt that each point of mat-
ter receives its first being through
a strictly substantial form. But
these substantial forms are the forms
of the components ; they are not
the specific form of the compound.
Nor do we deny that the properties
of the compound must be ultimate-
ly traced to some substantial prin-
ciple; for we admit the common
axiom that " the first principle of
the being is the first principle of its
operations "; and thus we attribute
the activity of the compound na-
ture to the substantial forms of
its components. But we maintain
that the same components may con-
stitute difierent specific compounds
having different properties and dif-
ferent operations, according as they
are disposed in different manners
and subjected to a different com-
position. • This being evident, we
must be allowed to conclude that
the proximate and specific consti-
tuent form of a compound inani-
mate nature is nothing else than its
specific composition.
Our opponents cannot evade this
^ Haec paritas est innumem aficcta dispaiiuU-
bus, quaniuji videlicet interest inter animam ra-
tionalem, sptritualem, per se subsistentem, immor-
talem, et entitatcs quasdam corporeas, corrupti-
biles, iDcompletas.— Lm>. cit.
conclusion, which annihilates the
whole peripatetic theory, unless
they show either that there may be
a compound without composition,
or that in natural things there is no
material composition of substantial
parts. The first they cannot prove,
as a compound without comp>osi-
tion is a mere contradiction. Nor
can they prove the second ; for they
admit that natural substances are
extended, and it is evident that
there can be no material extension
without parts outside of parts, and
therefore without, material composi^
tion.
As to the passage of Suarez ob-
jected in the argument, two simple
remarks will suffice. The first is
that '' the fact that man is compos*
ed of matter and substantial form
does fwi show that in other natural
things there is a substantial subject
naturally susceptible of being in-
formed by a substantial act " ; un-
less, indeed, the epithet " substan-
tial ** be taken in the sense of
*' essential," as we have above ex-
plained. But, even in this case^
there will always be an immense
difference between such essential
forms, because the form of a human
body must be a substance, whilst
the form of the purely material com-
pounds can be nothing else than
composition. The second remark
is that, as the first matter, accord-
ing to Suarez, has its own entity of
essence and its own entity of exis-
tence, " the substantial subject na-
turally susceptible of being inform-
ed " has neither need nor capability
of receiving its ^rj/ being; whence
it follows that such a substantial
subject is never susceptible of be-
ing informed by a truly and strictly
substantial form. We know that
Suarez rejects this inference on the
ground that the entity of matter,
according to him, is incomplete, and
Substantial Generations.
245
requires to be perfected by a sub-
stantial form. But the truth is that
no strictly substantial form can be
conceived to inform a matter which
has already an actual entity of its
own; lor the substantial form is
not simply that which perfects the
moiUr (for every form perfects the
matter), but it is that which gives
to ii ijhe first beings as all philoso-
phers agree. On the other hand,
it might be proved that the matter
which is a subject of natural genera-
tions is not an incomplete substantial
entity, and that the intrinsic act
by which it is constituted, is not,
as Stiarez pretends, an act secundum
fnidf but an act simpliciter ; it be-
ing evident that nothing can be in
2ctf ueundum quid unless it be
already in act simpliciter j whence
it is Manifest that the first act of
nuitter cannot be an act secundum
It would take too long to discuss
here the whole Suarezian theory.
Its fundamental points are two:
The first, that the matter which is
the subject of natural generations
** has an entity of its own " ; the
Moond, that *^ such an entity is sub-
staatially incomplete." The first
of these two points he establishes
agpunst the peripatetics with very
;;ood reasons^ drawn from the nature
of generation ; but the second he
(ioes not succeed in demonstrating,
^ be does not, and cannot, de-
rooostrate that an act secundum quia
precedes the act simpliciter. For
ihii reason we ventured to say in
<3nx previous article that the first
niatter of Suarez corresponds to our
primitive elements, which, though
unknown to hira, are, in fact, the
w«t physical matter of which the
natural substances are composed.
What we mean is that, though Sua-
rtt intended to prove something
«^ he has only succeeded in prov-
ing that the matter of which natu-
ral substances are composed is as
true and as complete a substance
as any primitive substance can be.
And we even entertain some suspi-
cion that this great writer would
have held a language much more
conformable to our modem views,
had he not been afraid of striking
too heavy a blow at the peripatetic
school, then so formidable and re-
spected. For why should he call
" substantial " the forms of com^
pound bodies, when he knew that
the matter of those bodies had aN
ready an actual entity of its own ?
He certainly saw that such forms
were by no means the substantial
forms of S. Thomas and of Aristo-
tle ; but was it prudent to state the
fact openly, and to draw from it
such other conclusions as would
have proved exceedingly distasteful
to the greatest number of his con-
temporaries? However this may
be, it cannot be denied that the
Suarezian theory, granting to the
matter of the bodies an entity of its
own, leads to the rejection of the
truly substantial generations, and
to the final adoption of the doctrine
which we are maintaining in accor-
dance with the received principles
of modern natural science. But let
us proceed.
The fourth argument in favor of
the old theory is the following : If
the components remain actually in
the compound, and do not lose their
substantial forms by the accession
of a new substantial form, it follows
that no new substance is ever gen-
erated ; and thus what we call " new
substances " will be only " new ac-
cidental aggregates of substances,'
and there will be no substantial dif-
ference between them. But this
cannot be admitted ; for who will
admit that bread and fiesh are sub^
statUially identical ? And yet who
246
Substauiial Generations.
can deny that from bread flesh can
be generated ?
We concede most explicitly that
no new " substance " is, or can be,
ever generated by natural processes.
God alone can produce a substance,
and he produces it by creation. To
say that natural causes can destroy
the substantial forms by which the
matter is actuated, and produce
new substantial forms giving a new
first being to the matter, is to en-
dow the natural causes with a power
infinitely superior to their nature.
The action of a natural cause is the
production of an accidental act;
and so long as " accidental " does
not mean " substantial,'* we contend
that no substantial form can origi-
nate from any natural agent or con-
currence of natural agents. It is
therefore evident for us that no
** substance " can ever arise by na-
tural generation.
But, though this is true, it is evi-
dent also that from pre-existing sub-
stances " a new compound nature "
can be generated by the action of
natural causes. These new com-
pound natures are, indeed, called
" new substances," but they are the
old substances under a new specific
composition ; that is, they are not
new as substances, though they
form a ntiv specific compound. To
say that such a compound is " a
merely accidental aggregate of sub-
stances " is no objection. Were
we to maintain that one single sub-
stance is an accidental aggregate
of substancesj the objection would
be very natural ; but to say, as we
do, that one compound essence is an
aggregate of substances united by
accidental actions, is to say what
is evidently true and unobjection-
able. Yet we must add that the
composition of such substances, ac-
cidental though it be to them indi-
vidually, is essential to the compound
nature ; forihis compound nature »
a special essence, endowed with
special properties dependent proxi*
mately on the special composition,
and only remotely on the substan-^
tial forms of the component sub*
stances.
That there may be " no substan*
tial difference " between two natur-
al compounds is quite admissible;,
but it does not follow from the ar-
gument. It is admissible ; because-
a different specific composition sof-"
fices to cause a different specific,
compound ; as is the case with gum-
arabic and cane-sugar, which con-
sist of a different combination of
the same components. Yet it does
not follow from the argument ; be-
cause the specific composition^f
different compounds may require,
and usually does require, a different
set of components — that is, of sub-
stances ; which shows that there is
also a substantial difference between
natural compounds, although their
essential form be not the substan-
tial form of the peripatetics.
Lastly, we willingly concede that
bread and flesh are not substantial-
ly identical ; but we must deny that
their substantial difference arises
from their having a different sub-
stantial form. Bread and flesh arc
different specific compounds ; they
differ essentially and substantially^
or formally and materially, because
they involve different substances
under a different specific composi-
tion. To say that bread and flesh
are the same matter under two differ-
ent substantial forms would be to
give the lie to scientific evidence.
This we cannot do, however much
we may admire the great men who,
from want of positive knowledge,
thought ic the safest course to ac-
cept from Aristotle what seemed to
them a sufficient explanation of
things. On the other hand, is it
Substantial Generations.
H7
tot strange that our opponents,
vho admit of no other substantial
form in man, except the soul,
should now mention a substantia/
form of flesh? To be consistent,
they should equally admit a subsianr
tial form of blood, a substantial form
of bone, etc. Perhaps this would
help them to understand that the
epithet ** substantial," when applied
to characterize the forms of mate-
zial compounds, has been a source
of innumerable equivocations, and
that the schoolmen would have
avcd themselves much trouble, and
avoided inextricable difficulties, if
they had made the necessary dis-
tinction between substantial and
mential iorms*
The arguments to which we have
icplied are the main support of the
peripatetic doctrine; wey at least,
hanre not succeeded in finding any
other argument on the subject
which calls for a special refutation.
We beg, therefore, to conclude that
the theory of strictly substantial
generations, as well as that of the
constitution of bodies, as held by
the peripatetic school, rest on no
better ground than " assumption,'
(n fctitio principiif as Card. Tolomei
rdiuctantly avows. There would
yet remain, as he observes, the ar-
Smnent from authority; but when
it is known that the great men
vhose authority is appealed to were
absolutely ignorant of the most im-
portant facts and laws of molecular
waencc, and when it is proved that
such facts and laws exclude the
▼cry possibility of the old theory,*
ve are free to dismiss the argu-
ment. " Were S. Thomas to come
back on earth," says Father Ton-
jiorgi, ** he would be a peripatetic no
more." No doubt of it. S. Tho-
mas would teach his friends a les-
son, by letting them know that his
true followers are not those who
shut their eyes to the evidence of
facts, that they may not be disturb-
ed in their peripateticism, but those
who imitate him by endeavoring to
utilize, in the interest of sound
philosophy, the positive knowledge
of their own time, as he did the
scanty positive knowledge of his.
But we have yet an important
point to notice. The ancient theo-
ry is wholly grounded on the possi-
bility of the eduction of new sub-
stantial forms out of the potency
of matter ; hence, if no truly sub-
stantial form can be so educed, the
theory falls to the ground. We
have already shown that true sub-
stantial forms giving the first being
to the matter cannot naturally be
educed out of the potency of mat-
ter.* This would suffice to justify
us in rejecting the peripatetic theo-
ry. But to satisfy our peripatetic
friends that we did not come too
hastily to such a conclusion, and to
give them an opportunity of exam-
ining their own philosophical con-
science, we beg leave to submit to
their appreciation the following ad-
ditional reasons.
First, all philosophers agree that
the matter cannot be actuated by a
new form, unless it be actually dis-
posed to receive it. But actual
disposition is itself an accidental
form ; and all matter that has an
accidental form has also a fortiori
a substantial form. Therefore no
matter is actually disposed to re-
ceive a new form, but that which
has actually a substantial form.
But the matter which has actually
a substantial form is not susceptible
of a new substantial form ; for the
matter which has its first being is
not potential with regard to it, but
•£•» Toificnit Cmm^i ,^ HK i. c.t,ii.3f«
« The Catkouc Wobld, ApxO, 187$.
248
Substantial Generations.
only with regard to some mode of
being. Therefore no new form
truly and strictly substantial can be
bestowed upon existing matter.
Secondly, if existing matter is to
receive a new substantial form, its
old substantial form must give Way
and disappear, as our opponents
themselves teach, by natural cor-
ruption. But the form which gives
the first being to the matter is not
corruptible. Therefore no truly
substantial form can give way to a
new substantial form. The minor
of this syllogism is easily proved.
For all natural substances consist
of simple elements, of which every
one has its first being by a form al-
together simple and incorruptible.
Moreover, the substantial form of
primitive elements is a product of
creation, not of generation; the
term of divine, not of natural, ac-
tion ; it cannot, therefore, perish,
except by annihilation. The only
form which is liable to corruption
is that which links together the ele-
ments of the specific compound ;
but this is a natural and essential,
not a strictly substantia], form.
Thirdly, the form which gives the
first being to the matter is alto-
gether incorruptible, if the same is
not subject to alteration ; for altera-
tion is the way to corruption. But
no form giving the first being to
the matter is subject to alteration.'
For, according to - the universal
doctrine, it is the matter, not the
form, that is in potency to receive
the action of natural agents. The
form is an active, not a passive,
principle ; and therefore it is ready
to act, not to be acted on ; which
proves that substantial forms are
inalterable and incorruptible. We
are at a loss to understand how it
has been possible for so many illus-
trious philosophers of the Aristote-
lic school not to see the open con-
tradiction between the cormptioii
of strictly substantial forms and
their own fundamental axiom:
" Every being acts inasmuch as it is
in act, and suffers inasmuch as it is
in potency." If the substantial
form is subject to corruption, surely
the substance suffers not only inas-
much as it is in potency, but alsos
and even more, inasmuch as it is in
act. We say " even more," because
the substance would, inasmuch as
it is in act, suffer the destruction of
its very essence; whereas, as it is in
potency, it would not suffer more
than an accidental change. It is
therefore manifest that the coriqcip-
tion of substantial forms cannot be
admitted without denying one oi
the most certain and universal
principles of metaphysics.
Fourthly, if the natural agents
concerned in the generation of a
new being cannot produce anything
but accidental determinations, nor
destroy anything but other acciden-
tal determinations, then, evidently,
the form which is destroyed in the
generation of a new thing is an
accidental entity, as also the new
form introduced. But the efficient
causes of natural generations can-
not produce anything but acci-
dental determinations, and can-
not destroy anything but other
accidental determinations. There-
fore in the generation of a new be-
ing both the form which is destroy-
ed and the form which replaces it
are accidental entities. In this
syllogism the major is evident ; and
the minor is certain, both physically
and metaphysically. For it is well
known that the natural agents con-
cerned in the generation of a new
substance have no other power than
that of producing local motion ;
also, that the matter acted on has
no other passive potency than that
of receiving local motion. Hence
Substantial Gen€rati$ns.
249
00 action of matter upon matter
can be admitted but that which
lends to give an accidental deter-
mination to local movement ; and
if any cause be known to exert
actions not tending to impart local
moTcment, we must immediately
conclude that such a cause is not a
BBtcrial substance. On the other
band, all act produced belongs to
an order of reality infinitely inferior
to that of its efficient principle ; so
that, as God cannot efficiently pro-
dnce another God, so also a con-
tingent substance cannot efficiently
produce another contingent sub-
stance ; and a substantial form can-
not efficiently produce another sub-
stantial form ; but as all that God
efficiently produces is infinitely in-
ferior to him in the order of reality,
•0 all act produced by a created
sabstance is infinitely inferior to the
act which is the principle of its pro-
doction * It is therefore impossi-
ble to admit that the act produced,
and the act which is the principle
of its production, belong to the
same order of reality; in other
lerms, they cannot be both " sub-
stantial ••; but while the act by which
tHe agent acts is substantial, the
*Sh Tub Catbouc W^bld Febroaxy, 1874, p.
act produced is always accidental.
And thus it is plain that no natural
agent or combination of natural
agents can ever produce a truly
substantial form.
A great deal more might be said
on this subject ; but we think that
our philosophical readers need no
further reasonings of ours to be
fully convinced of the inadmissi-
bility of the Aristotelic hypothesis
concerning the constitution and
the generation of natural substances.
Would that the great men who
adopted it in past ages had had a
knowledge of the workings of na-
ture as extensive as we now possess ;
their love of truth would have
prompted them to frame a philoso-
phical theory as superior to that of
the Greek philosopher as fact is to
assumption. As it is, we must
strive to do within the compass of
our means what they would have
done much better, and would do if
they were among the living, with
their gigantic powers. We cannot
hold in metaphysics what we have
to reject in physics. To say that
what is true in physics may be false
in metaphysics is no less an absur-
dity than Luther's proposition, that
" something may be true in philoso-
phy which is false in theology."
2SO
The Modem Literature of Russia.
THE MODERN LITERATURE OF RUSSIA.*
The history of Russia, during
the course of the last twenty years,
has entered upon a new era. It
also has had its 19th of February, f
its day of eman.cipation ; and from
the hour when it was permitted to
treat of the times anterior to the
reign of the Emperor Nicholas, al-
though still maintaining a certain
reserve, it has lost no time in pro-
fiting by the benefit of which ad-
vantage has been eagerly taken. A
multitude of writings, more or less
important, which have since then
been published, prove that, in order
to become fruitful, it only needed to
be freed from the ligatures of the
ancient censure ; and it is wonder-
ful to note the large number of
publications with which the history
of the last century finds itself en-
riched in so short a space of time,
besides the documents of every
description that were never pre-
viously allowed to see the light of
day, but from which the interdict
has been removed that for so
long had condemned them to the
dust and oblivion of locked-up ar-
chives. ^
Nor has this been all. The
riches of this new mine were suffi-
ciently plentiful to supply matter
for entire collections. Societies
were formed for the purpose of
arranging and publishing them
without delay, in order to satisfy
the legitimate desire of so many to
• Sec " Le Courrier Rune,** by M. J. Martinor,
from which the present article b in great part an
abridged transladoo, Revut dtt Qmesiians HixtO'
riques for April, 1874.
t It was on the 19th of February, 1861, that the
Emaodpatioii of the Serft was prodaimed.
know the past of their country, not
only from official digests, but from
the original sources of information.
It will suffice to name the principal
collections created under the inspi-
ration of this idea, such as the
Russian Archives^ and also the
XVIIIth and XlXth Centuries, of
M. Bartenev, guardian of the Li-
brary of Tcherkov ; the Old Rus-
sian Times (Russkaia Starina)^ of
M. Semevski ; the Historical Society
of the Annalist Nestor^ formed at
Kiev, under the presidency of M.
Antonovitch; the Collection of the
Historical Society of St, Petersburg,
under the exalted patronage of the
czarovitch ; without enumerating
the periodical publications issaeo
by societies which were already
existing, as at Moscow and else-
where.
To arrange in some degree of
order the rapid notice which is all
we must permit ourselves, and
laying aside for the present any
consideration of periodical litera-
ture, we will mention, in the first
place, the works upon Russian his-
tory in general, ecclesiastical and
secular; then the various memoirs
and biographies; concluding with
bibliography, or the history of lit-
erature.
I. General History of Rus-
sia. — Amongst the works which
treat of this subject, that of M. Solo-
viev indisputably occupies the first
place. His History of Russia from
the Earliest Times (Istoria Rossiis
drevneichikh t*remen) advances w'tli
slow but steady pace, and has at this
time reached its twenty-third vol-
The Modem Literature of Russia.
251
ume, embracing the second septcn*
Date of the Empress Elizabeth, which
concludes with the year 1755 — a
year memorable in the annals of
Russian literature, as witnessing the
establishment of the first Russian
university, namely, that of Moscow.
li is not surprising that this subject
has inspired the author, who is a
professor of the same university, to
write pages full of interest. With
regard to what he relates respecting
tbe exceedingly low level of civiliza-
tion to which the Russian clergy
had at that time sunk, other authors
have made it the subject of special
treatises, and with an amplitude of
development which could not have
(bund place in a general history.
M, Soloviev's method is well
known — Le.^ to turn to the advan-
tage of science the original docu-
otiits, for the most part inedited,
aad frequently difficult of access
to the generality of writers. But
<loes he always make an impartial
use of them ? This is a question,
fhe manner in which he has re-
counted the law-suit of the Patri-
cch Nicon — to cite this only as an
example — does not speak altogether
lavorably for the historian; besides,
his history is too voluminous to be
accessible to the generality of read-
eis; and when it will be finished,
who can divine ?
For this reason a complete his-
tory, in accordance with recent
discoveries, and reduced to two or
three volumes, would meet with a
warm welcome. That of Oustria-
bv is already out of date ; the little
ibridgment of M. Soloviev is too
short ; and the work of M. Bestou-
jev-Rumine remains at its first vol-
«me, the two which are to follow,
and which have been long promis-
cdr not having yet appeared.
M. Kostomarov, who has just
celebrated the asth year of his lit-
erary career, is also publishing a
History of Russia^ Considered in the
Lives of Its Principal Representa-
//Wx,* of which the interest increases
as the period of which it treats ap-
proaches our own. Two sections
have already appeared. The first,
which is devoted to the history of
the house of S. Vladimir, embraces
four centuries ; the second, as con-
siderable as its predecessor in
amount of matter, comprises no
more than the interval of about a
century — that is to say, the reigns
of Ivan the Terrible, his father, and
his grandfather (1462-1583). Faith-
ful to the plan he has adopted, the
author relates the life and deeds of
the most remarkable men, whether
in the political or social order:
thus, in the second section, after
the historical figures of Ivan III.,
Basil, and Ivan IV., we have the
Archbishop Gennadius, the monk
Nilus Sorski, whom the Russian
Church reckons among her saints :
the Prince Patrikeiev, the celebrat-
ed Maximus, a monk of Mt. Athos,
and, lastly, the heretic Bachkine
with his sectaries. The first vol-
ume will be terminated by the third
section, which will conclude the
history of the house of Vladimir.
This history meets with a violent
opponent and an implacable judge
in the person of M. Pogodine, the
veteran^f Russian historians. The
antagonism of these two writers, M.
Pogodine and M. Kostomarov, is
of long standing. But nfver have
polemics taken a more aggressive
tone than on the present occasion ;
and the aggression is on the part of
M. Pogodine, who accuses his ad-
versary of nothing more nor less than
mystifying the public and corrupt-
ing the rising generation ; of having
arbitrarily omitted the origin and
^Rcutskala IsUria v Ji*nt9puaniakk Mm
gUvmHchikA pruUtmvittUtU
2S2
The Modern , Literature of Russia.
commencement of the nation; of
throwing, by preference, into strong
relief all the dark pages of the his-
tory ; and, lastly, declares him to be
guilty of venality. To these charges
M. Kostomarov replies that his
censor is playing the part of a
policeman rather than of a critic;
that his arguments, like his anger,
i/ispire him with pity; and that the
most elementary rules of propriety
forbid him to imitate his language.
Coming to historical facts, he ex-
plains the reasons for his silence on
the pagan period of Russian histo-
ry ; 'for treating the call of Rurik as
a fable, together with a multitude
of other stories of the ancient chron-
icles ; for seeing in the Varangian *
princes nothing but barbarians, and
the pagans of this period the same.
He also brings proofs to show that
Vladimir Monomachus was really
the first to seek allies among the
tribes of the Polovtsis ; that Vassil-
ko caused the whole population of
Minsk to be exterminated; and
that Andrew Bogolubski was not by
any means beloved by the people,
as had been stated by M. Pogo-
dine — these three subjects being
among the principal points of dis-
pute.
But we have no desire to pursue
any further details which cannot in
themselves have any interest for the
public, although, taken in connec-
tion with the histories of the antag-
onistic authors, they may be sugges-
tive. For instance, it is not easy
to forget what the ardent professor
of Moscow relates of himself with
reference to certain of his fellow-
countrywomen who had embraced
the Catholic faith. Being at Rome,
he tells us (and his wortls depict
in a lively manner the character of
his zeal) that he felt himself strong-
ly tempted to seize by the hair two
Russian ladies * whom he saw cross-
ing the Piazza di Spagna to enter
a Catholic church. He is said to
be at this time preparing a Campaign
against Adverse Powers^ in which he
combats " historic heresies. "
But the services rendered by M.
Pogodine to the national history
are undoubtedly great. Wc may
notice a new one in his Ancient
History of Russia before the Mongo-
Kan Yokey\ in which, after grouping
the Russian principalities around
that of Kiev as their political cen-
tre anterior to the invasion of the
Mongols, he also gives the separate
history of each. In the second
volume the church, literature, the
state, manners, and customs, are
treated upon in turn, and form a
series of pictures traced by a skil-
ful hand, closing with a terribly-viv-
id description of the Tartar inva-
sion.
n. Particular or Individu-
al History. — It is about two years
since historical science in Russia
sustained a loss in the death of M.
P^karski, who had scarcely reached
his forty-fifth year. This laborious
and learned writer, who, in so short
a space of time, produced an un-
usual number of important works,J
died after having just completed
his History of the Academy of Sciences,
•The Vetringer^ or VanuigUns, were a people of
ScandinaTum race who had settled in Neuttria,
which owes to them its name of Norinandy. Many
of these warriors were ipvited into Sclavonia by the
Norogorodians to defend their northern frontier
against the incnrstons of the Finns ; but some years
later, in 863, Rurik, their chief, took poneswon of
Novegerod. assuming the title of Grand Prince.
Odiers of the same race estaUi^ed themMlres at
KieY, in the year 864.
•The Countess BoutourGn and her otter, the
Countess Virenzov.
t Drevniala russkal* utoria do MtHg^Uka^
go iga, Moscow : 1871.
X Amongst these may be named the HisUric />«-
ptn 0/ Arseniev^ those of Catherine IL^ and the
Marquis tU CMtardie^ French AmhMsador at the
court of Elizabeth, and in particular the very inter-
esti(« workon Leurnimgand Littraiuro in Rm»-
tia under Petor JI» >
Tlu Modern Liter aiure of Russia*
^%l
This work contains about eighteen
hondred pages. After a solid in-
trodoctioQ there follow the bio-
graphies of the first fifty members
of the Academy, all of whom were
t'ofeigners, to which succeed those
f>( Trediako¥ski and LfOmonosov.
la glancing over these biographies
one is struck with the preponder-
ance of the German element, the
Academy, at its commencement,* be-
ing almost exclusively composed of
teamed men of that nation. With
the reign of Elizabeth the Russian
party began to take the lead, and it
vas Lomonosov, the son of a fisher-
man of Archangelsk, who was the
Itie and soul of it, as a learned man,
aa historian, and a poet. P^karski
noeations sonoe curious details re-
5pectiog the correspondence be-
tveen Peter I. and the Sorbonne,
touching the reunion of the Russian
Ckorch with Rome. It is to be
wished that the documents treating
<'f this matter, and which are pre-
>w*nred in the archives of the acadc-
mr, might be published.
III. Ecclesiastical History. —
After the History of the Russian
Churchy by Mgr. Macarius, the pre-
sent Metropolitan of Lithuania,
which has just reached its seventh
volume, the first place is due to
riot by M. Znamenski, entitled The
Parochial Clergy in Russia^ subse-
qnaa io ike Reform of Peter I. ♦ In
pitsence of the Protestant reforms
which are in course of introduction
into the official church by the Rus-
«un government, M. Znamenski*s
)*ook oCTers an eminently practical
interest, and it is greatly to be wish-
ed that those in power would profit
bf its serious teaching. The au-
thor advances nothing without pro-
dacing his proofs, drawn from offi-
cial documents, which he has taken
^ fHkk9d»$haU d»nhk09fn»tV9 towrgmtnirt'
MmfPtirml, Kmui 1I73.
great pains to search for and con-
sult wherever they were to be found,
His work is divided into five
chapters, the first of which treats
of the " Nomination of the Paro-
chial Clergy." Down to the middle
of the XVIIIth century its mem-
bers were chosen on the elective
system ; it is the ancient mode of
nomination, which existed also in
the Catholic Church. But from the
middle of the XVIIIth century this
gave place, in Russia, to the heredi-
tary system, which has become one
of the distinctive features of the Rus-
sian communion,*^ and in which may
be found the cause of the separation
and the spirit of caste which from
that time began to isolate the clergy
from the rest of society, and made
them in all respects a body apart.
This spirit of caste still subsists,
though not in so perceptible a de-
gree as formerly. One inevitable
consequence of this Levitism was
the difficulty of quitting the caste
when once a person belonged to it,
as the author develops in his sec-
ond chapter (pp. 176-354). In the
third, he treats of the *' Civil Rights
of the Clergy," and there depicts the
revolting abuses in which the secu-
lar authorities allowed themselves
with regard to the unfortunate cler-
gy. The arbitrary injustice to
which they were subjected during
the whole of the XVIIIth century,
and of which the still vivid traces
remained in the time of the Em-
peror Alexander I., appears almost
incredible. For instance, a poor
parochial incumbent, having had
the misfortune to pass before the
house of the principal proprietor
of the place without having taken
off his hat to that personage, who
was on the balcony with company,
was immediately seized, thrust into
• See aho r4# Rmuimm CUrgy, IRj FaUier Gft-
finB,S.J. LoBdoa:i87*>
254
The Modern Literature of Russia
a barrel, and thus rolled from the
top of the hill on which the seigno-
rial dwelling was situated, into the
river which flowed at its base. His
death was almost instantaneous.
Justice, as represented in that quar-
ter, being informed of this new spe-
cies of murder, found itself unequal
to touch the little potentate, and
hushed up the affair. Similar hor-
rors were by no means rare in the
XVIIIth century. In the fourth
chapter (pp. 507-617) the author
speaks of the " Relations of the
Clergy with the Ecclesiastical Au-
thorities *'; and although the picture
he draws is somewhat less sombre
than the preceding, still it is mel-
ancholy enough. Venality the most
systematic, and rigor that can hard-
ly be said to fall short of cruelty,
were, for more than half a century,
the most prominent features of the
ecclesiastical government. No post,
however small or humble, could be
obtained without the imposition of
a purely arbitrary tax; and these
taxes formed in the end a very con-
siderable amount. As for the spirit
of the government, its fundamental
maxim was to hold down the lower
clergy in humility {smireniS) — a
formula which was imprinted on the
very bodies of the unfortunate vic-
tims. The slightest fault or error
on their part was punished by cor-
poral chastisements so severe that
the sufferer sometimes expired un-
der the blows. Priests were treated
by their chief pastors as beings on
a level with the meanest of slaves.
One of these vladykas (which is
the name by which the Russian
bishops are designated) condemned
his subordinates to dig fish-ponds
on his estate, which ponds were to
be so shaped as to form on a gigan-
tic scale the initials (E. B.) of his
lordship's name.*
•Seep. 6x0.
The failure of resources, so ma
terially diminished by the cupidity"
of their superiors, forced the paro-
chial clergy to contrive for them-
selves an income by means more
or less lawful. Besides the legal
charges, they invented various small
taxes on their own behalf; or, when
all else failed, they begged their
bread from their own parishioners,-
who* were apt to be more liberal of
reproaches than of alms. Th e well-
being of the secular clergy being^
one of the questions under consid-
eration by the present government, ;
the author has devoted to it much
of his last chapter.
Such is the general plan of thisr
book, which must be read through
to give an idea of thf humiliating
degradation to which the hapless \
clergy were for mote than a cen-
tury condemned, thanks to the
anomaly of institutions still more
than to the abuses practised by in-
dividuals. When the source is
corrupt, can the stream be pure ?
But all this relates to the " Ortho-
dox " of the empire. That which
is more directly interesting to the
Catholic reader will be found in
works respecting the Ruthenian *
Church, which is at this time at-
tracting the attention of the West.
The History of the Reunion of
the Ancient Uniates of the lVesU\
by M. Koi'alovitch, Professor of the
Ecclesiastical (Orthodox) Academy
of the capital, repeats the faults of
all the numerous writings, whether
books, pamphlets, or articles, whi( !i
have issued from his pen in the
course of the last ten years, and
which are painfully remarkable for
their spirit of partiality, their pre-
* The Rutheniaas, or Ruthenes, aie « people of
Sclavonic race inhabiting the prorince of S^-ia-
The Ruthenian or Servian alphabet is abo caBcd
" the Alphabet of S. CyriL'*
t It.oria V0uottdinemilu m t>a -fntr^tukikk rw
niiUovstarykdvrtmtn, Petcnburg: 1873.
The Modern Literature of Russia.
255
conceived ideas, their self-contra-
dictions, and their hatred of the
Catholic faith. An organ of the
press of St. Petersburg has express-
ed a desire that the documents up-
on which this author professedly
rests three-fourths of his last book,
while purposely neglecting all ex-
traneous sources whatever, whether
political or diplomatic, should be
given to the public, which would
then be enabled to judge for itself
how far the statements based upon
fkem are to be trusted. Nor can
my obstacle exist in the way of
fQch publication, as was shown by
the work of Moroehkine on the re-
imion of the Uniates in 1839, equal-
ly compiled from official documents
of tmquestionable importance, which
were then edited for the first time.
It is impossible not to be struck
with the strange coincidence of so
many publications upon union with
the painful events which are taking
place at the present time in the
Diocese of Khelm, and which had
evidently been preparing long be-
forehand. Books have their raison
i'ttre—aL. reason for their appear-
ance at particular periods. It is
said, even, that M. Koi'alovitch
is »t the head of a school of
opinion, and that his disciples can
be pointed out without difficulty.
I Tbas, Rustchinski is the author of
a study on the Religious Condition
#/ the Russian People according to
Foreign Authors of the X Vlth and
XVI 1th Centuries ; Nicolaievski has
written on Preaching in the X Vlth
Century; Demaianovitch, on The
Jesuits in Western Russia^ from
1569 /^ 1772, at which latter year
ihe thread of their history is taken
up and continued by Moroehkine ;
Kratchkovski, on the Interior
State of the Uniate Church (1872) ;
lad Sicherbinski has given the his-
t07 of the Order of S. Basil. But
we must not prolong the catalogue,
which, however, is by no means com-
plete. Never has so much literary
activity been known in the ** Ortho-
dox " communion as now, if, per-
haps, we except the first times of the
union.
But before passing on to another
head we must not fail to mention,
as one of the principal representa-
tives of the literary movement of
the XVIth century, the celebrated
namesake and predecessor of the
present Metropolitan of Mesopo-
tamia, i.e,y Archbishop Macarius, to
whom we are indebted for the
monumental work known as the
Great Menology^ and which is a
species of religious encyclopaedia,
containing, besides the lives of the
saints for every day in the year, the
entire works of the early fathers,
as well as ascetic, canonical, and
literary treatises. The Archaeogra-
phic Commission of St. Petersburg
has undertaken the republication,
in its integrity, of this colossal work,
of which only three quarto volumes
in double columns have at present
appeared.
IV. Biographies. — As we have
already remarked, it is interesting
to observe the eagerness with which
the Russian people welcome every-
thing that tends to throw light up-
on their past. For instance, what
is usually drier than a catalogue ?
And yet the one compiled by M.
M^jov has already reached four
thousand copies. It is true that
his Systematic Catalogue (of original
documents) combines various quali-
ties that are somewhat rare in pub-
lications of this description. It is
not, however, desirable that a taste
for the mere reproduction of inedit-
ed manuscripts should be carried
too far; the interests of science de-
manding rather that they should
be made use of in the production
^56
Tht Modern Literature of Russia.
of works aspiring to greater com-
pleteness, and suited to meet the
requirements of modern criticism.
A certain number of works have
already been written in accordance
with this idea. That of M. Tchis-
tovitch, entitled Theophanes Pro-
copovitch and his Times^ may be
given as a model, as may also the
excellent study of M. Ikonnikov on
Count Nicholas Mordinhov, one of
the remarkable men who flourished
in the reign of the Emperor Alex-
ander I. and Nicholas. Various
memoirs of this personage had pre-
viously appeared in.different collec-
tions, but no one before the young
professor of Kiev had taken the
trouble to study the original sources
upon which alone an authentic life
could be written, to reduce them
to system, and give them a living
form. It is not only the opinions
and theories of the count which are
given, but those also of contem-
porary society and the persons by
whom he was surrounded, those of
the latter being occasionally too
lengthily developed. M. Ikonni-
kov was also, some years ago, the
author of an interesting work, enti-
tled The Influence of Bysantine Civi-
lization on Russian History (Kiev :
1870). And this leads us to men-
tion a book recently published by
M. Philimonov, vice-director of the
Museum of Arms, on Simon Oucha-
kov and the Iconography of his Time,
The name of this artist has
scarcely been heard in the West.
Bom in 1626, he early evinced a
talent for painting, and at the age
of twenty-two was admitted into
the number of iconographists ap-
pointed by the czar ; his specialty
consisting in making designs, more
particularly for the gold-work ap-
propriated to religious uses. Of
his paintings, the earliest bears the
date of 1657 M. Philimonov pass-
es in review all his later produc-
tions, accompanying each with a
short but careful notice, and dwdl*
ing chiefly upon the two which he
considers the masterpieces of Rus-
sian iconography at that period,
namely, the painting of the Annun-
ciation and that of Our Lady of
Vladimir. Besides these two prin-
cipal paintings, Ouchakov left a
quantity of others, most of which
bear his name, with the date of their
completion, although these indica-
tions are not needed, his pictures
being easily recognizable. He
may, in fact, be considered as at
the head of a new school of paint-
ing, taking the middle line between
the conventional Muscovite icono-
graphy and the paintings of the
West; between the inanimate and
rigid formalism of the one and the
living variety of the other; and
thus inaugurating the new era in
religious art which manifested it-
self in Russia with the opening o(
the XVIIth century, and permit-
ting the introduction of a realism
which the ancient iconographers
were wholly ignorant of, and would
have considered it detrimental to
Oriental orthodoxy to countenance,
Ouchakov was ennobled, in honor
of his talents, and died in 1656, at
the age of sixty, in the full enjoy-
ment of public esteem.
In connection with the subject of
art, we may add that M. Philimonov
has just issued an elegant edition
of the Guide to Russian Iconography,
which teaches the correct manner
in which to represent the saints.
The text of this work, which is for
the first time published in Russian,
has been furnished by three of the
most ancient manuscripts known to
exist, one of which formerly be-
longed to the Church of S. Sophia
of Novogorod. Fully to compre-
hend the text, however, it is
The Modern Literature of Russia.
257
necessary to have together with it,
for constant reference, some picto-
rial guide^ aSf for instance, the one
pablished by M. Boutovski. The
iwo works explain and complete
each other, as both alike refer to
about the same period ; but, also,
Iwth should be consulted in sub-
ordinate reference to the Greek
Guide^ if the reader is to be enabled
to separate the Byzantine element
fnmi that which is specially charac-
Icrislic of Russian iconography.
In connection with general lit-
erature mention must be made of
the fabulist, Khemnitzer, whose
complete works and correspond-
ence have been edited by Grote,
together with a biography, com-
posed from previously-unpublished
Jources. After the vast labor of
editing the works of Derjavine,
those of Khemnitzer would be in
comparison a mere amusement to
the learned and indefatigable aca-
demician.
V. Journals and Memoirs. —
'^t Journal of Khrapovski (1782-
'793), published by M. Barsoukov,
who has enriched it with a bio-
grtphical notice and explanatory
notes, appears for the first time in
it« integrity, and accompanied by a
'(Uah^ue raisortfU of all the person-
•igcs who find themselves mention-
ed in the text. This journal de-
rives its special interest and value
from the position of the author,
*ho for ten years was attached to
the ^j^fr^z/ service of the Empress
t'ltherine II. (Charge des Affaires
f^cr5onnelIes)y and who, being thus
Emitted into the interior and
homc.lifc of the court, noted down
il^y by day, and sometimes hour by
^ i>ur, all that he there saw or heard.
J his is certainly not history; but
^T intelligent historian will some-
^'Joei find there, in a sentence
'poken apparently at random, the
VOL. XXI. — 17
germ of great political events which
were accomplished later.
The Journal of Lady Rondeau^
wife of the English resident-minis-
ter at the court of the Empress
Anne, is the first volume of foreign
writers on the Russia of the
XVIIIth century, edited with notes
by M. Choubinski. The idea of
publishing the accounts of foreign-
ers on the Russian Empire merits
encouragement, and, if well carried
out, will shed new light on number-
less points which an indigenous au-
thor would leave unnoticed, but
which have a rfeal interest in the
eyes of a stranger. If it should be
objected that foreigners judge su-
perficially and partially, it is none
the less true that the worth of
their impressions arises precisely
from the diversity of country and
point of view. Besides, all stran-
gers could not, without injustice, b«
alike charged with lightness and
inexactitude. The memoirs of
Masson on the court of Catherine
II. and of Paul I. are quoted by
the Russians themselves as a strik-
ing proof to the contrary ; no sin-
gle fact which he mentions having
been disproved by history. The
merit of Lady Rondeau's book is
increased by the notice, in form of
an appendix, which is added by her
husband, on the character of each
of the principal personages of the
court.
We conclude this rapid and im-
perfect summary by mentioning the
Catalogue of the Section of Russica^
or writings upon Russia in foreign
languages — a work of which the in-
itiation is due to the administrators
of the Public Library of St. Peters-
burg, and forming two enormous
volumes. To give some idea of
the riches accumulated in the sec-
tion of Russica, perhaps unique in
the world, and of which the forma-
i58
The First Jubilee.
tion commenced in 1849, it will
suffice to say that the number of
works enumerated in the catalogue
reaches the figures 28,456, without
reckoning those composed in Lith-
uanian, Esthonian, Servian, Bulga-
rian, Greek, and other Oriental
languages, which will together form
a supplementary volume. Besides
original works, the catalogue indi-
cates all the translations of Russian
books, and enumerates all the pe-
riodicals which have appeared in
Russia in foreign languages.
The works are arranged in al-
phabetical order; but at the cim
of the second volume we find al
analytical table, commencing wit
history, the historical portion be*
ing the most considerable one ii
the section of JRussica. Thus th<
literary treasures possessed by thi
principal library of the empire ari
henceforward made known witl
regard to each branch of the sci
ences in relation to Russia. If 1
this we add the Systematic Caialogx
of M. M^jov, mentioned above, 1
possess the historic literature of
Russia in its completeness.
THE FIRST JUBILEE.
Almighty God, who has "order-
ed all things in measure and ««/w^^r
and weight " (Wisd. xi. 21), and who
teaches us, under the guidance of
his church, to observe sacred times
and seasons, has brought around
again the Holy Year of Jubilee,
during which an extraordinary in-
dulgence is granted by the Pope,
that sinners being led to repentance,
and the just increased in grace,
each one can hear it said to him-
self: " In an acceptable time I have
heard thee " (Is. xlix. 8).
We will not touch here upon the
nature or doctrine of indulgences,
more than to give a definition of
our Jubilee, viz., a solemn plenary
remission of such temporal punish-
ment as may still be due to divine
justice after the guilt of sin has
been forgiven, which the Sovereign
Pontiff, in the fulness of apostolic
power, makes at a stated period to
all the faithful, on condition of
performing certain specified pious
works ; empowering confessors to,
absolve for the nonce in reserved
cases and from censures not speci-
ally excepted, and to commute all
vows not likewise excepted into
other salutary matter. Our Holy
Father, Pius IX., by an Encyclical
Letter dated from S. Peter's on the
vigil of last Christmas, has announc-
ed that, the year 1875 completing
the cycle of time determined by his
predecessors for the recurrence of
the Jubilee, he declares it the Holy
Year, and sets forth the conditions
of the same, with other circumstan-
ces of ecclesiastical discipline usual
on so rare an occasion of grace.
The origin of the word jubilee it-
self is uncertain. It is a Hebrew
term that first occurs in the twenty-
fifth chapter of Leviticus: "And
thou shalt sanctify the fiftieth year,
... for it is the year of Jubilee."
Josephus (Anti^uit.f iii. ir) says
The First Jubilee.
259
hat it means liberty^ by which his
DDoiators understand that dis-
liarge among the Jews from debts
ind bondage, and restitution to
rrcry man of his former property,
ts commanded by the law. The
Bore common opinion derives it
iforo fobel^ a ram's horn, because
kc Jubilee year was ushered in by
lie blasts of the sacred trumpets,
■ade of the horns of the ram.
Pope Boniface VIII. is erroneously
Apposed by many to have institut-
6d the Christian Jubilee ; for he
ftnly restored what had already ex-
ited, and reduced it substantially
to its present form ; inasmuch as
there had been from an early pe-
riod a custom among Christians of
visiting Rome at the turn of every
tncceeding century, in the hope of
obtaining great spiritual favors at
the tomb of S. Peter, and perhaps
also with the idea of atoning in
some measure for the superstitious
secular games which during the
reign of Augustus the Quindecimmri
(i college of priests) announced as
having been given once in every
century in memory of the founda-
tion of the Eternal City, and which,
tftcr consulting the Sibylline books
in ihcir care, they prevailed upon
the emperor to celebrate again.
Mgr. Pompeo Samelli, Bishop of
Bi^cglic in 1692, treats of the
lectilar year of the heathen Romans
and the Jubilee of their Christian de-
scendants together, as though one
were in some respect a purified out-
growth of the other. He says :
" But the Christians, to change pro-
fane into sacred things, were accus-
tomed to go every hundredth year
to visit the Vatican basilica, and
cdebrate the memory of Christ, who
was bom for the redemption of the
*orld ; so that the Holy Year was
the sanctification of the profane
centenary in the lapse of time;
but in its spiritual benefits it per-
fected the effects of the Jubilee
kept by the Jews every fiftieth year
for temporal advantages " (Lettere
Ecclesiast.^ x. 50). Macri also, in
his Hiero-Uxicon (1768), says : " We
believe that the popes who have al-
ways endeavored (when the nature
of the thing permitted) to alter the
vain observances of the Gentiles
into sacred ceremonies for the wor-
ship of God, in order to eradicate
the superstitious secular year of
the Romans, established our Holy
Year of Jubilee, and enriched it
with indulgences." Of the connec-
tion between our Jubilee and that
of the Jews Devoti {InsU Can,^ ii.
p. 250, note) remarks that their fifti-
eth year ** aliquo modo imago fuit
Jubilaei, quern postea Romani Pon-
tifices instituerunt — " was in some
wise a figure of that Jubilee which,
at a later period, the Roman pontiffs
instituted."
Benedetto Gaetani of Anagni
(Boniface VIII.) had been elected
pope at Naples on Dec. 24, 1294,
and was residing in Rome at the
close of the century, when he heard
towards Christmas that many pil-
grims were approaching the city,
who came, they said, to gain the
indulgence which an ancient tradi-
tion taught could be obtained there
every hundredth year, at the begin-
ning of a new century. Although ^
search was made in the pontifical
archives for some record of a con-
cession of special indulgence at
such a period, none was found;
but witnesses of established vera-
city assured the pope that they
had heard of this indulgence, and
that it was connected with a visit
to the tomb of S. Peter.
Brocchi in his Storia del GiubbiUo^
page 6, mentions among the vener-
able persons examined before the
pope and cardinals one man 107
26o
The First Jubilee.
years old, and another — a noble
Savoyard — over loo years old, who
both made deposition that as chil-
dren they had been brought to
Rome by their parents, who had of-
ten reminded them not to omit the
pilgrimage of the next century, if
they should live so long. Two very
aged Frenchmen from the Diocese
of Beauvais also deposed to hav-
ing come to Rome on the strength
of a like centennial tradition of
which they had heard their fathers
speak. The chronicler William Ven-
tura of Asti (born in 1250) writes
that at the beginning of the year
1300 an immense crowd of pilgrims,
coming to Rome from the East and
from the West, used to throng
about the pope and cry out : " Give
us thy blessing before we die ; for
we have learnt from our elders that
all Christians who shall visit on the
hundredth year the basilica where
rest the bones of the apostles Peter
and Paul can obtain absolution of
their sins and the remission of any
penance that might still be due for
them'* (apud Muratori, Rer, ItaL
Script.y xi. 26). Boniface VIII.
then called a consistory, and on the
advice of the cardinals determined
to issue a bull confirming the grant
of indulgence, did such really ex-
ist; and in any case offering a
plenary indulgence to all who, con-
trite, should confess their sins and
visit at least once a day for thirty
days — not necessarily consecutive,
if Romans ; if strangers, only for fif-
teen days in the same manner — the
two basilicas of the holy apostles SS.
Peter and Paul during the course
of the year 1300. This interesting
bull, which is usually cited by its
opening words, Aniiquorum habet
fida relaiiOy and may be seen in any
collection of canon law among the
Exiravaganies Communes (lib. v.
De Poen. et Rem., c. 1), is short
and elegantly condensed — tqx whU
reason, perhaps, an old glossari
calls it ^* epistola satis gross^ con
posita *' — and, although written U
fore the revival of Latin Icttd
compares favorably with the verboi
composition of later documents. .
was probably drawn up by Sylva
ter, the papal secretary, who is naB
ed as writer of the circular-letter sd
in the pope's name to all bisho
and Christian princes to acqoaii
them with the measure taken, ai
invite them to exhort the faithfi
of their dioceses and their lojri
subjects to go on the pilgrima]
Romeward. The poj>e publish^
his bull himself on the 22d of Fcl
ruary, 1300, being the feast of \
Peter at Antioch, by reading
aloud from a richly-draped ambi
erected for the occasion before tl
high altar in S. Peter's, which had
very different appearance from tfaJ
domed and cross-shaped structuii
that we now admire, as lovers ol
architectural elegance ; for as anti
quarians we must regret the veneft
able building which was a basilica
in form as well as in name. Whd
Boniface had finished, he descend*
ed, and went up in person to the
altar to deposit upon it the bull of
indulgence in homage to the Prince
of the Apostles, whose successor he
was, and not unworthily maintained
himself to be. Then returning to
his former place, while the cardi-
nals stood with bended head around
it and beneath him, he gave his
solemn blessing to an immense
number of pilgrims, who, filling the
church and overflowing into the
square in front, reverentially knelt
to receive it. Truly, the hearts of
the people were with that man, al-
though the hands of princes were
against Ivira. A most interesting
memorial of this very scene has
been preserved to us through sack
The First Jubilee.
261
Id fire for nearly six hundred
feus m the shape of a painting by
te celebrated Giotto — a portrait,
ko, and not a fancy sketch — which
I the only portion saved of the
feotttiful frescos with which he or-
imented the ioggia built by Boni-
Ite at S. John Lateran. It repre-
BBts the pope in the act of giving
ii beaedictton to the people be-
^cn two cardinals (or, as some
ptics think, two prelates), one of
fom holds a document in his
^d— evidently meant for the bull
I JubQee by an artist's license, to
feccify more distinctly the circum-
Imce; for it was then actually on
ke altar — while the other looks
Iftwn upon the crowd over the
Ittgtng cloth on which the Gae-
vu arms are emblazoned. This
^edmen of higher art of the XlVih
iiBiititry was for a long time preserv-
id in the cloister of S. John, until a
wpresentative of the Gaetani (now
heal) family had it carefully set
tp against one of the pilasters of
the churchy and protected with a
|las8 covering, in 1786, where it
•ay still be seen, although it is
i« often noticed according to its
■erits.
Oar chief authorities for the de-
rails of this Jubilee are the pope's
Bq»hcw, James Cardinal Stefan-
ochi; the Chronicler of Asti (gen-
CTiIly quoted as Chronicon As-
^f) ; and the Florentine merchant
*»d Guelph historian, John Villani,
*^o died of the plague in 1348.
Aft were eye-witnesses.
The cardinal wrote on the Jubi-
k« in prose and verse. His work,
^ centisimo^ sen Jubilaoanno Liber ^
'> published in the Biblioth, Max.
P^iruwt, torn. XXV. He is the ear-
*»«t writer to use the word Jubilee^
»l«cli is not found in the pope's
"•l^but must have been common
^ *bc period, for others use it. A
sententious specimen of the cardi-
nal deacon's prose style may be in-
teresting; it contains a good sen-
timent, and is not bad Latin, al-
though the German Gregorovius,
in his History of Rome in the Mid-
die Ages, speaks of " die barbarische
Schrift des Jacob Stefaneschi "—
" that barbarous opuscule of James
Stefaneschi " : " Beatus populus qui
scit Jubilationem ; infelices vero qui
torpore, vel temeritate, dum alterius
sibi forsan aevum Jubilaei spondent,
neglexerint " (cap xv.)— " Blessed
is the people that profiteth by
this season of remission ; but un-
happy are the slothful and pre-
sumptuous ones who, promising
themselves another Jubilee, neglect
it." His hexameters, however, are
undoubtedly execrable ; for instance :
** Disdte, ceoteno detergi crimina Phaebo, (!)
Disdte, si latebns scabrosi criminis on
Depromunt, contrita sinu, dum drculus anni
Gjrrat, perque dies quindenos exter, et Urbis
Incola tricenos delubra pateotia Patrum
iCtherci Petri, Pauli quoque gendbus almi
Doctoris subeaat, ubi congerit uma sepultos.**
Cardinal James of the Title of
S. George in Velabro was one of the
most distinguished men of Rome;
" famous," as Tiraboschi says (Z^/-
terat, Itai.y v. 517), **not less for
his birth than for his learning."
His mother was an Orsini. He
died in 1343.
As soon as the grant of this great
indulgence was noised abroad an
extraordinarily large number of pil-
grims set out from all parts of Italy,
from Provence and France, from
Spain, Germany, Hungary, and
even from England, although not
very many from that country, which
was then at war. They came of
every age, sex, and condition : chil-
dren led by the hand or carried in
the arms, the infirm borne in litters,
the knightly and those of more
means on horseback, while not a
362
The First JuHUe.
few old people were seen, Anchises-
like, supported on the shoulders of
their sons. The Chronicle of Partna
(quoted by Gregorovius, Gcschichte
dcr Sladt Rom im Mittelalter^ v. p.
549) says that "every day and at
all hours there was a sight as of
a general army marching in and
out by the Claudian Way," which
brought the pilgrims into the city
after joining the Flaminian Way at
the gate now represented by the
Porta del Popolo; and the Chronicler
of Asti has to use the words of the
Apocalypse to describe the throngs
that gathered about the roaring
gates. ** I went out one day,'* he
says, and " I saw a great crowd
which no man could number."
The whole influx of pilgrims, includ-
ing men and women, during the
year, was computed by the Romans
at over two millions ; while Villani,
who was a careful observer, writes
that about thirty thousand people
used to enter and leave the city
every, day, there being at no time
less than two hundred thousand
within the walls over and above the
fixed population. But the pilgrim-
age was especially one of the poor
to the tomb of the Fisherman ; and
all writers on it have remarked, in
noticing the fervent enthusiasm of
the common people, the cold re-
serve and absence of their royal
masters. Only the Frenchman
Charles Martel, titular King of Hun-
gary, came ; it is presumable more
to obtain the pope's good-will in the
dispute about the succession to the
throne than from piety. The near-
est approach to royalty after him
was Charles of Valois, who came
accompanied by his family and a
courtly retinue of five hundred
knights, and doubtless hoped to
receive the crown of Sicily from
Boniface, if he could expel the
usurping Ara^onese.
So many thousands of pilgrim^
citizens and strangeis, went day anij
night to S. Peter's that not a fe«
were maimed, and some even tran-
pled to death, in the stniggiinf
crowd of goers and comers thil
met at the crossing of the Tibd
over the old ^lian bridge leadin|
to the Leonine city. To obviaH
such disasters in future, the wid|
bridge was divided lengthwise by I
strong wooden railing, thus formiij
two passages, of which the advaiM
ing and returning pilgrims took a
spectively the one on their ri^
The poet Dante, who is strongly af
posed to have been in Rome forth
Jubilee, although there is no prod
either in the Divine Conudy or tk
Vita Nuova that he was, may ho
written as an eye-witness when k
describes this very scene of th
passing but not mingling streansd
human beings in the well-kuofl
lines :
*^ Come i Roman, per t'eserdto
L'anno del giubbileo, su per lo poaM
Hanoo a paaiar la geote modo toto;
Che dall un lato tutti hanno la froDie
Verso'l castelkt, e Tamao a Saato Piaf»—
Di^' altta qnoda vaono vem*! moBta."
The castle here mentioned is, d
course, Sant' Angelo ; and the hil
is probably Monte Giordano, in tb(
heart of the city, which, altboogb
from the grading of the surround
ing streets, is now only a gentle va
graced by the Gabrielli palace, wai
a high and strongly-fortified posi
tion in the XI Vth century. Amooj
all the relics seen by the pilgrims ii
Rome, the Holy Face of our Lord
or Cloth of Veronica, which is pre
served with so much veneration ii
S. Peter's, seems to have attract^
the most attention. By order of
• »* B*ea thus tbe Roroana, when the fWUi t taiM
Of Jubilee, with better i^yeed to rid
The thmnging multitudes, their neaaa dernr
For such as pass the bridge ; that onaae side
An front toward the castle, and approath
3. Peter*s fane, o» the other towaids tht MooaL^
—Cmryt Trmmlmtimk
The First Jubilee.
263
' the pope it was solemnly shown to
tbe people on every Friday and
on All the principal feasts through-
out the year of Jubilee. . The great
Tascan has also sung of this, which
he possibly saw himself :
* Qoak h cokti che fon« di Croaaa
Vidie a veder la Veronica nostra,
Che per Tantica fama non si srizia,
Ifa £ce ael penaier, 6n cfae si mostra ;
SigBor mio Geail Cristo, Dio verace,
Or fa si fatta la sembianza vostra?"*
''Paradi»0t zzxi.
A modem economist might won-
der how a famine was to be averted,
with such a sudden and numerous
addition to the population of the
city. The foresight of the ener-
getic pope, whose family also was
influenzal in the very garden of
the Campagna, among those hardy
laborers of whom Virgil sung,
*'Quos dives Anagnia pascit," had
early in the year caused an im-
mense supply of grain, oats, meat,
fisb, wine, and other sorts of
provision for man and beast to be
coUccted from every quarter and
brought into the city, where it was
stored and guarded against the
coming of the pilgrims. The pro-
visions were abundant and cheap.
The Chronicler of Asti, it is true,
complains of the dearness of the
hay or fodder for his horse ; but as
He thought tornesium unum grossutn
(equal to six cents of our money)
too high for his own daily lodging
*nd his horse's stabling, without
bait, we must think either that the
means of living in Italy in those
days were incredibly low, or that
Ventura was very parsimonious. It
isihe testimony of all the writers
on this Jubilee that, except an
«'*U'keawigfat,
Wita haply fno Croatia wends to see
(^Veronica and tbawKik 'tisshowa,
Hiap orer it with never-«ated gaze,
And, aB that he hath heard revolving, saith
Catohiasetfiothoitghi: ' And didst thou look
t'ca thus. O Jesus, my true Lord and Ood ?
Aad «M this Mmblance thine ?' "
—Cmrj^t Trm9uiaii0fL
inundation of the Tiber, which
threatened for a few days to cut off
the train of supplies for the city,
everything was propitious to the
comfort and piety of the faithful.
The roads through Italy leading to
Rome- were safe, at least to the
pilgrims, to whom a general safe-"
conduct was given by the various
little republics and principalities
of the Peninsula ; and if the Romans
did grow rich off of the strangers,
there was good-humor on both sides,
and not the slightest collision. In-
deed, the Romans (who perhaps
gained the Jubilee before the great
body of the pilgrims had arrived ;
at least we know that those out of
the northern parts of Europe timed
their departure from home so as to
avoid the sweltering southern heat)
seem to have shown some indiffer-
ence to the spiritual favors offered;
as Gregorovius — who, however, is
anti-papal — with a quiet sarcasm
says : " They left the pilgrims to
pray at the altars, while they march-
ed with flaunting banners against
the neighboring city of Toscanel-
la"; and Galletti, in his Roman
Medi(Bval Inscriptions (torn. ii. p. 4),
has published a curious old one on
this martial event, the original of
which is now encased in one of the
inside walls of the Palazzo dei
Conservatori (this name may have
been changed by the present usur-
pers) on the Capitoline hill, where
it was set up under Clement X.
in 1673. As it is most interest-
ing for its synchronism with. the
first Jubilee, and the insight it
gives us into the mixed sort of
fines imposed by the descend-
ants of the conquerors of the world
upon a subjugated people in th»
middle ages — bags of wheat, a bell,
the city gates, eight lusty fellows to
dance while their masters piped,
and a gentle hint that there was.
264
The First Jubilee.
no salt soum — we think it might well
appear (doubtless for the first time)
in an American periodical. The
original being in the abbreviated
style of the XlVth century, we
have modernized it to make it
more intelligible to the reader :
** MiHc trcccntenis Domini cuircntibus annis
Papa Bonifacius octavus in orbe vigebat
Tunc Aniballensis Riccardus de Coliseo
Ncc non GenUIis Ursina prole creatus
Ambo senatores Roraam cum pace regebaat
Per quos jam pridem tu TuscaneUa fuisti
Ob dirum damnata nefas, dbi dempta potestas
Sumendi regimen est, at data juribus Urbu
FrumcQti nibla bis millia ferre coegit
Annua te Roma vel libras solvere mille
Cum Deus attulerit Romanu fertUitatem
Campanam populi, portas deducere Romam
Octo ludentes Romanis mittere ludis —
Majori poena populi pietate remissa.
Sunt quoque communis scrvata paiatia RomiD
Du.nmodo certe ruant turresque paiatia muri
Si rursus furere tentent fortaasis in Urbem
. .Vel jam prolata nolint decrcta tenere
In aede reponatur sacra pro tempore guerrs
Tempore vel caro servanda pecunia prortus."
The meaning of the tenth, elev-
enth, and twelfth lines is that, since
the Romans have land enough to
give them their daily bread, but ^o
not object to any amount of quaU
trim (coin), if the vanquished
should prefer, they may pay once
for all a thousand pounds in money,
instead of the annual tribute of
two thousand sacks of grain — with
freight charges to destination ; and
the last lines signify that a sum is
laid up in the chapel to be used to
carry on anoth.er war if the Tusca-
nellans should again machinate
against the City — as Rome was
proudly called — or refuse to fulfil
the stipulations.
The pilgrims of the Jubilee gen-
erally made a small offering at the
altars of the two basilicas, although
no alms were required as a condi-
tion of gaining the indulgence ; and
it is particularly from a naive pas-
sage of one of them in his valuable
chronicle that Protestants and Vol-
laireans have taken occasion to de-
ride the Jubilees as mere money-
making affairs ; and even the Cath-
olic Muratori {Antickitit Itatiam,
torn. iii. part ii. p. 156) carps at the
inimitable description of so Roman-
esque a scene as that of two chatting
clerics raking in the oblations of the
forestieri ; but Cenni, the annotalor
of this great work of the Modcnesc
historian in the Roman edition of
1755, which we use, aptly remarks
here that if writers will look only at
the bad side of the many and al-
most innumerable events that ha\c
occurred in this low world* of cure,
and illogically conclude from a par-
ticular to the universal,, they will
discover that art of putting things
whereby what has generally been
considered good and laudable will
appear thereafter worthy only of
censure. The Chronicler of Asti,
certainly with no great thought of
what people would think ^\s^ han-
dred years after he was mouldering
in his grave, simply writes of the
pilgrims' donations: "Papa innii-
merabilem pecuniam ab eisderarc-
cepit, quia die ac nocte duo clerit i
stabant ad altare sancti Petri, te-
nentes in eorum manibus rastcUos
rastellantes pecuniam infinitam."
Although we believe that the
honest Chronicler of Asti deserves
credit for taking notes at the Jubi-
lee, yet this very passage, read in
connection with the other one about
the deamess of his living, shows us
that he was one of those pious but
penurious souls who, if he had livc<l
in our day, and a gentleman called
on him for a subscription, would
beg to be permitted to wait until
the list got down very low. The
Protestant Gregorovius has shown
that these exaggerated offerings
" were for the most part only small
coin, the gift of common pilgrims ";
while the Catholic Von Reumoni
(Geschichte dtr Stadt Rom^ vol ii. p-
650) has calculated that this '* in-
finite amount of money " was only
The First Jubilee,
26$
after all equal to about two hundred
md forty thousand Prussian thalers,
wliich \could make no more than
one hundred and seventy-five thou-
Miid, two hundred dollars. When
Mc |>o|)e knew how generous were
inc offerings of the faithful, he or-
t!-rcd the entire sum to be expend-
ed on the two basilicas, in buying
proi>erty to support the chapter of
ihc one and the monastery attached
to the other, and in those thousand
ind more other expenses which
only those who have lived in Rome
ran understand to be necessary to
lapport the majesty of divine wor-
ihip within such edifices. Surely,
it was better, in any case, that the
money of the pilgrims should go for
the glory of the saints and the em-
bellishment of God's temples than
be exacted at home by cruel barons
and ruthless princes to carry on
iHeir petty wars or strengthen their
castles.
Mr. Hemans (no friend to our
Rome), in his Mcdiaval Chris*
tianity and Sacred Art (vol. i. p.
474), says, after mentioning these
''heaps of coins": **If much of this
went into the papal treasury, it is
nunifest that the expenditure from
that source for the charities exer-
cised throughout this holy season ,
must also have been great." This
is a lame statement; because, al-
though on the one hand the large
rabventions of the pope to the poor
pilgrims are certain, on the other
there is no proof whatever that any
ahns they gave went into his " trea-
wry." The pope, indeed, having
at heart the comfort of the strangers
and the beauty of the city, put
up many new buildings and made
other improvements, such as the
beautiful Gothic loggia of S. John
of Lateran, which the greatest paint-
er of the age was commissioned to
decorate with frescos (Papencordt,
Rom im Mittdalter^ p. 336). It is
perhaps from a traditionary know-
ledge of these architectural propen-
sities of the pope during the Jubilee
year, and of his endowments to the
basilicas, that so many people have
quite erroneously believed the som-
bre but picturesque old farm-build-
ings of Castel Giubileo, which crown
the green and lonely hill where more
than two thousand years ago the Arx
of Fidenae stood a rival to the Capitol
of Rome, to be a memorial of, and
to get its designation from, this
Jubilee of a.d. 1300. Even Sir
Wm. Gell (TV. of Rome, p. 552)
repeats the old story. But the
more careful Nibby (Dintorni di
Roma, vol. ii. p. 58) has demonstrat-
ed, with the aid of a document in
the archives of the Vatican basilica,
that the name of this place between
the Via Salaria and the Tiber, five
miles from Rome, is derived from
that of a Roman family which ac-
quired the site (previously called
Monte Sant* Angelo) and built the
castle in the XlVth century; and
that it did not come into the pos-
session of the chapter of S. Peter
until the i6th of December, 1458,
when it was bought for the sum of
three thousand golden ducats. So
much for an instance of jumping at
conclusions from a mere similarity
of name, put together with some-
thing else, which is so common a
fault of antiquaries.
266
Greville and Saint-Simon.
GREVILLE AND SAINT-SIMON-
Mr. Charles Greville was not
a La Bruy^re, but, as he appears in
his MemoirSy he might have sat very
well for that portrait of Arrias
which the inimitable imitator of
Theophrastus has drawn in his
chapter on society and conversa-
tion : " Arrias has read everything,
has seen everything; at least he
would have it thought so. 'Tis a
man of universal knowledge, and
he gives himself out as such ; he
would sooner lie than be silent or
appear ignorant of anything. . . .
If he tells a story, it is less to in-
form those who listen than to have
the merit of telling it. It becomes
a romance in his hands ; he makes
people think after his own manner;
he puts his own habits of speaking
in their moutlis ; and, in fine, makes
them all as talkative as himself.
What would become of him and of
them, if happily some one did not
come in to break up the circle and
contradict the whole story?*'
This exact picture of the late
clerk of H.B.M. Privy Council
might have been written the morn-
ing after his Memoirs appeared in
the London bookstores, instead of
nearly two hundred years ago. It
is at once a proof of the penetrat-
ing genius of La Bruy^re, and a
photograph every one will recognize
of the author of the journal which
has lately made so much noise in
• Tk* Grevitte Memoirs. A Journal of the
Reigns of King George IV. and King William IV.
By Charles C. F. Greville, Clerk of the Council to
those Sovereigns. Edited by H*. Reeve, Registrar
of the Privy Council. New York : Appleton A
Co, 1875.
M^moiret dm Due de Saint^imon tt/r U tikcU
dM Lcuh XIK €Ha R^fffHCg, Paris: 1858.
society. This clever Newmarket
jockey — rebus Newmarkeiianis ver-
satuSy as he says of himself — to whom
every point of the betting book is
familiar, carelessly refreshes his ■
jaded intellect with the Life oj
Mackinioshy as he rides down in his
carriage to the races. With afTable
profusion he scatters broadcast to
the mob of readers scraps of Horace
and Ovid, mingled with the latest
odds on the Derby. He has seen
everything from S. Giles's to S
Peter's, and, with the blas6 air of a
man at once of genius and fashion,
proclaims " there is nothing in it."
He knows everything, from the
most questionable scandal of the
green-roo*m to the best plan of
forming a cabinet ; such second-rate
men as Melbourne, Palmerston, and
Stanley he sniffs at with easy dis-
dain ; and if at times he gently be*
moans a few personal deficiencies,
it is with a complacent conviction
that it needed only a little early
^training to have made him a Peel,
a Burke, or a Chatham ! That he
would " sooner lie than be silent,"
one needs only remember his in-
famous stories about Mrs. Charles
Kean and Lady Burghersh ; his cal-
umnies against George IV. and Wil-
liam IV. — the masters whose gra-
cious kindness he repaid by bribing
their valets for evidence against them
— his unfounded attacks upon Peel,
Stanley, O'Connell, and Lyndhurst;
his slanders even against obscure
men, like Wakley and others. As to
his habit of " making people think
after his own manner," and putting
" his own mode of speaking in their
GrevUle and Saint-Simon.
267
mouths," the profanity and vulgar-
ity which disfigure his pages are the
best evidence.
That this is a true estimate of
the merits of The Greville Memoirs
is now generally admitted. The
most respectable critical exponents
of English opinion have united in
condemning the bad taste and
breach of trust which made either
their composition or publication
possible. It needs no refinement
of reasoning to prove that the
expressions everywhere so freely
quoted from this journal are such
as could not honorably be uttered
by any gentleman holding the office
Mr. Greville did. Readers will
easily be found for them, either
from a love of sensation or because
of the illustration they offer of the
character of the persons described
or the writer; but nothing can con-
done their real offensiveness. Such,
however, was far from being the
first opinion of the press. The
leading English journal, in two
lengthy reviews such as rarely ap-
pear in its columns, handled Mr.
Greville s work with a delicacy, an
admiration, a regretful and half-
tender daintiness of touch for the
author, that promised everything to
the reader. This criticism \vas
followed by a general outburst of
Applause on the part of the press,
which soon began to waver, how-
ever, when it was found that the
best section of English society re-
garded the book with disapproval.
So conscious, indeed, were the
American publishers of its intrinsic
lack of interest or literary merit
that one firm has presented it to
the public with nearly all the politi-
cal portions left out and the private
Kossip retained. ** It is said," says
the Saturday Review not long ago,
"that an American compiler has
puDlifthed a pleasant duodecimo
volume containing only those pas-
sages which may be supposed to
gratify a morbid taste." The
London critic intended, no doubt.
to be pungent and satirical ; but
how innocuously does such satire
fall upon the head of the average
" compiler " !
If Mr. Greville has not made
good his claim to stand among the
masters of his craft, least of all is he
to be named in the same day with
the prince of memoir-writers — Saint-
Simon ; unless, indeed, it be to
point the moral that more is need-
ed for excellency in such an art
than an inquisitive mind and a bit-
ing pen. Yet Mr. Greville's oppor-
tunity was great — greater, probably,
than will happen to any other me-
moir-writer for some generations to
come. Like Saint-Simon, he be-
gan active life in an age of great
events and great men. Whatever
may be said of the pettiness of
the regency, of its profligacy and
mock brilliancy, no one can forget
that those were days of great per-
ils ; of vast struggles, military and
civil ; of giants' wars, and of a race
of combatants not unworthy to
take part in them. Nor were the
twenty years succeeding — which
make up, as we may roughly say,
that portion of his journal now
printed — wanting in great interests
and momentous events. The age
which gave birth to Catholic Eman-
cipation and the Reform Bill, while
it still numbered among its chiefs the
veterans of the great Continental
war, could npt fail to offer subjects
for treatment that would be read
eagerly by all succeeding times. If
Saint-Simon witnessed the culmina-
tion of the glories of the reign of
Louis XIV., and saw De Luxem-
bourg and Catinat, the last survivors
of that line of victorious marshals
beginning with the great Cond6
268
Greville and SainUSimon.
and Turenne, who had carried the
lilies of France over Europe, not
less was it Greville's fortune to
converse familiarly with the great
duke who, repeating the triumphs
of Marlborough, had beaten down
the arms of the empire in a later
age. And if Saint-Simon lived also
to see the disasters, the weakness,
the desolation, and bankruptcy of
his country which succeeded the
long splendor of his youth, Gre-
ville too looked on as a spectator,
almost, one might say, as a registrar,
at the hardly less terrible civil
struggles and social depression
which threatened to rend the king-
dom asunder.
Both were of noble families, al-
though the Due de Saint-Simon was
the head of his house, and Mr.
Greville only a cadet of his. Both
were courtiers ; and although Saint-
Simon's position as a peer of France
lifted him far above Greville's in
his day, who was rather a paid ser-
vant of the crown than strictly a
courtier, yet the very office of the
latter gave him advantages^ which
the elder memoir-writer did not
always possess. Here, however, all
parallel ceases. The radical inca-
pacity of Mr. Greville's mind to
lift him above the common race of
diarists prevents all further com-
parison. He had neither the ge-
nius of assimilation nor description
to make the portraits of men and
manners live, like Saint-Simon's, in
the gallery of history. His infor-
mants are valets^ his satire mere
backbiting, his reflections trivial,
his descriptions a confused mass
of petty details.
It is not proposed here to weary
the reader with long quotations
from a work which so many already
have read or skimmed over. Nor
do we intend, on the other hand, to
follow the fashion of some critics,
and carefully gather up all the points
which might be woven into an in-
dictment against Mr. Greville's ho-
nor or candor or wit. Such a task
would be endless; it would take
in almost every other page of his
volumes. But that it may be seen
that the unfavorable opinion which,
after a careful examination, we
have been led — much to our dis-
appointment — to entertain of his
w^ork is not misplaced, we shall
proceed to give some passages that
sustain, in our judgment, the cor-
rectness of the view we have taken.
Charles C. F. Greville was, as his
editor, Mr. H. Reeve, informs us, the
eldest son of Mr. Charles Greville,
grandson of the Earl of Warwick,
and Lady Charlotte Bentinck,
daughter of the Duke of Portland.
He was born in 1794. At the age
of nineteen he was appointed
private secretary by Earl Bathurst,
and almost at the same time family
influence procured for him a clerk-
ship in the Board of Trade. Both
offices had comfortable salaries at-
tached to them ; neither of them
any duties. Thus at the outset of
his career, fortunate in his family
influence and his friends, Mr. Gre-
ville was started, fairly equipped,
on- the road of life. Unencumber-
ed by any responsibility, nor weighed
down by that sharp and bitter load
of poverty that men of humbler
birth have commonly to carry on
their galled shoulders, while they
strive to gain an insecure foothold
on the slippery road to fame or for-
tune, he had every incentive and
every advantage to secure success.
A subject for thanksgiving, shall we
say, to this accomplished sinecurist ?
By no means ! Years afterwards he
bemoans the fact that he had no-
thing to do, no spur to honorable
ambition. He forgot that at the same
or an earlier age Saint-Simon, whom
GrevilU and Saint-Simon.
269
be appears to have readonly to copy
his sometimes coarse language, was
handling a pike as a volunteer in
the service of his king, and carrying
sacks of grain on his shoulders to
the starving droops in the trenches
at Namur, disdaining those little
offices into which Greville insinuated
himself as soon as he lef; college.
Or if it be said — what no man could
then (1812) predict — that the war
was nearly over, and there was little
prospect of another, what was there
to prevent him from seeking a place
in Parliament — not hard to gain with
his family influence — and there
canning out for himself a place like
I hat of Burke, to whom he some-
liojcs lifts his eyes? The truth is,
to use a vulgar phrase, Mr. Greville
had ** other fish to fry." He knew
well he had other easier and more
profitable game to follow. He was
scarcely of age when the influence
of his uncle, the Duke of Portland,
obtained for him the sinecure office
'>f Secretary of Jamaica, a deputy
heing allowed to reside in the island;
better still, the sanre influential
relative secured him the reversion
«f the clerkship of the Council !
Henceforward not the camp nor
parliamentary struggles occupied
Mr. Greville's mind ; the glorious
task of " waiting for a dead man's
nIiocs,*' varied by the congenial
i>iudy of the stables, occupied that
[•owcrful intellect which, in these
Memoirs^ looks down with contempt
'»n all the names most distinguished
n European statesmanship during
il>e first half of this century. The
"'Tire fell to him in 1821, and he
continued to hold it for nearly forty
}cirs. The net income of the two
<»tiii trs, we are elsewhere informed,
•Hwounted to about four thousand
pounds; and as he died worth thir-
ty thousand pounds, the charitable
lupposition of the Quarterly Rcviciu
is that " probably he was a gainer
on the turf." He died in 1865.
The bent of Mr. Greville's genius
was early shown.
** Sunt quof curriculo pulverem Olympicum
CailegiaKJuvat.'*
The clerk of the Council was one
of them. The blue ribbon of the
turf, not parliamentary honors or
the long vigil of laborious nights —
except over the card-table — was the
centre around which his ambition
and aspirations circled. Early smit-
ten by the betting fever, he became
as nearly a professional turfman as
the security of his ofnce would per-
mit; and there is something ludi-
crous in those expressions of regret,
which have drawn such tender sym-
pathy from his critics, that he gave
himself up to the passion instead
of becoming the scholar or states-
man he is always hinting he might
have been. Mr. Greville, in fact,
makes the blunder of supposing
that the craving for fame is equiva-
lent to the faculty for winning it.
Not the turf, but original defect of
capacity, hindered him from being
more than he was — a clerk with a
taste for gambling, held in check by
a shrewd eye for the odds. His
contemporary, the late Lord Derby,
whom he seldom lets pass without
a sneer in these Memoirs^ was an
example showing that, had true
genius existed, a taste for the turf
without participation in gambling,
need not have prevented him from
becoming both an accomplished
scholar and a brilliant statesman.
An early entry in Mr. Greville's
journal gives the measure of the
man. Under date of February 23,
182 1, he says :
"Yesterday the Duke of York
proposed to me to take the man-
agement of his horses, which I ac-
cepted. Nothing could be more
270
Greville and Saittt-Simon,
kind than the manner in which he
proposed it."
"March 5. — I have experienced a
great proof of the vanity of human
wishes. In the course of three
weeks I have attained the three
things I have most desired in the
world for years past, and upon the
whole I do not feel that my happi-
ness is increased.**
This is a good example, but far
from the best of its kind, of that
vein of apparently philosophical re-
flection running here and there
through his journal, with which
Mr. Greville deliberately intended,
we believe, to hoodwink the critics,
and in which anticipation he has
been wonderfully successful. Coolly
examined, it resolves itself as near-
ly as possible into a burlesque.
His reflections, as La Bruy^re says
elsewhere of a like genius, ** are gen-
erally about two inches deep, and
then you come to the mud and
gravel." What were the three
highest objects of human ambition
in the mind of this ardent young
man of twenty-seven, with the
world before him to choose from .?
ist. A berth in the civil service to
creep into for the rest of his life.
2d. The place of head jockey and
trainer in the prince's stables. 3d.
Unknown.
Alas I poor Greville, that the
bubble of life should have burst so
soon, leaving thee flat on thy back
in a barren world, after having thus
airily mounted to such imperial
heights! Had either Juvenal or
Johnson known thy towering ambi-
tion and thy fall, he would have
placed thee side by side with dire
Hannibal or the venturous Swede
" to point a moral or adorn a
tale "!
It is wonderful, however, how
easily the diarist lays aside his
philosophic tone to take up the
more congenial rdU of a spy upon
the kings whose names are so os-
tentatiously displayed on his title-
page, and from whose service alone
he derived all the consideration he
had.
On January 12, 1829, Lord
Mount Charles comes to him for
some information. Thereupon, un-
der the guise of friendship and con-
fidence, he avows with a curious
shamelessness that he proceeded
to interrogate his visitor about
George IV. *s private life and habits.
When he has got all he wants out
of the unsuspecting Mount Charles,
he sets it down in his journal and
winds up with this reflection, every-
where quoted : " A more contempti-
ble, cowardly, selfish, unfeeling dog
does not exist than this king." These
were strong words to apply to a sov-
ereign whose bread he was eating,
and who had always personally treat-
ed him with marked confidence and
kindness. Perhaps those who read
Mr. Greville's journal with atten-
tion, and note the slow portrait he
therein unconsciously draws of
himself, will be better able to judge
where the terms more aptly apply.
As a work of art, indeed, the jour-
nalist's picture of himself is far supe-
rior to anything else in his book.
Touch by touch he elaborates his
own character. It is not a flatter-
ing one; it was never revealed to
the artist. How pitiably does this
coarse generalization of Greville's
compare with the fine but vigorous
and indelible strokes of Saint- Si-
mon's pencil in his portrait of
Louis XIV.! It is not a character,
but a gross and clumsy invective.
But Mr. Greville had already
plumbed a lower depth of baseness
in his prurient eagerness for de-
tails.
August 29, 1828. — " I met Bache-
lor, the poor Duke of York's eld
GrevilU and Saint- Sitnon,
271
fCTYant, and now the king's valet de
ckombre^ and he told me some curi-
ous things about the interior of the
palace. But he is coming to call
on me, and I wi!l write down what
he tells me then." On the i6th of
September he sent for Bachelor,
and had a long conversation with
him, drawing out 'all he could from
the valet about his master's habits.
May 13, 1829. — "Bachelor call-
ed again, telling me all sorts of de-
tails concerning Windsor and St.
James."
What a picture for the author of
Gil Bias ! It reminds one of some
of those Spanish interiors the no-
velist has so deftly painted, where
vafct and adventurer put their
heads together, scheming how best
to open some rich don's purse-
ttrings, or ensnare his confidence
before beginning some villanous
gzme at his expense. If these be
the springs of history, Clio defend
us against her modern sister !
What makes all this prying the
more indefensible is that Mr. Gre-
villc was without need of it even for
the composition of these Memoirs,
Elsewhere he boasts of the " great
men " he has known. And it is
true that he knew them ; and had
his ability equalled his opportunity,
enough sources of information were
honorably open to him to have
made his journal valuable and in-
teresting. But the truth is, Mr.
Greville loved to dabble in dirty
waters, as he has elsewhere plainly
ihown in his book.
A large part of these volumes —
the major part of them, indeed —
is taken up with political gossip.
It would not be correct to give it
My higher title. Its weight as a
contribution to history, to use La
Bniy^re*s illustration, would be
ibout two ounces. It consists
chiefly of what he gathered at the
council-table. But disloyal as this
tampering with his oath may have
been, his singular inaptitude to
gather what was really important
hardly offers even the poor excuse
of interesting his readers in its re-
sults. The consideration of the
eccentricities and sarcasms of his
bite noir^ the chancellor (Lord
Brougham), during a large portion
of the time covered by this jour-
nal, generally puts to flight in Mr.
Greville's mind all other topics.
The rest of his political reminis-
cences are made up of conversa-
tions with the actors in the parlia-
mentary scenes here presented ; but
even these lose the greater part of
their value from his inveterate habit
of confounding his own opinions
and language with those of the per-
son he happens to be " interview-
ing." This confusion in Mr. Gre-
ville's mind between what he
thought and said and what others
thought and said has been fully
exposed by the numerous letters
which have been drawn forth in
England from the survivors of the
persons named in his Memoirs or
from their friends. Mr. Greville
adds very little to our knowledge
of the events of the period he treats
of. Nearly everything of import-
ance in his journal has been an-
ticipated. The correspondence of
William IV. and Lord Grey, the
life and despatches of Wellington,
and the lives of Denman, Palmer-
ston, and others, have left little to
be supplied of this era of English
history.
One of the most curious features —
we might almost say the distinguish-
ing feature — in a work full of curious
traits of levity, conceit, and imma-
ture judgment, is the universal tone
of depreciation in which the author
speaks of the men of his acquain-
tance. This is not confined to
27a
Greville and Saint-Simon.
ordinary personages who lived and
died obscure, but embraces, as we
have heretofore said, a large num-
ber of the names most illustrious
in statesmanship and diplomacy
in his times. Lord Althorpe, Mel-
bourne, the late Earl Derby, Gra-
ham, Palmerston, O'Connell, Gui-
zot, Thiers — one scarcely picks out
a single name of eminence that
he has not attempted to belit-
tle. His opinions and prophecies
have been in every instance flatly
contradicted by events. -Of Pal-
merston especially — of his stupid-
ity, his ignorance, his lightness, his
general want of capacity, and the
certainty that he would never rise
to be anybody — he is never done
speaking slightingly. It is true
that the late English premier pass-
ed through many years of obscurity
in office, making, perhaps, some sort
of excuse for Mr. Greville's blind-
ness; but this example is not an
isolated one. The late Lord Derby
comes in for an almost equal share
of it, although he is allowed the
possession of some brains — a claim
denied to his after-rival. Mr. Gre-
ville is equally impartial in dis-
coursing about crowned heads and
plain republicans. His neat and
finely-pointed satire stigmatized
the king whose paid servant he was
as a "blackguard," a " dog,** and a
"buffoon"; and he held his nose,
as in the case of Washington Irving,
did any " vulgar " American demo-
crat come "between the wind and
his nobility."
Those of Mr. Greville's subjects
who have virtues are imbeciles;
those who have talent are adven-
turers or knaves. He appears to
have centred all the admiration
of which he was capable upon Lord
de Ros, a young nobleman absolute-
ly unknown outside a small English
circle. Mr. Greville seems, in fact,
to have been one of those men who
seek, and sometimes gain, a certain
reputation for sagacity by depreci-
ating everybody around them. Of
the late Lord Derby he says : ** He
(Stanley) must be content with a sub-
ordinate part, and act witli whom he
may, he will never inspire real con-
fidence or conciliate real esteem.'*
In another place, in summing up a
conversation with Peel, he accuses
him (Stanley), by direct implication,
of being " a liar and a coward," al-
though he puts these ugly words in
another's mouth. How far these
predictions and this estimate were
just history has already decided.
High and low all dance to the same
music in Mr. Greville's journal.
On September 10, 1833, speaking
ofa speech of William IV. — ^not very
wise, perhaps, but natural enough
under the circumstances — he says :
"If he (William IV.) was not such
an ass that nobody does anything
but laugh at what he says, this
would be important. Such as it is,
it is nothing."
The circumstances that influenc-
ed his pique are sometimes of the
most trivial character. Under date
September 3, 1833, he notes that
the king complained that no one
was present to administer the oath
to a new member of the Privy Coun-
cil whom Brougham had introduc-
ed. " And what is unpleasant," he
says, " the king desires a clerk of
the council to be present when
anything is going on." Inde irct,
A few days afterwards, in a notice
of the prorogation of Parliament,
he thus revenges himself for the
king's implied censure :
" He (William IV.) was coolly re-
ceived ; for there is no doubt there
never was a king less respected.
George IV^., with all his occasional
popularity, could always revive the
external appearance of loyalty when
Greville and Saint-SimoH.
273
he gave himself the trouble." Thus
one master, who was a " dog," is
made to do duty on occasion against
an other who was an " ass.** But
this is not all he has to say of the
same monarch. At page 520, vol. ii.,
Mimniing up his character after his
death, he says :
"After his (William IV.'s) acces-
sion he always continued to be
something of a blackguard and
something more of a buffoon. It is
but fair to his memory at the same
lime to say that he was a good-na-
tured, kind-hearted, and well-mcan-
mg man, and that he always acted an
honorable and straightforward, if not
always a sound and discreet, part."
That this statement, that " never
*as there a king less respected,"
was false, it needs hardly the popu-
•iir verdict about William IV. to
Vrove. Mr. Greville contradicts
himself on page 251 of the same vol-
ume, where he notes the " strong ex-
[ressions of personal regard and
citeem " entertained for the king
l>y such competent witnesses as two
0' his ministers, Wellington and
Urd Grey. Even their testimony
1^ not needed. Whatever may have
^^n William IV.'s private weak-
fe^ and foibles, the regret felt for
lira was general, and the esteem
^'^r his character as a popular
»«vereign publicly expressed. In
2ny case, the indecency in Mr.
tireville's mouth of the expressions
'« makes use of is too plain to
i^ccd argument. Speaking, in one
plicc, of Lord Brougham and refer-
ring to the chancellor's habit of
'^rcasm, he says :
*' He reminds me of the man in
Jonathan Wild who couldn't keep
f^t^ hand out of his neighbor's pock-
^*t although there was nothing in
'^ nor refrain from cheating at
<^^rds, although there were no stakes
•n the ublc."
VOL XXI. — x8
This description is true enough,
in another sense, of Mr. Greville
himself. A Sir Fretful Plagiary, he
could see no man succeed without
carping at him, nor resist criticising
another's performance for the sole
reason that he had no hand in it.
Noting the appearance of a politi-
cal letter by Lord Redesdale, he
says : " There is very little in it."
This single phrase gives the key to
his character and the tone of his
journal. At page 69, vol. ii., he
sums up the whole subject of Irish
national education in the profound-
ly-disgusted remark that there is
nothing, more in it than " whether
the brats at school shall read the
whole Bible or only parts of it."
Page 105, vol. ii. : "O'Connell is
supposed to be horribly afraid of the
cholera. " "He dodges between Lon-
don and Dublin "to avoid it, "shuns
the House of Commons," and neg-
lects his duties. On pages 414-15 :
" He (O'Connell) is an object of ex-
ecration to all those who cherish the
principles and feelings of honor " —
a high-toned remark, coming from
a man of such delicate honor that,
according to his own confession, he
had no scruple in greasing the palm
of a king's valet for the secrets
of his master's bed-chamber; who
avows without a blush that he de-
liberately led Lord Mount Charles,
and Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence
into confidences he there and then
meant to betray ; who in these Mem-
oirs is continually invading the pri-
vacy of homes in which he was a
guest ; and who, finally, takes ad-
vantage of his official position un-
der oath to disclose the conversa-
tions of the Privy Council ! Surely,
no juster piece of self-satire was
ever written !
" ' Tis a man of universal know-
ledge," says La Bruy^re. His fa-
miliarity with constitutional law
^4
Greville and Saint-Simon.
would lead him to unseat the bench.
Judges Park and Aldersen, famous
lawyers, known to all the courts,
are " nonsensical " in a decision
they come to about the sheriffs
lists. Mr. Justice Park is " peevish
and foolish."
His loose way of damaging pri-
vate character is not less remark-
able. To give a single instance : he
gives a bon mot about a certain Mr.
Wakley, a parliamentary candidate
of the day, who was forced to bring
An action against an insurance com-
pany, which resisted the claim on
the ground that the plaintiff was
concerned in the fire. No further
information is given — the verdict
of the jury or the judgment. But
Mr. Greville thus coolly concludes :
" I forget what was the result of
the trial ; but that of the evidence
was a conviction of his instrumen-
tality." A " conviction " by whom ?
By Mr. Greville — who " forgets the
result of the trial " I There is no-
thing to show that the friends or
family of this Mr. Wakley are not
still living to suffer from this un-
supported libel. " Jesters," says a
French humorist, " are wretched
creatures ; that has been said be-
fore. But those who injure the
reputation or the fortunes of others
rather than lose a bon moty merit an
infamous punishment ; this has not
been said, and I dare say it."
His " blackguards " are not all
seated on a throne. His hatred
of the " mob " was greater, if possi-
ble, than his envy of his superiors.
" Odi profanum vulgus et arceo "
is the head-line of all his pages.
Look at this entry, where the whole
character of the man breaks forth
irresistibly :
" Newmarket, October i, 183 1. —
Came here last night, to ray great
joy, to get holidays, and leave re-
form and politics and cholera for
racing and its amusements. Jasi
before I came away I met Lord
Whamcliffe, and asked him about
his interview with radical Jones.
This blackguard considers himself
a sort of chief of a faction, and one
of the heads of the sans-culottins of
the present day."
From radical Jones to Washing-
ton Irving is but a step for Mr
Greville's nimble pen. The one is
— what he says ; the other, essential-
ly " vulgar." The same ** vulgarity"
offends his delicate taste in Thiers,
Macaulay, and a score of othen
" the latchet of whose shoes he was
unworthy to loose. " Is it to be won-
dered at that the venerable pontiff
Pius Vin. (page 325, vol, i.) fails to
satisfy this fastidious critic? The
pope, however, escapes tolerably
well. As a matter of course, " there |
is nothing in him"; but the distin-
guished urbanity and refined wit of
the condescending Mr. Greville is
satisfied to pronounce him a good-
natured " twaddle." These large airs
of superior wisdom and refinement,
this tone of pitying kindness, which
Mr. Greville adopts towards the
most illustrious men in Europe of
his day, remind us of nothing so
much as the majestic demeanor of
the burgo, or great lord of Lilliput,
who harangued Capt. Gulliver the
morning after his arrival in that
island. " He seemed to me," says
Capt. Gulliver, "to be somewhat
longer than my middle finger. He
acted every part of an orator, and
I could observe many periods of
threatening, and others of promises,
pity, and kindness."
The distinguished author of these
Memoirs was not always, however,
as we have seen, in the same amia-
ble mood that the burgo afterwards
manifested. After lashing each one
of the persons he has known, sepa-
rately and in turn, in the words
Greville and SainUSinton.
275
which wc have quoted, in another
passage his acquaintances are all
coliected in a group and dashed
off with graphic effect.
October 12, 1832. — Immediately
after an entry giving a conversation
with the accomplished Lady Cow-
per, he says : " My journal is get-
ting intolerably stupid and entirely
barren of events. I would take to
miscellaneous and private matters,
if any fell in my way. But what
can I make out of such animals as
I herd with and such occupations
as I am engaged in ?** A week after,
at Easton, besides Lady Cowper,
he names some other " animals '* :
•• The Duke of Rutland, the Wal-
cwskis, Lord Burghersh and Hope —
the usual party," he exclaims with
a sigh. Sad fate ! The adventu-
rous Capt. Gulliver elsewhere, in a
letter to his cousin Sympson, says :
** Pray bring to your mind how oft-
en I desired you to consider, when
you insisted on the motive of Pub-
lic Good, that the Yahoos were a
species of animals utterly incapable
of amendment by precept or exam-
ple."
Such appear to have been the
melancholy reflections forced up-
on the mind of Mr. Houyhnhnm
Greville by th^ Yahoos he tells us
he was compelled to " herd with " !
Ever and anon he turns a regretful
eye to the nobler race he was suit-
ed to, and lets us into the secret of
the company and occupations that
relieved him from the desolating
4WIW/ of uncongenial society.
"June II, 1833. — At a place called
Buckhurst all last week for the As-
cot races. A party at Lentifield's ;
racing all the morning; then eating,
drinking, and play at night. I may
. uy with more truth than anybody.
Video meliora proboque, deteriora
uquor'*
"Not at all/* it might have been
answered. " A jockey and game-
ster ab ovo usque ad niala. Fortune
has now placed thee in the
rank kind nature fitted thee to
adorn, had not, a too avid uncle
snatched thee therefrom, and dry
mountains of crackling parchment
and red tape crushed thy yearning
ardor for the loose boxes and the
paddock !"
** March 27. — Jockeys, trainers,
and blacklegs are my companions,
and it is like dram-drinking : having
once entered upon it, I cannot
leave it, although I am disgusted
with the occupation all the time."
Truly a long and fond ** disgust,"
since it lasted from his eighteenth
year until his death !
" While the fever it excites is rag-
ing and the odds are varying, I can
neither read nor write nor occupy
myself with anything."
Let us not be unjust to Mr. Gre-
ville. Kings, pontiffs, statesmen,
and authors may have been ** black-
guards " or ** vulgar buffoons," the
most refined society of both sexes
in England a " herd " of Yahoos ;
but that he was not insensible to
real merit, that he had a true ap-
preciation of the good and the
beautiful when he found it, one
single example, shining out in these
many pages of depreciation, proves
beyond perad venture. In the flood
of universal cynicism that pours
over them, one man there is at
least who lifts his head above the
waters — one other gentle Houyhn-
hnm, fit companion for Mr. Greville,
possessing all that wisdom and dis-
cretion denied to the rest, of the
world, and, more wonderful still,
that elegant taste the fastidious
critic finds nowhere else. This
phenomenon is Mr. John Gully,
prize-fighter retired ! " Strong
sense," " discretion," *' reserve and
good taste " — these are the encomi-
276
Greville and Saint-Simon.
ums heaped upon him ; to crown
all, "remarkably dignified and grace-
ful in his manners and actions."
Ah ! poor Macaulay, or thou, gen-
tle Diedrich Knickerbocker, where
wanders now thy ghost, condemn-
ed for thy " vulgarity " to pace the
borders of the sluggish Styx,
while the " champion heavy-
weight ** is ferried over to immor-
tality by this new Charon of gentil-
ity ?
We decline to soil our pages
with any of Mr. Greville impure
stories. Those who have seized
on the book for the purpose, of
reading them must have been sadly
disappointed if they hoped to find
in them a doubtful amusement. Not
a scintilla of wit relieves their base-
ness. Their vileness is equalled
only by their dulness. They are
simply falsehoods from beginning
to end. Where Mr. Greville, with a
singular depravity, does not himself
admit them to be false while wilful-
ly publishing them, they have been
elsewhere fully and indignantly dis-
proved. In a single word, as Mrs.
Charles Kean aptly says in her let-
ter published in the Times^ " the
grossness was in Mr. Greville's
mind," not in the conduct of those
he slanders.
If it be said that our criticism
upon these volumes and their au-
thor has been too unsparing; that
the old saying, Demortuis nil nisi bo-
num, should have inspired a smooth-
er tone, the answer is given by Mr.
Greville himself. ** Memoirs of
this "kind," he said in a conversa-
tion held some time before his
death with his editor, Mr. Reeve,
** ought not to be locked up till
they .had lost their principal inter-
est by the death of all tKose who
had taken any part in the events
they describe." In other words, the
diseased vanity and cynicism which
made him rail at everybody while
he lived made him unwilling to
lose the pleasure by anticipation
of wounding everybody after his
death. The shallow eagerness to
have himself talked about after he
was gone made him insensible to
those ideas which seem to have ani-
mated Saint-Simon, who was con-
tent to look forward to an indefi-
nite time for the publication of his
Memoirs, desiring them rather to
be a truthful and interesting contri-
bution to history than a hasty
means of venting his passing
spleen. Mr. Greville has indeed
been talked about sufficiently; but
that the conversation would be
pleasing to him, could he hear it, is
more doubtful.
One thing at least is to be cona-
mended in Mr. Greville — ^his style-
This, for certain uses, is admirable.
It is easy and plain. He is a mas-
ter of that part of the art of writ-
ing which Horace describes in the
10th Satire :
^* InterduiD urbanif parcentb vhrilms atqne
Extenuantis eas amsolto.**
His is " the language of the well-
bred man," the pure English of the
society in which he lived. We do
not take account Itere of his occa-
sional coarseness, and even oaths —
these were of the character of the
man, not of his style. The latter,
for purposes of correspondence, or
even a short diary, might generally
be taken for a model. Any single
page will be read with pleasure.
But as, on the other hand, he neg-
lects the other side of the Venusian*s
advice, seldom rising to " support
the part of the poet or rhetorician,"
these closely-printed volumes even-
tually become tiresome to the read- •
er. Even good English will grow
monotonous if it has nothing else
to sustain it.
GreviUe and Saint-Simon.
277
Little room is left to speak of the
greatest of French memoir-writers,
or perhaps of any literature — Saint-
Simon. A few remarks may be jot-
ted down, having reference chiefly
to the points of contrast suggested
by the Greville Memoirs. Of the
substance and texture of Saint-Si-
mon's great and voluminous work,
as it unrolls itself slowly before us —
the opening splendor, the daring,
the eccentricities, the wit, and the
vices of the courts under which he
lived; the prodigies of baseness
and monuments of heroic virtue that
rear themselves opposed in that mar-
vellous age ; the long line of por-
traits, dark, lurid, threatening, radi-
ant, gentle, so full of surprises to the
student of history as ordinarily writ-
ten ; the turning of the fate of cam-
paigns by. the caprice of an angry
woman ; the crippling of fleets by
the jealousy' of a minister ; the de-
flation of whole provinces by the
corruption of intendants ; the clos-
ing scenes of profligacy and bank-
ruptcy under the regency — many
pages would be required to give
even an outline. The analysis of
bis genius and character would
wake a distinct essay. Sainte-
Bcuve and other masters of criti-
cism have labored in the field ; yet
the soil is so rich that humbler
students will still find enough to
repay them. We indicate the land-
marks of the country, without en-
tering on it. Nor would we be
supposed to endorse or give our
sanction to many of the opinions
^d sentiments Saint-Simon so
freely gives utterance to. His Gal-
licanism, which he shared with the
court; his sympathy with the Jan-
scnist leaders, if not with their
^resy; his violent hatred of the
Jesuits — these are blots on his work
tliat cover many pages.
The Due de Saint-Sitnon was
bom in 1675. During the lifetime
of his father he bore the name of
the Vidame de Chartres, and in a
subsequent passage of his Memoirs^
relating to the birth of his own eldest
son, he gives a highly characteristic
account of the title. At his first
appearance at court the king was
already privately married to Mme,
de Maintenon, the widow Scarron,
whose character and astonishing
fortunes are nowhere more vividly
described than in the pages of Saint-
Simon. Louis XIV. was at the
summit of his glory. Hencefor-
ward, though none could then fore-
see it, the course was all down-hill.
Saint-Simon in his first campaigns
accompanied the king into Flanders.
Some discontent about promotion,
to which he believed himself enti-
tled, caused him to retire from the
service. Henceforward he continu-
ed to live chiefly at court, having
already begun the composition of
his Memoirs. On the death of his
father, the confidential adviser of
Louis XIIL, even under the minis-
try of the famous Cardinal Riche-
lieu, he succeeded to the title and
the government of Blaye. At this
early age he was accustomed se-
cretly to visit the monastery of La
Trappe for meditation and retreat.
His gravity and seriousness of mind
are everywhere felt through his
Memoirs^ although these qualities
do not lessen the pungency of his
style, nor blunt the bon mots of the
court, or his graphic description of
the , surprising adventures of the
men of his day. He married Mile,
de Durfort, the daughter of Mar-
shal de Durfort. This union was one
of singular happiness, interrupted
only by her death.
The death of the Dauphin, the
pupil of F^nelon, destroyed the
hopes that were opening up before
Saint-Simon of becoming the chief
^78
GreviUe and Saint^imon.
minister of the next reign. Under
the regency he continued to be the
intimate and sometimes confidential
adviser of the Duke of Orleans, al-
though supplanted in state affairs by
Cardinal Dubois. His embassy to
Madrid to negotiate the marriage
of the young king, Louis XV., with
the Infanta of Spain, is well known.
After the death of the regent he
retired to his chateau of La Fert^-
Vidame, where chiefly he continu-
ed henceforward to live in retire-
ment, composing his immortal
Memoirs* He died in Paris in 1755.
Having known the subtle sway of a
Maintenon, he lived to see the auda-
cious empire of the Pompadour; and
having served in his first campaigns
under Luxembourg, he witnessed
before his death tlie Great Frede-
rick launch his thunderbolts of war,
and the rise of Prussia among the
great powers of Europe.
To attempt, in these few conclud-
ing remarks, to give any criticism
of Saint-Simon's great work would
be a hopeless task. Its character is
so manj'-sided, even contradictory,
that any single judgment about it
would be deceptive. We were im-
pelled to connect the author's name
with that of the later memoir- writer
by the contrasts which irresistibly
suggested themselves.
Stated broadly, the main distinc-
tion between Saint-Simon and such
writers as Greville and his kind is
this: that Saint-Simon presents a
connected narrative, flowing on
largely, fully, evenly, abundantly,
like a majestic river sweeping slow-
ly past' many varieties of scenery ;
while Greville gives nothing more
than a hodge-ppdge diary, with no
connection except the illusory one
of dates, a jumble of short stories,
petty details, and ill-natured re-
marks, bubbling like a noisy brook
over stones and shingle, often half
lost in the mud and sand, and not
unlikely to end in a common sewer.
It follows that, while it is difficult
to remember particular events or
conversations in Greville 's journal,
many scenes from Saint-Simon re-
main for ever fixed in the memory.
Take, for instance, one — not the
most striking — that of the death of
Monseigneur. Who can forget the
picture of the old king, in tears,
only half-dressed, hastening to the
bedside of his son; the sudden
terror of the prince's household;
the flight of La Choin, hastily gath-
ering up her jewelry; the row of
officers on their knees in the long
avenue, crying out to the king to
save them from dying of hunger;
the well-managed eyes of the cour-
tiers at Marly !
Greville is cynical or satirical by
dint of the child's art of using hard
words. Saint-Simon seldom, com-
paratively speaking, puts on the
garb of a cynic ; but his narrative,
with scarcely any obtrusion of the
writer, often becomes a satire as
terrible as that of some passages of
Tacitus, or, in another vein, of
Juvenal.
Many of the historical characters
introduced into these works are no
favorites of ours ; but our purpose
in this Article has been, not to dis-
cuss them, but rather the capacity
and good taste, or otherwise, of
their critics.
Sainte-Beuve, in one of bis feli-
citous periods, expresses the wish
that every age might have a Saint-
Simon to chronicle it. As a para-
phrase of this remark, it might be
said that it is to be wished no other
age may have a Greville to slan-
der it.
Dom Gueranger and Solesmes.
m
DOM GUERANGER AND SOLESMES.*
The church in France has just
iustained a severe loss in the death
of Dom Gueranger, the illustrious
Abbot of Solesmes, who, on the 30th
of January last, rendered up his
soul to God in the noble abbey
which he had restored at the same
time that he brought back the Bene-
dictine Order to France ; and where,
during the last forty years of his
life, he had lived in the practice of
every monastic virtue, and in the
pnrsuit of literary labors which have
rendered him one of the oracles of
ecclesiastical learning.
We are not about to enter into
details of the religious life of the
venerable abbot. It belongs rather
to those who have been its daily
witnesses to trace its history ; but
wc feel that it may be of interest to
touch upon certain features of the
character and public works of this
humble and patient religious, this
vigorous athlete, the loss of whom
is so keenly felt by the Holy Father,
whose friend and counsellor he was,
ind by the church, of which he was
the honor and the unwearied de-
fender.
Dom Gueranger, in mental tem-
perament, belonged to that valiant
generation of Catholics who, after
1830, energetically undertook the
cause of religion in their unhappy
country, more than ever exposed to
the attacks of the Revolution. The
university had become a source of
intichristian teaching; the press
everywhere overflowed with evil and
daring scandals of every kind were
rife. A new generation of Jacobins
had sprung from the old stock, and
were eager to invade everything no-
ble, venerable, and sacred ; legal ty-
ranny threatened to do away with
well-nigh all liberty of conscience,
while the*government, either not dar-
ing or not desiring to sever itself
from the ambitious conspirators to
whom it owed its being, allowed free
course to the outrages and persecu-
tions against the church. It was
the most critical and ominous pe-
riod of the century, and French so-
ciety was rapidly sinking into an
abyss.
One man, who had foreseen all
this evil, and whose genius would
have probably sufficed victoriously
to combat it, had he only possessed
the virtue of humility, was M. de
Lamennais. Happily, the pleiades
of chosen minds whom he had gath
ered around him did not lose cour-
age after the melancholy defection
of their brilliant master. The three
most illustrious of these shared
among them the defence of the
faith against the floods of unbelief
that threatened to overwhelm the
country. Montalembert remained
to defend the church in the public
assemblies ; Lacordaire adopted as
his own the words of S. Paul to his
disciple, Pradica verbum^ insta op'
portune^ importune^ * and succeed-
ed so effectually that he brought
back the robe of S. Dominic into
the pulpit of Notre Dame, amid the
* Thk sodoe b taken in part from the Fieack of
Vflvj Ifnifirt w^-ochw aouicM.
•** Preach the Word, be instant in teatoa, out of
«M0O."-aTiin.ir.iL
28o
Dom Guiranger and Solesmes.
applause of the conquered multi-
tude ; Guiranger felt that prayer
and sound learning were the two
great wants of society. The num-
ber of priests was insufficient for
the labors of the sacred ministry.
The needs of the *ime had indeed
called forth some few weighty as
well as brilliant apologists; but deep
and solid learning as yet remained
buried in the'past, and the patient
study so necessary for the polemics
of the present and the future threat-
ened indefinitely to languish. It
was to this point, therefore, that the
Abb^ Guiranger directed his espe-
cial attention, and he it was who
was chosen of God to rekindle the
expiring, if not extinguished, flame.
He was led to this sooner than he
himself had perhaps anticipated,
and by a circumstance which rather
appeared likely to have disturbed
his projects. Solesmes, which, up
to the Revolution, had been a pri-
ory dependent on S. Vincent de
Mans, had just been sold to one of
those " infernal bands " who in the
course of a few years destroyed the
greatest glories of France. Every-
thing was to be pulled down : the
cloister of eight centuries and the
church, renowned for the admirable
sculptures now doomed to fall be-
neath the ** axe and hammer " ; the
authorities of the time doing nothing
to check the devastation effected
by the bandits who were rifling
their country after having assassin-
ated her.
The Abb^ Gueranger could not
endure to witness the annihilation
of so much that was sacred and ven-
erable ; besides, the ruins of So-
lesmes were especially dear to him,
and had been the favorite haunt of
his early childhood and youth, so
much so that from this and other
characteristic circumstances he was
at that period known among his
school comrades at Le Sabl^ as The
Monk. In concert with Dom Fon-
taine and other ecclesiastics of the
neighborhood he rescued the abbey j
from the hands of its intending de-
stroyers. It had already suffered
considerably from the Revolution,
but remained intact in all essen-
tial particulars. He spent the win-
ter of 1833 at Paris, going about
the city in his monk's habit — ^which
at that time had become a novelty
— and knocking at every door, with-
out troubling himself about the re-
ligious opinions or belief of those
to whom he addressed himself.
The sceptical citizens of the time
amused themselves not a little at
his expense ; but the learned world
received with distinction the ener-
getic young priest who was so bent
upon giving back the Benedictine
Order to France. He never once
allowed any obstacles to hinder or
discourage him in the prosecution
of his undertaking. In 1836 he re-
paired to Rome, there to make his
novitiate ; and, after a year passed
in the Benedictine Abbey of San
Paolo Fuora Muri, he pronounced
his solemn vows, and occupied him
self in preparing the constitutions
of Solesmes. These, on the ist of
September, 1837, were approved by
Pope Gregory XVI., who at the
same time raised the Priory of So-
lesmes ijito an abbey, and authori-
tatively nominated Dom Gueranger
to be its first abbot.
Solesmes and the grand Order
of S. Benedict were thus restored
to France. The new abbot was
soon surrounded by men nearly all
of whom have taken a distinguished
rank in learning and science, and
during forty years the austere disci-
pline and deep and extensive studies
of the sons of S. Benedict flourish-
ed under his able rule.
Dom Gueranger, moreover, -xc
Dom Gueranger and Solesmes.
281
itorcd Ligug6, the oldest monastery
in France, built in 360 by S. Mar-
tin of Tours. He also founded the
Priory of S. Madeleine at Marseilles,
and at Solesmes the Abbey of Bene-
dictine Nuns of S. Cecilia.
The attention he bestowed upon
these important foundations did
not hinder this indefatigable reli-
gious from amassing the treasures of
emdition which he dispensed with
so much ability in defence of the
truth and of sound doctrine. To
the end of his life his pen was active
cither in writing the numerous
works which have rendered his
name so well known, or in correct-
ing the errors of polemics and an-
swering his adversaries when the
interests of religion required it;
habitually going straight to the
jwint in his replies, fearlessly attack-
ing whatever was false or mistaken,
and never allowing any approach to
a compromise with error. The de-
fence of the church was his con-
stant and engrossing thought, and
DO important controversy arose but
he was sure to appear with the ac-
curacy of his learning and the al-
ways serious but unsparing process
of a logic supported by a thorough
icquaintance with doctrine and
facts.
The Abbot of Solesmes was en-
dowed with a large amount of pru-
<icnce and good sense. When his
foraier companions of La Chesnaie
undertook to popularize "liberal
Catholicism," the precise creed of
which has never yet been ascertain-
ed, and the unfailing results of
which have been scandal and divi-
sion, he undertook to bring back
ihc church in France to unity of
prayer by writing his book enti-
tled Institutions LiturgiqueSy which,
exhibiting in all their beauty the
forgotten rites and symbols, suc-
ceeded in securing for them the
appreciation they merit; so that
from that time the liturgy in France
began to disengage itself from the
multiplicity of particular obser-
vances.
In this matter Dom Gueranger
had engaged in no trifling combat,
his opponents being many and
powerful ; but he energetically de-
fended his ground, and did not die
until he had seen his undertaking
crowned with full success by the
restoration of the Roman liturgy
in France.
Besides these liturgical labors,
which chiefly occupied him, and his
Letters to the Archbishops of Rheims
and Toulouse, as likewise to Mgr.
Fayet, Bishop of Orleans, in defence
of the Institutions^ he undertook
the Liturgical Year^ which, unfor-
tunately, was left unfinished at his
death. His Mimoire upon the Im-
maculate Conception was included
among those memorials sent to the
bishops by the Sovereign Pontiff"
on the promulgation of the dogma.
His Sainte CiciUy remarkable for its
historical accuracy, as well as for its
excellence as a literary composi-
tion, is a finished picture of Chris-
tian manners during the earliest
centuries.
When the Vatican Council was
sitting, Dom Gueranger appeared
for the last time in the breach. Con-
fined a prisoner by sickness, but
intrepid as those old captains who
insist on being borne into the midst
of the fight, he wished to take part
in the great debate which was being
carried on in the church. He
fought valiantly, and answered the
adversaries of tradition by his
work on The Pontifical Monarchy^
defending Pope Honorius against
the attacks of an ill-informed acade-
mician.
We are unable to give a complete
list of the writings of Dom Gu£-
282
Dom Guir anger and Solesmes.
ranger, numerous articles having
been published by him in the
Univers — notably those on Maria
d'Agreda and the reply to an ex-
aggerated idea of M. d'Hausson-
ville on the attitude of the church
under the persecution of the First
Bonaparte. We will only name, in
concluding this part of the subject,
his Essais sur le Naiuralisme^ which
dealt a heavy blow to free-thinking ;
his Reponses upon the liturgical
law to M. TAbb^ David, now
Bishop of St. Brieuc ; and a Defense
des Jesuites,
Should it be asked how the Abbot
of Solesmes could find the time for
so many considerable works, the
answer is given in the Imitation :
Cella coniinuata dulcescit. He had
made retreat a willing necessity for
himself, and, being in the habit of
doing everything in its proper time,
he had time for everything without
need of haste.
From the day that he* became
Abbot of Solesmes he was scarcely
ever seen in the world, never ab-
senting himself without absolute
necessity or from obedience. Of
middle height, decided manner,
with a quick eye and serious smile,
Dom Gu^ranger attracted those
who came to him by the simplicity
and kindness of his reception, and
those who sought his advice by the
discerning wisdom of his counsels.
High ecclesiastical dignities might
have been his had he not preferred
to remain in the seclusion of his be-
loved abbey.
He leaves behind him something
far better than even his books, in
bequeathing to the church and to
society a family of monks strongly
imbued with his spirit, and destined
to perpetuate the holy traditions
which he was the first to revive m
his native land.
Th<B imposing ceremonies of the
funeral of Dom Gueranger. which
took place on the 4th of February
at the Abbey of Solesmes, were con«'
ducted by the Bishops of MaM|
Nantes, and Quimper; there wert
also present the Abbots of Ligug^,
LaTrappe de Mortagne, AiguebcUc^
and Pierre-qui-Vire, besides more'
than two hundred priests of La
Sarthe.
The remains of the reverend fa*
ther, clothed in pontifical vestments,
with the mitre and crozier, were
exposed in the church from th«
evening of the 30th (Saturday) for
the visits of the faithful, crowds of
whom came from all the country
round, in spite of the exceeding
inclemency of the weather, to pay
their last respects and to be present
at the funeral of the illusuious
man, who, during his forty years*
residence among them, had made
himself so greatly beloved. Just
before the close of the ceremony,
when the Bishop of Mans invited
those present to look for the last
time upon the holy and beautiful
countenance of the departed abbot,
who had been a father to many
outside as well as within the clois-
ter walls, a general and irrepressi-
ble burst of sobs and tears arose
from the multitude which thronged
the church.
Among those present were many
noble and learned friends of the
deceased, besides the mayor and
municipal council of Solesmes, and
also of Sabl^ (Dom Gu^ranger's
native place), a deputation of the
marble-workers of the district, and
people of every class.
** La royez rout crottre,
La tour du vieuz cloitre ?**
Before concluding our notice wc
must devote a page or two to the
** Old Cloister Tower,** which is
Dam Guer anger and Solesmes.
«8J
discernible from a considerable dis«
tsmcc, with its four or five sto-
ries and its heraldic crown rising
above the walls of the ancient bor-
ough of Solesmes. The abbey
itself next ap(>ears in sight, majesti-
cally seated on the slope of a wide
valley, through which flows the
Sartfae, on a level with its grassy
borders.
The locality, which is pleasing
rather than picturesque, is fertile,
animated, and cheerful. Besides
Kveral chiteaux of recent con-
struction, which face the abbey
from the opposite side of the river,
may be seen, at some distance olT,
the splendid convent of Benedic-
tine Nuns, built some years ago by
1 lady of Marseilles, and on the
Korixon appears the Chateau of Sa-
bl6, with its vast terraces and (ac-
cording to the country-people) its
three hundred and sixty-five win-
doirs.
The Abbey of Solesmes, founded
about the year 1025, has preserved,
vn spite of several reconstructions,
the architectural arrangement, so
saitable for community life, copied
by its first monks from the Ro-
Bwn houses of the order. The enclo-
sure consists of a quadrangle^ with
an almost interminable cloister, out
of which are entrances into the
church, the chapter-house, the re-
fectory, the guest-chamber, and all
the places of daily assembly.
There silence and recollection
reign supreme. Excepting only
daring the times of recreation, no
•onnd is to be heard save the twit-
teriog of birds, the sound of the
Ange/us or some other occasional
bell, or the subdued voice of a
mook who, with some visitor, is
standing before a sculptured saint,
or examining the fragments of some
ttcient tomb.
It is chiefly the abbey church
which attracts the curiosity and
interest of artists and antiquaries.
There is not an archaeologist who
has not heard of the " Saints of
Solesmes," as the groups of statues
and symbolic sculptures are called
which fill the chapels of the tran-
sept from roof to pavement. These
wonderful worksy executed for the
most part under the direction of
the priors of Solesmes, form one of
the finest monuments of mediaeval
sculpture to be found in France,
They are mystic and somewhat
mannered in style, but of bold con-
ception, vigorously expressed.
A multitude of personages, sa-
cred, historical, or allegorical, inter«
mingle with coats-of-arms, herald-
ic devices, bandrols, and all the
details of an ornamentation of
which the skilfully-studied arrange-
ment corrects the redundance,
which would otherwise be confus-
ed. This, however, is but the pure-
ly decorative portion ; the principal
works being enshrined in deep
niches or recesses, in which may
be seen groups of seven or eight
figures, the size of life, and won-
derfully effective in attitude and
action.
In a low-vaulted crypt resting on
pillars, to the right, is represent-
ed the Entombment. This group,
which is the earliest in date, having
been executed in 1496 under the
direction of Michel Colomb, " habi-
tant de Tours et tailleur d'ymaiges
du roy," is the most considerable,
and perhaps also the most striking.
All the figures, ten in number, have
impressed on their countenances
and movements the feeling of the
dolorous function in which they
are engaged. Most of them are
represented in the costume, and
probably with the features, of per-
sons of the time. Joseph of Ari-
mathea in particular has the look
384
Dom Guir anger and Solesmes.
and bearing of the lord of the place,
or, it may be, of the prior of the
monastery. But nothing attracts
the attention more than a little
statue with features so refined that
it might have descended from the
canvas of Carlo Dolci. It is the
Magdalen, seated in the dust ; the
elbows supported on the knees,
the hands joined, the eyes closed.
All her life seems concentrated in
her soul ; and that is absorbed in
penitence and prayer, grief, love,
and resignation — she is as if still
shedding her sanctified odors at
the Saviour's feet.
The left transept is devoted to
the honor of the Blessed Virgin.
She has fallen asleep in the Lord,
surrounded by the apostles. Then
follow her burial, her Assumption,
and finally her glorification. She
tramples under foot the dragon,
who, with bristling horns and claws,
vainly endeavors to reach her. He
is hound for a thousand years.
This subject, rarely attempted, is
here powerfully treated ; all these
heads, with horrible grimaces, ap-
pear to be howling and blasphem-
ing in impotent fury — Et iratus est
draco in mulierem* — but the Wo-
man is raised on high, and with
her virginal foot tramples on the ene-
my of mankind. Facing this sub-
ject are the patriarchs and pro-
phets, in niches royally decorated.
This work was executed in 1550 by
Floris d* An vers, after the plan giv-
en by Jean Bouglet, Doctor of the
Sorbonne, and Prior of Solesmes.
But time would fail us to describe
all these remarkable sculptures,
which so narrowly escaped destruc-
tion or desecration at the hands of
the revolutionists. The First Na-
poleon had the idea of transporting
them to some museum as curiosi-
* ** And the dragon wa« angry against the wo-
man.**— Apoc. xii. 17.
ties of art. It would have been a
sacrilege, and one which, alas ! has
been too often perpetrated in other
countries besides France. But
what Catholic that visits the garden
even, to say nothing of the museum,
of the ancient monastery of Cluny
(now Musee de Cluny, at Paris), is
not pained at seeing saints and vir-
gins, angels and apostles, more or
less shattered and dismembered,
torn from their places in the sanc-
tuary, and figuring as statues on the
lawn, or mere groups of sculpture
picturesquely placed to assist the
effect of the gardener's arrangement
of the shrubs and flower-beds }
Bonaparte, however (after testing
with gimlet and saw the hardness
of the stone), found himself obliged
to leave the " Saints of Solesmes **
where they were, as, unless the
whole were to be ruined, the entire
transept would have had to be trans-
ported all in one piece, every part
of this immense sculptured fresco
being connected and, as it were, en-
wound with the other portions, and
each detail having only its particu-
lar excellence in the completeness
of the rest.
It is amid the ceremonies of So-
lesmes that those who enter into
the spirit of Christian art can pene-
trate more deeply into the meaning
of the vast poem carved upon the
walls of the church. During the
simple recital of the psalms, as in
the most solemn and magnificent
ceremonies, there is a striking har-
mony between the decoration and
the action, the one being a com-
mentary on the other. The monks,
motionless in their carven stalls, or
disposed on the steps of the altar*
seem to make one with the Jerusa-
lem in stone, while the saints in
their niches may almost be imagin-
ed to sing with the psalmody and
meditate during the solemn rites at
Legend of the Blumisalpe.
2a5
which they are present. At the
raost solemn moment of the Mass,
▼ben clouds of incense are filling
:i»e holy place, the mystic dove de-
scends, bearing between her silver
wings the Bread of Heaven, and,
when it is deposited in the pyx,
mounts again into her aerial shrine,
which is suspended from a lofty
cross.
This custom of elevating the tab-
ernacle between heaven and earth
was not the only one in which the
venerable abbot exactly copied the
ancient rites. The ceremonies of
Solesmes are full of the spirit of the
church's liturgy, and the commu-
nity formed by his teaching and ex-
ample will not fail to perpetuate
the pious and venerable observan-
ces which he was the first to restore
in France,
LEGEND OF THE BLUMISALPE.
There was a time when around
this mountain, now covered with
perpetual snow, swarms of bees pro-
duced aromatic honey ; fine cows,
pasturing the entire year in the
green fields, filled the dairy-wo-
men's pails with rich milk ; and the
urrocr by trifling labor obtained
ibandant harvests. But the in-
habitants of this fertile country.
Minded by the splendor of their
fortune, became proud and haugh-
ty. They were intoxicated with
the charms of wealth; they forgot
that there are duties attached to
luc possession of wealth — the duties
*>f hospitality and of charity. In-
stead of using their treasures judi-
t'iously, they employed them solely
in ministering to a more luxurious
idleness, and in a continual succes-
sion of festivities. They closed
^hcir ears to the supplications of
the unfortunate, and sent the poor
from their doors ; and God punish-
ed ihcm.
One of these proud, rich men
huilt on the verdant slopes of the
Blnmisalpe a superb chiteau, in-
tending to reside there, surrounded
l>y his unworthy associates. Every
morning their baths were filled
with the purest milk.
The terraced steps of the gar-
dens were made, according to the
legend, of fin«ly-cut blocks of ex-
cellent cheese. This Sardanapalus
of the mountains had inherited all
his father's vast domains, and, whilst
he revelled in this manner in his
rich possessions, his old mother was
living in want in the seclusion of
the valley. One day the poor old
woman, suffering from cold and
hunger, supplicated his compassion.
She told him that she was liv-
ing alone in her cabin, unable to
work ; indigent, without assistance ;
infirm, without support. She beg-
ged him to grant her the fragments
of his feast, a refuge in his stables ;
but, deaf to her entreaties, he or-
dered her to leave. She showed
him her cheeks, wrinkled by grief
more than by age; her emaciated
arms, that had carried him in his
infancy ; he threatened to com-
mand his attendants to drive her
away.
The poor woman returned to her
cabin, overwhelmed with grief by
this cruel outrage She tottered
286
New Publications,
through his beautiful grounds with
bowed head, and sighs that she
could note restrain burst from her
oppressed heart, and bitter tears
streamed from her eyes. God
counted the mother's tears.
She had scarcely arrived at her
hut when the avenging storm came.
The chateau of the ignominious
son was struck by lightning, his
treasures were consumed by the
flames, from which he himself did
not escape, and his companioil
perished with him.
Those fields, that once yielde
so abundantly, are now coverd
with a mass of snow that nev^
melts. On the spot where his ro4
ther vainly implored his compai
sion, the rent earth has open^
a frightful abyss; and where b^
tears then flowed now, drop b
drop, fall the tears of the etcrw
glaciers.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
The Young Catholic's Illustrated
Fifth Reader. Pp. 430, i2ino. The
Young Catholic's Illustrated Sixth
Reader and Speaker. By Rev. J. L.
Spalding, S.T.L. Pp. 477, i2mo. New
York: JThe Catholic Publication Socie-
ty, 9 Warren Street. 1875.
These books have been prepared with
great care and rare tact. We have ex-
amined, from time to time, the various
Readers which are used in this country,
and the Young Catholic's Series is certain-
ly the best which we have seen. But the
Fifth and Sixth Readers of this series
are especially good, and we are confident
that they are destined to become the
standard Readers of the Catholic schools
of the United States. They are indeed
more than reading- books: they are col-
lections of choice specimens of English
literature, in prose and poetry, so arrang-
ed as to present every variety of style,
that opportunity may be given to the pupil
to cultivate all the different fonns of
vocal expression.
In the Fifth Reader the attention of the
young Catholic is called to the history of
the church in the United States by the
altraciive biographical notices of some
of the most distinguished bishops and
archbishops of this country; and, as an
introduction to the Sixth, we have a brief
but exhaustive treatise on elocution.
We have not the space to enter into a
minute criticism of these books ; but
tire have expressed our honest conviction
of their excellence, and we are quite snrl
that their own merits will open for Xhrti^
a way into Catholic schools throughouj
the land.
Pax. The Syllabus for the People 1
A Review of the Propositions con-
demned by His Holiness Pope Pios IX.^
with Text of the Condemned List. By
a Monk df S. Augustine's^ Ramsgair,
author of The Vatican Decrees and Caik-
olie Allegiance. New York : The Cath-
olic Publication Society. 1875.
This is an almost necessary complement
to the publications forming the Glad-
stone controversy, the original being so
frequently referred to by Mr. Gladstone
and his reviewers.
We cannot do better than quote the
editor's preface, by way of comment :
" The Syllabus of Pius IX. has been
the subject of so many misconceptions
that a plain and simple setting forth of
its meaning cannot be useless. This t>
what I have tried to do in the followii'K
pages. A vindication or defence of il^
Syllabus was, of course, out of the ques-
tion in so small a compass; but I think
that more than half the work of defence
is done by a simple explanation. Dur-
ing the ten years just completed since its
promulgation, much has occurred (o
show the wisdoqi that dictated iL The
translation I have given is the one au-
thorized by His Eminence the Cardinal
Archbishop of Dublin."
New Publications.
287
FosiscMPT TO A Letter addressed to
His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, on
Occasion of Mr. Gladstone's Re*
cent Expostulation, and in Answer
TO HIS *• Vaticanism." By John Henry
Newman. iyS> ^ of the Oratory. New
York: The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1S75.
lo this Postscript Dr. Newman pul-
Tczizes the different statements of Mr.
Qadstone's rejoinder, one by one. The
Uaoders of the ex-Premier are not sur-
pfistn^, seeing that he attempts to write
about matters in which he is not well in-
iormed, but they are certainly very gross.
Dr. Newman has taken him by the hand
with a very gentle smile on his counte-
aaacc, but be has broken his bones as in
Rfise.
Personal Reminiscences. By Moore
and jerdan. Edited by Richard Henry
Stoddard. New York : Scribner, Arm-
ftrong & Company. 1875.
This small and dainty-looking little
toksme is one of the ** Brica-Brac " Series.
luiwo hundred and eighty-eight pages
profess to give us the *' personal remi-
nisccnces " of Moore and Jerdan. They
give nothing more than such extracts
from the original as have taken the fancy
of Um editor. Whether that fancy has al-
ways been wise in its choice is fairly open
to question. There is much of Moore's
reminiscences omitted that might have
been very profitably inserted, at least in
adiange for many things which have
fMind their way into the volume. It is
Koore •* bottled off," so lo say, and given
<Nit in small doses. The experiment is
00* very satisfactory. Moore suffered
inetrirvably in his biographer, Lord John
Russell, of whose "eight solid volumes,"
•s Mr. Stoddard says, "the essence is
beie presented to the reader." Lord Rus-
sdl will be credited with many blunders
io after time, and very grave ones some
of them ; but never did he make a more
otasperating mistake than in undertaking
tbe editing of Moore's Memoirs^ Journal,
mi Offnspottdence, in rivalry of Moore's
ovn admi rable biography of Byron, Read-
^t%oi Pertoftal Reminiscences must be pre-
pared to meet with a vast quantity of non-
•ense ancj trash. But much of this con-
ititotes the chief val ne of such works. In
Ac joltings down of daily journals no one
apecTs to meet with profound reflections
and ht>orcd thoughts. They are rather,
« the hands of such men as Moore, " the
abstract and brief chronicle of the time "
in which they are made. Moore's witty
and graceful pen was iust adapted to such
work as this. Whoever or whatever was
considered worth seeing in the world in
which he lived and moved as one of its
chief ornaments, he saw, and set down in
his private journal. Bits of this Mr. Stod-
dard gives us in the present volume ; but
those who care for this kind of literature
at all will prefer the whole to such parts
as have pleased the editor ; and the whole
does possess an intrinsic value to which
the present volume does not pretend.
Mr. Stoddard's preface is not encourng-
ing. He seems to write under protest
that his valuable time should be con-
sumed in this kind of work. " I c.mnot
put myself in the place of a man who
keeps a journal in which he is the princi-
pal figure, and in which his whereabouts,
and actions, and thoughts, and feelings
are detailed year after year," says Mr.
Stoddard ; and the obvious comment is :
"Very probably; but no one has asked
Mr. Stoddard to do anything so foolish."
Persons who keep ** journals," however,
are not in the habit of keeping them for
other people. **I cannot put myself in
the place of Moore," insists Mr. Stod-
dard, with unnecessary pertinacity, " who
seems to have never lost interest in him- ^
self." The comment again is very obvi-
ous : Mr. Stoddard is a very different
man from Mr. Moore. The truth is, Mr.
Stoddard does not like cither Moore or
his poetry. "The reputation which had
once been his had waned." " A new and
greater race of poets than the one to which
he belonged had risen." ** Lalla Rookh
was still read, /^r//flr/x, but not with the
same pleasure as The Princess or The
Blot on the * Scutcheon, Moore had * ceased
to charm.' " Such statements as these Mr.
Stoddard would seem to consider self
evident facts of which no proof is needed.
And he would be astonished were some
one to ask him to point out the " new and
greater race of poets " which has arisen
since Moore's death. Still more would
he be astonished if asked to point out, not
" a race of poets," but a single member
of the race whose writings are more read,
whose name and fame are better known,
who is " greater," than Moore. He would
be thunderstruck were he informed
that for a hundred who had read Laila
Rookh not twenty had read The Ptincess^
knew its author or of its existence, and
not ten knew even of the name of the other
288
New Publications.
poem mentioned. Altogether, though Mr.
Stoddard's preface is short, it is certainly
not sweet, and both himself and the reader
arc to be congratulated at his not having
extended it.
Our Lady's Dowry ; or. How England
Gained and Lost that Title. A compi-
lation by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the
Congregi^tion of the Most Holy Re-
deemer. London : Burns & Oates.
1875. (New York : Sold by The Catho-
lic Publication Society.)
This book is among the most delight-
ful and the most valuable which it has
been our good-fortune to meet with. It
establishes not only the fact of England
having been called *' throughout Europe
Our Lady's Dowr}'," but her right to the
glorious title.
Those who imagine what is known to-
day as Catholic devotion to Our Lady a
thing of comparatively modern growth,
or, again, that it can only bloom luxuri-
antly in the sunny climes of Spain and
Italy, will find both illusions dispelled in
these pages. The old Anglo-Saxon love
of Mary was as warm and tender as any
of which human hearts ^rc capable. And
instead of finding our English ancestors
behind us in this devotion, we must
nitlier own ourselves behind them.
We would gladly give our readers an
analysis of Father Bridgett*s " compila-
tioR," but this cannot be done except in
an elaborate review. Suffice it to say that
never was a "compilation " (as the author
modestly calls it) less like what is ordi-
narily understood by the term — we mean
in point of interest and style.
We subjoin a passage from Chapter V.
on "Beads and Bells" (p. 201). We
, think the information it contains will be
new to almost all :
" The word * bead ' has undergone in
Engl ish a curious transformation of mean-
ing. It is the past participle of the Saxon
verb biddan^ to bid, to invite, to pray. Thus
in early English it is often used simply
for prayers^ without any reference what-
ever to their nature or the mode of re-
citing them. To * bid the beads' is mere-
ly to say one's prayers. ' Bidding the
beads' also meant a formal enumeration
of the objects of prayer or persons to be
prayed for. Beadsmen or beads-women
are not necessarily persons who say the
Rosary, but simply those who pray for
others, especially for their benefactors.
"But as a custom was introduced im
very early times of counting prayers iM»
by the use of little grains or peUHcft
strung together, Che name of prayfif^JlDt
attached to the instrument used for sajritig
prayers ; and in this sense the word beads
is commonly used bv Catholics at the
present day.
" Lastly, the idea of prayer was dropped
out altogether in Protestant times, and
the name of ' beads ' was left attached Ml'
any little perforated balls which covkl-
be strung together merely for persoatl
adornment, without any reference to dcvo»"
tion."
Bulla JuBiLiCi 1875; seu, Sanctis^ml
Domini nostri Pii Divina Providentut
Papae IX. Epistola Encyclica: Grari-
bus Ecclcsiae, cum Notis, Practicis ad
usum Cleri Americani. Curantc A,
Konings, C.SS.R. Neo-Eboraci : Ty-
pus Societatis pro Libris CathoHcift
Evulgandis. MDCCCLXXV.
The reverend clergy will be grateful to
Father Konings for this convenient and
beautiful edition of the text of the bull
announcing the present Jubilee, and for
the accompanying notes.
Seven Stories. By Lady Georgiana
Fullerton. Baltimore : Kelly, Piei &
Company. 1875.
This is a handsome reprint of a work
the English edition of which was noticed,
on its first appearance, in these pages.
Readings from the Old Testament.
Arranged with Chronological Tables,
Explanatory Notes, and Maps. For
the Use of Students. By J. G. Wen-
ham, Canon of Southwark. London:
Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York:
Sold by The Catholic Publication So-
ciety.)
The title of the work is almost a suflB-
cient description of its contents. The
primary' object of the book is to give a
consecutive history of the events related
in the Old Testament, in the words of
Holy Scripture. It includes a history o(
the patriarchs from the beginning to the
birth of Moses ; of the Israelites from the
birth of Moses to the end of the Judges :
of the Kings from the establi^^hmcnt of
the kingdom to its end ; and of the
Prophets from B.C. 606 to the birth of
Christ, embracing an account of tlie pro-
phetic writings.
cS
ITERARY
ULLETIN.
PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT
*^ Catholic Publication Socibtt has just
^••d Dr. Newman's Pofltsoript to his letter to
«iI>nk«of Xorfolk, and has added to It The
Itaenas and Oanona of the Vatican Ooun*
A The same Society wlU also have ready in a
^•» days the pamphlets on the Gladstone con-
inrrenj, boand in two large 12mo yolomes. They
Hvpdated upon flue paper, and will be bound in
QM8cciety*s asoal elegant style. These rolomes
«fl] eootaia all the pamphlets published in an-
swer to Gladatone by the Society, viz. : Cardinal
' fcwtag*s. Dr. Newman's, Bishop Ullathome's,
■4ep Vaogbaji's ; The SFllabos for the Peo-
Sli;rteslerooTrueandFalseInfallibiUty;
^Ae Decrees and Canons of the Vatl-
■aa Ooandl— thus making two volumes of
VMvakie and of historical Interest The cheap
wOl still continue to be published.
ffes CUhoUc Publication Society has In press
stisiristlon of Louis Vcuillots Life of Christ,
it te aade by the Rev. A. Farley, of Jamaica,
IT.
tfes Society has also published an important
titel oa Baptism by Father Gross, of North
(teaOaa. It Is published in tract form, and is
itUtftlOper 100 copies. Snch a tract should
ts ulAdy circulated in the country districts,
«%a« the baptism of childrea outside the Catho-
RcCkarch has become the exception, and nofthe
r Morris lias in the press a new volume of
Aa fVsvftte rf our CaOolic For^aOten, which
<«|M to prove at least as interesting as either of
Qspnascessors. It wiU consist of a "Life of
rUHr WlUtan Weston " and a caref nllyedited
tnoBrtpt of **The True and Wonderful Hls-
(«7 sf (he LAmenUble Fall of Anthony Tyr-
rtO. Frisst/' which was discovered ia MS. at
Bmm sooie time back. Father Westoa sue-
ns4sd isspcr HaywoDd as superior ,of the
'•••itaassion iu England in 1584, and was the
frtaC w^o reconciled Philip, Earl of Arundol, to
^ Cteth of Home. Though soon apprehended
ulesotaltted to the Tower, and subsequently
wansrsted In Wisbeaeh CastK from which he
*>s«al7 released at the accession of James the
^Im^hs continued to exercise an important in-
itios upon the Catholic party during the last
•tittists years of (^neen Elixabeth*s reign, and
«is eotalsly possessed of remarkable tact,
■^wilaf, and enthusiasm. Mr. Foley, a lay
r of tho society, is also bringing out a
volume on which he ^has been engaged some
years. It consists of a collection of documenu
throwing light upon the personal history and
labors of the Jesuit Fathers in England
during the XYIth and XVnth centuries, and
will be a most important contribution to oiw
knowledge of ** the Elizabetl^ui persecution," a
chapter of English history which is by no means
too well Icnown among us. This book will be
for sale by The Catholic Publication Society im-
mediately after its publication in London.
From a catalogue Just issued in Paris we sec
that 754 periodicals and papers are published in
Paris. Theology can boast of about 58 ; law, Ci;
geography and history, 10 ; amusing literature,
66 ; public instruction and education, 85 ; litera-
ture, philosophy, philology, ethnography, and
bibliography, 68 ; painting, 11 ; photography, 2 ;
architecture, 8 ; music, 17 ; theatres, 8 ; Cashion,
61 ; technology, 78 ; medicine and chemistry,
69 ; other sciences, 47 ; military matters and the
navy, S3 ; agriculture, 18 ; and horsemanship,
19. There are 19 miscellaneous journals, 37
daily political papers, and 11 political reviews.
In noticing Dr. Fessler's Tme and False
InfalUbility the Notre Dame Seft^>la$Uc says :
** Thia able refutation of Dr. Schulte has been
honored by a brief of approbation from His Holi-
ness Pope Pius IX., and hence all statemectf
made by the late bishop can be received, not
only with the deference due to his great learning
and ability, but also with the assurance that
there is nothing in the book contrary to' the
spirit which all should bear towards Rome and
the Pope. Dr. Schulte, though a learned canon-
ist, made, long before Mr. Gladstone, the asser-
tion that the definition of Papal Infallibility had
completely altered the relations between the
spiritual and temporal power. His pamphlet iu
which he made this and other assertions w&h
printed at Prague, and was greeted with every,
mark of approbation from the free-thinkers of
Germany. The iVsss of Vienna, in particular,
extolled it, saying that the atucks of others
against the dogma of infallibility ' were but as
the prickings of a pin in comparison with the
terrible blows dealt by the mace of Pr.
Schulte*; and the Piusslan government re-
warded him with a professorship at Bonn. To
this pamphlet the late Dr. Fessler writes this rf-
jjy. Chapter by chapter he follows Dr. Schulte
In bis reasonings; and, expouading the true
Literafy Buietiv.
doctrine of Infallibility, he demonstrates the un-
fairness of the criticisms of the now professor at
Bonn. The small amount of space alone pre-
vents ns from making a lon^^ notice of the book.
We commend it to the attention of our readers,
assuring them that by its perusal they will be
enabled to find pertinent answers to the stock of
objections usually made against the dogma of in-
fallibility. The Catholic Publication Society de-
serve the thanks of all Catholic Americans for
their enterprise in issuing, in a cheap and popu-
lar form, such a number of excellent works on
this great, and for Catholics settled, question."
The niiutrmtad CatboUc AiwinttnA test
1875 is thus noticed in the NorthwttUm Ohro-
Nit^ofStPauMlinn.:
**The Catholic Publication Society of Hew
Tork has done ns the honor of transmitting to
oar office a few copies of the above invaluable
little work ; and we are thankful to find the illas-
triouB Hecker*B conception thus annually re-
newed. The galaxy of illustrious and saintfy
men ; their likenesses and biographies ; the ec-
clesiastical ruins, the beautiful poetry, and the
prose sketches, together with the sacred illustra-
tions for every month, and the chronological
tables, so taU of important information, make
this precious little work a treasure to both priest
and peasant, and yet it can be had at twenty-
ftve cents the copy.**
The Catholic Publication Society is about to
publish a new, revised, and enlarged edition of
that beautiful story, tf ary, the Star of Sea;
or, A Garland of Living Flowers Culled from the
Divine Scriptures, and Woven to the Honor of
the Holy Mother of God : a story of Catholic
devotion. By Idward Healy Thompson. This
hook will be an excellent present to give the
young folk as a " May Gift.**
Adhemar de Beloastel; or. Be Not Hasty
in Judging, a new story fh>m the French, by
P. S., will also be published during May by the
Society. It will be illustrated and very suitable
for a premium book.
' The following notice of Father Hewitts late
work. The Kinff's Highway, is taken from
the March number of the London Month :
''Any one who has bad to do with those who
still form so large a section of our fellow-coun-
trymen, the Dissenters, Methodists, or Indepen-
dents, or with that other not inconsiderable body
of the old-fashioned Bible Church of Bogland peo-
ple, who have not in any wsy been affected by
High Church principles, must have felt somewhat
baffled by the exceeding difficulty 'which meets
nny attempt to assail their religious position.
And this not all because of its own strength.
Nothing could be less logical or less Scriptural.
The idea ef a principle of authority, or the sense
of its absolute importance, is something not only
new to them, but something which they seem
entirely unable at first to grasp. A certain ready
citation of a string of texts, application of paS'
aages of Holy Scripture* hopelessly wide of thi
mark, the Impregnable fortress of seLf-eonadous
ness of salvation, to which they always retresa
when beaten back on every point, is a systcn oi
defence all the more unconquerable jast bccMsi
so destitute of any inteHectnal or reMeaaM
atand-point. To prove there U but one charek
visible, and founded by Jesns Christ as the onl]
means of salvation, and that the bodj tb«y be-
long to is not that church ; to show that den
marks laid down by Scriptnre all point to thi
church which is called of Rome, seems a siasfli
process enougli, and one that ought to be ces-
vincing. But experience tells us that rareJy.U
ever, will you find so sdenttilc a procedure of aaj
svaiL A total absence of ideas common to them
and to us prevents It having any clumce of snc-
cess. Father Hewit, in his admirable preface,
very Justly remarks that most controversial
works are 'addressed either to those whose prin-
ciples are near akin to the church, or to Chose
who have made shipwreck of all faith ; and he
pleads for the many earnest and pione soals wfae,
by the fault of their forefathers, are llviDg luaiw
the clouds of Calvhilsm and Lntheranltfm, feat
who still hold firmly to the great doctrines sff
a God Three in One, the Incarnation and Redemp-
tion, the Holy Scripture, arid states of eternal re-
ward and punishment. Having been blaiself
brought up in this belief, he Is spedslly fitted to
minister to thdr spiritual wants. His metbod fa
first to break down thdr fortress— the belief tn
justification by faith only, as understood by
them. That once destroyed, he shows by the
light of Holy Scripture and of reason the tra« way
of Jnstiiicatioo, to be found in the sacrameiHt.
This leads him on Lecesrarily to speak of the
church, to study its character and anthoriCy ; and
the last chapter shows thit the Catholic Church
a'o%e answers to the description left to as of
Christ's instltntiou by his own words and those
of his followers. i
" The book Is exceedingly dear and thofoagli
in its explanations. It requires careful rcadtngf
but is so well illustrated by Holy Scriptore tfca^
we cannot think any one who i* earaeet fa tb#
search of truth, or who ts willing honestly, «•'
Protestants are bound by their priodples, to to^'
vestigate the grounds of their belief, woald dc*i
dst reading it when onoe they have began ut,
study Its contents.
" A very great want fs supplied by this book«
and it will well repay any of our clergy whose
Woric is thrown among Dissenters or Losr
Churchmen to make their own line of argavw ot,
which is unfamiliar to us, and which seeowrtal*
ly the only way, the *♦ King's Highway," to gain-
many souls dear to Him who has died for them^
and whom they in return really wish to serve, it
there were any one to teach them that way.
*^ The idea of nnity in the Chorch Is drawn <ml <
in a very striking and novel way, as a necesi
element in that divine institution which has to '.
final accomplishment in perfect and eterasl nioB
with God in heaven.*'
Literary Bulletin.
BOOKS OF THE MONTH,
thii head we intend to gire a litt of all
Catholic Boole* published in this country
as well as all those published in Sng •
te sate here. Publhhers win 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 Tua
Cathouc Pubucatiom Soobtv.
AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS.
t mf JFaih0r Bernard, Missionary Priest
r the Congregation of the Most Holy Re-
Translated from the French, x vol.
Si 60
I trmmion SapiUm,
By Fr. Gross. Paper,
»6 eh^
piic f>r, ^twman>$ LtUtr to ike
f •fJ^orfoik, Paper 20 eit.
Sutta JubUaei f876* Seu Sanctissimi Do-
mini Nostri Pii Divina Provide otia Papae IX.
Bpistola Rncyclica : Gravibus Bccles'ae, cum
Notis Practicit ad Usum Cleri Americani,
Curante A. Konings, C.SS.R 25.ei$.
The above boolcs are publtohed by The Cath-
olic Publication Society, New York.
J>omut Dei: A Collection of Religious and
Afemoriai Poems. By E. O. Donnelly. Phila-
delphia: P. F. Cunningham Sf 60
FOREIGN BOOK&
fUa CmiMoiie f>ireeiofy Sf 00
\ ^ Father Henry Tounst* By Lady
mnoa ..Sf 76
I ^^hNe Life ef Our Lord Jesue CMriti.
rthe KcT. H. J. Coleridge, S.J. Part I.
SS 26
PLm^e Ihirfy; or, How Bngland Gained
"^ Lost this Title. A Compilation by the
T. B. Bridgett, C.SSJl. Crown 8vo,
pa. With four illustrations. By H. W.
ir,*sq ^4 60
tfHsamere/iMe fWw/'/cv or. Discrowned
■i Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Morris.
S2 86
Surr^edf or, A Particular Ac-
it of the Happy and yet Thrice, Unhappy
K6f the Souls There. Edited by Dr. An-
Sf 60
r ^trfeellM Sroiher* By Felix Cum-
^ .S9 26
t eftke TrUlk Sainit. By Rev. J. O'Hao-
)*<»•>« 3,3* 4« 5 oow ready. Price per No.
60 eit.
^ty fer Jtopiee* of erery SeOpiout
'Uemiariy ihoee f>epoied to Me
of routk Sf 26
fhpuiar JErrore Coneeming
and SeOffion, By Lord Robert
,M.P. s vol. tamo,.., S^ 00
» letter^Vookt of Sir aitmiae Poutei,
per of Mary, Oueen of Scots. Kdited by
\ Morris, S.J. i vol. 8vo S6 26
r Wmioguee of S* Gregory the Great
1 by Henry James Coleridge, S.J. ^3 00
-^■INrr*/ or. Thoughts on the Litanies
rtoreito. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick,
f of Zmiea Ih Carrt^at* By Lady
.T. S2 60
one of St* Hneetm . A new Tirans-
By M. R. With Preface by His Grace
I Archbbhop of Westminster $2 60
' ^meeHon of
'weed.
, Canon vt ^. v^h»u o x/bvi««ui«i. »••-
With aneppendix of original doc-
I and photographic fac-simlles. x vol.
..VTT?.... 47 00
r Z4fe of the Utested John Verehmane.
f Ffaacts Golds, x vol. ismo S^ 60
of Hngtiean Ordinaiiont
By B. B. Bstcourt, M.A.,
of S. Chad's Cathedral, Bir-
l>r, ^etrman'e Leeturet on Juttifteation,
X vol. lamo S2 26
t>r* ^efrman's Sceteeiattieat and Theo-
togieat Traete, A new volume of the reissue
ofDr. Newman's works S^ 00
The f*ope and the JSmperor* Nine Lec-
tures delivered in the Church of S. John the
Bvsnreiist. Bath. By the Very Rev. J. N.
Sweeney, O.S.B., D.D. Sf OO
Who it Jentt Christ? Five Lectures deliv-
ered at the Catholic Church, Swansea. By the
Right Rev. Dr. Hedlev, O.S.B., Bishop Auxil-
iary of Newport and Meoevia 66 eis.
Life of Anne Catherine JPmmerieh, By
Helen Ram. x vol. lamo S2 60
ftaee through the Truth ; 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 Leviticai Krohibitions
of Marriage in their Relation to the Dispent-
ing Power of the Pope. i. The Prologue, a.
Fundamenul 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, x vol. 8vo S/0 00
First Part S7 60
The JEngtish Cathotie Directory, Eccle-
siastical Register^ and Almanac for 1875.
76 ete.
Meditaiione on the Life and Doctrine of
Jentt Chriti* By Nicholas Avancinus, S.J.
Translated by George Porter, S.J. a voIl
xamo ^/ ,.6
Ihe Formation of Christendom, Part
Third. ByT. W.Allies 8 00
fteadingt from the Otd Teetament, for the
use of Students, x vol. xamo 76 eU,
Jack Haxtett, By Richard Baptist O'Brien.
D.D Sf 76
Hietoty of the Irish Famine of/S47' By
Rev. J. O'Rourke. i vol. xamo. ^4^ 00
Home and her Captors .* Letters, x vol. .
xamo S2 00
Sossuet and his Contemporaries* i vol.
xamo ; S6 00
Sss^y* on Cathotieism, Liberatism,and'
Socialism* Bv John Donoso Cortrs. Trans-
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CATHOLIC TRACrS,
TradHf - - - - -
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» TbePlea of Sincerity.
J Tke Night before the Forlorn Hope.
^Tle Prisoner of Cayenne.
y Wlurt Shall I Do to be Saved ?
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JUNE. 1875.
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THE
I ATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXL, No. 123.— JUNE, 1875.
SPECIMEN CHARITIES.
I CHAitiTY is generally acknovv-
to be, particularly by those
do not practise it, the greatest
the virtues. Judged by this
Kodaxd, everything connected with
ouglit to command a special in-
St. Among ourselves the most
^tioal form of it is exhibited in
institutions provided for the
of that large section of society
&t may l>e classed as the unfortu-
nie. It is only natural to suppose,
ly tbat the reports of these insti-
Jitions would be caught up and
luclieil with avidity by the public,
in some shape or form pay for
»<l support them. Nothing, hovv-
rer, is further from the truth*. It
safe to say that not one man out
every hundred ever sees a report
any single institution, or ever
^ams even of the existence of
-h a thing.
This indifierence to how our
,^ey goes is one of the chief caus-
of the gross peculations and
uds that startle and shock the
blic mind from time to tinie.
^re scrutiny is not close and
constant, the conduct of those who
have reason to expecl scrutiny is
apt to be proportionately loose and
careless. There is no intention in
saying this to arraign the managers
of public institutions with loose and
careless conduct in the discharge
of their duties and the dispensing
of the large sums of money confided
to their care. All that we would
say is that the public is too inert
in the matter. A sharp lookout on
officials of any kind never does
harm to any one. It will be court-
ed by honest men, while it hangs
like the sword of Damocles over
the heads of the dishonest. At all
events, it is the safest voucher for
activity, zeal, and honesty on all
sides.
The reports of several of the in-
stitutions best known to the public
in this city have been examined,
and the result of the investigation
will be set forth in this article. It
may be said here that perhaps a
chief reason for the general apathy
of the public regarding these reports
is due to the reports themselves.
10 Act of Ccngren, in the year z875« by Rev. I. T. Hbcku, in the Office of the
librarian of CengnBes, at Washington D. C.
290
specimen Charities.
As a rule, they seem to be drawn up
with the express purpose of giving
the least possible information in the
most roundabout fashion. The very
sight of them warns an inquirer off.
While he is solely intent on finding
out what such and such an institu-
tion does for its inmates, what it
has done, what it purposes doing,
how it is conducted, what it costs,
what it produces, what success it
can point to in plain black and
white, and not in general terms, he
is almost invariably treated to homi-
lies on charity ; to dissertations on
the growing number of the poor and
the awfulness of crime ; to tirades on
the public-school question ; to high-
ly-colored opinions on the duty of
enforcing education; to extracts from
letters that, for all he can determine,
date from nowhere and are signed
by no one. Such is a fair descrip-
tion of the average " report " of any
given charity or public institution,
as any conscientious reader who is
anxious for a sleepless night and
morning headache may convince
himself by glancing at the first half-
dozen that come in his way.
This is much to be regretted.
Little more than a year ago public
inquiry was stimulated by the pub-
lic press to examine into the record
of the institutions that for years and
years have been absorbing vast sums
of money, with no very apparent re-
sult. ' Grave charges were then
made and substantiated by very ug-
ly figures, showing that the cost of
the majority of institutions was en-
ormously in excess of the good ef-
fected. It was charged that the
statistics were not clear, that the
managers shirked inquiry, that the
salaries were enormously dispropor-
tionate to the work done — in a word,
that the least benefit accrued to
those for whom the institutions were
founded, erected, and kept a-going.
Suspicion speedily took possession
of the public mind that what went
by the name of public charity was
nothing more nor less than a sys-
tem of organized plunder.
That opinion is neither endorsed
nor gainsaid here. The result of
such investigations as have bee9
made of reports drawn up for the
past year have been simply set forth,
so that every reader may judge for
himself as to the benefits accruing
to the public from the institutions
in their midst which every year ab-
sbrb an aggregate of several millions
of public and private funds.
The institutions whose reports
have been examined are for chil-
dren of both sexes and of all creeds.
Some of them are more, some less,
directly under State control. All,
at least, are under State patronage.
Their aim and purport is to relieve
the State of a stupendous task—
the care and future provision for
children who, without such care
and provision, would in all proba-
bility go astray, and become, if not
a danger, at least a burden, to the
State. On this ground the State or
city, or both together, make or makes
to each one certain apportionments
and awards of the public moneys.
Those apportionments and awards
are not in all cases equal either in
amount or in average. It is not
claimed here that they are necessa-
rily bound to be equal either in
amount or in average. The gift is
practically a ree gift on the part of
the State, although between itself
and the institutions the award
made partakes of the nature of a
contract. So much is allowed for
the care of State wards. Wliat may
be fairly claimed, however, is that
the awards of the State should be
regulated by justice and impartial-
ity. Most money ought to be given
where it is clear that most good
specimen Charities.
291
is efiected by it. This system of
award does not prevail.
Again^ as these institutions un-
dertake the entire control of their
inmates, and to a great extent
their disposal after leaving, they
are charged with the mental, moral,
and physical training of those in-
mates. A vast number of the chil-
dren are in all cases of the Catholic
taich.
As the genera] question of re-
ligion in our public institutions
was dealt with at length in the
April number of The Catholic
World, there is no need of return-
ing to it here further than to re-
mind our readers that the moral
training of Catholic children in pub-
lic institutions is utterly unprovid-
ed for. Our main questions now are :
What do our public institutions do
for the public ? What do they do
for the inmates .^ How much does
it cost them to do it? Whence
does the money that sustains them
come, and whither does it go }
It is far easier to put these ques-
tions than to obtain a satisfactory
answer to them. Of the fitness of
putting them and the importance
of answering them fully and fair-
ly no man can doubt. They are
equally important to the public at
large, to the State, and to the insti-
tutions themselves. It is fitting
and right that we know which insti-
tutions do the best work in the
best way ; which merit the support
of the public and of the State ;
which, if any, are concerned chiefly
about the welfare of their inmates ;
which, if any, are concerned chiefly
about the welfare of their officers
and directors. Let us see how far
Ike Fiftieth Annual Report of the
Managers of the Society far the Re-
formation of Juvenile Delinquents
nay enlighten us on these interest-
ing points.
In this institution there were re-
ceived during the year (1874)
seven hundred and twenty-four
children, of whom six hundred and
thirty-six were new inmates. The
total number in the institution for
the year was one thousand three
hundred and eighty-seven. The
average figure taken on which to
calculate the year's expenditure is
seven hundred and forty. Whence
the children come may be inferred
from the words of the superintend-
ent's report (page 38) : ** By its char-
ter the House of Refuge is author-
ized to receive boys under commit-
ment by a magistrate from the first
three judicial districts, and girls
from all parts of the State. The
age of subjects who may be com-
mitted is limited to sixteen years.*
State Prison Inspectors have pow-
er to transfer young prisoners from
Sing Sing prison, under seventeen
years of age, to this institution, if
in their judgment they are proper
subjects for its discipline . . .
Prior to 1847 this was the only
place, except the prisons, in the
State, authorized to receive juven-
ile delinquents. At that time the
Western House of Refuge was or-
ganized at Rochester, and boys
from the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh,
and eighth judicial districts were
directed, by the act under which
that institution was organized, to
be sent there. The State Prison
Inspectors may transfer young pri-
soners from the State prisons of
Auburn and Diuinemora to the
Western House, the same as from
Sing Sing here. The United States
courts, sitting within the State,
may commit youthful oflenders un-
der sixteen years of age to either
institution. The expense for the
* The age of some of the ** children** in this in-
sdtutioQ actually runs up to twenty and even twen-
292
Specimen Charities^
support of these is paid by the
United States government. Girls
from all parts of the State are sent
to this house, there being no fe-
male department at the Western
House."
The expenses for support of the
(average) seven hundred and forty
children for 1874 amounted to
$103,524 23, according to the su-
perintendent's report. To defray
this, there was contributed in all
$74»968 61 of public moneys, in the
following allotments :
By Annual Appropriation, $40/xx> 00
By Balance Special Appropri-
aiion, .... 10,500 00
On account Special Appropri-
ation, 1874, • . . 10,000 00
By Board of Education, . 7,468 61
By Theatre Licenses, 7,000 00
$74,968 61
There is one remark to be made
on these figures, which have been
copied item by item from the report.
They do not tally with the report
of the State Treasurer. In his re-
port the award to the society is set
down as $66,500. There is evi-
dently a mistake somewhere. A
small item of $6,000 is missing from
the report of the society. Where
can it have gone ? The president
himself, Mr. Edgar Ketchum, en-
dorses the figures of the superinten-
dent and treasurer. He tells us
(page 14) that the receipts for 1874,
** from the State Comptroller, an-
nual and special appropriations,"
are $60,500; but there is that
page 34 of the annual report of
the State Treasurer, which sets it
down plum ply at $66,500. There
will doubtless be forthcoming an
excellent explanation of this singu-
lar discrepancy between the reports.
The State Treasurer may have made
the mistake ; but, if not, one is per-
mitted to ask, is this the kind of
arithmetic taught in the Society foi
the Reformation of Juvenile Delin-
quents }
The remaining deficit is covered
by " labor of the inmates " — which
is rated at $41*594 48 — sale of waste
articles, etc. There is no mention
whatever made of private donations.
With an exception that will be not-
ed, there is not a hint at such a
thing throughout the sixty-eight
pages of the report. If private do-
nations were received at this insti-
tution during the year, the donors
will search the fiftieth annual re-
port in vain for any account of them.
Attention is called to this point, be-
cause in every other report exam-
ined the private donations have
been ample, duly acknowledged,
and accounted for ; but the mana-
gers of the Society for the Reforma-
tion of Juvenile Delinquents ob-
serve silence on this subject.
Looking to see how the money
went, we find the largest item of the
expenses set down as $44,521 62,
for " food and provisions.*' The
next largest item is $34,880 52, for
salaries — as nearly as possible one-
third of the whole expense. This is
a very important item. One-third of
the entire expenses, and consider-
ably over half the net cost for the
support of the institution during the
year, was consumed in salaries. In-
to Hie various other items it is not
necessary to go, as in these two
by far the largest portion of the ex-
penses is accounted for. The sum
of the remainder for ** clothing,"
"fuel and light," "bedding and
furniture," *' books and stationery
for the schools and chapel," "or-
dinary repairs," and " hospital/*
amounts only to $27,555 84, or over
$7,000 less than the salaries ; while
" all other expenses not included "
in what has already been mentioned
amount only to $23,339 ^5-
Specifnen C/iarities.
293
As this is the fiftieth annual re-
port, the managers of the institution
have thought it a fitting time to
publish a review of the work done
during the last half-century and of
the cost of its doing. The " finan-
cial statement for fifty years " in-
forms us that " the cost for real es-
tate and buildings for the use of the
institution, including repairs and
improvements," was $745,740 31.
This amount was paid *' in part by
private subscriptions and dona-
tions " — the solitary mention to be
found of anything of the kind
throughout the report — and the re-
mainder **by money received for
insurance for loss by fires, money
received from sale of property in
Trenty-third Street, New York,
and by State appropriations." The
amount of private subscriptions and
donations was $38,702 04; thus
leaving $707,038 27, by far the
greater portion of which, it is to be
presumed, was paid by State appro-
priations.
So far for the real estate and
buildings for fifty years. Let us
now look at the cost of support for
the tame period.
Including every item of expense,
except for the grounds and build-
ings, the sum total is $2,106,009 16.
Of this $767,189 31 was paid from
labor of the inmates and sale of
articles; the remaining $1,338,-
819 85 was paid ** from moneys re-
ceived from appropriations made
by the Slate and by the city of New
York, from the licenses of theatres,
from the excise and marine funds."
In short, with the exception of the
138,702 04 already mentioned as
coming from private subscriptions
and donations, of the money re-
ceived from sale of property in
Twenty-third Street, New York, and
the amount earned by the inmates,
the State has covered the entire ex-
penses of the Society for the Re-
formation of Juvenile Delinquents
since its foundinf^, fifty years ago.
Those expenses, according to their
own showing, were $2,045,868 12.
Thus it is within the truth to say
that this society has received $2,-
000,000 from the State within the
last fifty years, one-third of which
amount, if the figures for last year
be a fair gauge, was consumed in
salaries.
Such has been the cost — a weighty
one. What is the result ? What
has been achieved by this immense
outlay } — for immense it is. We are
informed (p. 39) that " when a
child is dismissed from the house,
an entry is made under the history,
giving the name, residence, and
occupation of the person into whose
care the boy or girl is given. Pains
are taken, by correspondence and
otherwise, to keep informed of their
subsequent career as far as possible,
and such information when receiv-
ed, whether favorable or unfavor-
able, is noted under the history."
The result may be given briefly :
Fifteen thousand seven hundred
and ninety-one children have passed
through the institution in fifty years.
Of these thirty-eight per cent, have
been heard from " favorably," four-
teen per cent. ** unfavorably," while
forty-eight per cent, are classified
as '* unknown." Thus it is seen
that not nearly one-half have turn-
ed out well ; a very considerable
number have turned out badly ;
and of a larger number than either
— of almost half, in fact — nothing is
known. And it has taken about
three millions of dollars (a far
higher figure if the private dona-
tions, of which no account is given,
ranked for anything) to achieve this
magnificent result !
We have only one comment to
offer. If, with the practically un-
294
Specimen Charities.
limited means at their disposal, the
managers of the society can do no-
thing better for and with the chil-
dren than they have done after fifty
years of trial, the experiment is, to
say tlie least, a costly failure. In-
deed, it is not at all extravagant to
assert that, taking into considera-
tion the migratory habits of our
people and the ups and downs of
life, these children, if allowed to
run their own course, would, were
it possible to follow up their histo-
ries, probably show as high a per-
centage of "favorable " as this so-
ciety has been able to show. In
the proud words of the superinten-
dent's report, " The results of
half a century of labor in the cause
of God and humanity are now be-
fore us !" *
* PoBstbly the superintendent, Mr. Israel C.
Jones, and such as he, have had much to do Mrith
bringing about this magnificent result. Their
course of treatment of the unfortunate children com-
mitted to their care is sufficiently well known to
many of our readers. Here is a picture of Mr.
Jones and hb associate reformers, painted by his own
hand, and exhibited to the public gaze in a court of
justice. It occurred during the trial of Justus Dunn,
on inmate of the Institution for the Reformation of
Juvenile Delinquent^, for the killing of Samuel Cal-
vert, one of the keepers. In his croM-examinatioa
Mr Jones testified respecting various modes of
punishment used in the institution. One was as
follows : *^ I know of Ward being tied up by the
thumbs. (The witness described this mode of
punishment.) In the tailor** shop there is an iron
column five inches in diameter ; around the top of
that was placed a small cord, and another small cord
was run through it, and dropped down ; tkt boya"
thuuibs tverg ^ut into thtendi and drawn up un-
t'l the nrius iviff extend* d^ but their feel were
not moved.
" IJy Judge Bedford : How long were they kept in
that position? A. From three, perhaps to eight
minutes To Mr Howe: I tried the effect upon
myself; it was an idea that struck me to deal with
that particular class of boys. I think seven, not to
exceed eight, boys were punished in this way. I was
present during the punishment of one of the boys
part of the time. I went out of the room.
" By Judge Bedford : You do not know of your
own knowledge whether they were raised from the
ground? A. Not of my own knowledge.
" By Mr. Howe : Vou saw the boys put up by this
HoiaJI whip-cord ? A . Ves, sir.
'• Q. And you would leave the room when they
were spliced up? A. Yes. sir; I stepped out of
the r-»om once or twice. I have seen boys beaten
with a rattan, but not so severely as to be able to
count the welts by lhe1)k>Dd.'*
There is much more of the same character, but
the -xtmct given is enough to show the meansadopt-
An institution similar to the one
just examined is the New York
Juvenile Asylum, whose Twenty
second Annual Report is published.
Unlike its predecessor, it acknow-
ledges *' the readiness with which
the necessary funds, beyond those
received from the public treasury,
are supplemented by private bene-
ficence." It has a Western agency,
whose business it is to " procure
suitable homes for children placed
under indenture, and conduct the
responsible work of perpetuated
guardianship, which forms the dis-
tinguishing feature of our chartered
obligations" (Reporty p. 12). We
are informed that " an analysis of
the treasurer's report confirms the
uniform experience of the board,
that the appropriations from the
city treasury of $110, and from
the Board of Education of about
Ii3 50, per annum, for each child,
are inadequate to the support of
the institution on its present re-
quired scale of superior excel-
lence."
The treasurer's report is a study.
The expenses for the year (1874)
were $95,976 83. Of this sura $67,-
452 05 is set down plumply as
for " .salaries, wages, supplies, etc.,
for Asylum." How much of it was
devoted to "salaries," how much
to "wages," how much to "sup-
plies," and how much to "etc.,"
whatever that financial mystery
may mean, is left to conjecture. A
similar entry for the House (con-
nected with the asylum) amounts
to $16,875 59 » ^"^ ^ third, for the
Western agency, to $5,303 18. Hy
this happy arrangement there only
remain some two thousand odd
dollars to be accounted for, and
ed in this estimabb institution and by this emiacnt-
ly pious superintendent for the reformation of juve-
nile delinquents. It is like reading again the pages
of another but an earlier Reformation.
Specimai Charities,
295
the baUnce-sheet pleasantly closes,
leaving the reader as wise as ever
on the important query, Who gets
the lion*s share of the money, the
children or the managers ?
To cover tiie expenses of the
year, the corporation gave $68,899
40; the Board of Education, $8,-
^33 *3* Thus public moneys cov-
ered the great bulk of the annual
expense. The carefully-confused
figures of the treasurer make it im-
possible to say whether or not a
jadicious paring of the *' salaries,
wages, etc.," might not have en-
abled the same moneys to cover it
ail and still leave a balancie in the
l>ank.
As it is hopeless to investigate
how the money went, item by item,
let us turn to the children for
whose benefit it was given.
The whole number in the Asylum
and House of Reception at the be-
ginning of the year was 617 ; receiv-
ed during the year, 581 ; discharged,
585; average for the year, 617.
(K the discharged, 9 were inden-
tured, 103 sent to the Western agen-
(7,466 discharged to parents and
friends.
The managers are very strongly
in favor of placing the children in
* Western homes," and doubtless
most persons interested in the ques-
tion of caring for these children
wmtld agree with them, could satis-
factory evidence only be given of
the actual advantages of the plan.
Hu^ such evidence is not furnished
hf any of the reports we have ex-
amined. This asylum, for instance,
has been sending children West
year after year, and yet the super-
intendent informs us, as a piece of
special news, that ** in the early part
*** November last the superintend-
ent went to Illinois, for the purpose
«f becoming better acquainted with
^c practical workings of the
agency, and visiting the children
sent West in their new homes."
This is given as an event in the
workings of the institution. In
other words, the children sent out
were left absolutely to the Western
agent, who may have been a very
worthy and conscientious person, or
who may have been nothing of the
kind. The amount expended on
the Western agency would not
seem to indicate any very extensive
or arduous labors. The result of
the superintendent's trip was a visi-
tation of twenty-five children, and^
on the strength of that very limitjcd
number of visits and the represen-
tations of the agent, he states that
" it was evident that great care was
taken and good judgment exercised
in providing children with the best
of homes and looking after their
general welfare."
The Western agent himself re-
ports : " For sixteen years the
Asylum has been sending to Illi-
nois, and placing in families as ap-
prentices, those who have become
permanently its wards, and during
that time two thousand three hun-
dred and ninety-nine have been thus
cared for. Their employers have
been required to make a legal con«
tract in writing, binding themselves
to provide suitably for their physi-
cal comfort during their minority,
instruct them in a specified trade,
allow them to attend school four
months in each y^div^ give them marai
and religious trainings and make a
stipulated payment of clothing and
money at the expiration of their
apprenticeship. . . . The Asylum
is required by its charter to sec
that the terms of every contract are
faithfully performed throughout the
entire period of the apprentice-
ship."
Of course these conditions are
very favorable to the children, pro*
296
Specimen Charities.
vided only that they are carried
out. That they are always carried
out is doubtful, and the number of
complaints made by both children
and employers, mentioned inci-
dentally, tend to strengthen this
doubt. Then as regards the
** moral and religious training " :
What in the case of Catholic chil-
dren such training is likely to be
may be inferred from the fact that
the Catholic religion is proscribed
in the Asylum and House, as also
from the fact mentioned by the
agent himself (p. 42) that among
the employers "prejudiced against
indentures," " occasionally one ob-
jects to them on the ground of can-
scientious scruples ; " " but," he adds,
"it rarely occurs that they can-
not be prevailed upon to comply
with our regulations in this par-
ticular."
What the Western " Home " is
may be judged from the following
pregnant sentence of the agent's
report : " I am not instructed by
the committee, nor would it be
well to make it an attractive ren-
xiezvous, and the children are
neither drawn to it by factitious
allurements nor encouraged to
make a protracted stay." The un-
solicited testimony on this point
may be taken as unimpeachable.
He admits that " instances of
wrongs frequently come to our
knowledge, and doubtless many
others exist of which we have not
been made aware." Accordingly,
"to prevent such abuses," " an ad-
ditional agent has recently been en-
gaged, who will be employed exclu-
'irivelyas a visitor." This addition-
.al agent commenced service "about
fivt weeks " from the date of the
Western agent's report ; but " un-
precedentedly stormy weather and
difficult travelling have rendered it
impossible for him to enter upon
his special work." And such is all
the practical information furnished
us concemhig the Western branch
of this institution, notwithstanding
that "every employer and every
apprentice is written to at least once
annually."
The report of the agent tells ns
really little or nothing. Indeed, its
tone is not at all sanguine. His
" time has been too fully occupied
to accomplish much in the way
of gathering statistics of what is,
in my belief, a demonstrable fact :
that, with as few exceptions as oc-
cur among other children, asylum
wards become reputable and pros-
perous citizens." No doubt ; proof
will be given afterwards that this
belief is well founded, but not as
regards the institution in question.
In its case, unfortunately, the de-
monstration is the one thing want-
ing.
The total number of children ad-
mitted to the institution from 1S53
to 1873 is 17,035, of whom 12,975
were of native, 3,820 of foreign
birth. Ireland contributed 2,006 ;
France, 71 ; Spain, 6; Italy, 75;
South America, 5 ; Austria^ 5 ;
all of whom may be safely classed
as Catholics. Of the native-born
New York alone contributed eleven
thousand five hundred and seven-
ty-one, all the other States together
adding only one thousand three
hundred and ninety-six. The num-
ber of native-bom children of Irish
parents in the State of New Yofk
within the last twenty years may
be left to easy conjecture. One
thing is certain : that the faith of
all the Catholic children admitted
to this institution was, while they
remained in it, and as long as they
remained under its supervision, pro-
scribed, while they were compelled
to conform to the Church Es-
tablished in Public Institutions.
Specimen Charities.
m
There is no financial statement for
the twenty years.
The Children's Aid Society has
also published its Twenty- second An-
nual Report, This is one of the
most extensive organizations in the
city, and has quite a net-work of
homes, lodging-houses, and indus-
trial schools connected with it, as
well as a Western agency similar
in its ofl5ce to that already noticed.
Although not, in the accepted
sense, a "public institution," it de-
pends in a great measure on State
aid for its support. It professes
to be superior in its mode of work
to any public institution. That
point is too extensive to enter upon
here. We merely pursue our plan
of searching its own record to see
what it has done. One of its chief
aims may be gathered from the fol-
lowing statement of the report (page
4) : ** The plan which this society
has followed out so persistently
dttring twenty-two years, of saving
the vagrant and neglected children
of the city, by placing them in care-
fiAy-selected homes in the West
and in the rural districts, is now
universally admitted to be success-
ftiL It has not cost one-tenth part
of the expense which a plan de-
Bttoding support in public institu-
tions would have done, and has
been attended by wonderfully en-
cottraging moral and material re-
sults.'*
As it is impossible within present
limits to examine every detail of
this extensive report, which fills 96
pages, we pass at once to the trea-
surer's figures. The expenses for
the past year amount to $225,747
9*. To cover this the city and
county of New York contributed
193*333 34; the Board of Educa-
tion, $32,893 95 ; being a total of
$126,227 29 contributed from the
public moneys. The rest is made
up by private donations, legacies
etc.
As an illustration of the difficul-
ties to be met with in trying to ex-
tract the gist of the various reports,
the following sentence from the
one in hand may serve. In de-
scribing " the year's work " the
superintendent says (p. 8) : " The
labors of charity of this society
have become so extended and
multifarious that it is exceedingly
difficult to give any satisfactory
picture of them.** If this is his
opinion, what is ours likely to be ?
However, we will make such use of
the limited means at our disposal
as may tend to give some idea of
the workings of this society.
The ** industrial schools " con-
stitute a prominent feature of it.
There are twenty-one of them and
thirteen night schools. They give
occupation to eighty-six salaried
teachers and a superintendent, and
to a volunteer corps of seventy
ladies in addition. The volunteers,
we are informed, " produce results
of which they have no adequate
idea themselves." The industries
taught in these *' industrial schools"
are not brought out very promi-
nently. The army of teachers, regu-
lars and volunteers together, have
acted upon '* an average number "
of 3,556, and an aggregate number
of 10,288, Dropping the volun-
teers, that gives each of the eighty-
six "salaried teachers " just 41 and
the If th part of a child to devote
his or her sole attention to during
the year. It is for these schools
that the Board of Education award-
ed the $32,893 95 already mention-
ed.
The schools alone consume of
the whole expenses of the society
for the year $70,509 88, which is
divided in the following pleasing
manner:
298
Specimen Charities.
Rent of school-rooms, . $11455 25
Salaries of superintendent and
86 teachers, . 39.202 33
Food, clothing, fuel, etc, 19,852 30
That is to say, the salaries of
the school superintendent and 86
teachers for 3,556 children cost
considerably more than rent, food,
clothing, fuel, children, and every-
thing else put together. This is
worse even than the Society for
the Reformation of Juvenile Delin-
quents, whose officers were modest-
ly contented with a good third of
the whole amount of money spent
on the institution. But here at
the present ratio more than one-
half is absorbed in salaries. The
public seems to labor under an
idea that the institutions which they
»o cheerfully support are intended
chiefly for the benefit of poor chil-
dren. It is to be hoped that their
eyes may at last be opened to their
fatal mistake. At all events, in
the present instance it is clear that
the schools are less intended to in-
struct the children than to support
the teachers. The very liberal al-
lowance granted to these schools
by the Board of Education falls
miserably below the teachers* sala-
ries.
The cheerfulness with which these
figures are contemplated by the
officers of the society is positively
exhilarating. We are informed (p.
45) that " the annual expense of
twenty-one day and thirteen even-
ing schools, with salaries of superin-
tendent and eighty-six teachers,
would be an intolerable burden to
the society, did not the city pay
semi-annually a certain sum for
each pupil, as allowed by law."
The number of pupils paid for by
the city is, of course, 10,288 — " a
j;ain over last year of 704.** Here
is a sample of how the list is made
up:
Fifty-third Sirect School,
Fifty-second Street School,
Park School
Phelps School. . . .
Girls' Industrial School,
Fourteenth Ward School,
Water Street School, . .
Naoa Avcf^
RoBs. Attead'ct
1,212 260
561 199
. 807 301
417
298
Sc
91
650 219
loi 31
And so they go on. Comm.ent is
unnecessary. It is to be taken for
granted that the average attendance
here given by the society is not like-
ly to be below the mark. Taking
it then as correct, it may be left to
honest men to judge whether half
the number of teachers would not
be amply sufficient. As to the ques-
tion of salaries, it is needless to re-
mark further upon that. Who can
resist the piteous appeal of the trea-
surer after closing the account of
the " thirty-four " schools } " Sur^;
ly, then," he says, " this branch of
the society's work may claim the
merit of economy when considered
in detail, although the aggregate
cost is large."
Mention of salaries occurs twice
after. Five "executive officers"
are paid $8,944 14; five ** visitors,"
$3,944 06. The total " current ex-
penses " are set down at $174,821
38. Thus, as seen, salaries already
absorb more than a quarter of the
current expenses, and the chief sala-
ried officers of the institution, as
well as another small army of infe-
rior officials, remain to be portioned
off. No mention is made of them
in the treasurer's figures. Nor will
it do to average the salaries of the
superintendent and eighty*six teach-
ers of the schools, setting them
down at the modest allowance of
$450 a head, granting, as seems in-
credible, considering the number of
pupils, that the number of teacliers
is accurately given. The point is
plain to all men : There is no need
for such a number of teachers.
Specimen Charities.
299
Some of them, it is to be presumed,
Are only employed in the night-
schools ; consequently their salaries
vould be considerably diminished.
The salaries are not all equal, and,
even were they all equal, the amount
of work done would be too costly
at the price. To say that twenty-
one schools and eighty-seven teach-
ers, with a contingent of seventy
voioDteers, are needed for 3,446
children is simple nonsense.
Judging by what we have seen, if
one-fourth the moneys spent on the
Children's Aid Society is devoted
exclusively to the children, both
children and public are to be con-
gratulated on the self-denial of the
management. It is for those who
support the society to consider how
ion^ this state of things is to con-
tinue.
Among other benevolent works
undertaken by the society is an
lUian school, for the special bene-
M of the poor little Italian children
decoyed from their homes to labor
•ind beg for padroni and such like
>n this city and elsewhere through-
•mt the country. There can be no
(ioubt about the religion of these
(hildren. The report informs us
I Hat this school is under the care
*>f the " Italian School Young Men's
Visociation." Their ** collection
•>r books has.been enlarged by the
rontributions of friends, and the
reading-room will soon contain a
ijrge assortment of Italian books
*''rwarded by the Italian govem-
tiicnt, who, with provident care,
"Pitches over our work and fur-
thers the benevolent purposes of
ti>c ChUdrcn's Aid Society."
The object of organizing such a
"^liool is evident. There is no in-
't-niirc so effective with the large
nujority of Protestant hearts, no-
thing so well calculated to draw
^untributions from their pockets,
as the hope to " convert to Chris-
tianity " Papist children. This
school is intended for just such a
purpose, and the society would be
the last in the world to deny it.
" The increase of newly-arrived
children attests the popularity of
the school. The benevolence of
our patrons continues to make it-
self unceasingly felt in various ways,
more especially at the Christmas
festival, when the congregation of
the First Presbyterian Church — Dr.
Pax ton's — come almost in a body
to gladden our children with useful
and substantial gifts, and an out-
pouring of unmistakable Christian
sympathy " (page 32).
The Western agency of this socie-
ty is on a par with that already ex-
amined. The number of miles
travelled by the agents is given, as
also the number of children placed
out. The very names of the agents
bristle with activity. They are :
Messrs. Trott, Skinner, Fry, Brace,
and Gourley, Tlie warm tempera-
ment of Mr. Fry, " the resident
Western agent," may be judged from
the opening of his report. He
writes from St. Paul, Minnesota, un-
der date October 18, 1874, to tell us :
*'I am up among the saints, and
ought to feel encouraged; but it
seems such a hopeless task to con-
vey to others the happiness and
contentment I witness in my rounds
of visitation that I always com-
mence my annual report with a de-
gree of hesitation."
There are many passages of equal
beauty with this, but unfortunately
Mr. Fry's pious enthusiasm is not
exactly what is called for. What we
want to know is what has actually
been done with the 1,880 boys and
the 1,558 girls whom we are infornn-
ed by the report " have been pro-
vided with homes and employment "
during the year. Men and women
300
Specimen Charities.
to the number of 242 and 305 re-
spectively were sent out also during
the year. Of the entire 3,985, 657
were Irish, 28 French, 13 Italian, 8
Poles, 10 Austrians — all of whom
may be set down as Catholics. The
* American bom *' were 1,866, the
German, 879. Of these also a fair
percentage were probably Catholic.
What has become of them and of
all } Wiiat has become of the 36,-
363 who have been sent out in the
same manner by the same society
since 1853 ? How many prospered .^•
How many failed } How many
died } How many turned out well }
How many ill ? What was done
for the Catholic portion of the emi-
grants > It is absurd to put such
questions to Mr. Fry, who is ** up
among the saints," ** wrapped in the
third heaven " of S. Paul. A man
in such an exalted stale of terres-
trial beatitude cannot be expected
to descend to such sublunary mat-
ters as those presented. Conse-
quently, Mr. Fry contents himself
with vague generalities and a few
specimen letters of the kind char-
acterized at the beginning of this
article.
However, "Mr. Macy and his
clerks in the office have kept up, as
usual, a vast correspoiidence with
the thousands of children sent out
by us. We unfortunately can have
room bu\ for a few of the numerous
encouraging letters that have been
received." We may be permitted
to give one, which will explain
itself and also what is in store for
the Catholic children cared for by
this society. Needless to say, it
does not find a place in the report
which we have been examining. It
is, however, an authentic copy, as
Mr. Macy himself will testify, if
necessary.
Mr. Macy's letter, or the letter
signed by Jiim, needs a little ex-
planation, most of which will be
supplied by the letter from the
*' American Female Guardian Soci-
ety," which is also given. The
story in brief concerns two Catho-
lic children, a boy and girl, whose
mother was dead and whose father
was called away to the late war.
They fell into the hands of the
Female Guardian Society, who
handed them over to the Children's
Aid Society to be " provided with
homes in the West " or elsewhere.
The boy was sent to a Protestant
in Dubuque, Iowa, the girl to a
Methodist family in the State of
New York. After returning from
the war and coming out of hospital
the father was anxious to learn
something of his children. His
efforts were futile until, as said in
the letters, he interested the Soci-
ety of S. Vincent de Paul in the
matter. After such trouble as naay
be imagined the society succeeded
in gaining possession of the chil-
dren. Tiuy had both b€Coine^ »r
rather been niade^ Protestants^ and
hated the very mention of their re-
ligion. The following letters are
exact copies of the originals :
American Female Guardian Socncrv,
29 £. 39th Street,
and
Home for the Friendless
30 E. 30th St.. N. Y.
May 14th, 1874.
Mr. Wilson :
Dear Sir : Very unexpectedly to us, a
few days since the father of Edward Nu-
gent, came to the Home, to inquire about
his children, we had not seen him for six
years, and as he had not even writien
during that lime, we supposed he wns
dead ; he has been in the Hospital i«
appears roost of the time, is lame, havini;
been injured in the feet during the war,
he is not able to take care of his children,
yet still claims he has a right to know
where they are, though wt do not feel
after all these years he has any claim at
all, bat we learned something of impor*
Specimen Charities.
301
ranee yesterday, which explains why he
wanes to know the children's whereabouts,
it seems he is a Catholic, and has been to
(be priests with his story about us whom
thev call heretics, and the priests have in-
rtneoced him to demand the children, so
we felt It our duty to let you know how
the matter stands, for they are very per-
sistent, and may send some one in tliat
part of the country to ask the neighbours
around there, if such a boy is in that
neighbourhood, and if they can get him,
no other way they will steal him, so
if you have become attached to the child,
and would desire to save his soul from
the power of the destroyer of souls, we
would say to y6u it would be better for
70a to send the boy away for a year from
you, that you could say truthfully you do
not know where he is ; whtn fourtetn he
GUI choose his own guardian, then if he
dKX)ses jrou, no powQr can take him from
TOO. Had he been fully committed to us
they would have no right to interfere, but
as be was not, they will do all in their
power to get him from you, we would feel
vtiy sorry to have them find him, as we
dread Catholic influence more than the
Mte of the rattle-snake, for that only de-
woys the body while the other destroys
the Immortal soul, too precious to be lost ;
if yon have become attached to that dear
bqy^save him from the power of the fell-
(lettroyer, and the conscious approving
wnfle of your Heavenly Father will be
yo«r reward. I cannot say what course
they will pursue, but if you wish the child,
yoB must be very guarded how you act,
md must net confide in anyone, not even
your own brother what your plans are,
let cautiously, but decidedly. Please
write immediately on receipt of this, and
let ns know what your course will be, as
»e feel the deepest interest in the matter.
Tonrf truly,
(Signed) Mrs. C. Spaulding,
For •• Home Managers.**
Please send Mr. Wilson's first name.
[Verbatim copy, even to italics and
panctiutioo.]
Letter No. H.
Children's Aid Society,
No. 19 East Fourth St.,
New York, May 19th, 1874.
[Writing to Mr. Williams, who had
cbrgc of the boy Edward Nugent, in re-
latfoo to the father of the boy.]
"He has recently called at the Home
Cor the Friendless for information in re-
lation to Eddie and has interested the
Society of St. Vincent de Paul to hunt up
and return Eddie. They have begun to
look into the matter and I presume that
you will hear from them one of these
days. We wrote to you some time ago
that you had better have Eddie bound to
you by the authorities and hope that you
did so. I feel that Eddie has a good
home and do not care to have him dis-
turbed. It would be cruel to him and
wrong by you and so I trust you will do
what you can to prevent it. Please let
me hear from him and you.'* Yours truly,
(Signed) ^ J. Macy, Asst. Sec'y.
To comment on the letter of the
** Fepnale Guardians " or the easy
conscience of the " Children's Aid
Society " would be " to gild refin-
ed gold " ; certainly, in the case of
Mrs. C. Spaulding, '* to paint the
lily." Honest-minded men of any
creed may now understand why it
is that Catholics who have any
faith in their religion at all, who
believe it in their conscience to be
the only true religion, demand in
the name of justice that associations
and institutions of this character be
thrown open to the ministers of
their religion, or that the State, to
prevent all that is shameful and
horrible in proselytism, imitate all
civilized states, and adopt the de*
nominational system of charities,
which, as will be shown in the case
of Catholics at least, will not only
not cost it a penny more, but con-
siderably less, and with results as-
tounding in their contrast
We have now examined three of
our principal institutions with a
view to their cost and results. With
the exception of the two letters
quoted, no information has been
used which is not presented in pub-
lic reports. It is seen tliat the So-
ciety for Juvenile Delinquents ex-
pends one-third of its resources in
salaries; the Children's Aid So-
ciety, as far as it is possible to base
302
specimen Char ides.
an opinion on its loose and in-
complete figures, perhaps three-
fourths; while the figures of the
Juvenile Asylum are too confused to
allow of any judgment in the matter
at all. The results as affecting the
children, in the first instance, are
avowedly far from satisfactory; in
the second and third instances no
attempt is made to give such re-
sults, though the inferences to be
drawn from such evidence as is
given are far from hopeful. And
so, unless a radical ch;inge is ef-
fected in the training and manage-
ment of the institutions, matters are
likely to continue- The excuse of
inexperience in the management
cannot hold here with half a cen-
tury at the back of one and over
twenty years at the back of the
other two. The moral training of
the children is in all instances dis-
tinctly and avowedly Protestant.
As shown sufficiently in a previous
article, there is no such thing possi-
ble as a religious education which
is " non- sectarian." Consequently,
Catholic children, who form a large
contingent of the inmates of these
institutions, are subjected to a
course of instruction and moral
training whicli is a gross and per-
sistent violation of the rights of
conscience and of the constitution
of the State, and to this training
have they been subjected ever since
the institutions were first founded.
The only means of adjusting this
grave difficulty, of righting this
great wrong, is to follow out the
plan which prevails in every civil-
ized country with the exception of
our own, of either adopting the de-
nominational system, or at least of
allowing free access to the clergy-
men of the religious denomination
professed by the children. The
means of adjusting the salaries so
as to bear a more rational propor-
tion to the work done is for the
public to consider.
The effects of the denomination-
al system are exemplified in the
New York Catholic Protectory,
which has just presented its Twelfth
Annual Report, An examination
of its working cannot fail to be in-
structive, inasmuch as it was found-
ed expressly to meet the difficulty
noticed above concerning the Ca-
tholic inmates of public institutions.
From the beginning it has been
looked on rather as an enemy than
a friend by those who work the en-
gine of the State. At the very least
it was regarded as a suspicious in-
truder into ground already occu-
pied. It was Catholic, therefore
sectarian ; therefore not a State
institution, and consequently not
to be supported by the State. Slate
funds could not go to teach Catho-
lic doctrine. But we need not re-
peat the arguments against it.
They are too well known, and arc
met once for all by the provision in
the constitution allowing liberty of
conscience and freedom of worsliip
to all members of the States If
moral and religious training be pro>
vided for children in all our public
institutions, it is against all con-
science, law, right, and the spirit
of the American people at large to
convert that moral and religious
training into a system of prosely-
tizing, no matter to what creed. In
the case of Catholic children sucii
a system, as known and shown, has
prevailed from the beginning; and
the first step in the* reformation
of a Catholic child has been to
seek by every means possible to
make it a renegade from its faith.
At the opening of the year there
were in the Protectory 1,842 chil-
dren; during the year 2,877; ^^'^
age (entitled to per capita contri*
butions), 1,871. To their support
Specimen Ckariiies.
303
til that was contributed of public
moneys was iht per capita allowance
for each child, which is common to
all the children of the institutions
examined. Nothing was allowed
by the Board of Education, al-
though the children are educated ;
nothing by "special appropria-
tions " ; nothing from ** theatre
licenses " ; nothing from ** excise
funds" — nothing in a word, from
My source at all, save the bare
pir capita allowance.
This is not an exceptional in-
sunce, but the normal relation be-
tween the Catholic Protectory and
the State. Within the twelve years
of its existence the whole amount
of State aid received by it, through
share of charity fund, special grants,
or from whatever source, has
amounted to $93,502 08 — that is to
»y, at not $8,000 per annum —
vhile its entire grant for building
purposes was $f 00,000.
The current expenses for the
past year were $211,349 87. This
indodes all outlays, except for the
coDStruction of buildings or other
permanent improvements. The^r
Af^ allowance received from the
comptroller covered $192,339 22
of this amount. It is to be borne
in mind that this allowance would
have been paid for the children in
any case, whatever institution they
had entered. Consequently, it is
no favor at all to the Protectory.
The remaining $19,010 65 had to
be met by the charity of private in-
dividuals or not met at all. Of
coarse the labor of the inmates and
the produce of the farm covered
a considerable sum ; but the age
of the children admitted to the
Ptotectory is limited to fourteen
Tttrs, and the vast majority oi
them are considerably under four-
tern, and consequently cannot con-
tribute by their labor so efficiently
as the inmates of the Society for
Juvenile Delinquents, whose aver-
age age runs so much higher.
But the expenses by no means
ended here. The Protectory is
still really in course of erection.
The aggregate expenditures during
the past year for buildings and
permanent improvements, ** all of
which were indispensable for the
carrying out of the mandate of the
State in the shelter and protection
of its wards," were $107,491 65. To
this heavy sum State and city con-
tributed nothing at all. The bare
per capita allowance was the only
public money received to aid in the
sheltering, educating, clothing, and
feeding of these wards of the State ;
while to all other public institutions,
even to institutions not strictly
public, liberal special grants or ap-
propriations from special funds
were made. The Catholic Protec-
tory alone was left to meet a bill
of $126,502 30 as best it might.
In its struggle for existence the
Protectory has had little in the
shape of aid for which to thank th«
State. There was great fear even
within the present year that t\\e per
capita allowance would also be
withdrawn, avowedly because the
Protectory was a Catholic institu-
tion, and consequently without the
range of assistance from public
funds. This is highly conscien-
tious, no doubt. But the report of
the State Treasurer for the past
year shows grant after grant to
seminaries and " sectarian " (to use
the orthodox word) institutions of
every kind, with the sole exception
of those professing the Catholic
faith. A glance at the whole work
done by the Protectory and the aid
afiforded it by the State shows the
following :
It has been twelve years in exist-
ence. Within that period it has
304
SpiiimiH Charities,
'* sheltered, clothed, aiTorded ele-
mentary education, and given in-
slniction in useful trades " to ^,771
children. This work cost in the
aggregate for current expenses
$1,257,189 41. To this sum the
S>uie con t rib u ted through the
1: am pt roller out of the city taxes
$*^*^S7t57^ ^^* 'i'his was merely
the p€r capita allowance still.
There remained, consequently, for
current expenses $199,610 75 to be
paid by whatever means possible.
Btit the Protectory had to be
built. Land had to be purchased,
biiiidings to be erected, and so on.
In a word, the Protectory, like all
other inslitutions, had to grow^
while there was a ravenous de-
mand, as there continues to be, for
admission withiii its walls. In
these twelve years the outlays for
land, buildings, and other perma-
nenl improvements an\ounted to
$So6,2ii 74. The amount of con-
tracts now being carried to com-
pletion on the girls' building, new
gas-house, etc., is over $100,000.
To help to meet this necessary sum
of $906,211 74 the State made a
munificent grant for building pur*
poses of $100,000 ; while all
its other grants, of whatever kind,
amounted to just $93*50^ 28. This
left another little bill for the Pro-
tectory to meet of $912,320 21 by
tiie best means it could* Is it to be
wondtfrt^d at that there rests on the
institution a floating debt of some
j|2ao,ooo, which seriously threatens
its existence ? Our wonder is,
with the encouragement which
it has received from the State and
city, that it continues to exist at
Sill, Private charity has been its
mainstay thus far ; but private
chanty has always an al>undanie
of pressing demands on it, and m.iy
at any time give out, for the very
best of reasons, in a case where
there is really no great
vate charity at all, 1
thus cared for, for who
sums have bren paid,
had in any case to b
by the State, and wouh
ed a costlier burden t
present hands. All '
that the State be just;
this institution in the
ner in which it assists <
tions, by grants from
funds, by appropnatio
same sources^ without
religion or no religion-
of instructing these
their own religion is 1
the results achieved* '
who have passed throi
tectory since its ope
iW0 hav€ iurmd &ut ^aih
for Catholic education
and moral training*
We have rescrvfd fo
examination of the %'^
entire amount expendc
for the ofHcers and %
every branch of the i
$iOi73^ 51 ; that is, U
tenth and one-clcvcntli
total of the current cx|
year. This is the yea
officials and employes <
tton which cared for a
within its walls for
3,877 children* Contn
the $34,SSo 52 paid
and employ<Js of the
Juvenile Delinquents
during the same peri
children, and the $39
by the Children*^ Aid
the teachers of 3,556 ch
trast the rt^snk of the \%
society- Then contra
lavished by ciiy and
special ap prop nations
on societies whose ch
such special grants cor
devoting so large a poj
Thi Blind Beggar.
305
means to salaries, with their persis-
tent deafness to the urgent appeals
of a society which has only good
to show everywhere and an army
of workers such as the Brothers and
Sisters, whose salary is embraced
in their food and dress. Let us
look at these things, and blush at
our pretensions to justice and liber-
ality. Why, it is not even honesty.
We are too conscientious to grant a
penny out of the educational fund
to Catholic children educated by
Catholics, while we give thousands
freely for the stowing away of Cath-
olic children in asylums that per-
vert them and can give no ac-
count of their stewardship. It is
time to drop "conscience," that
counterfeit so recently and so
admirably described by Dr. New-
man, and fall back on common-
sense. Of the institutions here
examined the Catholic Protectory
combines beyond comparison the
greatest economy with the most
extraordinarily successful results as
affecting the wards of the State.
Such an institution has a solemn
and the truest claim on the hearti-
est co-operation and favor of the
State.
THE BLIND BEGGAR.
I CANNOT pass those sightless eyes,
Or, if I pass them, I return,
Led by resistless sympathies
Above their ray less orbs to yearn,
And place within the outstretched palms
The patiently-awaited alms.
Then, as my footsteps homeward speed,
I dare with moving lips to pray
That God, who knows my inmost need,
May guide me on my darkened way.
And place within my outstretched palms
The patiently-awaited alms.
TOL. XXI. — to
306
Art You My Wifet
ARE YOU MY WIFE ?
BY TMB AUTHOS OF **FA1US BKPOXE THE WAK/' '^MVKSJItl
CHAPTER V,
4
>
'HWlft^
Angi^lique was having a field
day of it, and there was nothing she
liked better. It was an event when
Sir Simon dropped in at The Lilies
toward supper-time, and announced
his intention of staying to take pot-
luck ; but this evening's entertain-
ment was a very different affair
from these friendly droppings-in,
and Angelique was proportionately
flurried. Like most people who
have a strong will and a good tem-
per, she was easy to live with ; her
temper was indeed usually so well
controlled that few suspected hei
of having one. But on occasions like
the present they were apt to find
out their mistake ; it was not safe
to come in her way when she had
more than one extra dish on hand.
Franceline knew this ; and after
such interference in the way of
whipping the eggs and dusting the
glass and china as Angelique would
tolerate, she took herself off to the
woods for the remainder of the
afternoon. There was a cleared
space where the timber had been
cut down in spring, and here she
settled herself on the stem of a
felled tree, and opened her book.
It can hardly have been a very
interesting one ; for, after turning
over a few pages, she began to
look about her, and to listen to the
contralto recitative of a wood-pig-
eon with as much attention as if
that familiar dilettante performance
had been some striking novelty.
It was not long, however, before
sounds of a very different sort broke
on ht?r ear* Some one i^
piissionately, filling the vi
shrieks and sobs* Fr
cd to her feet and
could distinguish \\v:
of a cb[ld*s voice* anti, in
in the direction from whe
cec'ded, she soon c^imc uj
:4irK the daughter of a po
of the neighborhood, call
Ding, The child w.ts !i
heap on the grcjund, her
of school-books and li
the grass beside her, v,
body iind !ioul scented liti
to pieci^s by sobs,
" Why, Bessy, whatV th<
cried Franceline. ** Have
yourself?**
** No-O'O-o !** gji5ped B<
out lifting \\zt head,
" Have you broken %om
'^No-o-o-o!"
'* Has anything hap
auunniy ?"
'* Noo-o, but somelhin^
to. " And the cliild r^
head for a louder ftcre^im,
dro[) again with a Ihm
ground*
"Whales going to happi
Tl'II me, there's a goa
r o a K ed F r a n c e li nc* € foitc \
IjOjiiJe the littlCf pro'^tn
nnd trying to make it look
it hasa*t happened » perha
never happen. I might j
or somebody else might/*
.V dim ray of consulat
renlly dawned out of this
sLB on Bessy's mind ; %
Ar4^ Von My Wife f
1^7
her head, and, after suppressing
her sobs, exclaimed : ** Mammy's
a-goin* to be damned, she is !"
"Good gracious, child, what a
dreadful thing for you to^ay !** ex-
claimed Franceline, too much shock-
ed by the announcement to catch
the comical side of it at once^
** Who put such a naughty thing
into your head ?**
**it's Farmer Griggs as said it.
He says as how he knows mammy's
a-goin* to be damned!" And the
M>und of her own words was so
dreadful that it sent Bessy into a
(resh paroxysm, and she shrieked
louder than before.
** He's a wicked man, and you
mustn't mind him," said France-
line; *' he knows nothing about
it!"
**Ye-e-es he does!" insisted
Bessy. ** He-e-s not wicked ; . . .
he prea-a-a-ches every Sunday at
the cha-a-a-pel, he does."
"Then lie preaches very wicked
sermons, I'm sure," said Franceline,
who saw an argument on the wrong
side for Farmer Griggs' sanctity in
this evidence. " You must leave off
crying and not mind him."
But Bessy was not to be comfort-
ed by this negative suggestion. She
went on crying passionately, until
Franceline, finding that neither
scolding nor coaxing had the desir-
ed effect, threatened to tell Miss
Bulpit, and have her left out from
the next tea and cake feast ; where-
upon Bessy brightened up with ex-
traordmary alacrity, gathered up
her books and her dry bread and
apple, and proceeded to trot along
by the side of Franceline, who .sooth-
ed her still further by the promi.se
of a piece of bread and jam from
Angelique, if she gave up crying
•»liogethcr and told her all about
njaiumy and Farmer Griggs, An oc-
casional sob showed every no^v and
then that the waters had not quite
subsided; but Bessy did her best,
and before they reached The IJIies
she had given in somewhat disjoint-
ed sentences the following history
of the prophecy and what led to it.
The widow Bing — who, for motives
independent of all theological views,
had recently joined the Methodist
Connection, of which Farmer Griggs
was a burning and shining light —
had been laid up for the last month
with the rheumatism, and conse-
quently unable to attend the meet-
ing ; but last Sunday, being a good
deal better, though still unequal to
toiling up-hill to the chapel, which
was nearly half an hour's walk from
her cottage, she had compromised
matters by going to church, which
w;]s within ten minutes* walk of her.
This scandal spread quickly through
the Connection, and was not long
coming to Farmer Griggs* ears, who
straightway declared that the widow
Bing had thrown in her lot with the
trangressors, and was henceforth a
castaway whose name should be
blotted out. This fearful doom im-
pending over her mother had just
been made known to Bessy by Far-
mer Griggs* boy, who met her trip-
ping along with her basket on her
arm, and singing to herself as she
Vvent. The sight of the child*s gayety
under such appalling circumstances
was not a thing to be tolerated ; so
he conveyed to Bessy in very com-
prehensible vernacular the soothing
intelligence that her another was ** a
bad *un as was gone over to the
parson, as means the devil, and how
as folk as was too lazy to come to
chapel 'ud find it *arder a-goin*
down to the bottomless pit, where
there was devils and snakes and all
manner o* dreadful things a-blazin*
and a-burnin* like anythink !**
All this Franceline contrived to
elicit from Bessy by the time they
3o8
Are You My Wife?
reached The Lilies, where they found
Miss Merrywig sitting outside the
kitchen-window in high confabula-
tion with Ang^lique, busy inside at
her work. The day was intensely
lioty and the sun was still high
enough to make shade a necessity
of existence for everybody except
cats and bees; but there sat Miss
Merrywig under the scorching glare,
with a large chinchilla muff in her
la}).
** A muff!" cried Franceline,
standing aghast before the old lady.
** Dear Miss Merrywig, you don't
mean to say you want it on such a
day as this ! Why, it suffocates one
to look at it."
" Yes, my dear, just so. As you
say, it suffocates one to look at it,"
assented Miss Merrywig, " and I
assure you I didn't find it at ail
comfortable carrying it to-day; but
I only bought it yesterday, and I
wanted to let Ang^lique see it and
liear her opinion on it, you see. I
went in to Newford yesterday, and
they were selling off at Whilton's,
the furrier's, and this muff struck
me as such a bargain that I thought
I could fwt do better than take it.
Now, what do you think I gave for
it ? T>on\you say anything, Ang^-
lique ; I want to hear what made-
moiselle will say herself. Now, just
look well at it. Remember how
hot the weather is ; as you say, the
sight of fur suffocates one, and that
makes such a difference. My dear
mother used to say — and she Ufos a
judge of fur, you know ; she made a
voyage to Sweden with my father in
poor dear old Sir Hans Neville's
yacht, and that gave her such a know-
ledge of furs — you know Sweden is a
great place for aU sorts of furs —
well, she used to say, * If you want
the value of your money in fur, buy
it in the summer.' I only just men-
tion that to show you. But you
can see for yourself whether I got
the full value in this one. You see
it is lined with satin — and such
splendid satin ! As thick as a
board, and so glossy ! And it's silk
all through. I just ripped a bit
here at the edge to see if it was a
cotton back ; but it's all pure silk.
The young man of the shop was so
extremely polite, and so anxious I
should understand that it was a
bargain, he called ray attention to
the quality of the satin — which was
really very kind of him ; for of course
that didn't matter to him. But they
are wonderfully civil at Whilton's.
1 remember buying some swan's-
down to trim a dress when I was
a girl and I was bridesmaid to La-
dy Arabella Wywillyn — they lived
at the Grange then — and it was, I
must say, a most excellent piece of
swan's-down, and cleaned like new,
I asked the young man if he re-
membered it — I meant, of course,
the marriage. Dear me, what a
sensation it did make ! But he did
not, which was of course natural, as
it was long before he was born ; but
I thought he might have heard the
old people of the place speak of it.
Well, now that you've examined it,
tell me, what do you think I gave
for it?"
Franceline was hovering on the
brink of a guess, when Ang^lique,
who had returned to her saucepans,
suddenly reappeared at the win-
dow, and, spying Bessy's red face
staring with all its eyes at the
chinchilla muff — which looked un-
commonly like a live thing that
might bite if the fancy took it, and
was best considered from a respect-
ful distance — called out : ** What's
that child doing there V* France-
line, thankful for the timely res-
cue, began to pour out volubly in
French the story of Farnaer Griggs
and the widow Bing.
Are YoH
** It's a shame these sort of peo-
ple shmUd be allowed to terrify the
poor people," said Miss Merrywig
when she had taken it all in. ** I
wonder the vicar does not do some-
thing. He ought to take steps to
5top it; there's no saying what may
l>c the end of it. But dear Mr.
Langrove is j^ kind and so very
much afraid of annoying any-
body!"
While Miss Merrywig was deliv-
ering this opinion Ang^lique was
making good the bread-and-jam
promise for Bessy, who stood
watching the operation with dis-
tended eyes through the open win-
dow, and saw with satisfaction tliat
the grenadier was laying on the jam
very thick.
**Now, you're not going to cry
any more, and you're going to be a
good girl?" said Franceline before
she let Bessy seize the tempting
Mice that Ang^lique held out to
her.
Bessy promrsed unhesitatingly.
** Stop a minute," said France-
line, as the child stretched up on
tiptoe to clutch the prize. ** You
must not repeat to poor, sick mam-
my what that naughty boy said to
you. Do you promise .>" But the
proximity of bread and jam was not
potent enough jto hurry Bessy into
committing herself to this rash
promise. What between the sudden
vision of " devils and snakes
a-Watin* and a-burnin' " which the
demand conjured up again, and
what between the dread of seeing
the bread and jam snatched away
by the grenadier, who stood there,
brown and terrible, waiting a signal
from Franceline, her feelings were
too much for her; there was a pre-
paratory sigh and a sob, and down
streamed the tears again.
**rd better go home with her,
and tell the poor woman myself,"
My Wife?
309
said Franceline, appealing to Miss
Merrywig.
'* Yes, you come 'ome and tell
mammy!" sobbed the child, who
seemed to have some vague belief
in Franceline's power to avert the
threatened doom.
" I dare say that will be the saf-
est way, and Tm sure it's the kind-
est," said Miss Merrywig ; " but it
will be a dreadfully hot walk for
you on the road, my dear, with no
shelter but your sunshade. I had
better go with you. I don't mind
the heat; you see I'm used to it."
Franceline could not exactly see
how this fact of Miss Merrywig's
company would lessen the heat to
her ; but it was meant in kindness,
so she assented. The meadow-
lands went flowering down to the
river, richly planted with fine old
trees, and only separated from the
garden and its adjoining fields by
an invisible iron rail, so that the
little cottage looked as if it were in
the centre of a great private park.
A short cut through the fields took
you out on the road in a few min-
utes, and the trio had not gone far
when they saw Mr. Langrove walk-
ing at a brisk pace on before them,
his umbrella tilted to one side to
screen him from the sun, that was
striking him obliquely on the right
ear. Franceline clapped her hands
and called out, and they soon came
up to him.
•' What are you doing down here,
may I ask } Having your face burn-
ed, eh ?" said the vicar familiarly.
Franceline burst out with her
story at once. The vicar made a
short, impatient gesture, and they
all walked on together, Bessy hold-
ing fast by Franceline's gown with
one hand, while the other was doing
duty with the bread and jam.
" Really, my dear Mr. Langrove,"
broke in Miss Merrywig, "you
310
Are You My Wifet
ought Ip lake steps ; excuse me for
saying so, but you really ought. It's
quite dreadful to think of the man's
frightening the poor people in this
way. You really should put a slop
to it/'
" My good lady," replied the
vicar, " if you can tell me how it's
to be done, there's nothing will give
me greater pleasure."
** Well, of course you know best ;
but it seems to me something ought
to be done. The poor people are
all falling into dissent as fast as
they can ; it's quite melancholy to
think of it — it really is. You'll ex-
cuse me for saying so — for it must
be very painful to your feelings,
and I never do interfere with what
doesn't concern me; though of
course what concerns you, as our
pastor, and the Church of England,
does concern us, all of us — but I
really think you are too- forbear-
ing. You ought to enforce your
authority a little more strictly."
** Authority !" echoed the vicai
with a mild, ironical laugh. *' What
authority have I to enforce } Show
me that first !"
" Dear me / But an ordained
minister of the church, the church
of the realm — surely, that gives you
authority V
" Just as much as you and other
members of the church choose to
accredit me with, and no more,"
said Mr. Langrove, with as much
bitterness in the emphasis as he was
capable of. " If Griggs thinks fit
to set liimself up as a preacher,
and every man, woman, and child
in my )xnrish choose to desert me
and go over to him, I can no more
prevent them than I can prevent
their buying their sugar at market
instead of getting it from the gro-
cers."
" And who is Monsieur Greegs ?"
inquired Franceliae, who was back-
ward in gossip, and knew few of
the local notabilities except by
sight.
** Monsieur Griggs is a very re-
spectable farmer, a shrewd judge of
cattle, who knows a great deal
about the relative merits of short-
horns and the Devonshire breed,
and all about pigs and poultry,"
said the vicar with mild sar-
casm.
" And he is a minister too !"
** After a fashion. He elected
himself to the office, and it would
seem he has plenty of followers.
He started services on week-days
when he found that I had commenc-
ed having them on Fridays, and
drew away the very portion of the
congregation they were specially
intended for; and he preaches on
Sundays. You have a sample of his
style here," nodding at Bessy, wlio
was licking her fingers with great
gusto, having finished her last
niouthful.
" Is it not dreadful!" exclaimed
Miss Mcrrywig. " And the peoi>le
are so infatuated ; they actually
tell me that they understand this
man better than their clergymen,
that he speaks ))lainer to them, and
understands better what they want,
and that sort of thing. They don't
care about doctrine, you see, or
controversy ; they like to be tilked
to in a kind of conversational way
by one of their own class who
speaks Ixid grammar like them-
selves. They tell you to your fjce
that they don't understand the
clergyman — I assure you they do;
that his sermons are too learned,
and only fit for gentle folk. Yoa
see they are so ignorant, the poor
people ! It's very melancholy to
think of."
'*They like better to be told
they'll go to hell and be damned,
if they go to their own church;
Are You My IVifef
3"
they ought not to be allowed to go
to hear such things. I'll speak to
widow Bing, and make her promise
me she'll never go there again,"
said Franceline peremptorily. •
**No, no, my dear child; you
mustn't do anything of the kind,"
said the vicar quickly. " No one
has a right to meddle with the
people in these things; if she likes
to go to the dissenters, no one caii
prevent her."
**But if she was fond of going in-
to the gin-shop and getting tipsy,
you'd have a right to meddle and
to prevent her, would you not V*
inquired Franceline.
"That's a different thing," said
the vicar, who in his own mind
thought the parallel was not so
very wide of the mark.
** I can't see it," protested Fran-
celine with an expressive shrug.
**If you have a right to prevent
their bodies from getting tipsy, and
killing themselves or somebody else
perhaps, why not their souls ?"
I'he vicar laughed a complacent
little laugh at this cogent reason-
ing of his young friend. " Unfor-
tunately," he said, ** we have no au-
thority for interfering with people
in the management of their souls in
this country. Such a proceeding
would be quite unconstitutional ;
the state only legislates for the
salvation of their bodies."
"Dear me, just soT ejaculated
Miss -Merry wig. ** I remember my
dear mother telling me that a very
t'Icver man — I'm not sure if ht wasn't
a member of Parliament, but any-
how he made speeches //; public —
and he said — I really think it was
»n electioneering speech just at the
time the Catholic Emancipation
hill was being passed — that in tliis
fne country every man had a right
(0 go to the devil his own way.
How exceedingly shocking! To
think of people's going to the devil
at all! But that's just it. They
prefer to go their own way, and,
as you say, the law can't prevent
them. It's entirely a question of
personal influence, you see."
** Then perhaps Sir Simon could
do something," suggested France-
line; "he's master here, 'and he
makes everybody do what he likes.
Why don't you speak to him, mon*
sieur ?"
" He might do something, per-
haps, if anybody could ; but, un-
fortunately, he does not see it," ob-
served the vicar.
"I'll speak to him. I'll make
him see it," said Franceline, who
flew with a woman's natural instinct
to arbitrary legislation as the readi-
est mode of redressing wrongs, and
had, moreover, a strong faith in her
own power of making Sir Simon
" see it."
" But is this not rather — of course
you know best, only it do^s strike
me that it is a case for the bi-
shop's interference rather than the
squire's," said Miss Merry wig. She
was a remnant of the old times
when a bishop could hold his own ;
that was before ritualism came
into vogue.
" Yes," cried Franceline, with
sudden exultation, " of course it's
the bishop who must do it. You
ought to write to him, monsieur !"
Mr. Langrove smiled. " The bi-
shop has no more power to inter-
fere with the proceedings of my
parishioners than you have."
*' Then what has he power to
do? What are bishops good for. ^"
demanded the obtuse young Pa-
pist.
But Mr. Langrove, being a loyal
"churchman," was not going to
enter on such slippery, debatable
ground as this. He was happily
saved from the disagreeable pro«
312
Arf YmMy Wifef
cess of beatmg about the bush for
an answer by the fact of their be*
ing close by widow Bing's door,
from wliich there issued disliuctly
a twofold sound as of somebody
crying and somebody else exhort-
ing, Bessy no sooner caught it
than she swelled the chorus of
lamentation by breaking forth into
a loud cry. If there was any weep-
ing to be done, Bessy was not the
one to be behindhand. And now
she was resolved to do her very
best ; for perhaps the prophecy was
already coming truei and mammy
was beginning to be a prey to the
snakes and devils.
**Stay here and keep that child
quiet," said the vicar hastily, ** I
hear Miss B«! pit's voice, I had
better go in alone/'
" He is greatly to be pitied, poor
Ml'* Langrove ! 1 think/* said Fran-
eel ine, as she turned back with
Miss Merry wig. '* I think you all
ought to write to the bishop for
him."*
" Oh 1 that W4>uid be a scandal !
Besides^ you heard him say the bi-
shop could not help him/' said the
old lady.
**What a blessed thing it is to
be a Catholic \" exclaimed France-
line, laughing. '* Wt have no far-
mers* boys or anybody else med^
ling with our priests ; but then we
have the Pope, w'ho settles e very-
things and everybody submits.
You ought to invite the Pope to
come over and delis^er you from all
your troubles i"
The table was spread on the
grass-plot in front of the cottage.
Franceline had made it pretty with
ferns and flowers^ and then sat
aown under the porch, in her white
muslin dress and pink sash, to con-
verse with her doves while waiting
for Hir Simon and his two friends.
Her doves were great (
her ; she had been so us
ing to them ever since
child, complaining lo tl
small griefs and telling t
little joys, that she cam
they understood her,
their plaintive coo or
crystal laughter as an
and sympathetic respons
the soft-breastcdi opal**
messengers is upon her
clutching the soft wl
sharply enough with its*
and answering her cai
that loWf inarticulate si
sounds like the yeartiin
prisoned spirit. Franc
some seed out of a box
dow'-sill beside her, an<
feed it out of her banc
the little, pearly head V
her palm with a smile o
approval. At the soun
steps crunching the gr.
back of the cottage shi
feeding her dove, to gc
the gentlemen. But the
one.
** I fear 1 am before
said Mr. de Wintont"bi
ed to fmd the others I
me.^* (O Glide, Older
rication is this ?) " The
about half an hour ag
me to meet them in the \
where we were to come c
Have I come too soon ?
**Oh! not at all/* said
girl graciously ; ** my
come out in a moment
not very busy, as you sc
" You are fond of ani
ceive,"
"Animals! Oh! doi
sweet little doves anim
ed Franceline indignant
worse than papa. Whe
too much and disturb htti
their part, he always i
/
Are You My Wife?
313
Ym fond of the birds, but they are
noisy little things ' ! The idea of
speaking of them as * the birds ' ! It
hurts my feelings very much."
** Then pray instruct me, so that I
may not have the misfortune to do
to too !" entreated Glide. " Tell me
by what name I must call them."
^Oh ! you may laugh. I am
used to being laughed at about my
doves ; I don't mind it," said Fran-
celine with a pretty toss of her
small, haughty head.
" I am not laughing at you ; I
should be very sorry to call any-
thbg you loved by a name that
hurt you," protested the young
man with a warmth that made Fran-
celine look up from her dove at
him ; the fervor of the glance that
met her did not cause her to avert
her eyes, and brought no glow over
her face. Three of the doves
come flying down from the medlar-
tree, scattering the starry-white
blossoms in their flight. After mak-
ing a few circles in the air, one
perched on Franceline's shoulder,
and two alighted on her head.
CUde thought it was the prettiest
picture he had ever seen ; and as
he watched the soft little creatures
nestling into the copper-colored
hair, he wondered if this choice of
a nest did not betray a little cun-
ning, mingled with their native
simplicity. But Franceline could
not see the performance from this,
picturesque point of view. The
tvo on her head were fighting,
each trying to push the other off.
She pat up her hand to chase them
away, but the claws of one got en-
tangled in her hair, and the more
it struggled, the more difficult it
became to escape. Glide could not
but come to her assistance; he
disengaged the tenacious rose-leaves
Hry deftly from the glossy meshes,
tnd set the prisoner free.
"Naughty little bird!" said
Franceline, shaking back her flush-
ed face, and smoothing the slightly-
dishevelled braids ; and then, with-
out a word of thanks to her deliver-
er, or otherwise alluding to the mis-
conduct of her pets, she walked
on towards the summer-house, and
broke out into observations about
the beauties of the neighborhood,
asking her companion what he had
seen and how he liked the country
round DuUerton. She spoke Eng-
lish as fluently as a native, with
only a slight foreign accentuation
of the vowels that was too piquant
to be a blemish ; but every now and
then a literal translation reminded
you unmistakably that the speaker
was a foreigner.
Glide thought the accent and the
Gallicisms quite charming ; he was,
however, a little startled when the
young lady, in pointing out the
various places of the surrounding
parts, and telling him who owned
them, informed him very gravely
that the pretty Mrs. Lawrence, who
lived in that Elizabethan house
with a clock-tower rising behind
the wood, was thirty years younger
than her rich husband, and had
married him for his " propriety," as
she was very poor and had none
of her own.
Franceline noticed the undis-
guised astonishment caused by this
announcement, and, blushing up
with a little vexation, exclaimed :
** I mean for his property ! You
know in YxtViz\\proprUU means pro-
perty." But after this she insisted
on talking French. Glide protested
he liked English much better, and
vowed that she spoke it in perfec-
tion ; but it was no use.
" English is too serious for con-
versation, and too stiff," said Fran-
Celine, revenging herself for her
blunder on the innocent medium of
3»4
Arr y,>u Mv Wi/ff
it| as we are all apt to do- '* It is
f>nly fit for sermons and speech e?>.
h\ French you can talk for an honr
with nut saying anything, and it
duesu't matter. French is like a
lights airy little carriage that only
wants a touch to send it spinning
Along, and, once going, it will go on
im ever; but English is a stage-
coach» stately and top-heavy, a Ad
won't go without passengers to
steady it and horses to draw it,
Fnolij^h thoughts ahvays sound so
rniuih more roolish in English than
in French. Feaple who are not
serious and wise should always
talk French/*
" Ah \ mere I. now I sec vvhy you
insiiit on my talking it," said Glide,
laughing.
"It would have been a rash
judgment; I could not tell whether
you were wise or not/*
*'' I dare say you are right, though
it never occurred to me before,"
he remarked defjrecatingly. "Our
rohitst Anglo-Saxon is rather a
clumsy vehitle for couversaliou
compared with yours/*
** 1 did not call it clumsy \ I said
stately," corrected Franceline.
CHde began to fear he was mak-
ing himself disagreeable ; that she
was taking a di'^like to him. Hap-
liily, before he committed biiusclf
t\irlher, M. de la Bourbonais came
nut and joined them. He was soon
lol lowed by Sir Simon and the ad"
miral, and the little party sat down
10 Angeiique^s ckefs-if^tivn under
the shade of the medlArlrec, with
the doves sou nth 11 g their bugle in
the adjoining copne. The sim was
seltit^g, and sent a stream of orange
and rofe colored liglil into the gar-
den and over the group at the table ;
a breeze came np from the river,
n tittering the strawberry leaves and
Fran eel Tue's hnjr, and blowincf the
Ijcavy scent of new-juown bay into
her face. It happened-'
l>y ch:mce, unless that
old A n gel i que had a h.
that Glide was seale<l 11
and as the leg of ihe
made a space between \
Simon, it was natttral tl
young people should Ik
their own resources fo
tion, while their elders \
end talked incessantly c
and people that neUhei
Franceline' cared aboi
the first time in her li
found herself the <-
homage and nttci;
yotmg yet main re mai
experience was decidedl
elide was determined t
bad impression that he i
had made, and to mn !
good graces or die in th«
was not a very diffuul'
the zest wiih which he :
proved that it was not a c
one. He bent all the
his mind to the sole ei
esting and entertain in
soon the undisgUT^cd p!
shoue in the bstener*s h
that he was succeeding. ^
stinct which quickens ih*
of young gentlemen in CI
ton's present state of ni
not long in hitting 11 pn
jects that most excited
ity. She had never ht
the woods of Dullcrtoi
was of an age to observe
it was like a !li^!u in a h
all these far-off conn trie
ried there in imagioat
vivid descriptions of oi
seen them alL Cbdc
wonder at himself as !
he had never suspected
such brilliant convcrsati
as he was now disfihiyin
surprised to see how
dreamy, dark eyes had
Are You My Wife?
315
the various countries he spoke of,
ind what an enlightened interest
she took in the natural history of
each. She wanted to know a great
deal about the splendid tropical
birds that' have no voices, and
about the albatross and other mar-
vellous inhabitants of the skies in
far-away lands ; and Glide lent him-
^f with the utmost condescension
to her catechising. But when he
came to talking of Rome and the
Catacombs, the eyes kindled with a
different sort of interest.
** And you saw the very spot
where S. Cecilia was buried, and
S. Agatha, and S. Agnes, who was
only thirteen when she was martyr-
ed? Oh ! how I envy you. I would
walk all the way barefooted from
this to see those sacred places.
And the Colosseum, where the wild
beasts tore the martyrs to pieces !**
She clasped her hands and looked
at him with the look of awe and
wonder that we might bestow on
some one who had seen a vision.
" And the tombs of the aposties, and
the prison where S. Peter was when
the angel came and set him free V^
" Yes, I saw them all ; it was a
^Tcat privilege," said Glide, con-
scious of realizing for the first time
bow great.
"Indeed it was!" murmured
Franceiine, as if speaking to her-
self; then suddenly looking up at
him, '* Did it not make you long to
be a martyr ?**
Glide hesitated. The temptation
to answer " yes " was very strong.
The dark, appealing eyes were fixed
oa him with an expression that it
was dreadful to disappoint; but he
was too honest and too proud to
«tcal her approval under false
colors.
**No, I am afraid I did not. I
itw it all too much from the his-
torical point of view. The triumphs
of the Christian heroes were mixed
up in my memory with too many
classical associations ; and even if it
had not been so, I confess that the
phase of martyrdom recalled by the
Colosseum and the Catacombs is
not the one to stir my slow heroic
pulses. There is too much of the
ghastly . physical strife on the one
hand, and of wanton cruelty on the
other; the contemplation rather
shocks and harrows than stimulates
me. I did once feel something like
what you describe, but it was not
in Ronie."
" Where was it ?" inquired Fran-
ceiine eagerly.
"It was in Africa, amongst a
tribe of savages. I remember feel-
ing it would be a grand use of a
man's life to devote it to rescuing
them from their deplorable state of
mental darkness and physical degra-
dation ; and that if one died in the
struggle, like Francis Xavier, an out-
cast on the sea-shore, forsaken by
every visible helpmate, it would be
as noble a death as a man could
wish to die."
" I wonder you did not follow-
the impulse," said Franceiine.
" You might have converted thou-
sands of those poor savages, and
been a second S. Francis Xavier,
It must have been a great struggle
not to try it."
Glide did not laugh, but went on
gravely dipping his strawberries in-
to sugar for a moment, and then
said :
" No, I can't pretend even to the
negative glory of a struggle. I am
ashamed to say the desire was a
mere transient caprice. I got the
length of spending ten days learn-
ing the language, and by that time
the dirt and stupidity and cruelty
of the neophytes had done for my
apostolic vocation ; the debased
condition of the poor creatures was
3^
An Ymi My Wi/cf
brought home to nie so fearfully
that 1 gave il up in disgust. I dare
say it was very cowardly, very
selfish \ but, looking back on it, I
can't help feelitig that the savage*;
had no great loss. U takes more
than an impulse of emotional pity
to make a hem of the Francis
Xavier type ; one can't be an apos-
tle by mere wiHing and wishing."
** Yes, but one can/* denied Fran-
Celine; ** that is just the one kind
of here* thaf it only wants will to
be. One cannot be a warrior or a
|)oet^ or that kind of thing, because
that requires genius ; but one may
be a martyr or an apostle simply by
willing. Love is the only genius that
one wants ; it svas love thai turned
the twelve fishermen into apostles
and heroes, you know/'
" Just so ; but I didn't love the
savages."
** Perhaps you would if yon had
tried/'
**I)o yon think it is jiossible to
love any one by trying?'*
'*WelX I dou*t know; if they
were very unhappy and wanted my
love very much, I think 1 might/*
Clidc stole a quick glance at her;
bnt Franccbne was peeling a pear,
and evidently an undue portion of
her thovjghts were concentrated on
that oi>e ration and % care not to let
the juice run on her fingers, " I'hen
yon think U was very wicked of me
not to have loved those savages?'*
he began again.
** I don't say it was wicked. If
they were so very dirty and cruel, it
must have been hard enough ; but
you might have fojnd another tribe
that would hiive been more lov-
able, and that wanted fjuite as much
to be c i V i h it e d .^ nd co n ve r t ed — n i c e»
stmple savages, like wild flowers or
dumb ann\i;di», that would have
been d<?rile and gratefnh perhaps
revetigehil too ; but then when they
w^ere Christians they •
conquered that — "
Clide laughed ontrighl
** I don't think your %i
converting the savages
much superior to mine
'* it certainly would not
through my three days*t
France line looked at
laughed too — that clca
laugh of herSf that vrai
gious ; they both felt vcr
get her.
"And what was your
tion ?" she asked, pcrfci
scioys of mty indiscretic
are yon going to do now
*' rhis morning my
made up to go abroad
few day St and recoinnur
life of busy rdlene^x; bi
ther has upset all my ph
*SMy father r'
** Yes. h ought 1
you much ; it is not .
fjrst time that M* dc b
has proved the good gei
other. He was kind cue
me talk to him of mf^
give my folly the benefit
dom; he made me feel
leading a very selfish, g<
thing sort of life, and \
how wrong it was \ \n t
for me what I wanted to
savages. He taught lUi
duty was J and I promt
wotdd try to do it/*
" Ah \ then perhaps 3
ing to be a hero after
Fran Celine, a gleam of
sparkling in her face ^gs
" I fear not ; at leavt,
very prosaic, humdrum si
ism. I am going to sta;
and try to be useful to a
in a quiet way on my u
ty/*
** Oh ! 1 am so gbd.
shall see you again* Vo
Are Y0uMy Wife?
3^7
to come and see Sir Simon some-
times, will you not ?"
** Yes. I will come in any case to
sec M. de la. Bourbonais," said
(iide. " His advice will be invalua-
l>le 10 me; and he was so kind as to
promise that he would always be
i:Ud to give it to me."
The sweet dimples broke out
with a blush of pleasure and pride
in Franceline's face ; it was a de-
liijht to her to hear any one speak
<<» of her father, and Glide had seen
Nt) many wise and clever people in
iits travels that his admiration and
rt-spcct implied a great deal. If
ihc young man had been a Talley-
rand bent on attaining some dip-
lomatic end, he could not have dis-
l^ayed greater cunning and tact.
** It s a great come down from
the grand African scheme, you see,"
he observed, laughing; "but under
*uch good guidance there is no say-
ing what I may not achieve. I may
turn out a hero in the end."
** If you do your duty perfectly,
"i course you will," replied Fran-
• clinc confidently. " Papa says the
rral heroes are those that do their
»laly best and get no praise for it."
*0h! but I should like a little
praise; you would not grudge me
I little now and then if I deserved
«t?" And the look that accompa-
ined the question would have most
•ully explained the praise he covet-
t^<l. if Franceline had not been as
inlearncd in that species of lan-
;;uaj;e as one of her doves.
** lUess me ! how beautiful that
•hild is!" said the admiral in a
*i^t0 voce, " Just look at her color ;
lid you ever see anything to come
"|» lo ii ? It reminds me of that
'•"led Hebe that we went to see to-
gether in Florence ; you remember,
Harness .>"
I'he excitement of talking had
Woiighl an exquisite pink glow into
Franceline's cheeks, and made hei
eyes sparkle with unwonted bril-
liancy. Her father listened to the
flattering outburst of the old sailor
with a bright smile of satisfaction,
not venturing to look at Franceline,
lest he should betray his acquies-
cence too palpably.
" And she's the very picture of
health too !" remarked the admiral.
At this Raymond turned and
looked at her.
" How like her mother she is !"
said Sir Simon, appealing to him ;
but he had no sooner pttered the
words than he wished himself silent.
The smile died immediately out of
M. de la Bourbonais* face, and a
sharp spasm of pain passed over it
like a shadow. Sir Simon guessed
at once what caused it : the bright
and delicate color, that the admiral
had aptly compared to the trans*
parency of tinted marble, reminded
him of Armengarde when death
had cast its terrible beauty over
her.
** Like her in beauty and in many
other things," resumed the baronet
in a careless, abstracted tone. *' But,
happily, Franceline does not know
what delicacy means ; she has nev-
er known a day's illness in her life,
I believe."
But this reassuring remark did
not bring back the smile into the
father's face ; he fixed his eyes on
Franceline with an uneasy glance,
as if looking for something that he
dreaded to see there.
" She must find this place dull,
pretty little pet," observed the
admiral, who saw nothing to check
his admiring comments.
" It never occurred to me before,
but I dare say she does," assented
the baronet ; " and she's old enough
now to want a little amusement. We
ought to have thought of tliat al-
ready, Raymond ; but we're a selSsh
3T8
Are You My Wife?
lot, the best of us. We forget that
we were young ourselves once upon
a time. I'll tell you what it is, De
Winton, we'll carry the child off
one of these days to London, and
show her the sights and take her to
the opera. You'd like that, Fran-
celine, would you not ?'* And shift-
ing his chair to the other side of
the table, he set himself down by
her side in an affectionate attitude.
The project was discussed with
great animation, Francelinc being
evidently delighted with it.
" My step-mother was to be in
town next week," said Glide, *' and
I'm sure she would be very happy
to give her services as chaperon, if
you have not any more privileged
person in view."
" That's not a bad idea. I had
not thought of that. I'm glad you
mentioned it. I'll write to her this
very night," said Sir Simon. " Mean-
time, it strikes me that it would be
a very good thing if you learned to
ride, Miss Franceline; it's a disgrace
to us all to think of your having en-
tered your eighteenth year without
being taught this accomplishment.
We must set about repairing your
neglected education at once. How
about a pony, Glide } Which of the
nags would suit best, do you think .>"
'* I should say Rosebud would be
about the nicest you could find for
a lady; she's as gentle as a lamb,
and as smooth-footed as a cat."
"Rosebud!" echoed M. de La
Bourbonais. " Mon cher . . ."
" Yes, I think you're right," said
Sir Simon, completely ignoring the
interruption. " Rosebud is a gem
of a lady's horse. We'll have a few
private lessons in the park first, and
let her canter over the turf before
we show off in public."
" Mon cher Simon," broke in
Raymond again, " it cannot be
thought of. Franceline would not
like it ;'she does not care, I assure
you ..."
**0 petit papa!" cried France-
line with a little, entreating gesture
** Ah ! is it so indeed ? But, iiiy
child, consider . . ."
** Consider, Monsieur le Philoso-
phe, that you don't understand iht
matter at all ; you just leave it to
us to settle, and attend to what De
Winton is saying to you."
This last was a difficult injunc-
tion, inasmuc^h as the admiral wa^
saying nothing. ** Gome along with
me out of the reach of busybodies.
Franceline," he continued, and,
drawing her arm within his own, they
walked off to the summer-house,
where Glide, without being invited,
followed them. There was a long
and most interesting conference,
which terminated in Franccline's
standing on tiptoe to be kissed by
her old friend, and declaring that if
was very naughty of him to spoil
her so.
** Show him in," said the vicar,
laying down his pen, and a stoni,
rosy cheeked, fair-haired young
man in corduroys and top-boots
was ushered into the study.
"Well Griggs, I'm glad to see
you. Sit down," said Mr. Langrove
in the bland, familiar tone of kind-
ness that put simple folk at ease
with him directly. ** You've come
to consult me on a matter of import-
ance, eh .^"
"Of importance," echoed the
farmer, twirling his round hat be-
tween his knees and contemplating
his boots — " of great importance,
sir."
" Well, let me hear what it is. If
I can help you in aqy way, you mav
count upon me," replied the vicar
encouragingly, drawing his chair-
little nearer.
" Thank you, I dor/t want help,"
Are You My Wifef
319
be said with a significant emphasis.
** I know where to look for it when
I do," turning up his eyes sanctimo-
niously to heaven.
** Certainly, that help is ever at
hand for us. But what is your bus-
iness with me ?**
"You'll not take it an(iiss if I
speak frankly, sir. We ran none of
us do more than bear testimony to
the truth, according to our lights,"
explained the farmer; and, Mr. Lan-
grove having by a grave nod ac-
ceded to this proposition, he re-
sumed : ** You contradicted your-
self in the pulpit last Sunday. It's
been repeated to me that you found
fault with my teaching concerning
faith and works ; and so, for sake of
them as look to me for guidance, I
came up to hear what views you
held on that head, as the gospel of
the day said : * And every man shall
be judged according to his works.'
Now, sir, it appears to me the end
J>f the sermon was a flat contradic-
tion of the beginning."
"Can you name the contradic-
tory passages.'" demanded the vi-
car, after an imperceptible start.
*Wcll, I can't say as I can," ad-
mitted the farmer; "but I'd know
them if I heard them."
Mr. Lan grove rose, and took
down a large manuscript volume
from a shelf directly over his head.
0|)ening it at random, his eye fell
ujion the text : " Learn of me, for I
am meek and humble of heart." He
lingered on it for a second, then
turned over the leaves, and, having
found the place he wanted, he read
aloud the first and last few pages
of the preceding Sunday's sermon.
"Where do you see the contra-
diction ?" he inquired, looking up
and laying his hand on the page.
"VVell, as you read it now, I
can't say it sounds much amiss," re-
plied Mr. Griggs, lifting his feet and
bringing them down again with a
dubious thud. " I expect the fault
was in the way of saying it. You
don't speak plain enough ; if you
spoke plainer, folks would most
likely understand you better. Many
as have joined the Connection say
as it was that as drove them to us.
They couldn't understand you ; they
often came away puzzled."
A transient flush rose and died
out in the vicar's face, and his lips
trembled a little. But Farmer Griggs
did not notice this ; he was looking
at his boots, and pondering on the
wisdom of his own words. Mr.
Langrove had been pretty well
trained to forbearance of late years,
and, though he was too humble-
minded and too honest to pretend
to be indifferent to the humiliating
interference he had to suffer, he
was surprised to find how keenly
he smarted under the present one,
and mortified to feel how alive the
old man was in him, in spite of the
many blows he had dealt him. He
never, since he was a school-boy,
was conscious of such a strong de-
sire to kick a fellow-creature ; and
this rising movement was no
sooner strangled by an imperious
effort of self-control than it rose
up instantaneously in the milder
form of an impulse to open the door
and show his visitor out. Before
this second rebellion of the old
man was put down. Farmer Griggs,
mistaking the' vicar's momentary
silence for a tacit acknowledg-
ment of his shortcomings, observ-
ed :
" It's a solemn thing to break the
word ; and the plainer and simpler
one speaks the better it is for those
that hear it, though it mayn't be
such a credit for them that speak
it. There's them that say you think
more about making a fine sennon
than doing good to souls — which is
320
Are You My Wifet
no better than spiritual pride. You
can't shut folks' mouths^ no more
than you can stop the river from run-
ning; they will say what they think."
" Yes, and that is why we are
commanded to think no evil," re-
joined the vicar. " We are too ready
to judge of other people's motives,
when in all conscience we are hard
set enough to judge our own. If
we go to church to pick holes in
the sermon, as you say, we ha^ bet-
ter stay away. The preacher may
be a very poor one, but, trust me,
while he does his best, those who
listen in the right spirit will learn
no harm from him ; those who have
not that spirit would do well to ask
for it, and meantime to study the
cliapter of S. James on the use of
the tongue."
The vicar rose, as if to intimate
that the audience was at an end.
** Well, there may be something
in that," remarked the farmer, ris-
ing slowly ; " but, for my own part,
1 never had much opinion of James.
Paul is the man ; if it hadn't been
lor Paul, it's my belief the whole
concern would have been a failure.*
Good-morning, sir." And without
waiting to see the effect of this
startling announcement of his pri-
vate views, Farmer Griggs bowed
himself out.
**And these are the men who
take the word out of our mouths !
Did he come of his own accord, or
was he set on to it by Miss Bulpit V
was the vicar's reflection, as he
stood watching the farmer's retreat-
ing figure from the window. " It is
more than I can bear ; some steps
must be taken. It's high time for
Harness to interfere ; it's too bad
of him if he refuses."
Mr. Langrove took up his hat,
and went straight to the Court.
* This answer was actually made not long ago to
a Catholic priest by a Protestant deigyman.
** Depend upon it," said Sir Si-
mon when the clergymen had re-
lated the recent interview — " depend
upon it, Griggs is too shy a chap to
have done it on his own hook ; take
my word for it, there is a woman
at the bottom of it."
** That is just what makes it so
serious. Griggs is a poor, ignorant,
conceited fellow that one can't feel
very angry with ; one is more in-
clined to laugh at him and pity him.
But it is altogether unpardonable in
such a person as Miss Bulpit; it's
her being at the bottom of it that
makes the case hard on me."
Sir Simon agreed that it was.
"Then what do you advise mc
to do .^ What steps are you pre-
pared to take.^" asked Mr. Lan-
grove.
" My advice is that we leave her
alone," replied Sir Simon. " We're
none of us a match for womankind.
She circumvented me about that bit
of ground for the Methodist cliapel.
She's too many guns for both of us
together, Langrove; if you get into
a quarrel with the old lady, shell
raise the parish against you with
port wine and flannel shirts, and
you'll go to the wall. After all,
why need you worry about it ! Let
her have her say. They love to hear
themselves talk, women do; you
can't change them, and you
wouldn't if you could. Come, now.
Langrove, you know you wouldn't.
Halloo ! here's something to look
at !" And he started from his semi-
recumbent attitude in the luxurious
arm-chair, and went to the open
window. It was a charming sight
that met them. Two riders, a lady
and a gentleman, were cantering
over the ^ward on two magnificent
horses, a bay and a black.
" Is that Franceline V exclaimed
Mr. Langrove, forgetting, in his
surprise and admiration, the annof-
Are You My Wi/ef
321
ance of having his grievance pooh-
poohed so unconcernedly.
"Yes. How capitally the little
thing holds herself ! She only had
three lessons, and she sits in her
saddle as if it were a chair. Let's
come out and have a look at
them!"
They stepped on the terrace.
But Glide and Franceline were lost
to view for a few minutes in the
avenue; presently they emerged
from the trees and came cantering
up the lawn, Franceline's laugh
sounding as merry as a hunting-
hora through the park.
" Bravo ! Capital ! We'll make a
first-rate horse-woman of her by-
and-by. She'll cut out ever}' girl in
the county one of these days- And
pray who gave you leave to assume
the duties of riding-master without
consulting me, sir ?"
This was to Glide, who had
spmng off his horse to set some-
ihing right in his pupil's saddle and
adjust the folds of her habit, which
had nothing amiss that any one else
could see.
**They told me you were engag-
ed, so I 4xd not like to disturb
you," he explained.
•*! should very much like to
know who told you so," said Sir
Sunon, with offensive incredulity.
**My respected uncle is the of-
fender, if offence there be ; but now
that you are disengaged, perhaps
you would like to take a canter
with us. V\\ go round and order
your horse V*
"No, you sha'n't. I don't choose
to be taken up second-hand in that
fashion; you'll be good enough to
walk off to The Lilies, and tell the
cour.t I have something very par-
ticular to say to him, and I'll take it
as a favor if he'll come up at once."
Glide turned his horse's head in
the direction indicated.
VOL. XXI. — ax
"No, no; you'll get down and
walk there," said Sir Simon. " If
he sees you on horseback, he
may suspect something, and that
would spoil the fun." The young
man alighted, and gave his bridle
to be held.
"I don't see why I shouldn't
hold it in the saddle," said the
baronet after a moment ; " and we
will take a turn while we're wait-
ing." He vaulted into Glide's va-
cant seat with the agility of a young-
er man.
** Well, a pleasant ride to you
both !" said Mr. Langrove, moving
away. ** You do your master credit,
Franceline, whoever he is ; and the
exercise has given you a fine color
too," he added, nodding kindly to
her
" Oh ! it's enchanting!" cried the
young Amazon passionately. " 1
feel as if I had wings ; and Rosebud
is so gentle!"
" Look here, Langrove," called
out Sir Simon, backing his power-
ful black horse, and stooping to-
wards the vicar, " don't you go
worrying yourself about this busi-
ness; it's not worth it. They are a
parcel of humbugs, the whole lot of
them. I know Griggs well — a hot-
headed, canting lout that would be
much better occupied attending to
his pigs. It would never do for a
man like you to come into collision
with him. Let those that like his
fire and brimstone go and take it ;
you've a good riddance of them.
And as to the old lady, keep never
minding. You'll do no good by
crossing her; she's a harmless old
party as long as you let her have
her own way, but if you rouse her
there will be the devil to pay."
M. de la Bourbonais had been
kept out of the secret of the riding
lessons. He had heard nothing
more of the scheme since that eve-
3^2
Ar^ YouAfy Wife f
ning at supper, and, with Aogelique
ill the plot, it required no great
diplomacy to manage the trying on
of the riding habit, that had been
made by the first I:idy*s dressmaker
in London, brought down for the
purpose; so that the intended sur-
prise was as complete as Sir Simon
and his accomplices could have
wished,
** Comment done I" * he exclaim-
ed, brealcing out into French, as
usual when he was excited, ** What
i^this? What do I see? My Clair
cle Itmef turned into an Amazon!"
And he stood at the end of the lawn
and beheld Francetine careering on
her beautiful, thoroughbred pony.
'* Ah ! Simon» Simon, this is too
had* This is terrible !** he protest-
ed, as the baronet rode up ; but
llie smile of inexpressible pleasure
Ihat shone in his face look all the
reproach out ofthe words,
'* Look at her !/' cried Sir Simon
triumphantly; '*did you ever see
any one take to it so quickly? Just
see how sfhe sits in her saddk,
Stand out of the way n hlu till wc
have another galloj). Now, Franrc-
bne, who*! I be hock first?**
A Kid iHvay I hey Almv, Sir Simon
reining in his more prnvcrful steed,
sg *is to lei Rosebud come in a
neck ahead of him,
'* Simon, Simon, yoti nre incorri-
gible ! 1 don't know what to say
to you," said Raymond, setlJini*
.tnd imsetthng the spectacles un-
der hiti bushy eyebrows.
** Compliment me ; that's yll
you need say for the present/* said
Sir Simon, " See what a color Fve
brought into her cheeks !"
** O petit jvere ! it is so delight-
fid, *' exclaimed Franceline, caress-
ing the hand her father hiid hiid on
Roscbud*s neck. *' 1 never enjoyed
• Howt
^ Light of itic moos
anything so much, Ati
the least fatigued ; you
were afraid it would t
And is not Rosebud
And look at my whip,
turned the elegant gold-l
die for his inspeetioii,
**' Mounted in gold, an
cipher in turquoise I A
nicely spoiled ! SttiiDi
What more could he sa
moment? It would ha%
oils to show anything bii
and pleasure, even if he t
then* was the end of i
midnight conference, at
tinct promi^ic that Re
Kero shouid be sold I
thai would have paid hi
and urgent debt was to
France line, and he nuu
the folly ; to say notbinj
ging out of that young
complete riding suit of I
pensive hishion* Well,
no use protecting wow,
impossible to deny ihal
itely-fitting habit and thi
er hut set off her %tirc
sin^ohir perfection. 1
hv*p'*lthy glow of her c
pleruled irresistibly in *
of Sir Simon's extnr
*' Shall we ridt^ dt>
ies? 1 should like .\m-
itie. She wiadd be **o [/i.
France line, a [j pealing lo
'* Vou think she woi
f»ld vvuinan I very hkely ;
to have a talk with yoti
elide must ito and td
you,** And the baronet
his hor^e, which Mr, c
with exemplary docilil
mounted. The two yoi
set off at a c;mter, Fr^iw
ing round to kiKs her h
father, as they pbingec
trees and were lost lo si
It would be useless to
Are You My Wife f
323
describe the effect of the apparition
on Ang^lique : how she threw up
her hands, and then flattened them
between her knees, calling all the
saints in Paradise to witness if any
one had ever seen the like ; and how
nothing would satisfy her but that
they should gallop up and down the
field in front for her edification ; and
the astonishment of a flock of sheep
which the performance sent scamp-
eriDg and bleating in wild dismay
backwards and forwards along with
them; and how, when Franceline's
hair came undone in the galloping,
and fell in a golden shower down
her back, the old woman declared
it was the very image of S. Michael
oa horseback, whom she had seen
tmapling down the dragon in an
Aafrian church. When it was all
wer, and Franceline had gone up-
stairs to change her dress, Glide
tied the horses to a tree, and com-
pleted his conquest of the old lady
bf asking her to show him that
vonderful casket he had heard so
modi about. She produced it from
its hiding-place in M. de la Bour-
bona'i^* room, and, reverently un-
wrapping it, proceeded to tell the
story of how the papers had been
rescued, and how they had been
^unacd, watching her listener's face
with keen eyes all the while, to see
if any shadow of scepticism was to
be detected in it;. but Glide was all
attention and faith. " There are
people who think it clever to laugh
at the family for believing in such a
story," she observed ; " but, as I say,
when a thing has come down from
father to son for nigh four thousand
years, it's hard not to believe in it ;
and to my mind it s easier to be-
lieve it than to think anybody could
have had the wit to invent it." And
Glide having agreed that no mere
human imagination could ever in-
deed have reached so lofty a flight,
Ang^lique called his attention to
the ornamentation of the casket.
" Monsieur can see how unlike any-
thing in our times it is," pointing
to the antediluvian vipers crawling
and writhing in the rusty iron ;
"and all that is typical — tlie snakes
and the birds and the crooked signs
— everything is typical, as Monsieur
le Gomte will tell you."
" And what is it supposed to typi-
fy ?" asked Glide, anxious to seem
interested.
" Ah ! I know nothing about that,
monsieur!" replied Ang^lique with
a shrug; and lest other questions
of an equally indiscreet and un-
reasonable nature should follow,
she covered up the casket and car-
ried it offl
334
^ Chiefly among Women'
" CHIEFLY AMONG WOMEN."
BY AM AMSBICAN WOMAN.
Mr. Gladstone, in his Political
Expostulation^ inakes use of the fol-
lowing expression in regard to the
growth of the Catholic Church in
England : " The conquests have
been chiefly, as might have been
expected, among women." That
the ex-premier intended this as a
statement of fact rather than a
sneer is very probable ; for he evi-
dently endeavors to employ* the lan-
guage of good manners in his con-
troversies, unlike his predecessors
in polemics during the XVIIth and
XVIIIth centuries. The debate
between him and his distinguished
antagonists in the English hierarchy
bears, happily, little resemblance to
that between John Milton and Sal-
masius concerning the royal rights
of Charles I. But that, neverthe-
less, there is a sneer in the quoted
expression is scarcely to be denied ;
and that this sneer had a lodgment
in Mr. Gladstone*s mind, and es-
caped thence by a sort of mental
wink, if not by his will, is beyond
doubt. The pamphlet bears all
the internal as well as external
marks of haste; it is only a piece
of clever "journalism " — written for
a day, overturned in a day. " Mr.
Gladstone lighted a fire on Satur-
day night which was put out on
Monday morning," said the Llondon
Tablet. But the sneer, whether
wilful or not, stands, and cannot be
erased or ignored ; and it is worth
more than a passing consideration.
It is an indirect and ungraceful way
of saying that the Catholic Church
brings conviction more readily to
weaker than to stronger intellects ;
and that because the ** conquests "
are "chiefly among women," the
progress of the church among the
people is not substantial, general, or
permanent. We presume that this
is a reasonable construction of the
expression.
Whether the first of these propo-
sitions be true or not is not perti-
nent to the practical question con-
tained in the second. We will only
remark, in passing it over, that
there stands against its verity a
formidable list of giant male intel-
lects for which Protestantism and
infidelity have failed to furnish a
corresponding offset. Students of
science and literature and lovers of
art will not need to be reminded of
the names. That Catholic doctrine
is intellectual in the purest an4 best
sense there are the records of nine-
teen centuries of civilization and
letters to ofi*e^ in evidence. But
what Mr. Gladstone invites us to
discuss is the power of women in
propagating religion. In arriving
at a correct estimate we must re-
view, with what minuteness the lim-
its of an article will permit, the part
that women have had in the estab-
lishment of religion, the intensity,
the earnestness, the zeal, the persis-
tence — for these enter largely into
the idea of propagation — ^with which
women have accepted and followed
the teaching of the church, and the
ability they have exhibited and the
success they have achieved in the
impression of their convictions up-
on others. We must take into ac-
** Chiifiy among Womeny
325
count the relative natural zealous-
ness of the sexes ; for zeal, next to
grace, has most to do with the mak-
ing of" conquests." We must re-
member the almost invincible wea-
pon which nature has placed in the
hands of the weaker sex for ap-
proaching and controlling men ; the
beautiful weapon — affection — which
mother, wife, sister, daughter, wield,
and for which very few men know of
any foil, or against which they would
raise one if they did. If we admit,
to conciliate Mr. Gladstone, that re-
ligion is an affair of the heart as well
as of the head, he will be gracious
enough in return, we apprehend, to
concede that women must be po-
tential agents in its propagation.
Surely, it is only thoughtlessness
which enables well-read men to
assign to women an insignificant
place in the establishment of re-
ligion, or theit reading must have
been too much on their own side
of the line. Even the pagans were
wiser. They recognized the potency
of women with an intelligence born
of nothing less correct than instinct.
Their mythological Titans were
equally divided as to sex. A wo-
num was their model of the auste-
rest of virtues — perpetual celibacy.
A woman was their goddess of wis-
dom, and, as opposed to man, the
patroness of just and humane war-
fare. A woman presided over their
grain and harvests. Every Grecian
city maintained sacred fire on an
altar dedicated to Vesta, the pro-
tectress of the dearest form of hu-
tnan happiness — the domestic. It
was from Hebe the gods accepted
their nectar. The nine tutelary
deities of the aesthetic — the Muses —
were women. So were the Fates —
who held the distaff, and spun the
thread of life, and cut the thread —
**Clotho and l4K)iem, whoM boundless tway,
WUh Atrapot, both aeand godi obey.'*
Splendor, Joy, and Pleasure were
the Graces. It was a woman who
first set the example of parental de-
votion — Rhea concealing from their
would-be destroyers the birth of
Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto. It
was a woman who first set the ex-
ample of conjugal Melity — Alcestis
offering to die for AAmetus. It was
from a woman's name, Alcyone,
we have our " halcyon days *' —
Alcyone, who, overcome by grief for
her husband, lost at sea, threw her-
self into the waves, and the gods, to
reward their mutual love, transform-
ed them into kingfishers ; and when
they built their nests, the sea is
said to have been peaceful in order
not to disturb their joys. It was a
woman who dared to defy a king in
order to perform funeral rites over
the remains of her brother. It was
a woman, Ariadne, who, to save her
lover, Theseus, furnished him the
clew out of the Cretan labyrinth,
although she abolished thereby the
tribute her father was wont to ex-
tort from the Athenians. In all
that was good, beautiful, and ten-
der, the pagans held women pre-
eminent ; and whether we agree with
the earliest Greeks, who believed
their mythology fact; or with the
philosophers of the time of Euripi-
des, who identified the legends with
physical nature ; or prefer to accept
the still later theory that the deities
and heroes were originally human,
and the marvellous myths terres-
trial occurrences idealized, the
eminence of the position accorded
to women is equally significant.
Woman was supremely influential,
especially in all that related to tl\e
heart. She had her place beside
the priest. She was the most trust-
ed oracle. She watched the altar-
fires. She was worshipped in the
temples, and homage was paid to
her divinity in martial triumphs and
326
Chiefly among Women*
the public games. Whatever was
tender and benelicent in the mythi-
cal dispensation was associated with
her sex. She was the goddess of
every kind of love. Excess, luxury,
brute-power, were typified by men
alone. The pagans knew that love
was the most potent influence to
which man was subject ; and love
with them was but another name
for woman. ** It is in the heart,**
says Lamartine, " that God has
placed the genius of women, be-
cause the works of this genius are
all works of love." Plautus, the
pagan satirist, offered his weight in
gold for a man who could reason
against woman's influence. Emer-
son, a very good pagan in his way,
appreciates the subtlety, the direct-
ness, and the impervious character
of such an influence in the making
of conquests, '* We say love is
blind,** he writes, "and the figure
of Cupid is drawn with a bandage
around his eyes — blind, because
he does not see what he does not
like; but the sharpest-sighted hun-
ter in ihe universe is Love, for find-
ing what he seeks, and only that."
Woman holds a very prominent
place in the religious history of the
Jews. Two books of the Old Tes-
tament were written in her exalta-
tion — the Bpok of Ruth and the
Book of Esther — while in the others
she is found constantly at the side
of man, exercising in religious af-
fairs a recognized power. Patriarchs
acknowledge her influence; she is
addressed by the prophets. It was
Anna who departed not from the
Tern pie, but served God with fastings
and prayers night and day. It was
to a mother's prayers that Samuel
was granted. Sarah is honored by
mention in the New Testament as
a model spouse, and the church has
enshrined her name and her virtues
in the universal marriage service.
Miriam directed the i
processions and inspired
nas of the women of
was their instructress j
As it was then, as now, 1
of the Israelites to se
men from the women
worship, Miriam was lot
as the appointed prophe
time. Micah, the propl
ing in the name of God,
Jews : " I brought thee
the land of Egypt, and
fore thee Moses and a
Miriam." That she ha(
pointed by the Lord,
with her brothers, to
people from servitude, ap
her own words in Numbe
the Lord indeed spokei
Moses ? Hath he not spo
us?" It is needless to
the esteem in which I
Ruth were held. The
Sarepta fed the prop
when she had reason to I
in so doing she would (
son and herself to death
The Second Epistle of S
written to a woman,
ence and affection with
writers in the New
speak of the Blessed Vi
are too familiar for more
sion. The women whc
Our Lord were singula
and the influence which
ed upon their associates
all who came in contact
must have been corre
strong. Woman nevei
denied, or betrayed Chri
^ Not she with tnut*rous kiss her S
Not she denied him with unholy t
She, while apostles shnnk, coald
Last at his cross, and earliest at hi
S. Paul himself conii
women who labored wi
spreading the Gospel. ]
and Eunice who taught
Chiefly among Women'^
327
tuTCs to Timothy. It was in re-
sponse to the appeals of women
that many of the greatest miracles
were wrought; Elijah and Elisha
both raised the dead to life at the
request of women; and Lazarus
was restored by Our Lord in pity
tor his sisters. It was to a woman
our Lord spoke the blessed words,
" Thy sins be forgiven thee ; go in
j)eace." It was a woman whose
faith led her to touch the hem of
his garment, confident that thereby
she would be made whole. It was
a woman whom he singled out as
the object of his divine love on the
Sabbath day, in spite of the mali-
cious remonstrances of the Jews.
.Vlmost his last words on the cross
had a woman for their subject. It
was women who followed him with
most unflagging devotion ; and it was
women whom he first greeted after
his resurrection.
We come now to women in the
church militant. The question is
\ no longer, What have women been
in religion } but, What have they
done? Does the record which
they have made for themselves in
the propagation of Ciiristianity jus-
tify the sneer of the ex-premier ?
The implication in Mr. Gladstone's
quoted sentence is that, because
the church in England has found
her conquests thus far "chiefly
among women," the Catholic faith
is not making such progress in that
country as should create apprehen-
sion. He thus raises the issue of
woman's potentiality in religion.
We venture to suggest that there
is no department of human endea-
vor in which she is so powerful.
Woman's power in the present
tnd the future, as a working disci-
ple of Our Lord, is reasonably dedu-
cible from her past We may not
argiie that tomorrow she shall be
ible to bring others to the know-
ledge and service of God, if, through-
out the long yesterday of the
church, she was indifferent or imbe-
cile. She has little promise if she
has not already shown large fulfil-
ment. We may not look to her
zeal at the domestic hearth and in
cultivated society for fruits worthy
an apostle, if, in tht crimson ages
of Christianity, her sex made no
sacrifices, achieved no glory. We
may doubt the strength of her in-
tellect, as applied to the science
of religion, if the past furnishes no
testimony thereof; and we may ac-
cept, with some indulgence towards
its author, the ex-premier's sneer
upon her efficiency in the active
toil of the church, if, in the past,
she has not been alert and success-
ful in its various forms of organized
intelligence, humanity, and benevo-
lence.
What, then, are the facts ? Did
women, in the early days, submit to
torture and death, side by side with
men, rather than deny their faith in
Christ ? Was their faith, too, seal-
ed with their blood ? Did women
share the labor and the danger of
teaching the truths of religion..^
Did they, when such study was ex-
tremely difficult, and required more
intellect because it enjoyed fewer
aids than now, devote themselves to
the investigation and' elaboration
of sacred subjects ? Have they con-
tributed anything to the learning
and literature of the church } Have
they gone into uncivilized countries
as missionaries } Have they fur-
nished conspicuous examples of
fidelity to God under circumstances
seductive or appalling ? Have they
founded schools, established and
maintained houses for the sick, the
poor, the aged, the orphan, the
stranger ? Have they crossed the
thresholds of their homes, never to
re-enter, but to follow whitherso-
328
** Ckkfly ammg W^mm'^
ever the Lord beckoned ? Has
their zeal led them into the smoke
and rush of battle^ into the dens of
pestilence, into squalor and the
haunts of crime ? Have they prov-
ed by evidence which will not be
disputed that, to win others to tlieir
faith* they have given up everjlhing
— ^they can give up everything—
that their faith is dearer to them
than all else on earth ?
Then, surely, a faith which has
made its progress even *' chiefly
among worn en " has made a pro-
gress as solid as if it were chiefly
among men, for no greater things
can man do than these.
It is neither possible nor desira-
ble, in an article of narrow limits*
to enumerate the women who have
taken even a prominent part in
the establishment of Christianity
through the various agencies wliich
the church h:is employed. The
notice of each class must be brief,
and we slull not formally group
them ; the testimony will be valid
enough, even in a cursory presenta-
tion* What have women done to
prove their ability to propagate the
faith?
Beginning in the days of the
apostles, we find the blood of
women flowing as freely as that of
men in vindication of the Christian
creed* If men joyfully hastened to
the amphitheatre, so did they. If
men meekly accepted torture and
ignominy, so did they. If men de-
lied the ingenuity of cruelty and
smiled in their agony, so did they*
If men rei^igned human ambition,
surrendered possessions, and aban-
doned luxury, so did thL-y. The
annals of the martyrs bhovv, with
what degree of accuracy it is diffi-
cult now to determine, that if
ckher sex is entitled to higher dis-
tinction for the abandonment of
everything that human nature holds
dear, in order to follow C
to ignominious death, thi
nence is in favor of the w
It is impossible to read
of martyrology from the
tion of persecution unci
without finding therein
of noble and gentle w<
minated by their own bk
Contemporaneous with
Thee la, who was held ii
veneration in the early
Christianity *'that it wai
ed the greatest praise tha
given to a woman to cti
with S. Thecla/* She v
in profane and sacred u
philosophy, and excelled
rious branches of polite
She is declared one of th
ornaments of the apostoli
one of the fathers ** corn
eloquence and the ease
sweetness, and modesty i
course/' She was distinj
** the vehemence of he
Christ," which she dis]
many occasions with ih
of a martyr and "with
of body equal to the %\
mind/' She was coilv«
Paul about the year 45
ing to dedicate her vir
life to God» she broke i
ment of nmrnage, and,
of the remonstrances of )
and the entreaties of her
who was a pagan nobleti
ed herself to the work of I
At length authority {
cruel hand uiion her. Si
posed naked in the amj
but her furtitude sur
shock undaunted. The
got their ferocity and
feet; and S- Ambrose, S
torn, S, McthodiuSi S.
Naxianzen, and other fa
firm the truth of the stat^
she emerged from the a
' Chiefly among Women''
329
out hamu She was exposed to
Bttny similar dangers^ but triumph-*
antly survived them. She accom-
panied S. Paul in many of his
journeys, and died in retirement
at Isaura. The great cathedral of
Milan was built in her honor.
Visitors to Rome are taken to the
Church of S. Prisca, built on the
original site of her house — the house
in which S. Peter lodged. Prisca
was a noble Roman lady who, on
account of her profession of Christi-
anity, was exposed in the amphi.
theatre at the age of thirteen. The
lions refusing to devour her, she
was beheaded in prison. In the
Illd century we behold S. Agatha
displaying a fortitude before her
judge which has never been sur-
passed by man, and suffering with-
out resistance torture of exquisite
cruelty — the tearing open of her
bosom by iron shears. In the same
century Apollonia, daughter of a
magistrate in Alexandria, was bap-
\ tiied by a disciple of S. Anthony,
and there appeared an angel, who
threw over her a garment of daz-
xliog white, saying, " Go now to
Alexandria and preach the faith of
Christ." Many were converted by
her eloquence ; for her refusal to
worship the gods she was bound to
a column, and her beautiful teeth
were pulled out one by one by a
pair of pincers, as an appropriate
atonement for her crime. Then a
fire was kindled, and she was flung
into it. Apollonia preaching to
the people of Alexandria forms the
subject of a famous picture by a
favorite pupil of Michael Angelo —
Granacci — in the Munich gallery.
In the beginning of the IVth centu-
ry a Roman maiden, whose name is
popularly known as Agnes, gave up
her life for her faith. ** Her tender
sex," says a Protestant writer, " her
*hnost childish years, her beauty.
innocence, and heroic defence of
her chastity, the high antiquity of
the veneration paid to her, have all
combined to invest the person and
character of S. Agnes with a charm,
an interest, a reality, to which the
most sceptical are not wholly insen-
sible." The son of the Prefect of
Rome became enamored of her
comeliness, and asked her parents
to give her to him as his wife. Ag-
nes repelled his advances and de-
clined his gifts. Then the prefect
ordered her to enter the service of
Vesta, and she refused the com-
mand with disdain. Chains and
threats failed to intimidate her;
resort was had to a form of torture
so atrocious that her woman's heart,
but for a miracle of grace, must have
quailed in the pangs of anticipation.
She was exposed nude in a place
of infamy, and her head fell " in
meek shame " upon her bosom.
She prayed, and " immediately her
hair, which was already long and
abundant, became like a veil, cov-
ering her whole person from head
to foot ; and those who looked up-
on her were seized with awe and
fear as of something sacred, and
dared not lift their eyes." When
fire refused to consume her body,
the executioner mounted the obsti-
nate fagots, and ended her torments
by the sword. She is the favorite
saint of the Roman women ; two
churches in the Eternal City bear
her name ; there is no saint whose
effigy is older than hers ; and Do-
menichino, Titian, Paul Veronese,
and Tintoretto have perpetuated
her glory. In the previous year,
at Syracuse, Lucia, a noble damsel,
refused a pagan husband of high
lineage and great riches, preferring
to consecrate herself to a divine
Spouse. Her discarded suitor be-
trayed her to the persecutors, from
whose hands she escaped by dying
330
Chiefly among Women.**
in prison of her wounds. Eiiphe-
mia, who is venerated in the East
by the surname of Great, and to
whom four churches are erected
in Constantinople, died a frightful
death in Chalcedon, four years af-
ter Lucia had perished in Syracuse.
So general was the homage paid her
heroism that Leo the Isaurian or-
dered that her churches be profan-
ed and her relics be cast into the
sea. Devotion found means for
evading the mandate, and the sa-
cred remains were preserved. In
the same year Catherine, a niece
of Constantine the Great, was mar-
tyred at Alexandria. From her
childhood it was manifest that she
had been rightly named — from
xaBapo^, pure, undefiled. Her
graces of mind and person were the
wonder and admiration of the people.
Her father was King of Egypt, and
she his heir. When she ascended the
throne, she devoted herself to the
study of philosophy. Plato was her
favorite author. It is declared that
her scholarship was so profound,
so varied, and so exact that she
confounded a company of the ablest
heathen philosophers. The Em-
peror Maximin, failing to induce
her to apostatize, had constructed
four wheels, armed with blades, and
revolving in opposite directions.
Between these she was bound ; but
God miraculously preserved her.
Then she was driven from Alexan-
dria, scourged, and beheaded. St.
Catherine has been honored for
many centuries as the patroness of
learning .-.nd eloquence. In art S.
Jerome's name and hers are fre-
quently associated together, as the
two patrons of scholastic theology.
She carries a book in her hands,
like S. Thomas Aquinas and S.
Bonaventure, to symbolize her learn-
ing, and her statue is to be found in
the old universities and schools.
She was especially hon
* University of Padua, the
of Christopher Columbi
land alone there were u\
ty churches dedicated i
The painters have lo^
her as the Christian
goddess of science and
She afforded delightful
ties of genius to Rap
Titian, Correggio, Al
In the same century an
same year Barbara, tl
of a nobleman in Hel
decapitated by her en
on discovering her prof
Christian faith ; Marga
fused to become the wif
governor, was behead ec
Dorothea was slain in
Sometimes the won
early days walked to
with father, husband,
friend ; as Domnina an<
Lucia with Gcmmianus
cletian ; Daria with C
Cecilia with Valerian, T
Maximus ; Flora and N
dova ; Dorothea and \
followers ; Theodora wil
Victoria and Fortunati
a young Roman lady, '
ther, mother, and sistei
inspired and sustained.
Shall we prolong the
show that woman's cou
expire with the fervor
times ? There were T
Emiliana, aunts of G
Great. There was the
bess, Ebba, who, with
household, perished in
of their convent ; the r
of Sweden, who was n
her relatives in the Xlt
Did women seek the
the wilderness and the
forest to serve God as
solitaries.^ They bega
tice of the ascetic life ii
" Chiefly among Wonteny
331
lie days ; they had formed commu-
nities as early as the lid century ;
maoy lived in couples, as the an-
chorets Marava and Cyra in the
first century ; some imitated the
example of Mary of Egypt, who
spent twenty-seven years in isola-
tion. There were the Irish hermit,
Majcentia in France ; and Modneva,
in the IXth century, also Irish, who
dwelt for seven years alone in the
Island of Trent. S. Bridget of Ire-
land had her first cell in the tnink
of an oak-tree.
When we undertake to answer
what sacrifices women have made
for religion, it is difficult to frame
an adequate reply with sufficient
brcrity. From the day that S. Ca-
therine gave up the throne of Egypt
until this hour, women have been
sacrificing for the Catholic faith —
everything. If the objects of their
attachment are fewer than those of
men, their domestic love is of more
exquisite sensibility, and its rupture
' is in many cases, not the result
of an instant's strong resolve, but
the slow martyrdom of a lifetime.
Nearly all the early heroines of
Christianity were women of high
social position, of rich and luxuri-
ous homes, and many were noted
for their beauty, their culture, or
their address. Some were on the
Vit of happy betrothals ; yet Eu-
cratis spurns a lover, and Rufina
and Secunda depart from apostate
husbands. It was to the courage
and self-sacrifice of their respective
wires that the martyrs Hadrian and
Valerian are indebted for their
palms. In the IVth century we
see the Empress Helen, mother of
Constantine the Great, when four-
score years of age, proceeding from
Constantinople to Palestine for the
purpose of adorning churches and
•onhipping our Lord in the regions
cooperated by his presence. It
was she who discovered the true
cross of Christ. In the Vllth cen-
tury Queen Cuthburge of England
resigned royal pleasures, founded
a convent, and lived and died in it.
In the Vllth century Hereswith,
Queen of the East- Angles, withdrew
from royalty, and became an inmate
of the convent in Chelles, France.
Queen Bathilde, of France, follow-
ed her thither as soon as her son,
Clotaire III., had reached his ma-
jority, " and obeyed her superior as
if she were the last Sister in the
house." The abbess herself, who
was also of an illustrious family, was
"the most humble and most fer-
vent," and "showed by her con-
duct that no one commands well or
with safety who has not first learn-
ed and is not always ready to obey
well." Radegunde, another queen
of France, also passed from a court
to a cloister. In the IXth century
Alice, Empress of Germany, pre-
sented, in two regencies, the extra-
ordinary power of religion in pro-
ducing a wise and efficient admin-
istration of political affairs. She
was virtually a recluse living and
acting in the splendor of a throne.
Is it necessary to more than allude
to S. Elizabeth of Hungary, or to
her niece. Queen Elizabeth of Por-
tugal, who, after a glorious career,
to which we shall allude in another
connection, joined the Order of
Poor Clares ? In the East, Pulche-
ria, the empress, granddaughter of
Theodosius the Great, withdrew
from a rtgime in which she was the
controlling spirit, and did not re-
turn from her austerities until ur-
gently requested to do so by Pope
S. Leo. At her death she bequeath-
ed all her goods and private estates
to the poor. Queen Maud of Eng-
land walked daily to church bare-
foot, wearing a garment of sack-
cloth, and washed and kissed the
I
1 1
332
" Chiefly among Women.*'
feet of the poor. It was a queen,
Jane of France, who became the
foundress of the Nuns of the An-
nunciation.
When we consider the part that
woman has had in the formation of
the various religious orders, the
temerity of the ex-premier in belit-
tling her influence assumes still
greater proportions. The undenia-
ble fact that Protestantism has nev-
er been able permanently to main-
tain a single community of women,
either for contemplation or bene-
volence, proves that the Catholic
Church alone is the sphere in
which woman's religious zeal finds
its fullest and most complete ex-
pression ; that it is the Catholic
faith alone which thoroughly
arouses and solidly supports the
enthusiasm of her nature, and em-
bodies her ardor into a useful and
enduring form. The achieve-
ments of women in the religious
orders demonstrate that it is im-
possible to exaggerate this enthusi-
asm or to overestimate the subtle
influence which she exerts in so-
ciety, Catholic and non-Catholic.
Human nature, in whatever creed,
bows in involuntary homage to the
woman who has left her home, and
father and mother, brother, sister,
and friends, to follow Jesus Christ
and him crucified. This instinct
is as old as man. The pagan
Greek, the brutal Roman, punish-
ed with almost incredible severi-
ty ofiences against their oracles
and vestals. History furnishes no
instance of a nation possessing a
religion however ridiculous, a wor-
ship however coarse and senseless,
which did not award exceptional
deference to the virgins consecrat-
ed to the service of its gods.
Christianity, which emancipated
woman from the domestic slavery
in which usage had placed and
law confirmed her; ¥
her man's peer by its
marriage tie; and whid
courts and judges to
barous statutes affectii
rights as well as h<
relations, has been r
eighteen hundred year
ging zeal and unshrinki
If woman had done no
household for the cht
had been indiflerent as
incompetent as a mothe
world the sex were n
lous, pretty things, sucl
would describe with ** t
ped in the humid co
rainbow, and the papei
the dust gathered froi
of a butterfly *' ; if the;
done anything for reli
what they have done
world — in the shade, a
Christianity would stil
the gainer, civilization
them a vast balance, ar
of the ex-premier would
describe only his own b
There has been no
the Catholic Church,
cover women's heads
men's ; women themseU
dicated their right to s
alty.
The activity of wor
spread of the Gospel I
have seen, in the days
ties, when the preachin
the exhortations of nc
converts, and the coura
ances of those being
tyrdom, won multitude
The monastic life of
old as that of man.
word nutty derived fron
yovva, passed into thi
guage from the Egypti.
it was synonymous wit
ti/u/. As rapidly as
moved over the world
r
" Ckiefiy among Women*'
333
liilljr accepted its precepts and has-
tened to its propagation. Lamar-
tinc says that " nature has given
women two painful but heavenly
gifts, which distinguish them, and
often raise them above human na-
ture — compassion and enthusiasm.
By compassion they devote them-
selves; by enthusiasm they exalt
themselves.'* These two gifts find
their freest exercise in conventual
life, whether strictly contemplative,
as the monastic life in the East was
in the beginning, or contemplative
and benevolent, as it became in the
West. It was, therefore, only nat-
ural that women of all degrees
should listen to the voice of God
summoning them to this state. It
was not natural, however, to sever
the domestic ties which nature her-
self had made and religion had bless-
ed It was no easier in the days of
Ebba and Bega than in those of
Angela Merici, or S. Teresa, or Ca-
therine McAuley, for the daughter
to bid a final farewell to her home
and its endearments for an exist-
ence of self-immolation, of prayer,
of obedience, of humility, and often
of hanger and cold, sickness, dan-
ger, and want. That women in
in large numbers have nevertheless
chosen this which the world calls
the worse life and the apostle the
better, from the time of the apostles
to the present day, shows that it is
in religion they reach the zenith
of their capabilities ; for they have
made no such sacrifices, they have
achieved no such successes, in art,
in science, nor in literature. They
Have entered the service of the
church through the convent gate,
in despite of difficulties which
»ould often have debarred men
even from the entertainment of the
design. Their toil in the convents
has been wholly in the service of
raanliind. The history of the con-
ventual life of women is not divisi-
ble from that of civilization, and in
rapidly sketching it we shall dis-
cover chapters on the progress of
religion, the organization of bene-
volence, the preservation of learning,
and the spread of education. The
assistance which women have ren-
dered to the last two has not been
properly appreciated.
The catalogue of eminent foun-
dresses is too long to be consider-
ed in detail. Every country, every
century, has its list of noble virgins,
of wealthy widows, or of mothers
whose maternal duty was done,
building houses for established
orders, or, under the authority of
the church, founding additional
communities, always with a specific
design ; for the church takes no
step without an intelligent purpose.
Among these women have been
many who were remarkable in more
qualities than piety, in other con-
ditions than social distinction ; and
it is a fact which will scarcely bear
debate that it has been inside the
convents, or, if outside, under the
direction and inspiration of religion,
that the mind of woman has enjoy-
ed freest scope and produced palpa-
ble and permanent results. It is
true that there have been great
women in profane history, ancient
and modern — a Cleopatra and
Semiramis, a Catherine in Russia,
an Elizabeth in England ; in litera-
ture a De Stael, a ** George Sand,"
and a " George Eliot" ; in histrionic
art, in poetry, and in court circles,
many women have equalled and
outshone men ; and in science they
h^ve significantly contributed to
medicine and mathematics. But
the annals of women in religion re-
veal the heroic characterisrics of
the sex developed far beyond the
limit reached in the world.
We have just mentioned S. Eliza-
334
, What suppl^"!"^"* _ Glares,
Portugal-
,„pplicdUs«'°"- ^Clares,
beilv. Queen of P««"e^ ;„ pet- «*r7foundressoi u-* -^,^ „„
woman h«sun>»^^-db"^''^( J^^„e of Assisiutn, ''^^^ ^„ suffer
rr.?^^Sl.h-.tsubV.m«t'rf>" „f entering te ^.offered _^ led by
sev eT»,.« - ibai ^^o^?^^;"*;:; has S- CU" «^- ^.t, and ^^^^f^^ < -,
^;«»-«;Sr^^-»"^t and
when cou !» „^ g's great ^^v-
.^ .™- -^'^"^^- to ihe poor, without rese^^^^
^vicvea — . gave to tnc i ^^giseU . .
,xteioip*'^>;- *^\ farthing ^r n sostaio,
\ tbc «ck. »"e ; ,--ion could sugs j^fg »»
i2ibe«« s**'**^ Kverence of the » .. ,
^r^«--*'«*^*Lf!w«i^<>'^-*"= American ^^^n^.ters of Chan?'
■J'
^_g to tnc
r^UinS •^'"X" o our Sisters «n^ ^,,i,
^^-^•^ r.:f ^:^^^^«"" t?.oSe's of fhar^t; "nsp'cuo-
,T^ HW,MJ»<-«*^-;f- r«rtca *aT*' "'" Aresses-Ang^^* ? Cathen"'
cation « ?«^^'^;7f the P«7;>
^V^A-A ♦•' »'•
' Chiefly among Wonun'^
33S
part of the world, whom to name,
even in illustration of an argument,
would be to offend. They are ex-
ercising within convent walls the
sacrifices which made martyrs*
They are sending pioneers of reli-
gion to ihe frontiers of civilization ;
equipping hospitals, asylums, and
schools wherever and whenever call-
ed; carding out faithfully on our
t'ontinent the example set them by
the foundresses of American char-
itable institutions ; for our first hos-
pital in New France was mafiaged by
three nuns from Dieppe, the young-
est but twenty-two years of age ;
and in 1639 a widow of Alenson
jnd a nun from Dieppe, with two
Sisters from Tours, established an
Ursuline Academy for girls at Qiie-
l>ec. Bancroft says : "As the youth-
ful heroines stepped on the shore
11 Quebec they stooped to kiss the
earth, which they adopted as their
mother, and were ready, in case of
need, to tinge with their blood,
rhe governor, with the little garri-
son, received them at the water's
edge; Hurons and Algonquins,
joining in the shouts, filled the air
with yells of joy ; and the motley
i^roup escorted the new-comers to
tne church, where, amidst a gene-
ral thanksgiving, the Te Deum was
clianted. Is it wonderful that the
natives were touched by a benevo-
lence which their poverty and squa-
lid misery could not appall ? Their
education was also attempted ; and
''»e venerable ash-tree still lives be-
neath which Mary of the Incarna-
tion, so famed for chastened piety,
genius, and good judgment, toiled,
though in vain, for the culture of
Huron children.'* Could anything
hut religion enable delicately-rear-
ed women to turn a last look upon
the sunny slopes of France, where
remained everything that their
hearts cherished, and set out in
1639, in a slow ship, over an almost
unknown ocean, with certain ex-
pectation never to return, and
equally certain that in the new land
they would encounter an almost
perpetual winter and incur all the
perils of the instincts of savages ?
What stately woman's figure rises
in profane history to the height of
Mary of the Incarnation ?
The part that woman has had in
the building up and the spread of
education has not, so far as we
are aware, been adequately written.
Perhaps it never will be; for the
materials of at least fifteen centu-
ries are, for the most part, carefully
buried in convent archives, and
their modest keepers shun publici-
ty. The lack of popular knowledge
in this portion of the history of edu-
cation has induced the erroneous
supposition that woman has done
little or nothing for the intelligence
of the race ; that, until recently, the
sex received slight instruction and
possessed only superficial and ef-
feminate acquirements ; and that
the free facilities which women are
reaching after indicate an entirely
new, an unwritten, chapter in the
culture of the sex.
Each of these suppositions is un-
warranted by facts. Women have
shared in the establishment of edu-
cational institutions from the earli-
est period of which we have authen-
tic record. Their resources have
founded schools, their talents have
conducted them. Whenever, from
the days of S. Catherine to those
of Nano Nagle, special efforts have
been made to teach the people, wo-
men have furnished their full share
of energy and brains. The oppor-
tunities which, even in periods of
exceptional darkness or disturb-
ance, were afforded for the higher
education of women, were far in
advance of the standard which pre-
336
' Chiefly among Women.''
judice or ignorance has associated
with women in the past ; and the
increasing demand which we have
on every side for a more substantial
and scholarly training for the sex
does not look forward to that which
they have never had, but backward
to what they have lost or aban-
doned.
Again we find Mr. Gladstone's
sneer answered ; for religion — the
Catholic religion — has been the
sole inspiration of the part that wo-
man has had in popular education.
The magnitude of that part we will
only outline ; but enough will be
shown of woman as a foundress, a
teacher, and a scholar to indicate
the rank to which she is entitled as
an educator, and the motive which
enabled her to attain it.
There were very few convents for
women which were not also schools
and academies for their sex. Many
Christian women, even in the days
of the Fathers, were not only skill-
ed in sacred science, but in profane
literature, and these, naturally and
inevitably, taught the younger mem-
bers of their own households, and,
when they entered the service of
the church, became teachers of the
children of the people. In the
IVth century Hypatia, invited by
the magistrates of Alexandria to
teach philosophy, led many of her
pupils to Christianity, although she
herself did not have the grace to
embrace it ; but her learning induc-
ed many women to profound and
elegant study. We have spoken of
S. Catherine, who confuted the
pagan philosophers of that city of
schools, and whose condition was
the delight of her contemporaries.
The mothers and sisters in those
early days were not only willing
but. able to teach the science of
Christianity and letters. S. Paul
himself alludes to the instruction
he received from his mother, Lois'
and his grandmother, Eunice. It
was S. Macrina who taught S. Ba-
sil and S. Gregory of Nyssa. It
was Theodora who instructed Cos-
mas and Damian. ** Even as early
as the lid century," says a distin-
guished scholar, ** the zeal of reli-
gious women for letters excjted the
bile and provoked the satire of the
enemies of Christianity." S. Ful-
gentius was educated by his mo-
ther. So solicitous was she about
the purity of his Greek accent
" that she made him learn by heart j
the poems of Homer and Menander !
before he studied his Latin rudi-
ments." It was S. Paula who mov-
ed S. Jerome to some of his great-
est literary labors; and the latter
assures us that the gentle S. Eus-
tochium wrote and spoke Hebrew-
without Latin adulteration. S.
Chrysostom dedicated seventeen
letters to S. Olympias ; and S. Mar-
cella, on account of her rare ac-
quirements, was known as "the
glory of the Roman ladies." S.
Melania and S. Caesaria were noted
for their accomplishments.
Montalembert declares that lite-
rary pursuits were cultivated in the
Vllth and Vlllth centuries in the
convents in England, " with no less
care and perseverance " than in the
monasteries, ** and perhaps with still
greater enthusiasm." Tlie nuns
were accustomed " to study holy
books, the fathers of the church, and
even classical works." S. Gertrude
translated the Scriptures into Greek.
It was a woman who introducetl
the study of Greek into the famous
monastery of S. Gall. The erudite
author of Christian Schools ami
Scholars says that " the Anglo-Saxon
nuns very early vied with the monk*;
in their application to letters."
There is preserved a treatise on
virginity by Adhelm, in the Vllth
Chiefly among Women'*
337
century, which contains an illumi-
ftation representing him as teaching
a group of nuns. S. Boniface di-
rected the studies of many convents
of women.
Hildelitha, the first English re-
ligUmse^ had received her educa-
tion at the convent of Chelles, in
France, ** and brought into the
cloisters of Barking ail the learn-
ing of that famous school." This
institution, about five leagues from
Paris, was founded by S. Clotilda,
and one of its abbesses in the IXth
century was Gisella, a pupil of Al-
cuin and sister of Charlemagne.
It was in a convent school, that of
Roncerai, near Angers, that Heloise
received her education in classics
and philosophy ; and Hallam, who
finds little to remark concerning
convent schools — because, we pre-
sume, their archives were not
sought by him — says that the " epis-
tles of Abelard and Eloisa, especial-
ly those of the latter, are, as far as
I know, the first book that gives
any pleasure in reading for six. hun-
dred years, since the Consolation of
Boethins." The learning of S. Hil-
da was so highly esteemed that
"more than once the holy abbess
assisted at the deliberation of the
bishops assembled in council or in
synod, who wished to take the ad-
vice of her whom they considered
so especially enlightened by the
Holy Spirit." Queen Editha, wife
of Edward the Confessor, taught
grammar and logic.
The scholarly women of the time
were not all in England. Richtrude,
daughter of Charlemagne, had a
Greek professor. The historian
from whom we have already quot-
ed says, in Christian Schools and
Scholars, that the examples of learn-
ing in the cloisters of nuns were not
** confined to those communities
which had caught their tone from
VOL. XXI. — na
the little knot of literary women
educated by S. Boniface." It was
the natural and universal dei^clop-
ment of the religious life.''
Guizot ranks " among the gems
of literature " the account of the
death of S. Caesaria, written by one
of her sisters. Radegunde, queen
of Clothaire I., read the Greek and
Latin fathers familiarly. S. Ade-
laide, Abbess of Geldern, in the Xth
century, had received a learned
education, and imparted her attain-
ments to the young of her sex.
Hrotsvitha, a nun of Gandersheim,
in the Xth century, wrote Latin
poems and stanzas, whicii prove, says
Spalding, " that in the institutions of
learning at that day classical litera-
ture was extensively and success-
fully cultivated by women as well
as by men." In the Xllth century
the Abbess Hervada wrote an ency-
clopedia, "containing," remarks
Mgr. Dupanloup, " all the science
known in her day."
Nor were women content to study
and teach in their native countries.
When S. Boniface needed teachers
in Germany to complete the con-
version and civilization of the coun-
try, he endeavored to enlist the
enthusiasm of the English women
of learning and piety ; and Chune-
hilt and her daughter Herathgilt \
were the first to listen to his appeal.
They are called by the historian
valde erudita in liber all scientia. The
Abbess Lioba, distinguished for her
scholarship and her executive abil-
ity, also accepted the invitation of
Boniface, and thirty nuns, of whom
she was the head, reached Antwerp
after a stormy passage, and were
received at Mentzby the archbishop,
who conducted them to the convent
at Bischofsheim, which he had erect-
ed for Lioba. S. Boniface declar-
ed that he loved Lioba on account
of her solid learning — eruditionis
J38
^* Ckkfiy among Women'*"
mpk^tiia . Wal b ii rga» a s u bo rd i n a t e
of Lioba, wtfiit into Thurmgia, and
became al>bess of the Convent of
iieideshcim, where she and ber
nuns cultivivted letters as diligenlly
*is in their English home. The
church hersi.^if watched over these
eflbtts of women lo elevate their
aejt; for ihe Council of Cloveshoe,
held in 747, exhorts abbesses dili-
gent iy to provide for the eduration
of those nnder their charge. In so
great admiration and aflTcciion did
St Boniface bold IJoba tliat be re*
qnei^ted thai her remains might be
buried in Fulda, so that they might
together avvait the resurrection.
fJoba survived the saint twenty-
fotir years^ during which she erect-
ed many convents and received
.signal assi?^tance from Charlemagne-
The convent schools maintained
by these disciples of S. Boniface
were not the only ones in which
women obtained more rqlture than
is accorded to them in our own
boastful time. At Gandersheitn
The course of study I uc hided Latin
and Greek, the philosophy of Aris-
totle, and the liberal arts, One of
the abbesses of ibis convent was
the author of a treatise on logic
'* much esteemed among the learn-
ed other own time/' It would he-
easy enough to continue this record :
to carry on the chain of woman's
assistance — ahvays under the gui-
dance t»f reHgion— in the educa-
tioiud development of Europe. It
IS not easy to avoid dwelling on the
aid she rendered in the foundation
of colleges; of the standing which
she attained in the universities,
where, both as student and professor,
?ihe won with rrnown and wore with
UKHiestv the higlrest dej^rees aini
honors.
The catalogue of that metropolis
of learning, the University of Bo-
. logna, a papal institution, contains
the names of many w
appeared to enviable ac
its departments of canoi
cine, mathematics, art,
lure. The period whicl
Vittoria Colonna, wh
her education in a co
covers Properzia de' Ro
sculpture in Bologna;
Sister Plautilla, a ]
Marietta Tintoretto, da
the '* Thunder of Art,
celebrated portrait-pain
work possessed many <
qualities of her father's
Sirani, who painted anc
Bologna ; and Elena Cor
ted as a doctor at Milan
a woman architect, Plau
working in Rome in t
century, building a pala
Chapel of S. Benedic
papal universities, as
XVIIIth century, wome
grees in jurisprudence a
phy ; among them, Victc
Christina Roccati, and I
in the University of Be
Maria Amoretti in thai
In 1758 Anna Mazzolin
fessor of anatomy in B<
Maria Agnesi was appoi
pope professor of mall
the University of Bolo
vella d'Andrea taught ca
Bologna for ten years.
was the successor of
Mezzofanti as professor
Statues are erected to tl
of two women who tau
in the universities of B<
Genoa. It is well to inc
facts as a sufficient re
flippant charge, too
made, that the Catholic
** opposed " to the highe
of women.
The relation of worn
gion to the education ;
ment of the present d
•* Chiefly among Women.'*
339
lightly passed over. In the con-
>cnt schools in every part of the
world young women receive the
best education now available for
their sex. The demands of society
have affected the curriculum. It is
not as abstract or classical or thor-
ough as in the time of Lioba and
Hrotsvitha, but it is the best ; and
it will return to the classical stand-
ard as quickly as women them-
ikclves make the demand. In a
word, the orders of teaching women
in the Catholic Church are, we re-
))eat, a sufficient answer to Mr.
(iladstone's sneer at the status of
women in religion. It was out of
these that arose Catherine of Si-
enna — orator, scholar, diplomate,
saint. Of these was S. Teresa,
whom Mgr. Dupanloup character-
izes as one of the greatest, if not
the greatest, prose writers in the
Spanish literature. Of these have
been hundreds, thousands, of wo-
men, who, moved by the Spirit of
God to his service, have found
within convent-walls opportunities
lor culture which society denies,
ind who, in the carrying out of his
divine will, have made more sacri-
fices, attained higher degrees of per-
I'cction, and lived lives of sweeter
perfume and nobler usefulness, than
tt'c mind of Mr. Gladstone appears
ii> be able to conceive. A religion
which makes conquests enough
imong women, since it can inspire,
control, and direct them thus, is the
rriigiou which must conquer the
World.
Finally, Mr. Gladstone forgot
tl>e subtle power of mother and
»;kand the marriage laws of the
liiholic Church. The mother's
i 'fluence for good or evil, but es-
l-fcially for good, to which she
'lOit inclines, is second to none
t^ut moves the heart of man.
^Vhcthcr it be Cornelia, pointing
to the Gracchi as her jewels ; or
Monica, pursuing and persuading
S. Augustine; Felicitas, exhorting
her seven sons to martyrdom ; or
the mothers of S. Chrysostom, S.
Basily and S. Anselm, converting
their children to firmness in holi-
ness ; or whether it be the un-
tutored mother of the savage, or
the unfortunate head of a house-
hold setting an unwomanly example,,
the mother's voice, issuing from the
quivering lips or coming back si-
lently from the tomb, is heard
when all other sounds of menace,
of appeal, of reproach, or of tender-
ness fail to reach the ear. Every
mother makes her sex venerable to
her son. The mother's love is
above all logic; it destroys syllo-
gisms, refutes all argument. It
cannot be reasoned againsl; and
when the salvation of the child is
the motive, there is no power given
to man to withstand its seduction.
" It shrinks not where man cowers,
and grows stronger where man
faints, and over the wastes of
worldly fortune sends the radiance
of its quenchless fidelity." Christ
himself upon the cross was not un-
mindful of hiS mother; yet he was
God! Says the greater Napoleon,
*' The destiny of the child is always
the work of the mother." To the
end of time she will be, as slie has.
ever been,
** The holiest thing alire."
The faith of the mothers, if they
believe in it, must become the faith
of the sons and the daughters.
That the Catholic mother believes,
even Mr. Gladston^will hesitate to
deny. In no faith but the Catholic
have mothers accompanied their
sons to martyrdom. In no faith but
the Catholic is the mother taught to-
believe, while still a child at her
mother's breast, that she will be
340 On a Cluxrge made after the Publication of a Volume of Poctrj.
held responsible for the eternal
welfare of her children; that they
must be saved with her, or she
must perish with them. For this
salvation she will toil and pray and
weep ; for this she will spend days
of weariness and nights without
sleep; for this religion will keep
her heart brave, and her lips elo-
quent, and her hand gentle and
strong. For this she will work as
neither man nor woman works for
aught else ; and for this she will lay
down her life, but not until the
sublime purpose is accomplished !
That done, she is ready to die.
For
** Hath she not then, for pains and fears.
The day of woe, the watchful night.
For all her sorrow, all her tears.
An over-payment of delight ?"
If the mothers of England be-
come Catholic, England becomes
Catholic. The law is of nature.
Love must win, if talent partly
fails ; for even in heaven the sera-
phim, which signifies love, is nearer
God than the cherubim, which sig-
nifies knowledge.
ON A CHARGE MADE AFTER THE PUBLICATION OF A
VOLUME OF POETRY
(WBinVM NBAJI WINDERMBRB.)
Beautiful Land ! They said, " He loves thee not !"
But in a church-yard 'mid thy meadows lie
The bones of no disloyal ancestry.
To whom in me disloyal were the thought
Wliich wronged thee. For my youth thy Shakspeare wrought ;
For me thy minsters raised their towers on high ;
Thou gav'st me friends whose memory cannot die : —
I love thee, and for that cause left unsought
Thy praise. Thy ruined cloisters, forests green.
Thy moors where still the branching wild deer roves.
Dear haunts of mine by sun and moon have been
From Cumbrian peaks to Devon's laughing coves.
They love thee less, be sure, who ne'er had heart
To take, for truth's sake, 'gainst thyself thy part.
Aubrey de Vere.
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
341
STRAY LEAVES FROM A PASSING LIFE.
AU REVOIR. — THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.
CHAPTER III.
We showed Kenneth such won-
ders as Leighstone possessed, and
his visit was to us at least a very
pleasant one. My father was duly
informed of his harboring a Papist
in his house, and, though a little
stiff and stately and a little more
reserved in his conversation for a
day or two, he could not be other
than himself — a hospitable and ge-
nial gentleman. And then Ken-
neth was so frank and manly, so
amiable and winning, that I believe,
had he solemnly assured us he was
a cannibal, and avowed his voracious
appetite for human flesh, not a soul
would have felt disturbed in the
company of so good-looking and
well-bred a monster. Perhaps, after
all, had we questioned our hearts,
the capital sin of Papistry lay in
Its clothes. Papistry was to my fa-
ther, and more or less to all of us,
the Religion of Rags. Leighstone
liad no Catholic church, and its Ca-
tholic population was restricted to
a body of poor Irish laborers and
their families, who were most of
them the poorest of the poor, and
tramped afoot of a Sunday to a
wretched little barn of a church
eight miles away, which was served
by a priest of a large town in the
neighborhood. However much of
the devil there might be among
them, there was certainly little of
what is generally understood by the
world and the flesh. Yes, theirs
vas a Religion of Rags, and it was
Jtt once odd and sad to see how
ngs did congregate around the Ca-
tholic church — an excellent church
indeed for them and their wearers,
but not exactly the place to drive
to heaven in in a coach-and-four. It
was a positive shock to my father to
find so fine a young man as Kenneth
Goodal a firm believer in the Re-
ligion of Rags. Of course he knew
all about the Founder of Christian-
ity being born in a stable, and so on ;
but that was a great and impressive
lesson, not intended exactly to be
imitated by every one. Princes in
disguise may play any pranks they
please. Once the beggar's cloak is
thrown off", everything is forgiven.
We quite forget that hideous hump
of Master Walter in the play when,
just before the curtain drops, he
announces himself as " now the
Earl of Rochdale.** Indeed, it was
a kind of social offence to see a
young man of breeding, blood, and
bearing, such as Kenneth Goodal,
take his place among the rank and
file, the army of tatterdemalions,
that made up the modern Church of
Rome, as it showed itself to the eyes
of English respectability. Irish
reapers, men and maid-servants,
cooks, beggars, the halt, the lame,
and the blind — these made up the
army of modern Crusaders. S. Law-
rence himself was very well, but S.
Lawrence's treasures were very ill.
The descendants of Godfrey de Bou-
illon, the mail-clad knights of the
Lion-Hearted Richard, my ancestor
Sir Roger, all made a very respec-
table body-guard for a faith and a
church ; but the followers of Peter
342
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
\
I
the Hermit, the lower layer of so-
ciety, the lazzaroni — these were
certainly uninviting, and gave the
religion to which they belonged
something of the aspect of a moral
leperhood, to be separated from the
multitude, and not even sniffed afar
off. Yet here was a, handsome
young gallant like Kenneth Goodal
plunging deep into it, with eye of
pride and steadfast heart, and a
strange faith that it was the right
thing to do. It was positively per-
plexing, and before Kenneth left us
my father had another attack of
gout.
Kenneth had the skill and good
taste never to obtrude unpleasant
discussions. The only thing about
him was a certain tone in his con-
versation that made you feel, as de-
cidedly as though you saw it written
in his open face, that he sailed
under very pronounced colors. It
was no pirate, no decoy flag hung
out to lure stray craft into danger,
and give place at the last mo-
ment to the death's head and cross-
bones. It was the same in all wea-
ther and in all seas. "The Cru-
sades only ended with the cross,"
he had said to me in our first con-
versation together; and it seemed
that I saw the cross painted on his
bosom, and borne about with him
wherever he went — a very Knight-
Hospitaller in the XlXth century.
In our long rambles together he and
I had many a hard tussle. I was
the only one with whom he con-
versed on religious subjects at all,
and when he went away he left the
4eaven working. The good seed
•had been sown, whether on stony
ground, or among thorns, or on the
.good soil, God alone could tell.
We missed him greatly when he
-went. He was so thorough an
antiquarian and such a capital
"Chcss-player tha^t my father was
irritated at his absence,
second attack of the go
was looking forward ai
making preparations fo
we had promised to pay
at Christmas ; and as foi
lost my alter egOy and j
time than ever in the c
Even Mattock notice(
quency of my visits ; for
me one morning, as I w;
<iigging A fresh grave :
comin* here too often, J
ger. Graveyards and \
what's in *em is loike en
pany for me, but not for
It an't whoalsorae, it an't
grows on a man, they
weighs him down in spoi
self. I doant know what
done these twenty-foive
for the drams I takes,
a-kep up, I couldn't
somethin' about church]
graves, a kind o' airthi
that creeps into a man'
tiie years come on hii
times I doant seem to kr
which is the livin' and w
dead. We're all airtli
Knowles says, and Payr
les is a knowledgable m
doant come here too oftei
we're all airth ; for an't
An't I seen the body of
young gal as was ever ki
the mistletoe stretched
laid in her grave afore
Year dawned, and turnc
a year or so after, a
bones ye might take ir
and putt in a basket, a
wouldn't look at em?
a sich ! I've seen *em j
in the pews within theai
'em go a-flirtin' and a-sr
through yon gate; and
cholera cum, I've laid \
row i' the airth here. I''
to it, bless ye, and could
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
343
iheir bones. I knows *em all, And
doant mind it a bit ; and 1 shall feel
kind a-conifortable when my son,
whom I've brought up to the biz-
ncss and eddicated a-purpose for it,
lays me by the side on *em, yonder
in that corner where the sun shines
of an evenin*. But sich thoughts
an't for you, Master Roger. Git ye
oat into the sun, lad, and play
while ye may. There's no sort o'
use in forestallin' yer time. Ye
an't brought up to be a grave-dig-
ger, and yeVe no sort a-business
here. Its onlooky, I tell ye, its
onlooky. Graves is my business,
not yourn. So git ye gone. Master
Roger."
One effect came from my cogita-
tions with myself and my conver-
sations with Roger: I no longer
went to church. Indeed, I had not
been too regular an attendant at
the Priory for some time past. Still,
when, as not unfrequently happen-
ed, my father was laid up with the
gout, I escorted Nellie to church
as in the old days, and thus suf-
ficiently sustained the Herbert re-
putation for that steady devotion to
public duties that was looked for
from the leading family in the place ;
and though Mr. Knowles, who was
a frequent visitor at our house,
grew a little chilly in his reception
of me when we met — I used to be
a great favorite of his — he had
never undertaken to mention my
delinquency to me. There was a
certain warmth in his agreement
with my father, when that good
gentleman broke out on his favorite
subject of the young men of the day,
that was very different from the old,
deprecatory manner in which Mr.
Knowles would refer to the hot
blood of youth, and the danger of
keeping it too much in restraint. I
came to the resolution that I would
go to no church any more until I
went to some church once for all ;
until I was satisfied that I believed
firmly and truly in the vvorshfp at
which I assisted. Anything else
seemed to me now a sham that I
could no more endure than if I set
up a Chinese image in my own
cha;\iber, and burned incense before
it. This was all very well for onv
Sunday or two. But my father's
attack was at this time unusually
prolonged ; and when, Sunday after
Sunday, I conducted Nellie to the
church-door, and there left her, to
meet and escort her home when
service was over, my strange con-
duct, unknown to myself, began to
be remarked in Leighstone, and as-
sumed the awful aspect in a small
place of studied bad example.
Poor Nellie did not know what to
make of me; far less Mr. Knowles.
It seemed that some silly young
men of the town, taking their cue
from me, thought it the fashionable
thing to conduct their relatives to
the chnrch-door, leave them there,
and often spend the interval in
somewhat boisterous behavior out-
side that on more than one occa-
sion disturbed the services ; so that
at length Mr. Knowles was compell
ed to mention the matter in general
terms from the pulpit, and came
out with quite a stirring sermon on
the influence of bad example on
the young by those who, if respect
for God and God's house had no
weight with them, might at least
pay some regard to what their posi-
tion in society, not to say in their
own circle, required. Poor Nellie
came home in tears that day, and
I joked with her on the unusual
eloquence of Mr. Knowles. The
final upshot of it all was a visit on
the part of that reverend gentleman
to my father, who was just recover-
ing from his attack ; and as ill-luck
would have it, I walked into the
344
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life,
room just at the moment when my
poor father, between the twinges of
conscience and the twinges of a
relapse resulting from Mr. Knowles*
eloquent and elaborate monologue
on my depravity, had reached that
point of indignation that only needs
the slightest additional pressure to
produce an immediate explosion.
"What is this I hear, sir?'* he
asked me immediately in a tone
that sent all the Herbert blood ting-
ling through every vein in my body,
the more so that I observed the
look of righteous indignation plant-
ed on the jolly visage of Mr. Knowles.
" What is this I hear } That you
refuse to go to church any more,
and tliat, as a natural consequence,
the whole parish is following your
example V
" The whole parish !" I ejacu-
lated in amazement.
"Yes, sir; and what else should
they do when the heads of the par-
isli neglect their duty as Christians
and as English gentlemen V*
"Do their duty, I suppose; go
or stay, as it pleases them," I re-
sponded sullenly. Mr. Knowles
rose up to depart with the air of
one who was about to shake the
dust off his feet against me ; but my
father detained him.
" Mr. Knowles, will you oblige
nvj by remaining. > I have put up
with this boy's insolence too long.
It must end somewhere. It shall
'^nd here." He was white and
trembling with rage; but his tone
lowered and his voice grew steady
as he went on. I was alarmed for
his sake.
" Look here, sir. There is no
more argument in a matter of this
kind between you and your father.
There is no argument in a question
of ])lain and positive duty. Your
family has been and still is looked
up to in this town ; and rightly so,
Mr. Knowles will pennit me to
add." Mr. Knowles bowed a gra-
cious but solemn assent. ** I have
attended that church since I was a
child, as my father did before me,
and as the Herberts have done for
generations, as befitted loyal and
right-minded gentlemen. You have
done the same until recently. What
has come over you of late I don't
know, and, indeed, I don't care.
What I do care about is that I have
a position to sustain in this town,
and a public duty to perform. Tlie
Herberts are now, as they have ever
been, known to all as a staunch,
loyal, church-going. God-fearing
race. As the head of the family I
insist, and will insist while I live,
that that character be maintained.
When I am gone, you may do as
you please. But until that event
occurs you will take your old place
by the side of your father and sis-
ter, or find yourself another resi-
dence. Mr. Knowles, oblige me by
staying to dinner."
I was not present at dinner that
day. I saw that expostulation was
useless, and accordingly held my
tongue. I knew of old that there
was a certain pass where reasoning
of any kind was lost on my father,
and a resolution taken at such a
moment was irrevocably fixed-
Like father, like son. Even while
he was addressing me I had quiet-
ly resolved at all hazards to dis-
obey his order. So much for all
my fine cogitations regarding the
rules of right and wrong. Their
first outcome was a deliberate re-
solve at any hazard to disobey a
loving and good parent, backed up
by all the spiritual power of the
church and things established, as
represented in the person of Mr.
Knowles. What my precise duly
under the circumstances was I am
not prepared to say, although I
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
345
know very well that the opinion of
that highly respectable authority
known as common-sense would de-
cide the question against me. I
was not yet quite of age. If I be-
longed to any religion at all, I be-
longed to that in which I had been
brought up. For a young gentle-
man who professed to be so anxious
to do what was right, the duty of
obedience to his father in a matter
where of all things that father was
surely entitled to obedience, and
where the effort to obey cost so lit-
tle, where the result as regarded
others could not but be satisfactory,
not to say exemplary, looked re-
markably like an opportunity of
reguhiting one's conduct by the best
of rules at once. In fact, every-
thing, according to common-sense,
voted dead against me. On the
other hand there lay a great doubt —
a doubt sharpened and strengthen-
ed in the present instance by the
very natural resentment of a young
gentleman who, perhaps uncon-
sciously, had come to regard many
of his father's opinions with some-
thing very like contempt, being lec-
tured publicly — the public being re-
stricted to Mr. Knowles — by that
father, as though, instead of having
just emerged from his teens, he
were still a schoolboy. Rebellion
l>cginswith the incipient moustache.
Those scrubby little blotches of
growing hair on the upper lip of
youth mean much more than youth's
laughing friends can see in them.
Their roots are the roots of man-
hood. As the line grows and
strengthens and defines itself, each
new hair marks a mighty step for-
ward into the great arena to which
all boyhood looks with eagerness.
It is the open charter to rights that
were not dreamed of before. And
if the artist's skill can advance its
growth by the use of delicate pig-
ments, why, so much the better. I
was a man, and it was a man's duty
to assert himself, to do what was be-
coming in a man, whatever the conse-
* quence might be. All which meant
that I was determined to rebel.
Consequently, I declined to meet
the Reverend Mr. Knowles at din-
ner. I strolled out, with doubtless
a more independent stride than
usual, to study the situation in all
its bearings, and resolve upon my fu-
ture course of conduct ; for in two
days it would be Sunday, and the
crisis would have arrived.
The argument, interesting as it
was to myself at the time, would
scarcely prove equally so to the
reader, who will thank me for
sparing him the details. Doubt-
less many a one can look back into
his own life and find a similar in-
stance of resolute disobedience,
which, it is to be hoped, he has as
bitterly repented as I did this.
Happy is he if he can recall only
one such instance ; thrice happy if
he is innocent of any ! I was moral
coward enough to forestall my sen-
tence by flight. I was young, strong,
and active, though hitherto I had
had no very definite object whereon
to exercise my activity. The world
was all before me ; and the world,
as we all know, wears a very fascin-
ating face to the youth of twenty
who has never yet looked behind
the mask and seen all the ugly
things that practical philosophers
assure us are to be found there.
To him it is a face wondrous fair ;
and heaven be thanked for the de-
ception, if deception it be, say I.
The eyes beam with gentleness
and love. Not a wrinkle marks
the smooth visage ; not a frown
disturbs it. On the broad, open
brow is written honesty; on the rosy
lips are alluring smiles; in the
tones of the soft, low voice there is
346
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
magical music. What if some seie
on that same brow the mark of
Cain ; on the lips, cruelty ; in the
eyes, death ; on all the face a
calculating coldness? Such are
those who have failed, who have
missed life's meaning and cast
away their chances — youthful phi-
losophers who have been crossed in
love, or voluptuaries of threescore
and ten. But to high-hearted
youth the world holds up a magic
mirror, wherein he sees a fairy
landscape full of harmony, and
peace, and beauty, and love, all
grouped around a central figure
surpassing all, beautifying all — him-
self and his destiny!
Yes, I would go out into the
world, like the prince in the fairy-
tales — he is always a prince— to
seek my fortune. Up to the pre-
sent I had done absolutely nothing
for myself. Everything had run in a
monotonous groove mapped out ac-
cording to the conventional rule, as
regularly as a railway, and without
even the pleasing excitement of an
accident. Why not begin now .^
Why not carve out my own des-
tiny — carve is an excellent term —
in my own way } ** The world was
mine oyster, which with my sword
I'd open." What though the oyster
was rather large, who said he was
going to swallow it ? It was the
pearl within I sought ; perish the
esculent ! Who knows what dis-
coveries I may not make, what
impenetrable forests pierce, what
lonely princesses deliver from their
charmed sleep, what giant mon-
sters slay on the way, bringing
back the spoils some day to ray
father—some day ! say in six
months or so — and, laying them at
his feet, cry out in triumph, ** Fath-
er, behold the prodigal returned,
not like him of old, who had
squandered his inheritance and fed
on the h«sks of swine, but as a
mighty conqueror, the admired of
fair women and the envy of brave
men ! Father, this mighty poten-
tate is I> Roger, your son, who
would not bow the knee to
Knowles !"
It was a pleasing picture, and
took my fancy amazingly. Had
any young friend of mine come to
consult me at that moment on a
similar project in his own case, 1
believe my counsel to him would
have been of the sagest. I would
have told him to go • home and
sleep over the matter; to be a
good boy and not anger a loving
parent. I would have advised him
that there is nothing like doing the
duty that lies plain before us ; that
there was a world of wisdom and
of truth in that sage maxim of S.
Augustine, Age quod agis — Do what
you do; that his schemes were
visionary, his plans those of a
schoolboy, who clearly enough
knew nothing whatever of the
world (whose depths, of course,
I had sounded), who might have
read books enough, but had not the
slightest experience of that which
is never to be found in books-
real life; that, in pursuit of a
passing fancy, he was neglecting
the real business of life, and cm-
barking on a voyage to Nowhere
in the good ship Nothing, and
so on. That is the advice I
should have delivered to any of
my young friends who were idiots
enough to think that they could
venture to set out on such a vision-
ary road alone and without map
or chart to guide them. That is
how we should all have advised
our friends. But with ourselves—
with ourselves — ah! the case is
different. We can always do what
it would be the most presumptuous
folly in others to attempt. We can
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
347
saidy thrust our hand into the fire,
up to the elbow even, where an-
otl>er dare not trust the tip of a little
fiuger. We can touch pitch, and
never show a soil. We can go
down into hell, and come back
iaughing at the devil, who dare not
touch us. What would be moral
death to another is a mere tonic
to us. And yet, and yet. He who
taught us to pray gave us as a peti-
tion : " Father, . . . lead us not
into temptation, but deliver us
trom evil."
My mind was made up ; and let
me add that the fear of putting my
father to the trying test of acting
upon his resolution in my regard
had DO small share in shaping my
resolve. I did not see him that
night, and on the next day he was
confiaed to his room by an attack
that necessitated calling in the doc-
tor, and kept Nellie, whom I did
not wish to see, by his side most of
the day. I felt that I could not
meet her eye without divulging all.
1 had never done anything that
would cause more than a passing
<"are to those who loved me, and I
nov moved about the house as
though I were about to commit or
had already committed a great
crime. Not accustomed to de-
ception, it seemed to me that any
passing stranger — let alone Fairy
Nell, who knew me through and
through, and had counted every
hair of that incipient moustache
already hinted at as it came, from
whom I had never kept a secret,
not even the pigments laid apart
for the cultivation of th^t same
moustache — would have read in my
guilty face, as plainly as though it
were written down on parchment,
** Roger Herbert, you are going to
run away from home — not a plea-
sant excunion, my fine fellow, but a
genuine bolt !*' I packed up a few
necessaries, and collected such stray
cash of my own as I could lay hands
on. The sum seemed a small for-
tune for a man resolved on entering
on such a resolute life of hard labor
of some kind or another as I had
marked out for myself. Long be-
fore that was exhausted I should
of course be in a position to pro-
vide for myself. How that self-
support was to come about I had
not yet exactly decided on ; but
that was to be an after-considera-
tion. While I was waiting for the
night to come down and shield my
guilty purpose, Nellie stole in from
my father's room to tell me he was
sleeping, and that Dr. Fenwick
said a good night's rest would re-
lieve him from all danger, and in
two or three days he would be him-
self again. This comforted me and
enabled me to be better on my
guard against the witcheries of Fai-
ry, who came and sat down near
me ; for she had heard or guessed at
the dispute that had arisen, and,
like an angel of a woman, now that
she had tended my father, came to
administer a little crumb of com-
fort to me before going to bed.
What an effort it cost me to appear
drowsy and to yawn ! I thought
every yawn would have strangled
me ; but I was resolved to be on
my guard.
" How dreadfully sleepy you are
to-night, Roger !** said the Fairy at
last.
" Am I V" asked the Ogre, with a
tremendous yawn.
" Why, youVe done nothing but
gape ever since I came in. I be-
lieve you are getting quite lazy and
good-for-nothing."
"I believe so too."
" Well, why don't you do some-
thing ?"
" I think I will.** Another yawn.
" ril go to bed. Ten o'clock, by
348
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
Jove! What a shocking hour for
well-behaved young ladies to be up !
Come, Fairy, I will do something
some day. Is father better ?'*
'' Yes, he is sleeping quite sound-
ly." Shaking her head and speak-
ing in a solemn little whisper :
" O you naughty boy /**
Clear eyes, clear heart, clear con-
science ! How your mild inno-
cence pierces through and through
us, rebuking the secret that we think
so safely hidden in the far-away
depths of our souls ! That gentle
little reproof of ray sister smote rae
to the heart.
" Why, Roger, what is the matter
with you V*
" It's a fly ; a — something in my
eye — nothing. Let go my hands,
Nell."
" Look me in the face, sir. You
are crying, Roger. You have been
pretending. You were not sleepy a
bit. Dear, dear ! Don't go on like
that; you make me cry too.**
*' Nellie, my own darling — Fairy
— there, let me blow the candle out.
I was always a coward by candle-
light. There, now lean talk. Nel-
lie," I went on, clutching her close,
her face wet with my tears as well
as her own, and white as marble
in the moonlight — " Nellie, I have
been an awfully wicked fellow,
haven't I ?"
" N-no " — sob, sob.
** Yes, I have ; and father is very
angry with me, isn't he?"
"N-no."
** Do you think that if I were to
do something very bad you could
forgive me, Nellie ?"
" You c-couldn't do— anything
b-bad — at all."
** Well, now listen. I haven't
done much harm, I believe, so far;
neither have I done much good-
And now I make you a solemn
promise that from this night out I
will honestly try all I can, not onlj
to do no harm, but to do good-
something for others as well as
myself. Is that a fair promise
Nell.?"
*' Dear, darling old Roger !" she
murmured, kissing me. " I knew he
was good all the time. I know—
you needn't say any more. Vou
are coming to church with me to-
morrow. How pleased papa will
be, and how pleased I am ! Here,
you shall have my own book to
keep as a token of the promise.
I'll run and fetch it at once."
She tripped up-stairs and came
back breathless, putting the book
in ray hand.
" There, Roger ; that seals our
promise. I've just written inside,
' Roger's promise to Nellie,* and
the date to remind you. That's
all. And now paj^ta will be well
again. O Roger !" — she came and
kissed me again, as I turned ray
back to the window — "you have
made me so happy. Good-night."
I could not trust myself to speak
again and undeceive her. I kissed
her and did not lookat herany more.
I heard her room-door close, and,
after standing a long time where
she left me, I followed her up-stairs.
I stole to my father's door and lis-
tened. I could hear his regular
breathing; he was sound asleep.
I do not know how long I listened,
but at length I crept away to my
own room. My resolution was ter-
ribly shaken by Nellie's innocent
confidence in me. It is so much
easier to endure harshness or sus-
picion from persons to whom you
know you are about to give pain.
Why didn't she scold me, or turn
up her pretty nose at me, or stick a
pin in me, or do something dread-
ful to me — anything rather llian
believe me the best fellow in Hie
world ? But, after all, could I not
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
349
icn 1 pleased ? I had
away bcture fur a month
n a vbit to some friends
iths together al college.
Id 1 hesitate to go nnw ?
rllir's book was placed in
bottom of my bag, and
down and wrote the fol-
\tf :
: I am got tig sway for ^ little
a. tootiEh [>r moarc, probably.
61 FXpctt to 1ii.';ir atiy thing of
lai timr. If yau do liiMfof me,
bnbly be ihrmagh Kenneth
deed, I \txivt Eit£^1i%nd on
d my return will depend al-
Kjtn rttc»>m*iiuiici-s. Nobody
i*f«^i"lf <>f oHiiy dcstlhaiion —
ni?eth ; ^^^ ihui it will be use-
» any hifjuines. Cfivc» uiy love
fa|hi?r, and tf'li him that,
may be^ ihi? ihuuglu of him
acct>r»p**iiy me and prevent
uing .anything tinwiirihy his
irr loving b^uther.
Roger
will keep my proiTitte."
It^ sweated and addressed
I Jtift \\\mn my table. I
iJ not ^ sound was to be
dtigh dl the hou;^e, and
mjf riiom to listen at my
or. I listened at Nellie's
Jiiiig could be heard in
hey were sound asleep —
|ierh;ips, of me. My win-
ooked the garden, and a
;>lot beneath received my-
oy bag noiselessly, as I
drop I had ^o often done
I the tnifigled alarm and
I of Fairy. After a walk
live minutes 1 ht a cigar,
omewhit tiiore compan-
ion before. The moon
dowfl long since, and a
mthcc^^^t low down on the
tokened the da ^v Up There
ennest« in tlie air and a
lit aroutid thai quicken-
od and inspirited the faint
heart. The sense of freedom awoke
in me with every stride that car-
ried me away from my father'^
house out into the world, whose
largeness I was beginning to feei
for the first time. There was some-
thing about the whole enterprise of
novelty and boldness and change
that grew on me every mile of the
way. I thought less and less of
the consternation and grief I might
occasion to those I left behind me,
and whose existence was bound up
in mine. And striding along in
this frame of mind, I reached
Gnaresbridge, where I was not
known. My walk of eight miles
had given me a tremendous appe-
tite. I entered the railway hotel,
and, by way of beginning at once
my life of privation and economy,
ordered a right royal breakfast, the
best the railway hotel coiUd offer.
I then took a first-class ticket for
London, engaged a room for onr
night at the Charing Cross Hotel.
and, finding my own company not
of the liveliest, strolled out into the
streets.
The London streets are beyond
measure dull on a Sunday, There
is a constrained air of good-beha-
vior and drilled respectability about
the crowds going to and comini;
from church at the stated hours that
strikes one with a chill after the
bustle and noise of the other six
days of the week. Religion looks^
so oppressively dull and hopelessly
solemn. The citizens seem to run
up the shutters in front nf their
own persons as well as of their
goods; to bolt and bar and case
themselves in a wooden stolidity
of dull propriety that is mistaken
for religion. I do not say that it
is not well done ; I only say that to
me, at least, on this occasion it was
disagreeable. The light spirits I
had picked up on the road dwin*
350
Stray Leaves front a Passing Life.
died down immediately at sight of
the solemn city, with its solemn
crowds. The sombre gray of my
surroundings seemed to settle on
my mind and heart like ashes from
which every spark had gone out. I
fell a-m using, and involuntarily fol-
lowed one of the streams of people
that were moving along siowly to
some place of worship. I felt sick
at heart, and wished f6r the morrow
to come that was to bear me away
somewhere out of this tame and
conventional life, where religion as
well as business followed a fixed
routine. Before I knew or had
time to think how I had got there,
1 found myself in a Catholic
church. I knew it to be a Catho-
lic church by the altar, and the
crucifixes, and the Stations of the
Cross around the walls, and the
general appearance of the congre-
gation, ^ihere is something ailKnit
a Catholic congregation that diftin-
guishes it at once from all others.
Heaven seems a happier place
somehow from a Catholic point of
view. I had visited Catholic
churches before, but was never
present at the Mass, and was about
to retire as soon as I discove;red
my whereabouts, when curiosity,
mingled with the conviction that I
might be as comfortably miserable
there as outside, detained me, and
I remained. Somebody directed
me to a seat close to the altar,
where I could see everything per-
fectly.
'I'hc service was varied and full
of dignified movements, but I
could not understand its meaning.
'V\\^. singing was good, it seemed to
my ])oor ear ; but I could not say
the same for the sermon. A quiet,
j»ious-looking gentleman preached
from the altar a long and, to me,
tedious discourse. He seemed in
earnest, however, and now and
then his pale, worn face would light:
up— once or twice especially when:
he spoke of the " Mother of God.'*
Indeed, I found myself just becoin
ing interested when the sermon
concluded. There was something
far more impressive to me than thi
priest's discourse, than the solemn
music, than the gleaming lightsi
than the slow and reverent move*
ments at the altar, in the congrega
tion itself. The people preached
a silent but most telling sermon
looked furtively around, and watch
ed them. Whether they were mistak
en or not, whether they were idolai
ters or not, there was certainly M
sham about them; after all, ther<
was something thorough about thij
Religion of Rags. Beyond doiM
they prayed in real, downrighj
Qunest. One man differed frod
snother; one woman from her si!i
ter; this one was in rags, that
silks ; this man might be a lord, a:
his neighbor a beggar : but there w;
something common to them il
They seemed, as they knelt then
possessed of one heart and
soul. They appeared even
body. Their prayer seemed
verMi and to pass from one to an-
other out and up to God. All
seemed to feel an Invisible Pre-
sence, which, from association,
doubtless, I could have persuaded
myself that I also felt. A bell
tinkles, once, twice, thrice ; once,
twice, thrice again. There is an in-
stantaneous hush ; the low breath-
ing of the organ has ceased ; and
every head and heart is bowed
down in silent and awful adora-
tion. Involuntarily I also knelt and
bowed.
Deeply impressed, I left the
church at the conclusion of the
service, and seemed to be walking
in a dream, when a light touch on
mv shoulder startled and recalled
Strajf Leaves from a Passing Life.
351
senses^ while a voice
\\\ my ear;
c, hereiic I frhat dost
It
Kcniieth Goodal who
ling before me. The
ng to my eyes, but he
luch himself to notice
drew my arm in his, and
L carriage thai was wait—
tlie door of the church,
carriage sat a beautiful
c likeness to Kenneth
purcnt not to recognize
as his mothen *' I have
u a treasurct" said Ken-
casing her; '*this is the
Herbert of whom I have
you so much. Who
I dreamed of catching
: at Mas^ V* We were
yn% through ibc dull
thi*! time, but it was
to think how their dul-
" fly departed. "Yes,
^. And I verily be-
s^ti himself and said his
\ a iTiie Christian. And
[ill places should they
but nghl ill front of
s mother was a swcel
the kind of woman, in-
itld have expected Ken-
icr to be, To great in-
od that ke<:n power of
I so noticeablp in her
added the charms of a
»cr^on that defied time,
eil of true Christian wo-
tfll fjvcTj softened, and
%\\. She was a fervent
fho went about doing
incth laughingly told
^r conversion had cost
deal more trouble and.
ban his own ; but hers
ed, his father's followed
matter of course* Mrs.
d always been so pure
and blameless in her own life that
her very excellence constituted a
most difficult but intangible barrier
to her son's theological batteries^
Even if she became a Catholic,
what could she be other than she
was 1 she had asked him once. Of
what crimes was she guilty, that she
should change her religion at the
whim of a youthful enthusiast .^
Did she not pray to God every day
of her life } Did she not give alms,
visit the ^ick, comfort the sorrow-
ful, clothe the naked .^ What did
the Catholic ladies do that she did
not? She was not, and did not
mean to become, a Sister of Charity,
devoting herself absolutely to pray-
er and good works. Her place was
in the world. God had placed her
there, and there she would remain,
doing her duty to the best of her
ability as a Christian wife and
mother.
It was certainly a hard case, and
she was greatly strengthened in her
position by her grand ally. Lady
Carpton. Both these excellent wo-
men grieved sorely over Kenneth's
defection ; for Kenneth was an es-
pecial favorite of Lady Carpton *s,
and had been smiled upon by her
fair daughter, Maud. The two
ladies had taken it into their heads
that Kenneth and Maud were ad-
mirably matched, and their mar-
riage had long ago been fixed upon
by the respective mammas, who
never kept a secret from each other
since they had been bosom friends
together at school. The announce-
ment of Kenneth's joining the Re-
ligion of Rags fell like a bombshell
into the camp of the allies, scatter-
ing confusion and dealing destruc-
tion on all sides. Lady Carpton
waahed her hands of him, and came
to the immediate conclusion that
" the boy's mental obliquity was in-
explicable. The rash and ridicu-
352
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
lous step he had taken was fatal to
all his prospects in this life, not to
speak of those in the next. He
had inexcusably abandoned the so-
cial position for which his connec-
tions and his rational gifts had emi-
nently fitted him. She had been
deceived, fatally deceived, in him.
He had destroyed his own future,
disgraced his family, and consign-
ed himself henceforward to a life
of uselessness and oblivion."
Lady Carpton, when fairly roused,
had an eloquence as well as a tem-
per of her owru Majestically wash-
ing her hands of Kenneth, she im-
mediately encouraged the attentions
of Lord Cheshunt to her daugh-
ter. From jackets upwards Lord
Cheshunt had worshipped the very
ground upon which Maud trod, as
far as it was given to the soul of
Lord Cheshunt to worship anything
or anybody at all. Maud resembled
her mother. Great as her liking
— it was never more — for Kenneth
had been, her virtuous indignation
was greater. With some siglis,
doubtless, perhaps with some teaK?,
she renounced for ever Kenneth
the renegade, and took in his stead,
as a dutiful daughter should do, her
share in the lands, appurtenances,
rent-roll, and all other belongings
of Lord Cheshunt, with Ins lordship
into the bargain. It was on her re-
turn from the bridal trip that her
mamma, with tears of vexation in
her eyes, informed her of the cruel
blow that the friend of her girlhood
had dealt her — out of small person-
al spite, she was certain. The friend
of her girlhood was Mrs. Goodal,
who had actually followed that
scapegrace son of hers to Rome —
had positively become a Catholic !
And as though to confirm the
wretched saying that misfortunes
never come alone, between them
they had dragged into their fatal
web that dear, good-natured, unsus-
pecting Mr. Goodal, just at the mo-
ment when he was about to be re
turned in High Church interest for
his native borough of Royston.
Thus " the cause " had lost anoth-
er vote, at a time, too, when " the
cause ** sadly needed recruiting in
the parliamentary ranks. ** My
dear,*' she said impressively to
Maud, " you have had a very for-
tunate escape. Who knows what
might have become of you } Lord
Cheshunt may not possess that young
man's intellect " — and Maud was al-
ready obliged to confess that super
abundance of intellect was scarcely
Lord Cheshunt's besetting weak-
ness — "but you see to what mental
depravity the fatal gift of intellect
may conduct a self-willed youwg
man. Poor dear I*ord Byron is juM
such another instance. Mark ra\
word for it, Kenneth Goodal will
become a Jesuit yet !" — a fatality
that to Lady Carpton's imagination
presented little short of the satanic.
I spent a very pleasant day and
evening with the Goodals — so plea-
sant that it was not until I found
myself saying " good-night " to
Kenneth in the street that the oc-
currences of the last few days flash-
ed upon me. *' You will not forget
your promise of coming to-mor-
row," he said, as he was shakins;
hands.
" To-morrow ! Did I promise to
spend to-morrow with you.^'* I
asked.
" So Mrs. Goodal will assure you
on your arrival."
"Good heavens! did I make
so foolish a promise ? I cannot have
thought of what I was saying," 1
muttered, half to myself.
" Well, I will call for you in the
morning. By the bye, where arc
you staying ?** asked Kenneth.
" No, no. The fact is, I puri>os-
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
353
ed leaving town again immediately.
My visit was merely a flying one.
Yoa must make my excuses to your
mother, Kenneth."
"She will never hear of them.
Traitor! thou hast promised, and
thy promise is sacred.'*
** It was really a mistake. Well,
if I decide on remaining in town
over to-morrow, I will come. If — if
I should not come, tell your mother
how charmed I was with her, and
with your father also. Kenneth, I
should be so glad if she would pay
Nellie a visit — my sister, you know.
Indeed, I am very anxious that she
should see Nellie as soon as possi-
ble."
"But you forget again that you
owe us a visit. Why not come at
once.> You had better stay and
send for your father and sister."
'*Well, I will sleep on the matj-
tcr. Good-night, old fellow. In
the meanwhile do not forget my re-
quest,"
Again my resolution was terribly
shaken. I went over the entire
siory, and weighed all the pros and
(ons of the question, as I walked
back to my hotel. I had not yet
even determined where to go, still
Ins what to do. On arriving at the
hotel I went to the smoking-room,
feeling no inclination for slumber.
It had only a single occupant — a
naval officer, to judge by his cos-
tume. He reached me a light, and
made some conventional remark on
the weather, or some such subject.
He was a jovial-looking, red-faced
man of a*bout forty or forty-five,
*iih a merry eye and a pleasant
vwcc, and a laugh that had in it
'•oraething of the depth and the
ireogth and the healthy flavor of
*l»c sea. My cigar soon coming to
in end, he offered me one of his
■n^D with the remark :
" I like a pipe myself, with good
VOL. XXI. — 23
strong Cavendish steeped in rum.
The rum gives it a wholesome
flavor. But ashore I always smoke
cigars. You want a stiffish bit o'
sea-breeze up, and then you can
enjoy the true flavor of a pipe of
Cavendish. All your Havanas in
the world aren't half as sweet. But
ashore here, why, Lord, Lord ! a
pipe o* Cavendish Would smell
from one end o* the city to t'other,
and all London would turn up its
nose. So I'm obliged to put up
with Havanas," said the captain
(I was sure he was a captain) rue-
fully.
** What is a mortification to you
would be a pleasure to many," I
remarked sagely.
" Ever been to sea ?" he asked
abruptly.
"Never," I responded laconi-^
cally.
He looked at me with a kind of
pity in his glance.
" What ! never been outside o"
this cranky little island, where men
have hardly got room to blow their
noses ?" he asked in amazement.
"Never," I responded again.
" And what's more, up to the day
before yesterday I never wished to
go-"
My seafaring friend sighed and.
smoked in silence. The silence
grew solemn, and I thought he
would not condescend to address-
me again. At length, however, he
said:
** You're a Londoner, I guess."
I guessed negatively ; but not at
all abashed at his mistake, he went
on:
" Well, it's all the same. All Lon-
doners an't born in London, any
more than all Englishmen are born
in England. But they're all the
same. A Londoner never cares to
study any geography beyond his
sixpenny map o* London. The.
354
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
Marble Arch and Temple Bar,
Hyde Park and London Bridge, are
his points o' the compass. Guild
Hall and the Houses o' Parliament
mean more to him than the East
or West Indies, the Himalaya
Mountains, North or South Ameri-
ca, or the Pyramids. The Strand
is bigger than the equator, and the
National Gallery a finer building
than S. Peter's. Your thorough,
home-bred Englishman is about the
most vigorously ignorant man I've
ever sailed across ; and I'm an
Englishman myself who say it. I do
believe it's their very ignorance that
has made them masters of the best
l)art of the world, and the worst
masters the world has ever seen.
They never see or know or believe
anything outside of London, and
the consequence is, they're always
making mighty blunders. There,
there's a yarn, and a yarn always
makes me thirsty. What will you
-drink V*
I found my new companion a
•shrewd and observant man under a
somewhat rough coating. He was
captain of a steamer belonging to
one of the great lines that ply be-
tween England and the . United
States, and his vessel sailed for
New York the next day. Here was
an opportunity of ending at once
all my doubts and hesitations. But
on broaching the subject to the
captain I found him grow at once
cautious, not to say suspicious.
That fatal admission about my
never having been to sea at all
told terribly against me. Then he
wanted to know if I had a compan-
ion of any kind with me, which I
took to be sailor's English for ask-
ing if it were a runaway match.
Satisfied on this point, he grew
more suspicious still. Running
away with a young lass he could
understand, and perhaps be brought
to pardon ; but if it was not that
then what earthly object could 1
have in going to New York all
alone ?
" The fact is, youngster," he blurt
ed out at length, " you see it an'i
all fair and above-board with you.
Youngsters like you don't make up
their minds in half an hour to go to
New York ; and if they do, they've
no business to. If you was a liule
younger, I should call in a police-
man, and tell him you had run away
from home. I don't want to help
youngsters- — nor anybody else, for
that matter — to run into scrapes.
There will be some one crying for
you, you know, and that an't plea-
sant now. Now, then, out with iu
and let's have the whole slor)'-
There's something wrong, and a
clean breast, like a good sea-sickness»
will relieve you. It's a little un-
pleasant at first, but you'll feel ail
the better for it afterwards. Trust
an old sailor's word for that."
I do not attempt to give the plea-
sant nautical terms with which roy
excellent friend, the captain, gar-
nished his discourse. However, I
told him my story, sufficiently at
least to diminish, if not quite to al-
lay, the worthy man's scruples aboui
my projected trip, which, of cour^.
was only to last until the storm at
home blew over. Finally, at a very
early hour in the morning it was re-
solved that I should make my first
voyage with the captain, and that
same day I penned, and in the af-
ternoon despatched, the followini:
note to Kenneth :
**My Dear Kenneth : By the time
you receive this I shall be on my way r«
the United States I said nothing lo you
of my plans last night, because, had 1
done so. I fear they might not have be*.-,
put in execution without some unnect*
sary pain and difficulties. My chief rcj
son for leaving England is the greit
doubt and perplexity that have £iUeo up
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
35S
Oil me. Any liope of clearing up such
Ooabf in Leigh stone would be absurd.
There at! persons and all things run in
established grooves, and arc more or less
under the influence of (radiiions, many
uf which have for me utterly lost all force
and meaning. A little rubbing with the
wiirld. a little hard work, of which I know
nothing, the sweetness as well as the
anxiety of genuine struggle in places
and among persons where I shall be sim-
ply another fcllow-struggler, can do no
frcat harm, even if it does no great good.
At all events, it will be a change ; and a
change of somr kind I had long contem-
plaicd. A little difficulty with my father
about not attending church as usual
Karcely ha.stened my resolution to leave
Leigfastone. I should feel very grateful
to von if yon could assure him of this, as
I took the liberty on leaving of telling
my sister that they would next hear of
ne io all probability through you. My
father's kind heart and love for me may
lead him to Uy too great stress upon
what in reality nowise affected my con-
doa and feelings towards him. Time is
vp, I ind. and I can only add that wher-
crer I may go I shall carry with me,
wann in my heart, the friendship so
nraofely begun between us.
**R. Herbert."
I 6b not purpose giving here the
history of my first struggles with the
world, as they contain nothing par-
ticularly exciting or romantic. The
circumstances that led to my con-
nection with Mrs. Jinks and Mr.
Culpepper are easily explained. My
vmall fortune disappeared with as-
tonishing rapidity, and, unless I did
iomctlung to replenish my dwin-
dling purse ver>' speedily, there was
nothing left save to beg or starve.
I would neither write home nor to
Kenneth, being vain enough to
believe that the smallest scrap of
paper with my address on it would
l>e the signal for the emigration by
next steamer of half Leighstone,
wiih no other purpose than to see
me, its lost hero. Poverty led me
t') Mr. Culpepper among others,
ind the same stem guardian intro-
<iuced me to Mrs. Jinks. I must
confess — and the confession may be
a warning to young gentlemen in-
clined at all to grow weary of a
snug home — that any particular ro-
mance attached to my venture very
soon faded out of sight. The world
was not quite so pleasant a friend
as I had expected. The practical
philosophers were right after all.
Dear, dear! how the wrinkles be-
gan to multiply in his face, and
what suspicious glances shot out of
those eyes, that grew colder and
colder as my boots began to run
down at heel, and my elbows gave
indications of a violent struggle for
air. It required a vast amount of
resolution to keep me from volun-
teering to work my passage back to
England. I was often lonely, often
weary, often sad, often hungry even.
But lonely, weary, sad, and hungry
as 1 might be, I soon contrived to
become acquainted with others who
were many times more sad, lonely,
and weary than I — poor wretches
to whom my position at its worst
seemed that of a prince. The most
wretched man in all this world is
yet to be found. Of that truth I
became more deeply convinced
every day. It was a fact held up
constantly before my eyes, and I
believe that it did me good. It was
an excellent antidote to anything
in the shape of pride. Pride !
Great heavens ! what wretched
little, creeping, struggling mortals
most of us were ; crawling on from
day to day, inch by inch, little by
little, now over a little mound that
seemed so high, and took such in-
finite labor to reach ; now down in
a little hollow that seemed the very
depths, and yet was only a few
inches lower than yesterday's eleva-
tion. There we were, gasping and'
struggling for light and food and
air day after day. Poverty reads
terrible lessons. It levels us all.
356
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
Some it softens, while others it
hardens; some it sanctifies, multi-
tudes it leads to crime.
Not that a gleam of sunshine
never came to us. ' Some stray ray
will penetrate the darkest alley and
crookedest winding, and warm and
gladden and give at least a mo-
ment's life and hope and cheerful-
ness to something, provided only a
pinhole be left open to the heaven
that is smiling above us all the
while. I began to make acquain-
tances, pleasant enough some of
them, others not so pleasant. There
was much food for meditation and
mental colloquy in the daily life I
was living, but I had no time for
such indulgence. I was compelled
to work very hard ; for this was
certainly not a vineyard where the
laborers were few ; and the harvest,
when gathered in, was but a sorry
crop at the best. Is not the his-
tory of the human race the record
of one long and unsuccessful expe-
dition after the Golden P'leece?
Such stray remnants of it as fell
into my hand went for the most
part, for a long time at least, into
the treasury of Mrs. Jinks, who, like
a female Atreus, served up my own
children, the children of my brain,
or their equivalents, to me at table.
Horrid provender ! One week it
was an art criticism — dressed up
with wonderful condiments and
melted down into mysterious soup,
whose depths I shuddered to pene-
trate — that sustained the life in me.
Another time it was a fugitive poem
that took the form of roast beef and
potatoes. A cruel critique on some
poor girl's novel would give me ill
dreams as pork-chops. A light,
brisk, airy social essay would
solidify fnto mutton. And so it
went on, week in wxek out, the
round of the table. An inspiriting
life truly, where your epigrams
mean cutlets, and all the brilliant
fancies of your imagination go for
honest bread and butter.
I believe that Mrs. Jinks secret-
ly entertained the profoundest con-
tempt for me and my calling, min-
gled with a touch of pity for a
young, strong fellow who had miss-
ed his vocation, and who, instead
of moping and groping over »nk-pot5
and scraps of paper, might be earn-
ing an honest living like the butch-
er's young man over the way — an
intimate acquaintance and close
personal friend of mine who " kept
company " with Mrs. Jinks' Jane.
I ventured once to ask Mrs. Jinb
whether she did not consider litera-
ry labor an honest mode of eamij)«
a living ; but I was not encouraged
to ask a similar question a second
time. " She'd knowed littery gentj
afore now ; knowed 'em to her
costy she had. They was for ever
a-grumblin' at their board, and
nothing was good enough for thenftt
though they ate more than any two
of her boarders put together, and
always went away owin' her three
months, besides a-borrerin' no end
o' money and things." Such was
Mrs. Jinks' experienced opinion of
"littery gents." She was gracious
enough to add: "You know I don't
say this of you y Mr. Herbert. Yon
don*t seem to eat as well as mos:
on 'em. You don't grumble at
whatever you git. You don't bor-
rer, and you never fetches friend>
home with you at half-past three in
the morn in', as doesn't know which
is their heads and which is their
heels, and a-tryin to oi>en the street-
door with their watchkeys; tellin"
Mr. Jinks, who is a temperance man.
the next mornin', that you'd been to
a temperance meetin' the night afore,
and took too much water. No,
Mr, Herbert, I wouldn't believe
you capable of such goins-on. But
Stray Leaves from n Passing Life.
357
thafs because you an't a regular
littery gent ; you re only what tliey
calls an anatoor.'*
Mrs. Jinks was right; I was only
an amateur., though I had a faint
ambition some day of being regu-
larly enrolled in "the profession/*
1 flattered myself that I was ad-
vanciog, however slowly, to that
€i)d. More than a year had now
flown by since I had left home. I
came to be more and more absorb-
ed in my wort and the days and
months glided silently past me
without my noticing them. This
close and intense absorption suc-
ceeded in shutting out to a great
extent the thoughts of home. In-
deed, I would not allow my mind
to rest on that subject ; for when I
did, I was quite unmanned. It was
aot until I had made sufficient trial
of the sweet bitterness or bitter
sweetness, as may be, of what was
a hard and often seemed a hopeless
stniggle, that I wrote to Kenneth
under the strictest pledge of secre-
cy, giving him a true and un-
varnished account of my life since
we parted, and transmitting at the
same time certain evidences of
what I was pleased to accept as
ihc dawn of success in the shape of
sundry articles in Tk^ Packet and
other journals. He was enjoined
merely to inform them at home
that I was in the enjoyment of
good health and reaping a steady
income of, at an average, ten dol-
lars a week, which I hoped soon to
l>cable to increase; and by a con-
unuancc of steady work and the
*»irictest economy I had every hope,
if I lived to the age of Methusaleh,
«f being in a position to retire on
A moderate competency, sud end
'ny patriarchal days in serene re-
tirement and contemplation under
^ shade of my own fig-tree. I
<i«scribcd Mrs. Jinks and her
household arrangements at consid-
erable length, and did that estima-
ble lady infinite credit, while I
drew a companion picture of Mr.
Culpepper that would have done
honor to the journal of which he
was the distinguished chief. But
put not your trust in bosom friends !
Mine utterly disregarded my bind-
ing pledge, and the only answer I
received to my letter was in Nel-
lie's well-known handwriting on the
occasion and in the manner al-
ready described.
That was a stormy passage back
to England. We were detained
both by stress of weather and an
accident that occurred when only a
few days out. It was the morning
of Christmas eve when at length we
landed at Liverpool. The delay
had exasperated me almost into a
fever. I despatched a telegram to
Nellie announcing my arrival, and
that I should be in Leighstone that
evening. The train was crowded
with holiday folk : happy children
going home for the Christmas holi-
days ; stout farmers, red and hearty,
hurrying back from the Christmas
market : bright-eyed women loaded
with Christmas baskets and barri-
caded by parcels of every descrip-
tion. The crisp, cold air seemed
redolent of Christmas pudding and
good cheer. The guard wished us
a merry Christmas as he examined
our tickets. The stations flashed
a merry Christmas on us out of
their gay festoons of holly and ivy
with bright-red berries and an er-
mine fringe of snow, as we flew
along, though it seemed to me that
we were crawling. Just as we en-
tered London the snow began to
fall, and I was grateful for it. I
was weary of the clear, cold, pitiless
sky under which we had passed.
358
Stray Leaves from a Passing' Life.
London was in an uproar, as it always
is on a Christmas eve ; but the up-
roar rather soothed me than other-
wise. What I dreaded was quiet,
when ray own thoughts and fears
would compel me to listen to their
remorse and foreboding. I saw
lights flashing. I heard voices call-
ing through the fog and the snow.
Songs were sung, and men and wo-
men talked in a confused and
meaningless jargon together. I
heard the sounds and moved
among the multitude, but with a far-
off sense as in a dream. How I
found my way about at all is a mys-
tery to me, unless it were with that
secret instinct that guides the sleep-
walker. I sdw nothing but the
white snow falling, falling, white
and silent and deadly cold, cover-
ing the earth like a shroud. I re-
member thinking of Charles I., and
how on the day of his death aH
England was draped in a snow-
shroud. That incident always hii-
pressed me when a boy as so sad
and significant. And here was
my Cliristmas greeting after more
than a year*s absence : the sad
snow falling thicker and thicker as
I neared home, steadily, solemnly,
silently down, with never a break
or quaver in it, mystic, wonderful,
impalpable as a sheeted ghost;
and more than a month ago my
sister called me away from another
world to tell me that my fether was
dying.
"Great God! great God!*' I
moaned, " in whom I believe,
against whom I have sinned, to
whom alone I can pray, spare him
till I come."*
" Leigh stone ! Leighston>e !'* rang
out the voice of the guard.
I staggered from the railway car-
rtage, stumbled, and feH. I bad
tasted nothing the whoJe day. The
guard picked me up roughly— the
very guard who used to be such a
great friend of mine in the oW
days — a year seemed already oW
days. He did not recognize mc
now. I suppose he thought ae
drunk, for I heard him say, '^That
chap's beginning his Christmas
holidays pretty early,^ and a loud
laugh greeted the sally. I contriv-
ed to make my way oatside the
little station. Not a soul recogniz-
ed me, and I was afraid to ask any
one for informatian, dreading tlw
answer tliat I could not l>ave borDC
Outside the station my strengik
gave out. My head grew dizzy; I
staggered blindly towards &ome car-
riages drawn up in front of me, and
fell fainting at the feet of one of the
horses.
My eyes opened on faces that I
did not recognize. Some one was
holding up my head, and there
were strange men arouivl me.
" Thank God ! he recovers," said a
voice I knew well, and all came
back on me in a flash.
" Kenneth !" I cried, " Kenneth !
Is he dead V*
" Hush, old boy. Take it etsy.
Rest awhile."
His silence was sufficient.
" My God ! I am punished T' 1
gasped out, and Cainted again.
TO BB CONCLUDED NKXT MOUTH.
The Cardinalate.
359
THE CARDINALATE.
i^atc and Suvereign Conn-
F'apc in llic government
lifH radon of ihe affairs of
ii in Rome and through-
A'ortd \% composed of a
f very distingviished eccle-
ho art; called Cardinals.
? and digtiity of a member
►dy ii lermed the Cardt-
\ some dispute among tlie
boui I he precise origia
ing of the word cardinal
sJ Xo iiiich a person ; btit
noncr opinion derives it
I jlui ctirtU^ the hinge of
lich i% probably correct;
nra^on mssttgned for the
!n*cause the Cardinals
'.iveiM!use, the pivots
, revolve the portals
\\\\)c — is more descrip-
iiceuraCc. At a compara-
ly age the parish priests
re he*, atid l»ter the canons
led rati of MiUnt Ravenna,
nd ofhcr cities of Italy,
ns of Krance, Spain, and
ir^tricKi were called cardi-
1 Muratori suggests that
nasukcn in imitation, and
% cmuUuonf uf the chief
I of the churcit in Ron>c.
5 that they were so called
; and elsewhere because
is&eMion of, or immovably
«- iHimdinaii — to certain
which wast ejipressed in
by the verb €itrSnan or
y, farmed, indeed, from
bove, and the application
in thi« j«cns4^ receives an
Q from Vitruvius, who
writes, in his treatise on architec-
ture, of tignutn cardinatum — one
beam fitted into another.
Our oldest authority for the insti-
tution of the cardinalate is found
in a few words of unquestionable
authenticity in the JUber PontificaliSy
or Lives of the Popes^ extracted and
compiled from very ancient docu-
ments by Anastasius the Librarian
in the IXth century. It is there
written of S. Cletus, who lived in
the year 8i, was an immediate dis-
ciple of the Prince of the Apostles,
and his successor only once remov-
ed : " Hie ex proecepto beati Petri
XXV * presbyteros ordinavit in
urbe Roma, mense decembri."
These priests, ordained by direc-
tion of blessed Peter, formed a
select body of councillors to assist
the pope in the management of ec-
clesiastical affairs, and are the pre-
decessors of those who were after-
wards called cardinals of the Holy
Roman Church. Hence Eugene
IV. said in his constitution Non
Mediocri {XIX Bull, Mainardi)
that the office of cardinal was evi-
dently instituted by S. Peter and
his near successors. Again, in the
Life of Evaristus^ who became pope
in the year loo, we read : ** Hie titu-
los in urbe Roma divisit presbyte-
ris." To this day the old churches
of the city, at the head of which
stand the cardinal-priests, are called
titles, and all writers agree that
the designation was given under
this pontificate. There is hardly
less difference of opinion about the
• Some codices have XXXV.
36o
The Cardinalate.
original meaning of this word than
there is about that of cardinal.
Some have imagined that the fiscal
mark put on objects belonging to,
or that had devolved upon, the
sovereign in civil administration
being called titulus in Latin, the
3ame word was applied by Chris-
tians to those edifices which were
consecrated to the service of God ;
the ceremonies, such as the sprink-
ling of holy water and the unction
of oil used in the act of setting them
apart for divine worship, marking
them as belonging henceforth to
the Ruler of heaven and earth.
Others think that as a special men-
tion was made in the ordination of
a priest of the particular church in
which he was to serve, it was called
his title, as though it gave him a
new name with his new character ;
and this may be the reason of a
custom, once universal, of calling a
cardinal by the name of his church
instead of by his family name.*
Father Marchi, in his work on the
Early Christian Monuments of RomCy
has given several mortuary inscrip*
tions which have been discovered
of these ancient Roman priests and
dignitaries, and from which we take
these two : " Locus Presbyteri
Basili Tituli Sabinae," and ** Loc.
Adeodati Presb Tit. Priscae."
* During the readence of the popes at Avignon,
and afterwards until about the time of the Council
of Trent, it was usual to call cardinals by the name
of their native places or of their dioceses, as the Car-
dinal of Gaeta (Cajetan), the Cardinal of Toledo.
This was the case at first possibly because the car-
dinals were not very familiar with their titles on the
banks of the Tiber, which many of them never saw,
and may have been kept up afterwards when the
popes returned to Rome, in some degree by that
k>ve of grand nomenclature which characterized the
age of the revival of letters. It lequires some-
limes no little search to discover the real name
of one who is called in history, for instance, the Car-
dinal kA S. Chrysf^onus (Cardinalis Sancti Chryso-
.goni) or the Cardinal of Pavia (Cardinalis Papiensis).
The present style has long been to call cardinals
l>y their family names ; but if these be andent or
aemorable ones, there is a recognueed form of Latin-
jzation not to be departed from. Thus, to give an
•example, the late Cardinal Prince Allien was in
Latin Cardinalis de Alteriis.
After locus in the first and its ab-
breviation in the second inscription,
the word depositionis — " of being laid
to rest " — must be understood.
Let us here remark with the
erudite Cenni that these tided
priests were not such as were after-
wards called parish priests or rec-
tors of churches, with whom they
were never confounded, and over
whom, as intermediaries between
them and the pope, they had au-
thority. These titulars were a
select body of men not higher in
point of order ^ but otherwise dis-
tinct from and superior to those
priests who had parochial duties
to perform within certain limits.
Whether we believe ^ that cardinal
meant originally one who was chief
in a certain church, just as was said
(Du Cange's Glossarium) Cardinaiii
Missa^ Altar e Cardinale^ and as we
say in English, cardinal virtues, car-
dinal points ; or whether we accept
it as one who was appointed to a
particular church, it is not true that
the Roman cardinals were so call-
ed either because they were the
chief priests— ^^r^<^/ — of certain
churches, or because they were at-
tached — incardinati — to a title. The
great Modenese author on Italian
antiquities has been deceived by
similarity of name into stating that
the origin and office of the cardinals
of Rome did not differ from that of
those of other churches (Dcvoti,
Inst. Can^t vol. i. p. i88, note 4).
Observe that the ordination per-
formed by Cletus was done by
direction of blessed Peter; that it
was that of a spec al corps of priests;
that it was not successive, but at
one time, and that in the month of
December, the same which an un-
broken local tradition teaches is
the proper season * for the creation
* Those who use the Roman Ord» in aayias ^
Office win have remarked how constantly the expce»>
The Cardinalate.
361
of cardinals, out of respect for the
first example. Now, the pope sure-
ly needed no special injunction to
continue the succession of the
sacred ministry ; we may conse-
quently believe that the ordination
made by him with such particular
circumstances was an extraordinary
proceeding, distinct from, although
immediately followed by, the ad-
ministration of the sacrament of
Orders. Therefore if after the
Evaristan distribution of titles the
successors of these Cletan priests
came to be called cardinals, it was
not so much (accepting the origin
of the name given above) because
ihcy were attached to particular
churches as because they were
attached in solidum to the Roman
Church, the mother and mistress
of all churches, or, better still, as
more conformable to the words of
many popes and saints, because
they were attached to (some good
authors say incorporated with)
the Roman pontiff. And it is
in this figurative but very sug-
gestive sense that Leo IV. writes
of one of his cardinals whom he
calls **Anastasius presbyter cardi-
as mntriy quem nos in titulo B.
Marcelli Mart, atque pontif. ordi-
navimus" (Labbe, Conc^ tom. ix.
co^* ^^35)- In the same sense S.
Bernard, addressing Eugene III.,
calls the cardinals his coadjutors
and collaterals, and says {Ep, 237)
that their business is to assist him
in the government of the whole
church, and (Ep. 150) that in spirit-
ual matters they are judges of the
world. Not otherwise did Pope
John VIII., in the year 872, write
that as he filled in the new law the
office of Moses in the old, so his
•oa Menu tUcembri occun ia the leaoos of the
■Hkt pnpe MJiiu u the teaioa at which they held
*■» « Mort ordtaatioQS. These ordinatioiM thought
^nky flf beuf reeordedwertoalrthoMofcardi-
cardinals represented the seventy
elders chosen to assist him. For
this reason cardinals alone are ever
chosen legates a latere — />., Summi
Pontificis, The cardinals of Rome,
therefore, were not cardinals be-
cause they had titles, but just the
contrary. We have been a little
prolix on a point that might seem
minute, because there was once a
determined effort made in some
parts of France and Italy, especially
daring the last century, to try to
prove that the cardinals of the Ro-
man Church were no more origin-
ally than any other priests having
cure of souls in the first instance,
except that by a fortunate accident
they ministered in the capital of the
then known world. This was an
attempt to depress the dignity of
the cardinalate, or at least, by im-
plication, to give undue importance
to the status of a parish priest, as
though he and a cardinal were once
on the same footing. The like in-
sidious argument would be prepar-
ed to show, on occasion, that the
pope himself was in the beginning
no more than any other bishop.
The same name was often used in
the early church of two persons,
but of each in a different sense ;
and thus the mere fact of there
having been cardinals in other
churches than that at Rome no
more diminishes the superior auth-
ority and higher dignity of the Ro-
man cardinalate than the name of
po[)e, once common to all bishops,
lessens the supremacy of the Roman
pontificate. In ecclesiastical an-
tiquities a common name often
covers very different offices. In
general, however, the instinct of
Catholics will always be able to
make the proper distinction, no
matter how things are called ; and
the words of Alvaro Pelagio, who
wrote his lachrymose treatise De
362
The Cardinalate.
Planctu EccUsia about the year 1330,
show ho«r different was the popular
opinion of the provincial and of the
urban cardinals: "Suntet in Eccle-
sia Compostellana cardinalfes pies-
byteri mitrati, et in Eccksia Raven-
nate. Ta/es cardinaUs sunt derisui
potius quam honori" The name of
cardinal was certainly in use at the
beginning of the IVth century;
for the seven cardinal-deacons of
the Roman Church are mentioned
in a council held under Pope Syl-
vester in 324 ; and a document of
the pontificate of Damasus in 367,
registering a donation to the church
of Arezzo by the senator Zenobius,
is subscribed in these words : ** I,
John, of the Holy Roman Church, a
cardinal-deacon, on the part of
Damasus, praise this act and con-
firm it.'* Among the archives, also,
of S. Mary in Trastevere, there 'is
mention of Paulinus, a cardinal-
priest in 492. The name of cardi-
nal was restricted by a just and per-
emptory decree of S. Pius V. in
1567 exclusively to the cardinals
of pontifical creation, and it was
only then that the haughty canons of
Ravenna dropped this high-sound-
ing appellation. The idea figura-
lively connected with the cardinal-
ship in the edifice of the Holy Ro-
man Church is briefly exposed by
Pope Leo IX., a German, in a letter
to the Emperor of Constantinople.
*' As the gate itself," he says, " doth
rest upon its post, thus upon Peter
and his successors dependeth the
government of the whole church.
Wherefore his clerics are called
cardinals, because they are most
closely adhering to that about which
revolveth all the rest " (Labbe^
tom. ii. Eptst. i. cap. 22.) The au-
thor of an old poem on the Roman
court {Carmen de Curia Romano)
gives in a few lines the principal
points of a cardinal's pre-eminence :
^ Die age quid faciai)t qoibus est a cardiofe nsaa
Post Papain, quibtts est inunediatus honor ?
Expediunt causas, magmque negotia muadi,
Extingunnt Utes, foedera rupta Ugant.
Isti partidpcs oaerum, Papaeque laborura,
Sustentant humeiisgraodia facta sois.*'
More completely, however, than
anywhere else are the rights, pre-
rogatives, and dignity of the car-
dinalate set forth in the 76th Con-
stitution of Sixtus v., beginning
Posiquam ille veruSy of May 13,
1585.
A fact recorded by John the Dea-
con in the life of S. Gregory 1.
shows us how high was the office
and rank of a cardinal, and that to
be appointed to a bishopric was
considered a descent from a higher
position. He says that this great
pope was always careful to obtain
the consent of a cardinal before ap-
pointing him to govern a diocese,
lest he should seem, by removing
him from the person of Christ's Vi-
car, to give him a lower place :
*' Ne sub hujusniodi occasione quem-
quam eliminando depoftere xndere-
tur" That bishops undoubtedly
considered the cardinalate, in the
light of influence on the affairs of
the whole church and the prospect
of becoming pope, as superior to
the episcopate, appears at an early
period, from a canon which it was
necessary to make in order to re-
press their ambition in this direc-
tion. In a council held at Rome
in the year 769 this canon was
passed : " Si quis ex episcopis . . .
contra canonum et sanctorum Pa-
trum statuta prorumpens in gradum
Majorum* sanctje Romanse Ec-
clesiae, id est presbyterorum cardi-
nalium et diaconorum, "ire prae-
sumpserit, . . . et banc apostoli-
cam sedem invadere . . . tentave-
rit, et ad summum pontificalem ho-
* Cenni gives it as here from a precious Yeroaesc
MS.; but Gratian, in the Dtcrttum (dist. 79, caa. sX
jread /Uiorum: yet this does not raateiiaOT ika
the text.
The Cardinalafe.
363
norem ascendere voluerit, . . . fiat
perpetuum anathema."
There was at one period not a
iiitle divergence of opinion about
the precedence of cardinals over
bishops; but the matter has long
ago been irrevocably settled. A
cardinal, indeed, cannot, unless in-
vested with the episcopal charac-
ter, perform any act that depends
for its validity upon such a charac-
ter, nor can he lawfully invade the
jurisdiction of a bishop ; but apart
from this his rank in the church
is always, everywhere, and under
all circumstances superior to that
of any bishop, archbishop, me-
tropolitan, primate, or patriarch.
Nor can it be said that this is
an anomaly, unless we are also
prepared to condemn other deci-
sions of the church ; for the prece-
dence of cardinals over bishops has
a certain parity with that of the
archdeacons in old times over
priests, which very example is
brought forward by Eugene IV.
in 143 1 to convince Henry, Archbi-
shop of Canterbury, who had a fall-
ing out with Cardinal John of Santa
Balbina : "^^ Quoniam in hujusmodi
praelationibus officium ac dignitas,
sive jurisdictio, praeponderat or-
dini, quemadmodum jure cautum
est ut archidiaconus, non presby-
ter suae jurisdictionis obtentn, archi-
presbytero praeferatur" (Bullarir
um Romanumy torn, iii.) But we
could bring a more cogent example
from the modern discipline of the
church. A vicar-general, although
only tonsured^ outranks (within the
diocese) all others, because, as can-
onists say, unam personam cum
episcopogerii ; with as much justice,
therefore, a cardinal, who is a mem-
ber of the pope, whose diocese is
the world, precedes all others (we
ipeak of ecclesiastical rank) with-
in mundane limits. There is one
example, particularly, in ecclesias-
tical history that shows us how im-
portant was the influence of the
Roman cardinals in the whole
churchy and how great was the de-
ference paid to them by bishops.
After the death of S. Fabian, in
the year 250, the priests and dea-
cons — cardinals — of Rome govern-
ed the church for a year during the
vacancy of the see, and meanwhile
wrote to S. Cyprian, bishop, and to
the clergy of Carthage, in a manner
that could only become a superior
authority, as to how those should be
treated who, having lapsed from the
faith during tlie persecution, now
sought to be reconciled. The holy
bishop answered respectfully in an
epistle (xxth edition, Lipsiae, 1838),
in which he gave them an account
of his gests arwi government of the
diocese. Pope Cornelius testifies
that the letters of the cardinals
were sent to all parts to be com-
municated to the bishops and
churches (Coustant, Ep. JRR. PP.
X. 5). It is also very noteworthy
that in the General. Council of
Ephesus, in 431, of Pope Celestine's
three legates, the cardinal-priest
preceded the two others, altliough
bishops, and before them signed the
acts. Those who say the Breviary
according to the Roman calendar
are familiar with the fact that at an
indefinitely early age the cardinals
were created (just as now) before
the bishops of various dioceses
were named, hence those familiar
words : " Mense decembri creavit
presbyteros (tot), diaconos (tot),
cpis€opos per diver sa loca (tot)."
The importance of a cardinal a
thousand years ago can be imagin-
ed from the fact recorded by Mura-
tori {Anna/i d'Ualia^ torn. v. part. i.
pag. 55), that when Anastasius had
absented himself from his title for
five years without leave» and was
364
The Cardinalate.
residing in Lombardy, three bi-
shops went from Rome to invite him
back, and the emperors Louis and
Lothaire also interposed their good
offices.
Although ail cardinals are equal
among themselves in the principal
things, yet- in many points of cos-
tume, privilege, local office, and
rank there are distinctions and
differences established by law or
custom, the most important of
which follow from the division of
the cardinals into three grades,
namely, of bishops, priests, and dea-
cons. Although the whole number
of suburbicarian sees, of titles, and
deaconries amounts to seventy-two
^six for the first, fifty for the sec-
ond, and sixteen for the third
class), the membership of the Sa-
cred College is limited since Sixtus
V. to the maximum of seventy.
There can be no doubt that the
episcopal sees lying nearest to,
iuid, so to speak, at, the very gates
of Rome, have enjoyed from the
remotest antiquity some special
pre-eminence ; but it is not easy to
deteririne at what epoch their in-
cumbents began to form a part of
the body of cardinals It is cer-
tain only that they belonged to it
in the year 769. These suburban
sees all received the faith from S.
Peter himself; and the tradition of
Albano is that S. Clement, who
was afterwards pope, had been
consecrated by the apostle and
sent there as his coadjutor and aux-
iliary. The number of these sees
was formerly seven, but for a long
time has been only six. The Bi-
shop of Ostia and Velletri is the
first of this order and Dean of the
Sacred College. He has the privi-
lege of consecrating the pope,
should he be only in priest's orders
when elected, and of wearing the
pailium on the occasion.
The titles of the cardinal-priests
are fifty, some being held by per-
sons who have been consecrated
bishops but have no diocese, or by
jurisdictional bishops — />., those
who are at the head of dioceses
and archdioceses. The most illus-
trious, though not the oldest, of
these is S. Lawrence in Lucina,
which is called the first title, and
gives its cardinal precedence —
other things being equal — in his
class.
In the life of S. Fabian, who
reigned in the year 238, we read
that he gave the districts of Rome
in charge to the deacons : ** Hie
regiones divisit diaconibus " ; and
these are supposed to have been
the first cardinal-deacons, or regio-
nary cardinals, as they were long
called. This order is third in rank,
but second in point of time when
it was admitted into the Sacred
College. The number of cardinal-
deacons became fourteen (one for
each of the civil divisions of the
city) towards the end of the Vlth
century, under the pontificate of S.
Gregory the Great. In the year
735 Pope Gregory III. added four
and raised the number to eighteen,
which was reduced under Hono-
rius II., in the beginning of the
Xllth century, to sixteen. After
various other mutations of number
It was fixed as at present. Until
the pontificate of Urban II. in 1088
these cardinals were denominated
by the name of their district or
region, except those added by
Gregory III., who were called pala-
tines. After the Xlth century they
were called from the name of their
deaconries. S. Mary in Via Lata is
the first deaconry. The cardinaJ-
deacons are often in priests* orders ;
but in thiscase they cannot celebrate
Mass in public without a dispensa-
tion from the Pope, but they can
The Cardinalate,
36s
say it in their private chapel in
presence of their chaplain. In
early times cardinal-deacons held
a position of very singular impor-
tance, and the pope was frequently
chosen from their restricted class.
Even now some of the highest po-
sitions at Rome are occupied by
them.
Although a cardinal is created
either a cardinal-priest or a cardi-
nal-deacon, there is a mode of ad-
vancement even to the chief subur-
bicarian see. This is called, in the
language of the Curia, optiouy or the
expressing a wish to pass from one
order to a higher, or from one
deaconry, title, or see to another.
The custom is comparatively re-
cent, and was looked upon at first
with considerable disfavor. It owes
Its origin to the schism which Alex-
ander V- attempted to heal in 1409
by forming one body of his own
^the legitimate) and of the pseudo-
< jrdinals of the anti-pope Benedict
XII L As there were two claimants
to the several deaconries, titles,
and sees, he proposed to settle the
dispute by permitting one of them
in succession to optate to the first
vacant place in his order. What
was meant as a temporary measure
became an established custom un-
der Sixtus IV. (1471-1484). If
a cardinal-bishop be too infirm to
|>crform episcopal duties in the see
which he already fills. Urban VIII.
decreed that he cannot pass to an-
other one. If a cardinal-deacon
*>biain by option a title before he
has been ten years in his own
'»rdcr, he must take the lowest
place aaiong the priests; but if
jfter that period, he takes prece-
ilcncc of all who have been created
m cither of the two orders since his
cic\.ition. The favor of option is
•Hki'd of the pope in the consistory
uid iKxt after a vacancy has oc-
curred,* by the cardinal proposing
such a change. The prefect of
pontifical ceremonies having pre-
viously assured himself that no car-
dinal outranking the postulant con-
templates the same, the cardinal-
priest, to give an example from this
order, rises and says : " Beatissime
Pater, si sanctitati vestrae placuerit
dimisso titulo N. transitu ex or-
dine presbyterali ad episcopalem,
bpto ecclesiam N.,'* naming his title
and the suburbicarian see that he
seeks to occupy.
These three orders of cardinals
certainly had a corporate character
at an early period, and formed what
the ancients called a college with
its officers and by-laws ; but Arnulf,
Bishop of Lisieux in the Xth centu-
ry, was the first to call them collec-
tively Collegium Sanctorum; hence
in all languages it is now called the
Sacred College. A proof that the
cardinals acted together in a public
capacity, and of their exalted dig-
nity, is that they are termed Pro-
ceres clericorum by Anastasius in the
Life of S, Leo III, In olden times
cardinals were strictly obliged to
reside near the pope ; and a Roman
council, composed of sixty-seven
bishops, held in 853 under S. Leo
IV., called in judgment and depos-
ed the cardinal-priest of S. Marcel-
lus for having contumaciously ab-
sented himself during a long time
from his title. This obligation of
residence in the house or palace an-
nexed to the title or the deaconry
was somewhat relaxed in the Xlltli
century, when bishops of actual ju-
risdiction began to be created car-
dinals. The first example of a bi-
shop governing a diocese who was
made a cardinal is that of Conrad
von Wittelsbach, of the since royal
house of Bavaria, Archbishop of
Mentz, who was raised to this dig-
nity by Alexander III. in 1163.
366
The Cartiinaiaii^
(
Innocent IIL, however, rt fused a
pell lion of the good people of Ra-
venna to let them havf a certain car*
dinal for their archbishop, saying
that he was more useful to Rome
and to the church at large where he
was tiiao he could possibly be in
any other position* At this |>eriod,
and until a considerable time after,
it was vtrry rare that a bishop was
made a cardinal without having to
resign his diocese and reside in
curia.
Leo X* was so strict in his ideas
of the duty of cardinals to live near
liim tliat he issued a bull renewing
the ol ligation in very strong terms :
and in 1538 it was proposed to
Paul 11 L to draw up a plan of re-
form maktttgf it incompatible to
govern a diocese and be at the same
imie a cardinal, except in the case
of the Fathers of the Fir^it Order,
who, from the nearness of their sees
to Rfm>e» could perform their ser*
vice to the pope as his coun-
cibors and ;issistantSj and not neg-
lect the faithful over whom they
were placed (Natal is Alexander,
Mist. EctL, torn. xvii. art. 16). No
such stringent rule was adopted^
and a cardinal might be this and
govern a diocese, if he made it his
place of habitual residence, accord-
ing to the decree of the Council of
Trent (Session xxiii., on Ref , ch. 1).
Of the virtue^ learn ingi and other
qualities required in a cardinal of
the Holy Roman Church, SS- Peter
Damian and Hernard have written
eloquently, and Honorins IV., of
the great family of Savelli, once so
powerful in Rome, was inexorable
against unworthy subjects^ saying
that*' he never would raise to the
Roman purple nny save good and
wise men." Different popes have
made excellent laws on tliese mat*
ters and others connected with the
cardinalatf ; but in some cases they
have been disfegardec
those about age and ;
not being two near rehi
Sacred College ai the
The practice of llie h
years has beet* above c;
abuses of other ages ha
agge rated* partly ihro
and partly from not ktio
cret reasons that pope
had for cr<?ating» for iiij
youths — royal youths-
or conferring the high c
members of their oiri
upon men who had no
commend them but the
demands of their sover
bat bestowed upon S. <
romeo wa^ productive
than all lire rest of '
was able lo effect of evi
The creation of caf
exclusive privilege of tli
they have sometimes
prayers of the Sacred
of sovereign princes a*.!
the dignity conferred ti
subjects. For a long
cially during the XVJtb
governments of Frgnrc
lugal, Poland, and the
Venice were favored b
mitted to name once in
ficate a candidate for t
ate. This was caJle'
nomination. Clement
(CanceMicrii Merc^fo, p.
to have been the first
princes the right of pri
a hat ; and the sultan
wrote on aSth Sept cm I
Alexander VI., beggi
make a perfect cardinal
Cibo, Archbishop of Ar
sin of Pope Innocent
ment Xtl. In 1732 1
James HI. (the'* Elder
the nomination of sonv
the cardinal ate, and he
Stuart, neglecting his
The Cardinalaie,
367
and those who had suffered in his
cause, proposed Mgr. Rivera, whom
he had taken a liking to for little
courtesies shown at Urbino. It has
long been a custom for the pope to
promote to this dignity a member
of the family or one of that religious
order to which his predecessor be-
longed, from whom he himself receiv-
ed It. The Italians call this a resti-
tution of the hat — Resiiiuzione di
captiio. The number of cardinals
has greatly varied at different times.
It was generally smaller before than
ever since the XVI th century. The
cardinals could, of course, well be
all Romans, as they were in the be-
ginning; but with a change of cir-
cumstances the pontiffs have rec-
ognized the propriety of S. Ber-
nard's suggestive query to Eugene
III.: " Annon eligendi de toto
orbe, orbem j u d icat u ri ? " {De Con-
sid,, iv. 4). In 1331 John XXII.
(himself a Frenchman), being asked
by the king to create a couple of
French cardinals, re|>lied that two
were too many, and he would make
bat one, because there were only
twenty cardinals in all, and seventeen
of them were Frenchmen. In 1352,
after the death of Clement VI., the
cardinals attempted to restrict the
Sacred College to twenty members,
on the principle that a dignity pro-
fusely conferred is despised — com-
mum'a viUscuni ; but Urban VI.
found himself constrained; by the
course of events at the schism, to
create a large number of cardinals,
in order to oppose them to the
pseudo-cardinals of Clement VII.,
And at one creation he made twenty-
nine, all ^xcept three being his own
countrymen, Neapolitans; so that the
French of another generation were
richly paid back for their former
preponderance. From this time the
membership of the Sacred College
gradually increased up to the mid-
dle of the XVIth century. It is
much to the credit of Pius II. that
when the Sacred College in 1458
remonstrated with him on the num-
ber of cardinals, saying that the
cardinalate was going down, and
begged him not to increase its mem-
bership to any considerable extent,
he told the fathers that as head of
the church he could not refuse the
reasonable requests of kings and
governments in such a matter, but
that, apart from this, his honor for-
bade him to neglect the subjects
of other countries than Italy in the
distribution of the highest favors in
his gift (Comment. Pit II., lib. ii. pp,
129, 130). Leo X., believing himself
disliked by many cardinals, added
thirty-one to their number at a single
creation on July i, 1517, the like
of which the court has never seen
before or after ; but it had the de-
sired effect. The Council of Trent
ordained (Sess. 24, 2>^^^.,c.i.) con-
cerning the subjects of the cardi-
nalate that "the Most Holy Ro-
man Pontiff shall, as far as it can
be conveniently done, select (them)
out of all the nations of Christen-
dom, as he shall find persons suita-
ble." This is not to be understood,
however worded, as more than a
recommendation to the pope. Paul
IV. (Caraffa, 1555-59), a great re-
former, after consulting the Sacred
College and long discussions, issued
a bull called the Compact — Compac-
tum — in which he decreed that the
cardinals should not be more than
forty ; but his immediate successor.
Pius IV. (Medici), acting on the
principle that one pope cannot bind
another in disciplinary matters,
created forty-six. Sixtus V. in 1585
fixed the number at seventy in imi-
tation of the seventy elders chosen
to assist Moses ; and since then all
the popes have respected this pre-
cedent. During the lo»g reign of
368
On the Way to Lourdes.
Pius VII., although, on account of
the times, unable to hold a consis-
tory for many years, he created in
all ninety-eight cardinals, and when
he died left ten in petto. Although,
on the one hand, an excessive num-
ber of cardinals would lessen the
importance and lower the dignity
of the office, yet a very small num-
ber has occasioned long and disedi-
fy in g conclaves, whereby for months,
and even years, the Holy See has
been vacant, to the great detriment
of the church. This was the case
four times during the XII Ith cen-
tury, and by a coincidence, each
time it was after a pope who
was the fourth of his name, viz.,
Celestine (1241), Alexander (1261),
Clement (1268), and Nicholas
(1292).
The subject of this article has
grown so much under our hands
that we are reluctantly compelled
to defer a description of the cere-
monies attendant on the election
of cardinals, etc., till the July num-
ber of The Catholic World.
ON THE WAY TO LOURDES.
M Quacmnqtie ingredimur, in afiqnam historaun Tesdgiui
The most direct route from Paris
to Notre Dame de Lourdes crosses
the Bordeaux and Toulouse Rail-
way at Agen, where the pilgrim
leaves the more frequented thor-
oughfares for an obscurer route,
though one by no means devoid of
interest, especially to the Catholic
of English origin ; for the country
we are now entering was once tri-
butary to England, and at every
step we come, not only upon the
traces it has left behind, but across
some unknown saint of bygone
times, like a fossil of some rare
flower with lines of beauty and
grace that ages have not been able
to efface.
Approaching Agen, we imagined
ourselves coming to some large city,
so imposing are the environs. The
broad Garonne is flowing ocean-
ward, its shores bordered by pop-
lars, and overlooked by hills whose
sunny slopes are covered with
vineyards and plum-trees. Boats
from Provence and Languedoc are
gliding along the canal, whose mas-
sive bridge, with its gigantic arches,
harmonizes with the landscape, and
reminds one of the Roman Cam*
pagna. The plain is vast, fertile,
and smiling; the heavens glowing
and without a cloud. Every hill,
like Bacchus, has its flowing locks
wreathed with vines of wonderful
luxuriance, and is garlanded with
clusters of grapes, under which it
reels with joyous intoxication.
Everywhere are white houses, fair
villas, pleasant gardens, and all the
indications of a prosperous coun-
try.
The town does not correspond
with its surroundings. It is damp
and said to be unhealthy. The
streets are narrow and winding, the
houses without expression. The
population is mostly maae up of
merchants, mechanics, and gens dc
robe. Here and there we find a
noble mansion, a few great families,
and a time-honored name ; but the
true lords of the place are the pub-
On the Way to Lourdes.
369
lie functionaries, worthy and grave,
and clad in solemn black, quite in
contrast with the joyous character
of the people. The local peculiari-
ties of the latter may be studied to
advantage in an irregular square
bordered with low arcades — the
centre of traffic for all the villages
eight or ten leagues around. Fa-
mous fairs are held here three or four
times a year, one for the sale of
prunts — and the Agen prunes are
famous — but the most important
one is the lively, bustling fair of the
(iravier, which brings together all
the blooming grisettes of the region,
who, in festive mood and holiday
attire, gather around the tempting
lK)oths. The Gravier was formerly
a magnificent promenade of fine old
trims, which Jasmin loved to fre-
quent, and where he found inspira-
tion for many of his charming poems
m the Gascon language — one of the
Romance tongues; for the so-called
faim of this part of the country is
by no means a corruption of the
French, but a genuine language,
flexible, poetic, and wonderfully
expressive of every sweet and ten-
der emotion. Some of Jasmin's
poems have been translated by our
orn poet Longfellow with much of
the graceful simplicity of the origi-
nal. Most of the fine elms of the
Gravier have been cut down within
a few years, to the great regret of
the people.
One of the most striking features
of the landscape in approaching
Agen is a mount at the north with
^ picturesque church and spire.
I'his Is the church of the Spanish
Carmelites^ who, driven some years
JS« from their native country, came
to take refuge among the caves of
the early martyrs beside the re-
mains of an old Roman castrum
•ailed Pompeiacum. Here is the
ciTcrn, hewn centuries ago out of
VOL. XXI. — 24
the solid rock, where S. Caprais,
the bishop, concealed himself in
the time of the Emperor Diocletian
to escape from his persecutors.
And here is the miraculous fountain
that sprang up to quench his thirst,,
sung by the celebrated Hildebert
in the Xlth century
** Rupem porcusttt, quam fontem fundere juasit ;
Qui ions mox uber fit« dulcis, fitque saluber.
Quo qui poutur, moz couvalet et recreatur.**
That is to say : " Caprais smote
the rock, and forth gushed a fount
of living water, sweet and salutary
to those who come to drink there-
of," as the pilgrim experiences to
this day.
From the top of this mount S.
Caprais, looking down on the city,,
saw with prophetic eye S. Foi on
the martyr's pile, and a mysterious
dove descending from heaven, bear-
ing a crown resplendent with a
thousand hues and adorned with
precious stones that gleamed like
stars in the firmament, which he
placed on the virgin's head, clothing
her at the same time with a gar-
ment whiter than snow and shining,
like the sun. Then, shaking his
dewy wings, he extinguished the
devouring flames, and bore the
triumphant martyr to heaven.
After the martyrdom of S. Cap-
rais, the cave he had sanctified was-
inhabited by S. Vincent the Dea-
con, who, in his turn, plucked the-
blood-red flower of martyrdom, andi
went with unsullied stole to join,
his master in the white-robed army
above. Or, as recorded by Dre-
panius Florus, the celebrated dea-
con of Lyons, in the IXth century :
**Aginno, loco Pompeiano, passio
sancti Vincentii, martyris, qui levi-
ticae stolae candore micans, pro
amore Christi martyriuni adeptus,
magnis saepissime virtu tibus ful-
get."
His body was buried before S.
370
On tin Way to Lourdis,
Caprais' cave, and, several centu-
ries after, a church was built over
It, which became a centre of popu-
lar devotion to the whole country
around, who came here to recall
ihe holy legends of the past and
learn anew the lesson of faith and
self-sacrifice. Some say it was
built by Charlemagne when he came
here, according to Turpin, to be-
siege King Aygoland, who, with his
array, had taken refuge in Agen,
This venerable sanctuary was pil-
laged and then destroyed by the
Huguenots in 1561, and for half a
century it lay in ruins. The place,
however, was purified anew by re-
ligious rites in 1600; the traditions
were carefully preserved ; and ev-
ery year the processions of Roga-
tion week came to chant the holy
litanies among the thorns that had
grown up in the broken arches.
Finally, in 161 2, the city authorities
induced a hermit, named Kymeric
Rouidilh, from Notre Dame de
Roquefort, to establish himself here.
He was a good, upright man, as
charitable as he was devout, mock-
, f d at by the wicked, but convert-
ing them by the very ascendency
of his holy life. He brought once
more to light the tomb of S. Vin-
cent and S. Caprais* chair, and set
to work to build a chapel out of the
remains of the ancient church. The
dignitaries of the town came to aid
him with their own hands, the
princes of France brought their of-
ferings, and Anne of Austria came
with her court to listen to tlie teach-
ings of the holy hermit. Among
nlher benefactors of the Hermitage
were the Due d'Epernon, Governor
of Guienne, and Marshal de Schom-
berg, the first patron of the great
Bossuet.
Eymeric's reputation for sanctity
became so great that he drew
around him several other hermits.
who hollowed cells oi
and endeavored to ri
ter in the practice of
tification. They rosi
to chant the divine (
vided the day betwc
prayer, only cmning \
half-hour's fraternal i
ter dinner :ind the <
tion. Eymeric hims
sang the r&^'ilt in
Agen, awakening the
night with a hoars
voice : ** Pregats p
tr^passats trepaRsadc
lous perdoiinn^ !" —
poor depart L'd, that (
don them all !
Eymeric wa^s so scr
using the water of S.
tain for prolani- [>urf>
covering some plan
indications of a soun
for six months in e?
rock, till at length he
denly upon a spring
deluged with its wate
During the plague
at other times of pi
his heroic charity wais
fest that he was regar
lie benefactor; and 1
the most distinguish-
the vicinity came tc
veneration and regret
The cells of tlie H
tinned, however, to b
the great revolution, 1
was once more prol
1846 a band of Sjiani
came to establish thci
mount sanctified by 1
tyrs. Martyrs, too. c
they; for lliert* is %
more severe ihan the
fixion of thn*ic who, i
offer themselves an m
fice to God for ttiL' sin
Some, who have not
the monastic life to b
On tht Way to Lourdes.
37«
and sdf-indulgence. But let them
serioosly reflect on the ** years of
solitary weariness, of hardship and
mortification, of wakeful scholar-
ship, of perpetual prayer, unvisited
by a softness or a joy beyond what
a bird, or a tree, or an unusually
blue sky may bring," with no con-
solations except those that spring
from unfaltering trust in Christ and
utter abandonment to his sweet
yoke, and they will see that, hu-
manly speaking, such a life is by no
means one of perfect ease.
On this new Carmel lived for
a time Pirc Hermann, the distin-
guished musician, who was so mi-
raculously converted by the divine
manifestation in the Holy Eucha-
rist, and it was here he gave expres-
sion to the ardor of his Oriental
nature in some of his glowing Can-
tiques to J^sus-Hostie^ worthy to be
stmg by seraphim :
"■ Pkm Vnraat ! Pain de la Patrie !
Da Abix et d amour mon firoe est coosum^e
He tanSec plas ! J^flus, mon Bien-Aiin^,
Veaes, tource de vie,
Nc tardex plus ! J^sus, mon Bien-Aim^ V
Agen Is mentioned on every page
of the religious history of southern
France. In the Hid century we
find the confessors of the faith al-
ready mentioned. Sixty years later
S. Phoebadiis, a monk of Lerins
who became Bishop of Agen, de-
fended the integrity of the Catholic
faith against the Arians in an able
treatise. He was a friend of S,
Hibry of Poitiers and S. Ambrose
of Milan. St. Jerome speaks of
him as still living in the year 392 :
**Vivit usque hodie decrepita sen-
cctate." In the time of the Visi-
Roths SS. Maurin and Vincent de
liiroles upheld and strengthened
the faith in Novempopulania.
In feudal times the bishops of
Agen were high and puissant lords
»fto had the royal prerogative of
coining money by virtue of a pri-
vilege conferred on them by the
Dukes of Aqnitaine. Tlie money
they issued was called Moneta Arnal*
ditM^ or Arnaudefis€s^ from Arnaud
de Boville, a member of the ducal
family, who was the first to enjoy
the right.
It was a bishop of Agen, of the
illustrious family Delia Rovere that
gave two popes — Sixtus IV. and
Julius II. — to the church, who in-
duced Julius Caesar Scaliger to ac-
company him when he took posses-
sion of his see. Scaliger's roman-
tic passion for a young girl of the
place led him to settle here for life.
Not far from Agen may still be
seen the Chdteau of Verona, which
he built on his wife's land, and
named in honor of his ancestors of
Verona — the Delia Scalas, whose
fine tombs are among the most in-
teresting objects in that city. This
chiteau is in a charming valley.
It remained unaltered till about
forty years ago; but it is now mod-
ernized, and therefore spoiled. The
oaks he planted are cut down, the
rustic fountain he christened Th^o-
cr^ne is gone. Qnly two seats,
hewn out of calcareous rock, re-
main in the grounds, where he once
gathered around him George Bu-
chanan, Muret, Thevius, and other
distinguished men of the day.
These seats are still known as the
Fauteuils de Scaliger.
The elder Scaliger was buried
in the church of the Augustinian
Friars, which being destroyed in
1792, his remains were removed by
friendly hands for preservation.
They have recently been placed at
the disposition of the city authori-
ties, who will probably erect some
testimonial to one who has given
additional celebrity to the place.
The last descendant of the Scali-
gers— Mile. Victoire de Lescale—
372
On the Way to Lourdes.
died at Agen, January 25, 1853, at
the age of seventy-six years.
Agen figures also in the reh'gious
troubles of the XVIth century, as
it was part of the appanage of Mar-
garet of Valois ; but it generally re-
mained true to its early traditions.
Nerac, the seat of the Huguenot
court at one time, was too near
not to exert its influence. Then
came Calvin himself, when he leap-
ed from his window and fled from
Paris. Theodore Beza too resided
there for a time. They were pro-
tected by Margaret of Navarre,
who gathered around her men jea-
lous of the influence of the clergy
and desirous themselves of ruling
over the minds of others. They
boldly ridiculed the religious orders,
and censured the morals of the
priesthood, though so many prelates
of the time were distinguished for
their holiness and ability. N^rac
has lost all taste for religious con-
troversy in these material days. It
has turned miller, and is only not-
ed for its past aberrations and the
])resent superiority of its flour.
On the other side of the Garonne,
towards the plain of Layrac, we
come to the old Chateau of Estillac,
associated with the memory of
IJlaise de Monluc, the terrible aven-
ger of Huguenot atrocities in this
section of France. He was an off"-
shoot of the noble family of Mon-
tesquiou, and served under Bayard,
J^autrec, and Francis I. — a small,
ihin, bilious-looking man, with an
eye as cold and hard as steel, and
a face horribly disfigured in battle,
before whom all parties quailed,
Catholic as well as Protestant. He
had the zeal of a Spaniard and the
buvado of a true Gascon ; was
sober in his habits, uncompromis-
ing in his nature, and, living in his
saddle, with rapie: in hand, he was
always ready for any emergency.
to strike any blow ; faithful to his
motto : ** Deo dtucy ferro co9niU^'
We arc far from justifying the re-
lentless rigor of Monluc ; but one
cannot travel through this country,
where at every step is some trace
of the fury with which the Hugue-
nots destroyed or desecrated every-
thing Catholics regard as holy,
without finding much to extenuate
his course. We must not forget
that the butchery which filled the
trenches of the Chilteau de Pennc
was preceded by the sack of Lau-
zerte, where, according to Protest-
ant records, Duras slaughtered five
hundred and sixty-seven Catholics,
of whom one hundred and ninety-
four were priests ; and that the
frightful massacre of Terraube was
provoked by the treachery of Brc-
mond, commander of the Hugue-
nots at the siege of Lectoure.
Among the other remarkable men
upon whose traces we here come is
Sulpicius Severus, a native of Agen.
His friend, S. Paulinus of Nola.
tells us he had a brilliant position '
in the world, and was universally
applauded for his eloquence ; but
converted in the very flower of his
life, he severed all human tics and
retired into solitude. He is said to
have founded the first monastery in
Aquitaine, supposed to be that of S,
Sever-Rustan, where he gave him-
self up to literary labors that have
perpetuated his name. The Hu-
guenots burned down this interest-
ing monument of the past in 1573.
and massacred all the monks. \\
was from the cloister of Priniula-
cium, as it was then called, that suc-
cessively issued his EccUsiasticai
Historyy which won for him the
title of the Christian Sallust ; the
Life of S. Mar/in of Tours, -srrit-
ten from personal recollections:
and three interesting Dialogues on
the Monastic Life, all of which
On the Way to Lourdes.
373
were submitted to the indulgent
criticism of S. Paulinas before they
were given to the public. The in-
timacy of these two great men pro-
bably began when S. Paul in us lived
in his villa Hebromagus, on the
banks of the Baisc, and it was by
no means broken off by their sepa-
ration. The latter made every ef-
fort to induce his friend to join him
at Nola ; but we have no reason to
complain he did not succeed, for
this led to a delightful correspon-
<ience we should be sorry to have
lost. We give one specimen of it,
in which modesty is at swords*
[wints with friendship, Sulpicius
had built a church at Primulacium,
and called upon his poet-friend to
supply him with inscriptions for
the walls. The baptistery contain-
ed the portrait of S. Martin, and,
wishing to add that of Paulinus, he
ventured to ask him for it. Pauli-
nas' humility is alarmed, and he
flatly refuses ; but he soon learns his
likeness has been painted from
memory, and is hanging next that
of the holy Bishop of Tours. He
loudly protests, but that is all he
can do, except avenge his outraged
humility by sending the following
inscription to be graven beneath
the two portraits : " You, whose
bodies and souls are purified in this
salutary bath, cast your eyes on the
two models set before you. Sin-
ners, behold Paulinus; ye just, look
at Martin. Martin is the model of
saints; Paulinus only that of the
gailty!"
Sometimes there is a dash of
pleasantry in their correspondence,
as when Paulinus sends for sonrie
good Gascon qualified to be a cook
t« his laurm. Sulpicius despatches
Brother Victor with a letter of
recommendation which perhaps
brought a smile to his friend's face :
**! have just learned that every
cook has taken flight from your
kitchen. I send you a young man
trained in our school, sufficiently
accomplished to serve up the hum-
bler vegetables with sauce and vine-
gar, and concoct a modest stew that
may tempt the palates of hungry
cenobites ; but I must confess he is
entirely ignorant of the use of spices
and all luxurious condiments, and
it is only right I should warn you
of one great fault : he is the mortal
enemy of a garden. If you be not
careful, he will make a frightful
havoc among all the vegetables he
can lay his hands on. He may sel-
dom call on you for wood, but he
will burn whatever comes within
his reach. He will even lay hold
of your rafters, and tear the old
joists from your chimneys."
Among other Agen literary cele-
brities is the poet Antoine de La
Pujade, who was secretary of finan-
ces to Queen Margaret of Navarre —
not the accomplished, fascinating
sister of Francis I., but the wife of
the Vert'Galant, ** Du tige dfs Fa-
lot's belle et royale fleur^'* who en-
couraged and applauded the poet,
and even addressed him flattering
verses. His tender, caressing lines
on the death of his little son of
four years of age are well known :
** Petite ime mignonnelette,
Petite mignonne ftmelette,
HOtesse d'un si petit corps !
Petit mignon, mon petit Pierre,
Tu laiaces ton corps i la terre,
£t toD ftme s'en va dehors.'*
La Pujade consecrated his pen
to the Blessed Virgin in the Mart-
ade^ a poem of twelve cantos in
praise of the trh sainte et trh sacrSe
Vierge Marie.
Another rhymer of Agen, and a
courtier also, is Guillaume du Sable,
a Huguenot, who in his verses held
up his wife, his daughter, and his
son-in-law as utterly given up to
avarice. As for himself, he was al-
374
On the Way to Lourdes.
ways ready to spend ! Yes, and as
ready to beg. That he was by no
means grasping, that his palms
never itched, is shown by his poems,
which are full of petitions to the
king for horses, clothes, and ap-
pointments. Like so many of his
co-religionists, he did not disdain
the spoils of the enemy, as is appa-
rent from this modest request to
Henry IV. :
^^ Mais voules-vous gu^r, Sire, ma paurret^ ?
Donnez-moi, s'il vous platt, la petite abbaye,
Ou quelqoe pneurd k reste de ma vie,
Puisque je Tai vou^ k voire majest^/'
He wrote against priests and
monks, but stuck to the royal party,
condemning all who revolted under
pretext of religion. Perhaps the
most supportable of his works is
that against the Spanish Inquisi-
tion — a subject that never needs any
sauce piquante^ His Tragique EUgu
du jour de Saint BarthHemy affords
an additional proof in favor of the
approximate number of one thousand
victims at the deplorable massacre
of August 24, 1572.
As a proof of the tenacity with
which the Agenais have clung to
past religious traditions and cus-
toms, we will cite the popular say-
ing that arose from the unusual dis-
pensations granted during Lent by
Mgr. Hubert, the bishop of the
diocese, in a time of great distress
after an unproductive year :
** En milo sept centz nan L'abes-
que d'Agen debengu^t Higounau "
— In 1709 the Bishop of Agen turn-
ed Huguenot !
Leaving Agen by the railway to
Tarbes, we came in ten minutes to
Notre Dame de Bon Encontre — a
spot to which all the sorrows and
fears and hopes of the whole region
around are brought. This chapel
is especially frequented during the
month of May, when one parish af-
ter another comes here to imToke
the protection of Mary. A contin-
ual incense of prayer seems to rise
on the sacred air from this sweet
woodland spire. A few houses
cluster around the pretty church,
which is surmounted by a colossal
statue of the Virgin overlooking the
whole valley and flooding it with
peace, love, and boundless mercy.
The image of her who is so inter-
woven with the great mysteries of
the redemption can never be look-
ed upon with indifference or with-
out profit. The soul that finds
Mary in the tangled grove of this
sad world enters upon a '* moon-lit
way of sweet security.*'
We next pass Astaffort, a little
village perched on a hill overlook-
ing the river Gers, justifying its
ancient device : Sta fortiter,* It
played an important part in the
civil wars of the country. The
Prince de Conde occupied the
place with four hundred men, and,
attacked by the royalists, they were
all slain but the prince and his
valet, who made their escape. A
cross marks the burial-place of the
dead behind the church of Astaf-
fort, still known as the field of the
Huguenots.
Lectoure, like an eagle's nest
built on a cliff, is the next station,
and merits a short tarry ; for, though
fallen from its ancient grandeur, il
is a town full of historic interest,
and contains many relics of the
past. It is a place mentioned by
Oesar and Pliny, and yet so small
that we wonder what it has been
doing in the meantime. It was
one of the line cities of Novempo-
pulania, and in the IXth century-
still boasted the Roman franchise,
and was the centre of light and
legislation to the country around,
on which it imposed its customs
On the Way to Lourdes.
375
ind laws. It governed itself, lived
its own individual life, unaffected
by the changes of surrounding
provinces, and proudly styled itself
in its pubJic documents " the Re-
l>abUc of Lectoure." In the Xllth
century it was the stronghold of
the Vicomtes de Lomagne ; and
when Richard Coeur de Lion wish-
ed to bring Vivian II. of tliat house
to terms, he laid siege to Lectoure,
irkicb, though stoutly defended for
a time, was finally obliged to yield,
la 1305 it belonged to the family
of Bertrand de Got (Pope Clement
v.), which accounts for a bull of
his being dated at Lectoure. Count
John of Armagnac married Reine
de Got, the pope *s niece, in 131 1,
and thus the city fell into the hands
of the haughty Armagnacs, who
made it their capital. At this time
tl>ey were the mightiest lords of
the South of France, and seemed to
have inherited the ancient glory of
the Counts of« Toulouse. For a
time they held the destiny of
France itself in their hands. For
one hundred and fifty years they
took a prominent part in all the
French wars. Their banner, with
its lion rampant, floated on every
battle-fiekL Their war-cry — Ar-
magnac ! — resounded in the ears of
the Derby s and Talbots. It was
an Armagnac that sustained the
conrage of France after the surren-
der of King John at Poitiers ; an
Armagnac that united all the South
against the English in the Etats-
G^^raux de Niort ; and an Armag-
nac — Count Bernard VI. — who
maintained the equilibrium of
France when Jean-sans-Peur of Bur-
gundy aimed at supremacy, and fell
a victim to Burgundian vengeance
at Paris.
Lectoure gives proofs of its anti-
quity and the changes it has passed
through in the remains of its triple
wall; its fountain of Diana; the
bronzes, statuettes, jewels* and old
Roman votive altars, that are now
and then brought to light ; its
mediaeval castle, and the interest-
ing old church built by the English
during their occupancy, with its
massive square tower, whence we
look off over the valley of the Gers,
with its orchards and vineyards and
verdant meadows shut in by wood-
ed hills, and see stretching away to
the south the majestic outline of
the Pyrenees.
At the west of Lectoure is the
forest of Ramier, in the midst of
which once stood the Cistercian ab-
bey of Bouillas — Bernardus valles —
founded in 1125, butnow entirely
destroyed.
** Never was ipot more sadly me«t
For lonely prayer and hermit feet.**
There is a popular legend con-
nected with these woods, the truth
of which I do not vouch for — I tell
the tale as 'twas told to me :
A poor charcoal-burner, who
lived in this forest close by the
stream of Rieutort, had always
been strictly devout to God and the
blessed saints, but, on his death-
bed, in a moment of despair at
leaving his three motherless chil-
dren without a groat to bless them-
selves with, invoked in their behalf
the foul spirit usually supposed to
hold dominion over the bowels of
the earth, with its countless mines
of silver and gold. He died, and
his three sons buried him beside
their mother in the graveyard of
Pauillac ; but the wooden cross
they set up to mark the spot ob-
stinately refused to remain in the
ground. Terrified at this ominous
circumstance, the poor children
fled to their desolate cabin. The
night was dark and cold, and
wolves were howling in the forest
"Brothers," said the oldest, "we
376
On the Way to Lourdes.
shall die of hunger and cold.
There is not a crumb of bread in
the house, and the doctor carried
off all our blankets yesterday for
his services. The Abbey of Bouil-
las is only half a league off. I am
sure the good monks will not re-
fuse alms to ray brother Juan.
And little Pierr^to shall watch the
house while I %o to the Castle of
Goas."
Both brothers set off, leaving
Pierreto alone in the cabin. He
trembled with fear and the cold,
and at length the latter so far pre-
vailed tlyit he ventured to the door
to see if he could not catch a
glimpse of his brothers on their way
home. It was now " the hour
when spirits have power.'* Not a
hundred steps off he saw a group
of men dressed in rich attire, silent-
ly — " all silent and all damned " —
warming themselves around a good
fire. The shivering child took
courage, and, drawing near the
band, begged for some coals to
light his fire. They assented, and
Pierreto hurriedly gathered up a
few and went away. But no soon-
er had he re-entered the cabin
than they instantly went out. He
went the second time, and again
they were extinguished. The third
time the leader of the band frown-
ed, but gave him a large brand, and
threateningly told him not to come
again. The brand went out like
the coals ; and the men and fire
disappeared as suddenly. Pierreto
remained half dead with fright. An
hour after Juan returned from the
Convent of Bouillas with bread
enough to last a week, and Simoun
soon arrived from the castle with
three warm blankets.
When daylight appeared, Pierreto
went to the fire-place to look at his
coals, and found they had all turn-
ed to gold. The two oldest now
had the means of making their way
in the world. One became a brave
soldier, and the other a prosperous
merchant ; but Pierro became a
brother in the Abbey of Bouillas.
Night after night, as he paced the
dark cloisters praying for his fath-
er's soul, he heard a strange rush-
ing as of fierce wind through the
arches, and a wailing sound as sad
as the Miserere, Pierro shuddered
and thought of the cross that refus-
ed to darken his father's grave ; but
he only prayed the longer and the
more earnestly.
Years passed away. Simoun and
Juan, who had never married,
weary of honors and gain, came to
join their brother in his holy re-
treat. Their wealth, that had so
mysterious an origin, was given to
God in the person of the poor.
Then only did the troubled soul of
their father find rest, and the holy
cross consent to throw its shadow
across his humble grave.
Lectoure is surrounded by nun-
parts ; but the most remarkable oi
its ancient defences is the old cas-
tle of the Counts of Armagnac, con-
verted into a hospital by the Bishop
of Lectoure in the XVIIIth cen-
tury. This castle witnessed the
shameless crimes of Count John
IV. and their fearful retribution at
the taking of Lectoure under Louis
XI. The tragical history of this
great lord affords a new proof of
the salutary authority exercised by
the church over brutal power and
unrestrained passion during the
Middle Ages.
There is no more striking example
of the degradation of an illustrious
race than that of John V., the last
Count of Armagnac, who shocked
the whole Christian world by an
unheard-of scandal. Having solic-
ited in vain a dispensation to mar-
ry his sister Isabella, who was fa-
On the Way to Lourdes.
m
mous for her beauty, he made use
of a pretended license, fraudulently
drawn up in the very shadow of the
papal court, as some say, to allay
Isabella's scruples, and celebrated
this monstrous union with the
greatest pomp. He forgot, in the
intoxication of power and the deli-
rium of passion, there could be any
restraint on his wishes, that there
was a higher tribunal which watch-
ed vigilantly over the infractions
of the unchangeable laws of mo-
rality and religion. The pope ful-
minated a terrible excommunica-
tion against them. King Charles
VII., hoping to wipe out so fearful
a stain by the sacred influences of
family affection, sent the most in-
fluential members of the count's
family to exert their authority;
but in vain. The king soon turn-
ed against him, because he favored
ihe revolt of the Dauphin, and sent
an army to invade his territory.
Count John's only fear was of los-
ing Isabella ; and rather than sepa-
rate from her to fight for the defence
of bis domains, he fled with her to
the valley of Aure, while the royal
army ravaged his lands.
Condemned to perpetual banish-
rtcnt, deprived of his dominions,
his power gone, under the ban of
the church, his eyes were opened
to the extent of his degradation,
his soul was filled with remorse.
He took the pilgrim's staff* and set
out for Rome, begging his bread by
the way, to seek absolution for him-
self and his sister. Isabella retired
from the world to do penance for
her sins in the Monastery of Mount
Sion at Barcelona. The church,
which never spurns the repentant
sinner, however stained with crime,
granted hhn absolution on very
severe conditions. The learned
.€neas Sylvius (Pius II.) occupied
the chair of S. Peter at that time.
His great heart was touched by the
heroic penance of so great a lord.
He received him kindly, dwelt on
the enormity of the scandal he had
given to the world, and reminded
him that Pope Zachary had con-
demned a man, guilty of an off*ence
of the same nature, to go on a
round of pilgrimages for fourteen
years, the first sevftn of which he
was ordered to wear an iron chain
attached to his neck or wrist,
fast three times a week, and only
drink wine on Sundays; but the
last seven he was only required to
fast on Fridays ; after which he
was admitted to Communion.
More merciful, Pius II. enjoined
on Count John never to hold any
communication with Isabella by
word, letter, or message ; to distri-
bute three thousand gold crowns
for the reparation of churches and
monasteries ; and to fast every Fri-
day on bread and watertill he could
take up arms against the Turks ;
all of which the count solemnly
promised to do. Nor do we read
he ever violated his word. Affect-
ed by such an example of penitence,
the pope addressed Charles VII. a
touching brief to induce him to
pardon the count.
When Louis XI. came to the
throne, remembering the services
he had received from Count John,
he restored him to his rank. The
count now married a daughter of
the house of Foix. Everything
seemed repaired. But divine jus-
tice is not satisfied. Louis XL, de-
termined to destroy the almost
sovereign power of the great vas-
sals, took advantage of Count John's
offences against his government,
and resolved on his destruction.
He sent an army to besiege him at
Lectoure. At this siege Isabella's
son made his first essay at arms,
and displayed the valor of his race *
378
On the Way to Lourdes.
but the young hero finally perished
in a rash sortie, and the count soon
after capitulated. The royal forces,
taking possession of the place, base-
ly violated the terms of surrender.
The city was sacked and nearly all
the inhabitants massacred. Among
the victims was Count John him-
'self, who died invoking the Virgin.
The walls of the city were partly
demolished, and fire set to the four
quarters. The dead were left un-
buried, and for two months the
wolves that preyed thereon were
the only occupants of the place.
Never was there a more fearful re*
tribution. It took the city nearly
u century to recover in a measure
from this horrible calamity.
Lectoure was in the hands of the
Huguenots when Monluc laid siege
to it in 1562. Bremond, the com-
mander, offered to capitulate, and,
proposing an exchange of hostages,
lie asked for Verduzan, La Chapelie,
and a third. Monluc consented,
and as they approached the gates
of the city they were fired upon by
tiurty or forty arquebusiers, but
without effect. Monluc cried out
that was not the fidelity of an hon-
est man, but of a Huguenot. Bre-
mond protested his innocence of
the deed, and, pretending to seize
one of the guilty men, he hung an
innocent Catholic on the walls in
sight of Monluc. Unaware of the
fraud, the hostages again approach-
ed, and again they were fired upon.
A gentleman from Agen was killed
and others wounded. Indignant
nt such treachery, and supposing
his own life particularly aimed at,
Monluc exclaimed that, since they
held their promises so lightly, he
would do the same with his, and he
immediately sent Verduzan with a
company of soldiers to Terraube to
despatch the prisoners whose lives
he had spared. This order was
executed with as much exactness
as barbarity, and the implacable
Monluc declared he had made** a
fine end of some very bad fellows.''
Bremond, urged by the inhabi-
tants, again renewed negotiations,
and finally surrendered the city on
condition of being allowed to with-
draw with his troops to Beam, flags
fiying and drums beating, and the
Protestants left in the place per-
mitted the free exercise of their re-
ligion — terms that were faithfullj
kept by Monluc.
It was probably the sympathy of
Lectoure with the Huguenot party
that led Charles IX. to deprive it
of many of its ancient rights and
privileges, which hastened its de-
cline. It put on a semblance of its
former grandeur, however^ when ii
received Henry IV. within its walls,
and Anne of Austria with Cardinal
Richelieu.
It was in the old historic castle
that Richelieu imprisoned the un-
fortunate Due de MontmorencT.
The people favored his escape, and
sent him a silk ladder in a pdti ; but
his kindness of heart led to his de-
struction. Desirous of saving a
servant to whom he was attached,
he took him with him in his attempt
to escape. The servant fell from
the ladder, and was wounded. His
cry aroused the guard. Moatmo-
rency was taken and soon after be-
headed at Toulouse. The soldiers
presejit at his execution drank
some of his blood, that, infused into
their veins, it might impart some-
thing of the valor of so brave a
man. He was so beloved by the
common people tiiat the peasantry
of Castelnaudry, where he was taken
prisoner, are familiar with his his-
tory, and speak of him with admira-
tion and affection to this day. Hl^
wife, an Italian princess, became a
Visitandine nun after his execution.
On the Way to Lourdes.
379
One cannot visit the old castle
of Lectoure, with its thousand
memories, without emotion. It is
now a hospital. Charity has taken
the place of brutality and lawless
passion. Looking off from the
walls over the pleasant valley below,
watered by streams and divided by
long lines of trees, we hear the song
of the peaceful laborer instead of
the battle-cry of the olden time,
and the lowing of the fawn-colored
Gascon cattle instead of the neigh-
ing of war-horses.
Before the castle opens a street
that goes straight through the town,
at the further end of which is the
parish church of S. Gervais, a fine,
spacious edifice of the Saxo-Gothic
style, built by the English during
their rule. The immense square
tower was once a fortress, called
the tower of S. Thomas, from which
the sentinel signalled the approach
of the enemy. It was formerly sur-
mounted by the highest steeple in
France, but, repeatedly struck by
lightning, it was taken down some
years ago by order of the bishop.
The Carmelite nuns at Lectoure
have had from time immemorial a
cross of marvellous efficacy, espe-
cially in cases of fever. It is of a
style not often met with in France,
though common in Spain, where it
is held in great veneration from its
miraculous prototype — the Santa
Crui de Caravaca.
This cross is made of copper, and
has two cross-beams, like a patriar-
chal cross, with figures in relief on
each side, which are connected
with an interesting history. On
tiie top of one side of the cross is
the monogram of Christ, with a
nosslet above and the three nails
of the Passion below. The upper
aoss-beam has a chalice on the left
imi, and on the right the lance
that pierced the Sacred Heart,
crossed by a reed with a sponge at
the end. In the middle is an open
space for relics.
On the left arm of the lower cross-
beam is the scourge and the lantern
that lit the soldiers to the Garden
of Olives ; on the right is a ladder ;
and in ihe centre the cock crow-
ing on a pillar that extends up from
the foot of the cross, at which is a
death's head.
These are the usual emblems of
the Passion, familiar to all ; but the
other side is more mysterious. On
the upper part is a patriarchal cross
supported by two angels, one on
each arm of the upper cross-beam.
Lower down, in the centre of the
lower cross-beam, is a priest in
sacerdotal vestments, ready to offer
the Holy Sacrifice, standing in an
attitude of astonishment and admi-
ration, looking up at tlie cross
borne by the two angels. On his
breast is the monogram of Christ,
and beneath that of the Virgin.
On each side are lilies in full bloom,
and above his head, in the centre
of the upper cross-beam, stands a
chalice, as on an altar, covered
with the sacred linen veil. It is
evident the artist intended to repre-
sent all the objects necessary to
celebrate the Holy Sacrifice of the
Mass. There are two lighted
candles at the side of the priest,
and at the end of the right arm of
the lower cross-beam are two kings
filled with evident amazement, one
of whom is gazing at the angelic
apparition. At the left extremity
is a queen and an attendant.
The Cross of Caravaca is asso-
ciated with a chivalric legend of
southern Spain. We give it as re-
lated by Juan de Robles, a priest
of Caravaca, whose account was
published at Madrid in 1615.
About the year of our Lord 1227
there reigned at Valencia a Moorish
380
On the Way to Lourdes.
prince, known in the ancient Span-
ish chronicles by the Arabic name
of Zeyt Abuzeyt, who embraced
Christianity. According to Zurita,
he became King of Murcta and
Valencia in 1224, and was at first a
violent persecutor of his Christian
subjects. In 1225 he made peace
with lago, King of Aragon, pro-
mising him one-fifth of the revenues
of his two capitals, which enraged
his people and caused him the loss
of Murcia. The Moors, discover-
ing he held secret intercourse with
the King of Aragon and -the pope,
drove him from Valencia in 1229.
He died about 1248, before King
lago took possession of that city.
Zeyt Abuzeyt's conversion to
Christianity took place in conse-
quence of a mirac^ that occurred
in his presence at Caravaca, a town
in his kingdom where he happened
to be. At that time the Spanish
victories over. the Moors announced
the speedy expulsion of the latter
from the Peninsula, and frequent
conversions took place among them.
A Christian priest ventured among
the Moors of the kingdom of Murcia
to preach the Gospel. He was seized
and brought before Zeyt Abuzeyt,
M'ho asked him many . questions
concerning the Christian religion,
and, in particular, about the Sacri-
Ike of the Mass. The explanations
of the priest interested him so much
that he requested him to celebrate
the Holy Mysteries in his presence.
The priest, not having the neces-
sary articles, sent for them to the
town of Concha, which was in the
hands of the Christians ; but it hap-
pened that the cross, which should
always be on the altar during the
celebration of Mass, had been for-
gotten. The priest, not remarking
the deficiency, began the Holy Sac-
rifice, but, soon observing the cross
was wanting, did not know what to
do. The king, who was present
with his family and the court, see-
ing the priest suddenly turn pale,
asked what had happened. " There
is no cross on the altar,** replied
the priest. " But is not that one ?''
replied the king, who at that rao
ment saw two angels placing a
cross on the altar. The good priest
joyfully gave thanks to God and
continued the sacred rites. So
marvellous an occurrence triumph-
ed over the infidelity of Zeyt Abu-
zeyt, and he at once professed his
faith in Christ. Popular tradition
says he was baptized by the nanic
of Ferdinand, in honor of the holy
king, Ferdinand HI., who stood as
sponsor. Pope Urban IV. address-
ed him a brief of felicitation on ac-
count of his baptism.
Zeyt Abuzeyt had one son, who
received the name of Vincent when
baptized, and subsequently married
a Christian maiden. At the death
of his father he took the title of
the King of Valencia, which he held
till the King of Aragon took posses-
sion of the city. He then content-
ed himself with the lands and reve-
nues assigned him by the con-
queror.
This account explains the figuro
on the Cross of Caravaca. We sec
the astonished f riest and the cros^
borne by the angels. The two king*.
who are gazing at the cross, are oi
course King Zeyt Abuzeyt and S.
Ferdinand, his god -father. The
queen opposite is doubtless Domi-
nica Lopez, whom, according to tra-
dition, he married after his baptism:
and beside her is her daughter,
called Aldea Fernandez in honor
of King Ferdinand.
This cross, to which a great num-
ber of miracles are attributed, is
preserved with great care in the
church at Caravaca, in the ancient
kingdom of Murcia. It is bclicv-
On the Way to Laurdes,
381
cd to be made of the sacred wood
of the true cross. .A great number
of similar crosses have since been
made, and there is hardly a family
m Spain which has not a Cross of
Caravaca, Many people wear one.
S. Teresa had great devotion to
this cross, and her cross of Cara-
vaca fell into the possession of the
Carmelites of Brussels, who gave it
to the monastery of S. Denis during
the time of Mme. Louise of France ;
l)ut this precious relic has since
Inren restored to the convent at
Brussels.
On an eminence in sight of Lec-
lottre \% one of the sanctuaries of
mysterious origin dear to popular
lately, so numerous in this country.
It is Notre Dame d*£sclaux. Its
modest tower looks down on a se-
cluded valley which delights the
c\e with its freshness and fertility,'
\\s fine trees, and the sparkling
streams here and there among the
verdure. Beyond are fertile heights
in the direction of N^rac. The
origin of this church is somewhat
c'liscure. Old traditions tell of
oxen kneeling in a thicket in the
meadow belonging to the lord of S.
Mezard. The shepherds, attracted
i>y the circumstance, found a statue
'>f Our Lady buried in the ground.
There are many instances of simi-
lar discoveries in this region. The
animals that witnessed the Nativity
iiave always had a certain sacred-
ntr« in the eyes of the people, and
ihc) have part in many an ancient
legend, like that in which they are
iiude to kneel at the midnight
four at Christmas. The lord of
'he manor built a chapel for the
«*<»ndrous image, and a fountain
■^'on after sprang up, which to this
«iay is celebrated for \Xi miracu-
lous virtues. The most ancient
'H)rument concerning tliis chapel
l*car5 tlic date of April 23, 1626,
stating it had been destroyed by
the Huguenots during the religious
wars, and owed its restoration to
the piety of the noble family who,
according to tradition, first found-
ed it. The concourse of pilgrims
has not ceased for three centuries.
Whole parishes come here in pro-
cession in perpetual remembrance
of some great benefit. The parish
of Pergain has not failed to make
its annual pilgrimage for two hun-
dred years in fulfilment of a vow
made to avert the divine wrath
after a fearful hail-storm that had
ravaged its lands. Only a few of
the wonders wrought in this sanc-
tuary have been recorded. We find
a striking one, however, in the be-
ginning of last century. A little
boy of seven years of age, who had
never walked in his life and had no
use whatever of his feet, was taken
by his pious parents to Notre
Dame d'Esclaux, where Mass was
said for his benefit. At the moment
of the Elevation the little cripple
rose without assistance, and went
up to the railing of the chancel,
and afterwards walked home to La
Romieu, a distance of about six
miles. He always celebrated the
anniversary of his miraculous cure
with pious gratitude, and his de-
scendants have continued to do the
same to this day. The details of
this wonderful occurrence have
been furnished by M. Lavardens,
the present head of the family, one
of the most respectable in the re-
gion.
A path leads the devout pilgrim
up the sad way of the cross to the
summit of the hill, where stands a
large crucifix, in which is enshrined
a relic of the true cross. We lov-
ed to see these heights consecrated
to religion with the sign of the
Passion — emblem of the triumph
of moral liberty.
3^2
On the Way to Lourdes.
*'0 faithful Cross! O nobteit tree I
In all our woods there's none like thee.
No earthly groves, no shady bowers.
Produce such leaves, such fruit, such flowers ;
Sweet are the nalLs, and sweet the wood,
That bear a weight ao sweet and good.**
Fifteen minutes' walk to the south
of Lectoiire brings you to the Cha-
pel of S. Geny, on the banks of the
Gers. Behind it rises the mount
on whose summit this saint of the
early times was wont to pray.
Here he was when thirty soldiers,
sent by the Roman governor in
pursuit of him, appeared on the
other side of the Gers. S. Geny
lifted up his clean hands and pure
heart to heaven. The hill trem-
bled beneath his knees. The riv-
er rose so high that for two days
the amazed soldiers were unable to
cross, and then it was to throw
themselves at the saint's feet and
acknowledge the power of the true
God. They received baptism, and
were soon after martyred in a
place long known as the " Blood of
the Innocents." A new band being
sent against S. Geny, he again as-
cends the mount, but this time to
pray his soul may be received
among those whose robes have just
been washed white in the Wood
of the Lamb. And while he was
praying with eyes uplifted the
heavens opened, he saw the newly-
crowned martyrs, encircled with re-
joicing angels, chanting : Let those
who have overcome the adversary
and kept their garments undefiled
have their names written in the
Lamb's book of life ! At this
sight tlie saint's knees bend, his
ravished soul breaks loose from its
bonds and takes flight for heaven.
This was on the 3d of May. His
body remained on the top of the
mount, giving out an odor of mys-
terious sweetness, till the Bishop of
Lectoure brought it down to the
foot of the hill, and buried it in
the little church S. Geny had erect-
ed over his mother's tomb. Not
long after two persons, overtaken
by darkness, sought refuge in this
oratory, and found it filled with a
great light and embalmed with lil-
ies and roses — beautiful emblems
of the supernatural love and purity
that had distinguished the saint.
Not far from Lectoure was onct
another '* devout chapel," one of
the most noted in the country
around — Notre Dame de Protec-
tion, in the village of Tudet, a
place of pilgrimage' as far back as
the Xnth century. The Madonna
has a miraculous origin, like so
many others in this "Land of
Mary." According to the old
legend, it was discovered by shcf)-
herds in a fountain at which an ox
had refused to drink. The statue
was set up beside the spring, and
became a special object of devotion
to the neighborhood and a source
of many supernatural favors.
Vivian IL, Vicomte de Lomagne,
in gratitude for personal benefits
received, built a chapel for the re-
ception of the statue in 1178, but
as it proved too small for the num-
erous votaries, Henry II. of Eng
land, a few years after, erected a
large church adjoining Vivian's
chapel, with a hospice, served by
monks, for the accommodation ot
pilgrims. All over the neighbor-
ing hills rose little cells inhabited
by hermits drawn to this favored
spot from the remotest parts of
southern France. Not only the
common people, but the nobles
and renowned warriors of the Mid-
dle Ages, and even the kings of
France, came here to implore the
protection of the Virgin. Erer>
year, at spring-time, came the in-
habitants of Lectoure, Fleurance.
and all the neighboring parishes,
often fourteen or fifteen at a time.
'On the Way to Lourdes.
383
accompanied by priests in their
robes and magistrates in red offi-
cial garments, chanting hymns in
honor of Mary. Countless mira-
cles were wrought at her altar.
The walls were covered with
crutches and ex votos. One of the
fathers of Tudet writes thus at the
close of last century : " Here
Mary may be said to manifest her
power and goodness in a special
manner. How many times has she
net caused the paralytic to walk,
cured the epileptic, given sight to
the Wind, hearing to the deaf, and
speech to the dumb ! How often
has she not healed the sick at the
very gates of death, snatched peo-
ple from destruction at the very
moment of danger, and put an end
to bail-storms, tempests, and the
plague!"
Nothing enrages the impious so
much as the evidences of a piety
that is a constant reproach to their
lives; and the Revolution of 1793
swept away, not only the ancient
chapel of the Viscoujits of Lomagne,
but the church of Henry II.,
the hospice, and the hermits' cells,
leaving only a few broken arches
where now and then a solitary pil-
prnn went to pray. The miracu-
lous statue, however, was rescued
from profanation, and for a long
time buried in the ground. It is
«iU honored in the village church
of Gaudonville, but it is only a mu-
tilated trunk, its head and most of
the limbs being gone. So many
holy recollections, however, are as-
sociated with it, that people still
gather around it to pray, especially
»t> harvest-time, to be spared the
ravages of hail, often so destructive
in this region.
Some of the old hymns in the ex-
pressive Gascon tongue, as sung at
Notre Dame de Protection, are still
extant, and nothing is more pathe-
tic than to see a group of hard-
working peasants around the altar
of the chapel of Gaudonville sing-
ing : .
** J^ms, boqs aoueU tnbailUt
Pren^ts noste tribail en grat I'* ♦
or :
** J^sus I bous ets lou bottn Pastou,
fiosi'oilhe qu'ey lou piScadou
Oouardats-lou deu loup infernaUf
£t de touto aorto de nuui t" t
Among other prayers they chant
is a rhymed litany of twenty-seven
saints of different trades, and twen-
ty-one shepherd saints, with an ap-
propriate invocation to each, not
exactly poetical, but, sung by the
uncultivated voices of poor labor-
ers in that rustic chapel in a mea-
sured mournful cadence, there is
something akin to poesy — some-
thing higher — which awakens pro-
found and salutary thoughts. It is
in this way they invoke S. Spiri-
dion, the reaper; S. Auber, the
laborer in the vineyard ; S. Isidore,
the gardener :
"Sent Isidore, qui ets estats /
Coum nous au tribail occupat," etc.
— S. Isidore, who wast like us in la-
bor occupied, etc. — a touching ap-
peal for sympathy to that unseen
world of saints of every tribe and
tongue and degree, whicli excludes
not the highest, and admits the
lowest.
The Church of Notre Dame de
Tudet is about to be rebuilt. The
corner-stone was laid a short time
since on the feast of Our Lady of
Protection, under the patronage of
the pious descendants of the ancient
Viscounts of Lomagne, true to the
traditions of their race. The en-
tire population of fourteen neigh-
boring villages assembled to witness
* Jetiu, tbou didst labor.
Aid ut in our toil !
t Jesus ! thou art the Good Shepherd ;
Thy flock, it b the sinner ;
Guard it fnmi the wolf infenul
And every kind of evil I
384
Brother Philip.
the solemn ceremony and pray in
a spot so venerated by their ances-
tors. The mutilated statue of Gau-
donville is to be restored, and
brought back in triumph to the
place where it was once so honored.
Thus all through France there is a
singular revival of devotion to the
venerable sanctuaries of the Middle
Ages. Everywhere they are being
repaired or rebuilt — a significant
fact of good augury for the church.
TO BB CONCLUDKD NEXT MOMTB.
BROTHER PHILIP.*
The century in which we live
has distinguished itself by a terrible
propaganda of evil, error and cor-
ruption taking every variety of
form to insinuate themselves into
society ; yet this same century is
also marked by great and generous
efibrts in the cause of truth and
goodness, and in these France has
liroved herself true to her ancient
vocation. From a peculiar viva-
city of energy (if we may be allow-
ed the expression) in the national
character, whether for good or for
evil, the land that has produced
some of the most hardened atheists,
the worst and wildest communists,
and the most frivolous votaries of
pleasure, continues to produce the
most numerous and devoted mis-
sionaries, the readiest martyrs, and
saints whose long lives of hidden
toil for God and his church are a
nobic pendant .to her martyrs*
deaths.
One of these lives of unobtrusive
toil is now before us — that of Bro-
ther Philip, who during thirty-five
years was Superior-General of the
Freres des Ecoles Chretiennes, or
Brotiiers of the Christian Schools.
Before tracing it, even in the im-
• VitdH Frirt Philippe, Par M. Poiyoalat.
Totus : Mame et Fib.
perfect manner which is all for
which we have space, it will be well
to give a brief sketch of the institute
of which he was for so long the
honored head. .
Jean Baptiste de la Salle, the son
of noble parents, was bom ai
Rheims in the year 1651. Enter-
ing Holy Orders early in life, he
greatly distinguished himself in the
priesthood, not only as a scholar
and theologian, but also as an
orator, so eloquent and persuasive
that he might have aspired to the
highest dignities in the church had
he not chosen to limit his ambition
to the lowly work of popular educa-
tion. This education was not then
in existence. Not that there was an
utter absence of schools, but these
were all unconnected with each
other, and were besides greatly
wanting in any good and efficient
method of teaching. The Abbe de
la Salle invented the simultaneous
method, namely, that which consists
in giving lessons to a whole class at
a time, instead of to each child
separately. The subjects of instruc-
tion were reading, writing, French
grammar, arithmetic, and geometr\',
with Christian teaching as the basis
and invariable accompaniment of
all the rest. He founded an asso-
Brother Philip.
385
ctation of religious who were not to
filter the priesthood, of which, how-
ever, they were to become the most
efficient allies in the education of
tne young according to the mind of
the church, this intention beingi
their distinguishing characteristic.
Resolving to live in community
with them, he resigned his canon ry
at Rheiros, and sold his rich pa-
trimony, distributing the money
among the poor. He gave the
brethren their rule, and also the
habit which they wear. Thus a
new religious family, not ecclesias-
tical, appeared in France, the mem-
bers of which were only to be bro-
thers, united by the vows of poverty,
rbastity, and obedience. The Abb^
de la Salle also established a
school for training teachers, which
was the first normal school ever
launded in France ; he also origi-
nated Sunday-schools for the young
apprentices of different trades, and
pfwsionnats^ or boarding-schools, the
first of which was opened at Paris,
for the Irish youths protected by
James II. of England, and fugitives
like himself.
The chief house of the order was
St. Yon (formerly Hauteville), an
ancient manor just outside the
fiates of Rouen, surrounded by an
extensive enclosure, and affording a
j>eaceful solitude where M. de la
Salle enjoyed his few brief intervals
'>t repose in this world. He had
been invited to settle there by Mgr.
<'olbcrt. Archbishop of Rouen, and
M. de Pontcarr^, First President of
tiic Parliament of Normandy, and,
after the death of Louis XIV., made
it more and more the centre of his
Hork. It was at St. Yon that he
f^Mgned the post of superior-gene-
r»lin 1716, and there he died on
Ciood Friday, the 7th of April, 1719,
■^Kwi sixty-eight years. The house
«is soon afterwards enlarged and a
VOL. XXI — 25
church built, to which in 1734 the
Brothers transferred the remains of
their holy founder, which had until
then rested in the Church of S.
Sever,
The Brothers of the Christian
Schools were called the Brothers
of St. Yon, and sometimes les
Fr^res Yontains, whence originat-
ed the title of Fr^res Ignorantins,
which has, however, been liv^d dawn
by the institute, the excellence of
the instruction afforded by the
Christian Schools not permitting
the perpetuation of the derisive
epithet.
The new order supplied a want
too generally felt not to extend
itself rapidly, and at the time of
the Abb6 de la Salle's death it
numbered twenty-seven houses, two
hundred and seventy-four Brothers,
and ninethousand eight hundred and
eighty-five pupils. In 1724 Louis
XV. granted it letters-patent ex-
pressive of his approval, and it was
in the same year that Pope Bene-
dict XIII. accorded canonical in-
stitution to the congregation, thus
realizing the earnest desire of the
venerable founder, that his institute
should be recognized by the Sov-
ereign Pontiff as a religious order,
with a distinctive character and
special constitutions. Brother Tim-
othy was at that time superior-
general. He governed the insti-
tute with energy and wisdom for
thirty-one years, during which time
no less than seventy additional
houses of the order were establish-
ed in various of the principal towns
of France, everywhere meeting with
encouragement and protection from
the bishops and the Christian no-
bility, so that every inauguration
of a school was made an occasion
of rejoicing.
The successor of Brother Tim-
othy was Brother Claude, who was
386
BrotJur Philip.
superior-general from 1751 to 1767,
when, having attained the age of
seventy-seven, he resigned his office,
continuing to live eight years longer
in the house of St. Yon, where he
died. It was at this period that the
atheism of the XVIIIth century was
making its worst ravages. A band
of writers, under the leadership of
Voltaire, laid siege, as it were, to
Christianity, by a regular plan of
attack, and, employing as their
weapons a false and superficial
])hilosophy, distorted history, rail-
lery, ridicule, corruption, and lies,
they conspired against the truth,
while licentiousness of mind and
manners infected society and lite-
rature alike. At the very time
when the followers of the faith
were devoting themselves with re-
newed energy to the instruction
of the ignorant and the succor of
tlve needy, philosophy, so-called,
by the pen of Voltaire, wrote as
follows :
" The people are only fit to be
directed, not instructed ; they are
jiot worth the trouble.*' *
** It appears to me absolutely
essential that there should be igno-
rant beggars. It is the towns-i>eo-
ple (bourgeoisie) only, not the work-
ing-classes, who ought to be
taught." t
*'The common people are like
oxen : the goad, the yoke, and fod-
der are enough for them,*'X Thus
contemptuously were the people
regarded by anti-Christian philoso-
phy, which, while it paid court to
any form of earthly power, perpetu-
ated, and even outdid, the traditions
of pagan antiquity in its hardness
and disdain towards the lowef
orders.
On the retirement of Brother
Claude, Brother Florentius accept-
^ Letter of March 17, 1766. t Ibid., April x, 1766.
X Ibid., April X7, xy66. .
ed, in 1777, the direction of ibc
house at Avignon, where the stornt
of Revolution burst upon him. Af-
ter undergoing imprisonment and
every kind of insulting and cruel
treatment he died a holy death, in
1800, when order was beginning to
be restored to France.
Brother Agathon, who next ruled
the congregation, was a man of high
culture in special lines of study, »»t
wise discernment regarding the in-
terests and requirements of the re-
ligious life, and of rare capacity a.s
an administrator. The circular-
addresses he issued from time to
time have never lost their authori-
ty with the Brothers, and furnish d
supplement as well as a commenta-
ry to the rule of their institute. He
did much to increase the exleni
and efficiency of the latter, but wa^
interrupted in the midst of his work
by the political disturbances ih.it
were agitating his country. The dc
cree of the 13th of February, 1790,
by which ** all orders and congre-
gations, whether of men or women,"
were suppressed, did not immediate-
ly overthrow the institute ; but, al-
though it suffered the provisional
existence of such associations j^
were charged with public instru<-
tion or attendance on the sick, the
respite was to be of short duration.
The Brothers, however, notwith-
standing the anxiety into which
they were thrown by the decree ol
the Constitutional Assembly, ven-
tured to hope that their societx
would be spared on account of ii^
known deVotedness to the interest^
of the people. Brother Agathon.
moreover, was not a man ^kSi-
would silently submit to unjrs'
measures, and several petitions wen
addressed by him to the Assembi\.
in which he fearlessly pleaded ilif
cause of his institute, on the grounu
of its acknowledged utility amooi;
Brother Pfiilip.
387
r classes whose benefit the
y prafessed to have so great-
in, The si m pie and con-
tNtsorving of these petitions
vc gained Uicir c ause with
nd justice ; hut reason and
nx'te alike dethroned in
One member alone of the
Y did himself honor by rep-
I the excellence of their
and the rcahty of their
iti, but he tjpoke \n vain;
he universal refusiil of the
to take the oath imposed
civU toTistitulion on the
\ of any religious society, as
n those of the priesthood,
£4 10 which \\icy belonged
iraarily suppressed. 'J'hey
iscd for not sending their
attend the religious cere-
I resided over by schismatic
\% ihey were acriised of
arms in tht^ir Ijotises to be
iiinst the eouniry; they
argcd with moin^polizing
trealing victnals; but after
■ iiiS|iection at Alclun the
I I offtLt'ts were c t>in|)elled
e§tiniony to llie di?%tnterest-
ry of tUcse \no\\^ teachers,
Ur (icrqui si lions invariably
in the Lontusjion of their
nor**
c Revolution toniiuued its
A decree |ia<»sed on the
Augut^t, I792i suppressed
jlar eci:le?*iaslirai corpora-
j)d lay association*?, ''such
»f thr Christian Schools,"
alleged that '* a &tate truly
lit not to suifer the exis-
tt^ bosom ot ai-t coq)o-
.-^e\er, m>t cvin those
li^ devoted tt> public in-
ip tiave deserved well of the
.«igii of rerror had begun ;
^eon* were fdbng, and the
ai but tlie threshold to the
scaffold. The children of the ven-
erable De la Salle were not spared.
Brother Solomon, secretary to the
superior-general, was martyred on
the 2d of September for refusing
to take the schismatic oath. Bro-
ther Abraham was on the very
point of being guillotined when he
was rescued by one of the National
Guard. The Brothers of the house
in the Rue de Notre Dame des
Champs continued to keep the
schools of S. Sulpice until the mas-
sacre of the Carmelite monks. Sev-
eral of the Brothers were put to
death. The courageous words of
Brother Martin before the revolu-
tionary tribunal at Avignon have
been preserved. *' I am a teacher
devoted to the education of the
children of the poor," he said to
his judges; "and if your protesta-
tions of attachment 10 the people
are siuQere; if your principles of
fraternity are anything better than
mere forms of speech, my functions
not only justify me, but claim your
thanks." Language like this en-
sured sentence of death. ^ Besides,
at that time they condemned ; they
did not judge.
After eighteen months of impri-
sonment Brother Agathon was re-
stored to liberty, and died in 1797,
at Tours, leaving his institute dis-
])ersed ; but consoled by the last
sacraments, which he received in
secret.
Among the scattered members
'A a congregation too Christian not
to be persecuted in those days we
do not find one who did not remain
faithful. Many of them, in the
name and dress of civilians, contin-
ued to occupy themselves in teach-
ing, and filled the post of school-
masters at Noyon, Chartrcs, Laon,
Fontainebleau, etc. from the mu-
nicipal authorities of Laon they re-
ceived a public testimonial of es
f
it
.
38S
Bt^hit Philip.
teem; nnd m 1797, being imprboiv-
t-d* on the dcniinciAtion of ascliis-
inatic pries u the Brothers were set
at libertv by a grateful and aveng-
ing ebullition on the (>art of tht*
luolhers of families. Their exit from
prison was a triumph, the popula-
tion rrowding to meet them and
throwing flowers in their way until
they reached the schooUhouse, in
the court of which a banquet had
been prepared, at which raasters
*md scholars found themselves hap-
pily reunited.
In spite of the decree which had
smitten their institute, the Brothers
were stiU sought after as teachers
in purely civil conditions* Nothing
bad replaced the orders and estali-
1 1 sh men Is which bud been dc!?lroyed;
no instruction was provided for the
young; and as the cbnrclics were
**tiU cloned and the pul[nts silent,
a night of iguoranc e wa*s beginning
to spicad itself over the rising gen-
eration. On the 15th of August,
17921 a boy demanded ot the Na-
tional Assembly, for Innisclf and ids
comrades that tbcy should be "'' \\\-
jitructad in tlje jjiinciples ni equal-
ity and the rigbtji of man* insitead
of being preached to in the name
of a SO' railed God."
Such men as Daunon, Desmo*
Heres, and (liaptal were dej>lorinK
the sitite of public instruction \\\
France, which during ten years bad
been a n>ere mixture of absurdities
and frivohiics, when I'ortalis dan il
lo declare openly that *' religion
inUMt he made the basis of educa-
tion,''
This was in 1802, about the tinie
Hiat the relations of France with
the SovereigM I'onlifT were renewed
bv the Concordat^ and the three
ronsnla bad gone together in state
Irj the melrtijiolitan chnrch of Noire
DaUK*. By the consubu law of the
isl of May* 1H02, on puhlic instruc-
tion, the Brothers w<
to resume their fii
institute no longer
honses in France, but
cd to it in Italy, ai
Pope Pius VI. had
vicar-general, B rot he
director of the honsc
tore at Rome.
Lyons was the first
w^here the members u\
congregation began I
Pa r i *j wa s t h e n e %X\ \\\\
en Laye» Toulouse* ^
sons, and Rheiins. T
Lyons — ^namely, Broi
tins and three compai
eel, in 1805. a memo r^l
i^iuii VI I, » m quiitin**
having crowned at N<
emperf>r by whom, thr
he himself wa.s lo b
repaiiedi acconipani
cardinal**, to the Br*
Christian Schools, I
restored chapel aud
insiitnle, bis fatherly
couragement bcmg ;
] promise of its benefi
ity.
As it was of iuipor
dispersed members* fih
aware of the Tcorgani,
.society, an earnrsi i
ate circular- letter wa«
t h c m b y Ca r d \ \\ a I Fe n*
of Lyons, in v it in j^ tl
to ii rot her Frumenii
[iloyeLf according to
their congregation, ti
be at the same time
of tlie emperor*!! j^ood
The decree for X\\k
of the University, iss:!
of March, 1S08* rcsto
stitntc a legal eitisiK
with all the civil rii
to eslabHshtnent« of
In these siatnte*^ it
the Brothers fonn ;
^
Brother Pfiilip.
389
gtatnitously affording to children a
Giristian education ; that this so-
ciety ts ruled by a superior-general,
Glided by a certain number of assist-
ants; that the superior is elected
for life by the General Chapter or
by a special commission ; and that
tlie superior nominates the direc-
tors, and also the visitors, whose
dnty it is to watch over the regu-
larity of the masters and the effi-
cient management of the schools.
The Brothers had a powerful
friend in M. Emery, the Superior
of S. Sulpice, a man of high char-
acter and sound judgment, and
who was held in great esteem by
the emperor, as well as by every
one with whom he had anything to
da Napoleon, particularly, appre-
ciatmg the excellent organization
of the society, recommended " the
brothers of I)e la Salle in prefer-
ence to any other teachers."
We now come to the special sub-
ject of our memoir.
Among the dispersed members
of the institute who first responded
to the invitation of Cardinal Fesch
were two brothers of the name of
(xalet, whose memory is especial-
ly connected with Brother Philip.
On the suppression of the house at
Marseilles they sought shelter from
the violence of the Revolution in
the retired hamlet of Ch&teaurange
(Haute Loire), where they kept a
school. On receiving the cardi-
nal's circular the elder brother an-
nounced to the pupils that he had
been a Brother of the Christian
Schools, until compelled to return
to secular life by the suppression
of his institute ; but learning that
thii was re-established, he was
about lo depart at once to Lyons,
ihcre lo resume his place in it,
adding that, if any of them should
desire to enter there, he would do
ail in his power to obtain their ad-
mission and to help them to be-
come accustomed to the change of
life.
Amongst those who availed them-
selves of this invitation, and who,
three years later (in 181 1), presented
himself to be received into the novi-
tiate, was Mathieu Bransiet, born
on the ist of November, 1792, at
the hamlet of Gachat, in the Com-
mune of Apinac (Loire). Pierre
Bransiet, his father, was a mason;
the house in which he lived, with a
portion of land around it, which
he cultivated, constituting all his
worldly possessions. Like his wife
(whose maiden name was Marie-
Anne Varagnat), he was a faithful
Christian, and during the revolu-
tionary persecution habitually af-
forded refuge to the proscribed
priests. It was the custom of the
little family to assemble at a very
early hour of the morning in a cor-
ner of the barn, where, on a poor
table behind a wall or barricade of
hay and straw, the Holy Sacrifice
was offered up, as in the past ages
of paganism, and as under Protes-
tant rule, whether in the British Isles
not .so many generations ago, or in
Switzerland at the very time at
which we write ; some trusty per-
son meanwhile keeping watch with-
out, in readiness to give timely
warning in case of need. Nor did
Pierre Bransiet confine himself to
the exercise of this perilous but
bles.sed hospitality ; many a time
did he accompany the priests by
night in their visits to the sick and
dying, and bearing with them the
sacred Viaticum after the hidden
manner of the proscribed.
Amid scenes and impressions
such as these the young Bransiet
passed his childhood, learning the
mysteries of the faith from an
** abolished " catechism ; kneeling
before the crucifix, which was hated
390
Brother Philip.
and trampled under foot in those
godless days ; and worshipping
when those who prayed must hide
themselves to pray. Thus a deeply
serious tone became, as it were, the
keynote of his soul, which harmon-
ized with all that was earnest and
austere. Even as an old man he
never spoke without deep feeling
of his early years, when he only
knew religion as a poor exile and
outcast on the earth. The simple
and hardy habits of his cottage-
home, his own early training in
labor, self-denial, and respectful
obedience, the Christian teaching
of his mother and elder sister (now
a religious at Puy), all helped to
form his character and mould his
future life. He was the most dili-
gent of the young scholars of Chi-
teaurange, which is half a league
distant from Gachat, and made his
first communion in the church of
Apinac, when the Church of France
had issued from her catacombs, and
the Catholic worship was again al-
lowed. As a child Mathieu was
remarkable for his never-failing
kindness and affectionateness to-
wards his brothers and sisters, for
the tenderness of his conscience,
and for his jealousy for the honor
of God, which would cause him to
burst into tears if he saw any one
do what he knew would offend him.
Mathieu was seventeen years of
age when, with the full consent of
his parents, he entered the novi-
tiate at Lyons. He had six bro-
thers, one of whom followed his ex-
ample, and is at the present time
worthily fulfilling the office of visi-
tor to the Christian Schools oi
Clermont-Ferrand. Boniface was
the name by which the young no-
vice was at first called; but as this
was soon afterwards exchanged for
that of Philip, we shall always so
designate him.
His exemplary assiduity and
piety, as well as his rare qualifica-
tions as a teacher, quickly drew at-
tention to him, and on account of
his skill in mathematics he was ap-
pointed professor in a school of
coast navigation at Auray in the
Morbihan, where he was very sac*
cessful. While here he wrote a
treatise on the subject of his in-
structions, which was his first at-
tempt in the special kind of writing
in which he afterwards so greatly
excelled. M. Deshayes, the cun5
of Auray, and a man of great dis-
cernment, was so much struck by
his practical wisdom and good
sense that he said to the Brother
director, "See if Brother Boniface
is not one day the superior of your
congregation !"
It was at Auray, in 1812, that
he made his first vows, and there
he remained until 1816. Of the
boys who during this lime were
under his care, no less than forty
afterwards entered the sacerdotal
or the monastic life. From Aaray
he was sen t to Rethel as d irector^ and
from thence, in 1818, to fill the same
office at Rheims, the nursery of his
order, and afterwards at Meta. In
1823 the superior-general. Brother
AVilliam of Jesus — who was seventy-
five years old, and had been in the
congregation from the time he was
fifteen — appointed him to the re-
sponsible post of director of S,
Nicolas des Champs at Paris, as well
as visitor of several other houses
in the provinces and in the capi-
tal. In 1826 he published a book
entitled Practical Geometry crpplied
to Linear Design^* which is regarded
by competent judges as the besJ
work of the kind in France. He
continued director at Paris iir ni;
the eight remaining years of Brc-
^G^mdtrit PraiiqM* tt'^qu4t tLtt dfrttm
LimSmirt.
Braher nUip.
391
ihcr William's life, which ended a
little before the Revolution of July,
1830. On the succession of Bro-
ther Anaclete as superior-general
Brother Philip was elected one of
the four assistants of the General
Giapter, and thus found himself asso-
ciated with the general government
of the congregation ; but the higher
be was raised in the responsible
offices of his order, the more appa-
rent became his good sense and
sound understanding — qualifica-
tions of especial value amid the
troubles of that stormy time.
The opening of evening classes
lor working-men is due to Brother
Philip, who first commenced them
in Pahs, at S. Nicolas des Champs,
and at Gros Caillou, extending
them, with marked encouragement
from the Minister of Public In-
stniction, M. Guizot, to other quar-
ters of the city. The law of 1833,
by establishing normal schools for
primary instruction, furnished a
test as well as a rivalry to the
schools of the Brothers; but the
latter showed themselves equal to
the emergency, supplementing their
course of instruction by additional
Mibjects, and taking all necessary
measures for carrying on their work
m the most efficient manner.
Their novitiates were the models
of the normal primary sc:hools ; but
in comparing the vast difference of
expense between the one and the
other it is easy to perceive on which
Mde self-denial and paident ad-
ministration are to be found. A
nortBal school like the one at Ver-
sailles costs more than 60,000 francs,
or 12,000 dollars, yearly; and that
of Paris more than 100,000 francs,
or 20,000 dollars; while the Bror
tliers, for the training of their mas-
ter*, receive nothing from the state ;
and these young masters, formed
vith the aid of small resources, be-
come none the less admirable teach-
ers, having moreover in their favor
the double grace of devotedness
and a special vocation.
Under the name of Louis Con-
stantin. Brother Anaclete began the
publication of works of instruction
which was afterwards so efficiently
continued by Brother Philip. The
latter gave particular attention to
the formation of a preparatory no-
vitiate called le petit noviciate which
is not a novitiate, properly so call-
ed, but a preliminary trial of voca-
tions, similar to that of the Petit
Siminaire, Should the young mem-
bers persevere, their education pre-
pares them for teaching; and if
their vocation is found to be else-
where, this time of study will, all
the same, be of great advantage to
them, whatever may be their future.
The little novices were particular
favorites of Brother Philip, who took
delight not only in instructing them
himself in both sacred and secular
knowledge, but watched over them
with a sort of maternal affection,
and was often seen carrying into
their cells warm socks or any other
article of apparel of which he had
discovered the need.
On the death of Brother Anaclete,
in 1838, Brother Philip was unani-
mously elected superior by the
General Chapter, on the 21st of
November. After the election the
chapter, contrary to its wont, ab-
stained from passing any decree,
"leaving to the enlightened zeal
of the much-honored superior the
care of maintaining in the Brothers
the spirit of fervor."
The Abb^ de la Salle had re-
commended the practice of morti-
fication, silence, recollection, con-
tempt for earthly things and for the
praise of man, humility, and pray-
er; and the venerable founder has
continued to speak in the persons
392
Brother Philip.
of the successive superiors of his
institute. We have not space here
to give quotations from the circu-
lars issued by Brother Philip during
the thirty-five years of his govern-
ment, but they must be read before
a just appreciation can be had of
all that a "Christian Brother" is
required to be, and also of the heart
and mind of the writer, who never
spoke of himself, but whose daily
life and example were his best elo-
quence. He always presided over
the annual retreats, commencing
by that of the community in Paris.
One of the Brothers, in speaking of
these, said : " In listening to him
I always felt that we had a saint
for our father."
A rule had been made by the
chapter* of 1787^ that the Brother
assistants should cause the portrait
of the superior-general to be taken
with the year of his election. It
was with the greatest reluctance,
and only from a spirit of obedience,
as well as on account of the insis-
lance of the Brother assistants, that
Brother Philip suffered this rule to
be observed in his case. Horace
Vernet had the highest esteem for
the superior-general, and told the
Brothers who went to request him
to take the portrait that he would
willingly give them the benefit of
his art in return for the benefit of
their prayers. Brother Philip sat
to him for an hour, and the paint-
ing so much admired in the Exhibi-
tion of 1845 was the result. Later
on the visits of Brother Philip
were a much-valued source of help
and consolation to the great painter
during his last illness.
Our sketch would be incomplete
were we to leave unnoticed the
daily life of the Brothers of the
Christian Schools, which exhibits
their profession put into practice.
The Brothers rise at half-past
four; read the Imitaii^n until a
quarter to five, followed by praytr
and meditation until Mass, at six,
after which they attend to official
work until breakfast, at a quarter-
past seven; at half past seven the
rosary is caid, and the classes com-
mence at eight ; catechism at eleven,
examination at half-past ; at a quar-
ter to twelve dinner, after which is
a short recreation. At one o'clock
prayers and rosary ; classes recom-
mence at half-past one. Official
work at five ; at half-past ^yt pre-
paration of the catechism ; spiritual
reading at six; at half-past six
meditation ; at seven supper and
recreation ; at half-past eight even-
ing prayers; at nine the Brothen
retire to bed ; and at a quarter-past
nine the lights are extinguished,
and there is perfect silence.
After having been for twenty-
five years established in the Rue du
Faubourg St. Martin the Brothers
had to make way for the building
of the Station of the Eastern Rail-
way (Gare de TEst), and after
long search found a suitable liouse
in the Rue Plumet, now Rue Oudi-
not, which they purchased, and ol
which they took possession, as the
mother-house of the institute, in
the early part of 1847.
On entering this house it is at
once evident that rule and order
preside there. All the employ-
ments, even to the post of concUrgi^
or door-keeper, are carried on by
the Brothers, each one of whom is
engaged in his appointed duty. The
first court, called the Procure^ pre-
sents a certain amount of move-
ment and activity from its relations
with the world outside. The sec-
ond court, which is the place for
recreations, and which leads into
the interior, is much more spacious
and planted with trees. It was in
these alleys that Brother Philip was
Brother PkiUp.
39S
accnslomed to walk during his few
moments of repose, conversing with
erne of the Brothers or readily lis-
tening to any of the youngest little
novices who might address him.
The Salle du R/gime, or Chamber
of Government, is a marvel in the
perfection of its arrangements. The
superior-general is there at his
post, the assistants also ; the place
of each occupying but a small space
and on the same line. Each has his
straw-seMed chair, his bureau, and
papers; the chair of the superior
differing in no way from the rest.
On each bureau is a small case,
marked with its ticket, indicating
the countries placed under the par-
ticular direction of the Brother as-
sistant to whom it belongs. There
are to be found all the countries to
which the schools of the institute
have been extended, from the cities
of France and of Europe to the
most distant regions of the habita-
ble globe. Little cards in little
drawers represent the immensity
of the work. Everything is ruled,
marked, classified, in such a man-
ner as to take up the smallest
amount of space possible ; as if in
all things these servants of God en-
deavored to occupy no more room
in this world than was absolutely
necessary. " We have seen,** writes
M. Poujoulat, " in the Salle du Rt-
gimfy the place which had been oc-
cupied by Brother Philip ; his straw-
seated chair and simple bureau,
upon which stood a small image of
the Blessed Virgin, for which he
had a particular affection, and one
of S. Peter, given to him at Rome.
From this unpretending throne he
povcmed all the houses of his order
m France, Belgium, Italy, Asia, and
the New World, and hither letters
daily reached him from all coun-
tries. He wrote much ; and his
letters had the brevity and preci-
sion of one accustomed to command.
The secretariate occupies ten Bro-
thers, and, notwithstanding its va-
riety and extent, nothing is compli-
cated or irregular in this well-order-
ed administration.
" We visited, as we should visit a
sanctuary, the cell of Brother Phi-
lip, and there saw his hard bed
and deal bedstead, over which hung
his crucifix. . . . A few small prints
on the walls were the only luxury
he allowed himself. . . . Some
class-books ranged on shelves, a
chair, a bureau, and a cupboard
(the latter still containing the few
articles of apparel which he had
worn), . . . compose the whole
of the furniture. How often the
hours which he so needed (physi-
cally) to have passed in sleep had
Brother Philip spent at this desk or
kneeling before his crucifix, laying
his cares and responsibilities before
God, to whom, in this same little
chamber, when the long day's toil
was ended, he offered up his soul !"
In another room, that of the ven-
erable Brother Calixtus, may be
seen the documents relating to the
beatification of the Abb^ de la
Salle, bearing a seal impressed with
the device of the congregation — Sig-
num Fidei, Besides thirty-five au-
tograph letters of the founder and
the form of profession of the mem-
bers, there are; here the bulls of ap-
probation accorded by Pope Bene-
dict XIII. in 1725, and the letters-
patent granted the previous year by
Louis XV. In a room called the
Chamber of Relics are preserved
various sacred vestments and other
objects which had belonged to the
venerable De la Salle. The cha-
pel is at present a temporary con-
struction.
The mother-house comprises the
two novitiates and a normal school
appropriated solely to the perfect-
396
Brother Pkil^.
metry, French literature, cosmogra-
phy, physics, chemistry, mechanics,
English, and German. The Bro-
thers, thus accused of distributing
top much learning, replied that, if
the. law of 1850 did not mention
these subjects of instruction, neither
did it prohibit them; they consent-
ed, however, tp .withdraw a portion
from this programme. The presi-
dent of the provincial council, M.
Leffemberg, was merciful, and al-
lowed some of the additions, among
which were English and German,
to remain.
Subsequent arrangements have
been made, by which a regular
course of secondary or higher in-
struction has been organized by the
Brothers. This is admirably carried
on in their immense establishment
at Passy (amongst other places), and
its normal school is at Cluny ; and
no one now disputes with the insti-
tute the honor of having been the
originator of the special course of
secondary instruction which has
been found to answer so remarka-
bly in France.
One of the most serious anxieties
of Brother Philip under the Second
Empire arose in 1866 on the sub-
ject of dispensation from military
service. Since their reorganiza-
tion the Brothers of the Christian
Schools had been exempted from
serving in the army, on account of
their being already engaged in
another form of service for the pub-
lic benefit, and on condition of
their binding themselves for a period
of not less than ten years to the
public instruction. A circular of
M. Duruy, by changing the terms
of the law, deprived the Brothers of
their exemplioa, whilst in that very
«an>e month of February M. le
Mar^chal Randon, in addressing
general instructions to the marshals
of military divisions in the provin-
ces, gave distinct orders that the
Brothers of the Christian SchocK
should not be required to serve, on
account of the occupation in which
they were already engaged ; thus,
in two contradictory circulars on
the same question, the interpreta-
tion of the Minister of Public In-
struction was unfavorable to the
education of the people ; the con-
trary being the case with that of the
Minister of War.
We have not space to giv« the
particulars of the long struggle that
was carried on upon this question,
and in which Cardinals Matthieu
and Bonnechose energetically took
part with the Brothers ; the Arch-
bishop* of Rennes and the Bisho|)
of Ajaccio also petitioning the sen-
ate on their behalf. But in vain.
To the great anguish of Brother
Philip, the senate voted according
to the good* pleasure of M. Duruy,
The superior-general left no means
untried to avert the threatened
conscription of the young Brothers;
he petitioned, he wrote, he pleaded,
with an energy and perseverance
that nothing could daunt, until the
law, passed on the ist of February.
1868, relieved him from this pres^-
ing anxiety. He had unconscious-
ly won for himself so high an opin-
ion in the country that his author-
ity fought, as it were, for his wide-
spread family.
Ever since the Revolution ol
1848 a great clamor has been rais-
ed in France about the moral eleva-
tion of the laboring classes; but
while the innovators who believe
only in themselves have been talk-
ing, the Christian Brothers have
been working. We have already
mentioned the classes for adulLs
established by the predecessor of
Brother Philip. These, and espe-
cially the evening classes, were made
by the latter the objects of his
Brother Philip.
397
especial attention. He arranged
that linear drawing should in these
occupy a considerable place ; thus
there is scarcely a place of any im-
portance in France in which cours-
es of lessons in drawing do not
form a part of the popular instruc-
lum, and, with the exception of a
few large towns which already pos-
sessed a school of design, nearly all
ihe working population of the coun-
try has, up to the present time,
{(lined its knowledge of the art in
the classes directed by the Brothers.
Proof of this fact is yearly afforded
in the " Exhibition of the Fine Arts
applied to Practical Industries,*'
nhich, since i860, has been annual-
ly ofiened at Paris, and in which
iImt productions of their schools are
rrmarkable among the rest for their
excellence, as well as their number.
The gold medal as well as the high
VraLsc awarded them by the jury of
the International Exhibition in 1867
testified to the thoroughness of the
nianner in which the pupils of the
Christian Brothers are taught.
One of the gods worshipped by
ihc XlXth century is " utility," and
to such Bxi extent by some of its
><>taries that one of them, some
vcars agr>, proposed to the Pacha
"I Egypt to demolish the pyramids,
*>n the ground that they were " use-
less." This icproach cannot cer-
tjinly be applied to the Brothers of
t.)c Christian Schools. All their
arrangements, their instructions,
ilvcir' daily life, have the stamp of
utility, and that of the highest so-
♦ al order.
Although our space does not per-
mit us to speak of the works of
tftc Brothers in detail, their variety
jnswering, as it does, to all the needs
••t the people, yet a few words must
'•• given to that of S. Nicolas, for
V'^e education of young boys of the
working-classes.
Towards the close of the Restora-
tion, in 1827, M. de Bervanger, a
priest, collected seven poor orphan
children, whom he placed under
the care of an honest workman \n
the Rue des Anglaises (FaubourgSt.
Marceau), who employed them in
his workshop, his wife assisting him
in taking charge of them. This
was the commencement of the work
of S. Nicolas. In a few months the
little lodging was too small for its
increasing number of inmates, and,
assistance having been sent, a house
was taken in the Rue de Vaugirard,
where the boys were taught various
trades and manufactures, but still
under a certain amount of difficulty,
a sum of seven or eight thousand
francs being pressingly required.
It was at this time that M. de Ber-
vanger became acquainted with
Count Victor de Noailles, who at
once supplied the sum, and from that
time took a great and increasing in-
terest in the establishment, of which
he afterwards became the head.
On the breaking out of the revolu-
tion of 1830 he saved it by estab-
lishing himself there under the title
of director ; M. de Bervanger, for
the sake of prudence, having only
that of almoner. The two friends,
being together at Rome in the win-
ter of 1834-5, were warmly encour-
aged in their undertaking by Pope
Benedict XIII., who desired Count
Victor to remain at its head. Soon
afterwards a purchase of the house
was effected, and in this house of
S. Nicolas the count died in the fol-
lowing year. From that time M.
de Bervanger took the sole direc-
tion, and the work prospered in
spite of every opposition. To meet
its increased requirements he bought
the Chilean of Issy, and Mgr. Affre,
Archbishop of Paris, announced
himself the protector of what he de-
clared to be '* the most excellent
398
Brazier FhHifi.
work in his diocese.*' The republic
of 1 848 was rather profitable to it
than otherwise. Former pupils of
the house, enrolled in the Garde
Mobile, did their duty so bravely in
quelling the terrible insLirrectiauot'
June til at to fifteen of their uuiu-
ber the Cross of Honor was award-
vd. proviiig that i\\ those days of
villi vnce the xamm de ^uris^ the
fnuudit|inn or material of the work
*jf S. Nicola??, could be a hero*
Thitt work, owing to the un-
bounded energy and devotion of its
reverend direetorj had immensely
incre^iied in eflicieticy and extent.
More than eleven hundred cuildren
were here rcceivint^ the elementary
inal rue lion » rchgious and ijinUVs-
sionnl^ of which no other moilel ex-
j§tedi I^ut altinnigh hi;^ crourage
never failed, his !itrenglh dee lined,
and, to save the work, he j:;ave it
up, in 1858, into the hands of the
Archbishop of Paris^ Cardinal Mor-
Icit. A document exists which
proves it to have been neces>>ary to
resist the wiU of the holy priest, in
order ihuL, after haviug given up
the value of about a million and a
half of francs, without asking cither
board or lodging* he should not be
left utterly without resource v llje
archbishop, after treating with the
members of the council of adminis-
iration and obtaining the consent
of Brother Philip, who threw him-
self hcariiiy into the work, pkiced
S. Nicuhis in the hands of the Bro-
thers of the Christian Schools, who
for the last fifteen year^ have iid-
mirahly fulfiMed tins additional re-
sponsibility then confided to them.
At the time of their installation the
ES rot hers a i ^pointed to S. Nicolas
were seventy in number; they have
now inrreased to a hundred and
thirty, for llie direction of the three
house?;, one of which is at Fans,
another at Issy, and the third at
Igny, The ))Ouse ir
girard alone contiiinj
sand boys, who art
various trades; the
lers, cabinet-makers,
cians, watch makerN,
patterns for different
etc., etc. At the eti
prenticeship these
six, seven, or even
day. 'I'he most %k\
schools of AH$H Mt
trades — the roost I.
lieing rcv.arded by ll
engineer,
'il»e ^arge and fei
Issy is a school of hi
at Igny I he boy** at
kibor and farming, \
dening; the fruit* *
of Iguy forming .1
source for the hou
Vaugirard, at Paris*
the (-hristian School
of the laundry and i
t h c I h ree e s I a bl 1 % h m ei
humih tvvo members
inspect the?*e fchodlj
lest details— the cla
shops, the gardens^
raiigcments, the n<
books,, etc.^ — and ii
children*
Insiruuiental as w<
sic is taught at S,
professional art, A
miglu he seen on \
[ssy to Paris two
youths who passed
the way, the otie iha
ones,*' clad in blouse
lenj th e other tiR'pu|:
lices of the Rue Vai
gray^ each with \x% I
Hie pas!sers-by call
regimen is of S, Nici
French expedition i
band of the flag^sh
composed of former
establishments^ who,
Broihtr Phiiip,
.109
ns, had with them rlit:
icir ij;itron saint, which
ijjhiycd on grand ottii-
e great satisfaction of
commanding I he expe-
of the celebrated Dn
' placing blind and also
imb children in the pri-
Is nf the Jirothers has
led with the happiest
lese children enter at
gc as those who can
st?c, and, like them, re-
tliey have made their
nion, aud leave just at
when they can be re-
> speciai institutions,
I re kept for eight yc^rs
e frtpid i m [1 rove men t in
hUdrtn, whu are nnder
he B lor hers, and of the
Vinix^nt de Paul and of
truly uondcrtuh Mis-
tjTj and reserve specdilf
to t^heerfnlness^ conil-
affct tion ; the habitual
I children who can sec
eifig a great afisistance
[ipment of their irsieHi-
£i(ialtilitic^.
he Minisitcr of the In-
5 by drsirc of the local
rcijoe^ted tiiat the Bro-
l he sent to certain of
nLial |>risons of France.
•4iy wjat made at Nunes,
Brothers were placed
trtion of the prison ap-
o the yonnger ofifenders,
great a cliarige Icr the
became apjuireni th:U
cjiife arose that all the
ifclve hundred in num-
be put under tiieir
other Philip, after tak-
itcr into ciireful consi-
ivc his consent, to llie
the prefect of Nimc?^ ;
31. a me year, 1^41, the
rouglj keepers were replaced by a
delachmeot of tliirly-seven Brothers
of the Christian Schools. In tht-
t tiurse of two months the new^ or-
^;/anizatioii had effected a complete
change in the prison, not only a*
regarded the dociltty and general
improvement of the prisoners, Init
their health also^ from the altera-
tions m^e by the new managers in
the sanitary arrangements of the
building. Brother Facile, a man
of great intelligence, firmness^ itnd
good sense^ was the director of the
Brothers, who had various trials ta
undergo in the exercise of their
presient functions. In spite of va-
rious* difficulties, most of which
w*erc occasioned by the conduct of
hty oHiciah, the Brothers remained
at Nhnes until 1848, when the re-
volution cnt short their work, not
only there, but also at Fon lev rank
(where they had the charge of four-
teen hundred prisoriers), at Aniane,
and at Me Inn.
The institnte of the Brothers of
the Christian Schools, being of
French origin, naturally develo])ed
itself first m France* At the he-
ginning of 1874 it numbered nine
hundred and forty-five establish-
ments in that country, more than
eight tlionsand Brothers^and al>ovc
ihree hundred and twelve thousand
pupils. From the commencement
t>f the congregation it has had a
house at Rome ; and at Turin their
schools are attended by more than
three thousand five hundred chil-
dren* They easily took root in
Catholic Belgium, where their j>Ur
pds are above fifteen thousand m
nun^ber, Tliey are in England, Aus-
tria, fruisia^and^wit/eirland. Pass
ing out of Eurfipe, we find them
honored and encouraged in tlie lit-
tle re|uiblic of Ecnat?or, where they
were first [>lanled in i86j, under
Brother A I ban us, a man of great
400
Br^thir Philip,
prudence as well as of activity atid
xeal Two yecirji later four Bro-
thers embarked for Coclun-China^
tile Admiral of La Grandj^re liav-
iiijjj requested Brother Pbili]) to
send them to teach the ciiildren
of the new French colon y. Their
Jhsl house there was at Saigon, to
wliich others were added in differ-
ent parts of the countryj^s more
Br< others arrived. They have es-
tabhfihments in Mad n^a scar, the
Srychellef!, the East Indies, and
the Isie of Mauritius, and have
bei'n in the lie de la Reunion ever
?iince iHt6. They arc at Tunis,
where they teach the children in
haiiaii (that language being the
I me niost usually spoken there); and
in Algiers, where for years the bi-
shij[i, M^r, l)upuch,had been beg-
ging that they might ]je sent. Bro*
I her Philip was both ready and
willii>g, but the delays and difficul-
ties raised by the French Minister
of War, would trot allow him to ac-
i-ede to th^ request until 1852, after
tlie death of M. l)u]>uch, ivho had
begun the negotiation ten years
before. When, in 1870, contrary
tfi the entreaties of the bishop, Mgr,
de Lavigerie, and the protest of
tfje inhabitants of the place, the
lirothers were forced out ot tlieir
M liDols — their only offence being
that they were Christian— they open-
ed free schools, independent of any
j;ovcrnment arrangement, and had
t lie in filled at om e l)y three thou-
sand of I heir former puiuls ; the
same thing bem^ done at other
towns with the same result. A
t h.ingc for the better took place in
iheitleas of the home government
in 1H71, and ;U the ]) resent time,
Uianks to the rule of Marsh.xl Mac*
M;ihuu, the Christian Schools of
. \ 1 ^ j c IS h a V e bee n re st o re d to t ii e i r
rjgha.
In concert with the l.azarists
the Brothers of>ene
Smyrna in 1S41, ar
wards at Constantin
authorisation of the
They arc settled also
under the protectioti
and under that of t
tolic at Cairo^ where
ceivcd marked proc
from the Viceroy uf 1
But it is not of t;
tlie Old World only
thers have so largely
sion ; the spirit of C
spirit of conquest, an
ary, the Si§ter of CI1
Christian Broti'ier ai
queiing race.
The infant found at
ter have a particubr
vast American ron
either all is compare
terday, or else Unr
of ages still await li
civili/ation, or eveti
bilious orders prospe
and the children of
settled in Ciin;ida 1
earne^it invitation oi
Superior of the Semii
pice at Montreal, anc
tique, the bishop of \\\
Brothers of the Chr
were sent by the j*ac
PJiiiipp^^ which s;iik
of October in tliat \
New York on the ij
ber. *rhe curh of
Pari^ were th« ear in
of the^vcneraltle De
it is interesting to n
tance of tw<i centuri
other side of the Atl,
of the same hou^e i
%in\\^ tr.iditions, 11 1
rapidly in Montreal
iihort time iwenty-fivc
occu|iicd in I ear bin g
dred children, Kotir
of tins cilVp who had I
Brother Philip.
401
lanis, took the habit on All Saints'
Day, 1840. The same year brought
them a visit from the Governor-Gen-
eral of Canada, Lord Sydenham,
who, after entering with interest into
the details of their work, gave them
liie greatest encouragement. In
the course of the following year
they held their classes in presence
"f the bishops of Montreal, Quebec,
Kingston, and Boston, numerously
iccompanied by their clergy, and
received the congratulations and
l)eDediction of the prelates. They
t/pencd a school at Quebec in 1843,
and later, on the invitation of the
Archbishop of Baltimore, Brother
Aidant went to found one also in
that city. It was he who was au-
thorized by Brother Philip, in 1847,
to go to Paris in order to give an
account of the work which had been
carried on in America during the
previous ten years, and who return-
ed thither, accompanied by ^st
more Brothers.
When, in 1848, the members of
the institute were withdrawn from
the central prisons of France, their
superior felt that the energetic Bro-
ther Facile would be an invaluable
^uperintendent of the Christian
Schools in the New World. Bro-
ther Aidant had done great things
during the eleven years that he had
occupied the post of director and
\isitor of the province of Canada
md of the United States. Five
principal houses, employing fifty
Broihers, had been estabjjjshed
I here — namely, those of Montreal,
Quebec, Three Rivers, Baltimore,
ind New York ; but the work re-
' eived a new and extensive devel-
•pmcnt during the twelve years
•f the directorship of Brother Fa-
' lie, who, when summoned to
France by Brother Philip in 1861,
left behind him 78 schools, 24,532
pupils, 368 Brothers, and 74 novi-
VOL. XXI. 26
ces; and this wonderful increase
has subsequently continued.
In 1863 Brother Philip consider-
ed it advisable to divide North
America into two provinces, name-
ly, those of Canada and the United
States ; Brother Ambrose, director
of the schools of St. Louis, Missou-
ri, being named visitor of the pro-
vince of fie United States, in resi-
dence at New York ; and Brother
Liguori, of Moulins, in residence
at Montreal, visitor of the province
of Canada.
The Brothers of the Christiai>
Schools in America are recruited^
not only from France, but from,
all the nationalities of the country.
Among them are Franco-Canadians,,
Anglo-Americans, Irish, Belgians,
and Germans. The visit of Lord-
Young, the Governor-General of
Canada, in 1869, to their principal
school in Montreal, was a sort of
official recognition of their teaching,
on the part of Great Britain. He
praised their work as being the-
'* type and model of a good educa-
tion." Amongst those who were^
presented to him, the governor-
general saw with particular interest
Brother Adelbertus, the only sur-
viving one of the four who were-
sent to Canada in 1837. They now
have schools in all the six provinces
of Canada, and since 1869 have
been established also at Charlotte-
town, the capital of Prince Ed-
ward's Island. A Protestant writer
who visited their schools at Halir
fax, in giving an account of what
he had seen, stated that he was-
greatly struck by " the perfect dis-
cipline of the pupils, their silence,,
their prompt obedience and great
assiduity, their neatness, and the
good expression of their counte-
nances, whether Catholic or Pro-
testant." He did not take offence
at the short prayer said at the strik-
402
Brother Philip.
ing of every hour. " Each child,"
he observes, "can repeat to him-
self the prayer learnt at his mo-
ther's knee." But what most of all
excited his wonder were the diffi-
cult exercises in geometry, trigono-
metry, land-surveying, algebra (and
other sciences, of which he gives a
list), which he saw aqQgjpplished
by the class of advanflb pupils
under the direction of Brother
Christian. According to his ac-
count, the so-called Ignoraniim are
almost alarmingly scientific.
When we bear in mind that Can-
ada, although its present population
does not amount to four millions, is
one-third larger than France, and
that its natural resources are equiv-
iilent to those of France and Ger-
many combined, we can understand
the importance of its future when
once those resources shall be made
available ; and also we perceive the
wisdom of the Christian Brothers in
-doing their utmost to prepare the
way for this result to be attained
by a well and religiously instructed
generation.
But to return to Europe. The
^vork of the Christian Schools began
in Ireland, in 1802, when Mr. Ed-
mund Rice, of Waterford, founded
-one in his native town, with great
success. Another was established
in 1807, by Mr. Thomas O'Brien,
at Carrick-on-Suir, aijd a third at
Dungarvan ; but it was not until
1822 that the Irish Brothers adopt-
• ed the rule of the venerable De la
Salle. The institute in Ireland is
the same in spirit as it is the same
in rul^ with some slight modifica-
tions ; but it does not depend upon
the French institute, although con-
nected with it in friendly and fra-
ternal relations, its separate ex-
istence being especially adapted
to the wants of the people of Ire-
land.
In tracing some of the wide-
spread ramifications of his work
we seem to have lost sight of the
toiling Brother to whom so mucl:
of its success was due. The fact
of having the responsibility of so
extensive an administration did
not prevent his personally working
at the classes like any other Bro-
ther of the institute. He possess-
ed in a remarkable degree the gift
of imparting knowledge, whether in
things human or divine. From tbc
time of his entrance into the insti-
tute his manner of teaching the
catechism had been remarked ; and
it was always with the liveliest en-
joyment that he fulfilled this im-
portant portion of his duties. No-
thing of all this teaching has been
written down ; but there* remains j
book written by Brother Philip, of
which the title is £xplanati4?ns in a
caiecJutical forni of the Epistles and
Gospels for all tlu Sundays ami
principal festivals of the year^ in
which the varied depths of reli-
gious thought of the pious writer
are presented with a precision and
yet readiness of expression in them-
selves constituting a simple and
earnest eloquence. This book is
considered a model, both with re-
gard to the substance and the art
*of teaching ; the writer does not
fit the truth to his words, but his
words to the truth.
Thus far we have sketched the
origin and progress of the institute
of the Brothers of the Christian
Schools in times of comparativt?
peace, with brief exceptions; ii
the second and concluding part oi
our notice the a- embers of l!»:s
institute will ^^ppear under a nev
aspect — on the battle-fields whei^,
these men of prayer and peat-*
showed themselves to be, in that
which constitutes true heroism, the
bravest of the brave.
TO BS CONCLUDED NEXT MOKTR.
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
403
THE LADY ANNE OF CLEVES.
Anke of Cleves, the fourth queen
and third wife of Henry VIIL of
England, is one of the least known
personages in history. Fortunately
for herself, she never gained the
sad celebrity of his victims, Cathe-
rine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and
Ciiherine Howard. As virtuous and
sedate as the former, she was less
high>spirited and dangerously fear-
less. At the same time, her gen-
tleness was much the same as that
of her only royal predecessor, and,
like her, she won the respect and
love of the people. If she submit-
ted somewhat too passively to the
sentence of divorce, or rather of
nullification of her marriage, as
pronounced by Cranmer, it must be
remembered that, unlike Catherine
'»f Aragon, she had reason to dread
the consequences of opposition to
the king's despotic will. Her hus-
band's brutal treatment of her dur-
ing the short time they lived to-
gether, his coarse expressions of
disrespect and loathing, his utter
want of consideration towards her
as a princess, and lack of gentle-
manlike behavior towards her as a
woman and a stranger in his realm,
were enough to dispose her to con-
sent to any conditions which left
her alive and safe, even had she not
i»ad before her eyes the sad experi-
ence of several judicial murders
committed just before and after her
ill-omened wedding. Among the
•strange circumstances of her — in a
^ense — obscure life is this : that,
having been brought up a Lutheran,
and proposed as a wife to Henry
^'Ill.as a means of conciliating the
league of powerful Protestant prin-
ces in (^||many, she died a Catholic
in her Wopted country. Her sis-
ter, Sibylla, had married John
Frederick, the Elector of Saxony,
who uniformly befriended Luther.
Whether Anne's convictions were
very strong or not it is not easy to
say; a terror of her future husband
was enough to explain her making
no demur at being married accord-
ing to the Catholic form, which was
done with great pomp and solem-
nity; but she did her best while
queen to save Dr. Barnes, the Re-
former, probably on actount of her
sympathy with his opinions. In
this she was unsuccessful ; indeed,
she never had any influence with
the king. This is perliaps the only
decided evidence of her being at-
tached to the doctrines in which she
had been educated, and probably
the religious impressions she re-
ceived in England were all in fa-
vor of Catholicity. At this time
neither court nor people had
changed in doctrine, though there
was a real Protestant party, quite
distinct from the king's time-serv-
ing prelates and obsequious cour-
tiers. Still, Henry was unswerv-
ingly attached to the forms of the
church of his fathers, and in. many
points to its doctrines, and, indeed,
would have been by no means flat-
tered by becoming the head of a
** church " without outward symbo-
lism and stately ceremony, such as
the hidden body of Puritans al-
ready desired.
The portrait of Anne of Cleves
— />., of her disposition and cha-
404
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
meter — is very winning. Her mo-
ther, who, says Nicolas Wotton, was
a '" very wise lady, and one that very
straighily looketh to her children,"
had evidently brought her up, as
most Flemish and German girls, in
a womanly, modest, and useful fash-
ion. She is described as ** of very
lowly and gentle concyttons, by
which she hath so muc^^on her
mother's favor that she is very loath
to suffer her to depart from her.
She occupieth her time much with
her needle. She can read and
write her own, but French, or
Latin, or other language she know-
eth not; nor yet can sing or
play on any Instrument, for they
take it here in Germany for a re-
buke and an occasion of lightness
that great ladies should be learned
or have any knowledge of musick."
It IS not surprising that they should
have had such a prejudice at that
lime, considering how polite learn-
ing was fast becoming the all-atoning
compensation for the lowest morals
and most shameless intrigues in the
courts of Italy, of France, and of
England. Later on the English
annalist Holinshed, who wrote of
her after her death, praised her as
'*a lady of right commendable re-
gard, courteous, gentle, a good
housekeeper, and very bountiful to
her servants." Of her kind heart
her will is a striking instance ; for
her heart seems more set on her
** alms-children " than on any other
of her pensioners and legatees.
Herbert, the author of a short
sketch of her life, gives his opinion
as follows : " The truth is that Anne
v.as a fine, tall, shapely German
girl, with a good, grave, somewhat
lieavy, gentle, placid face "; but he
goes on to add up her deficiencies
in beauty, style, and accomlilish*-
ments, and calls her " provincial "
as compared with the ** refined,
volatile beauties of the French and
English or the stately donnas of
the Spanish courts."
That she was not beautiful, and
that Henry was purposely deceived >
as to her personal charms by the
short-sighted Cromwell, is undeni-
able. Henry, who had so unfeelmg-
ly discarded his once beautiful and
sprightly and his still loving, state-
ly, and queenly wife, Catherine of
Aragon, as soon as his wandering
fancy had fixed upon a younger
beauty, could not be expected to
feel less than a sheer disappoint-
ment at the sight of Anne of Clevcs.
So fastidious was he that he had
actually asked Francis L of France
to send him twenty or thirty of the
most beautiful women in France,
that he might pick anci choose
among them ; and when the hapless
ambassador, Marillac, had respect-
fully proposed that he should send
some one to the court to choose
for him, he had abruptly exclaimed
with an oath : " How can I depend
upon any one but myself.^" Crom-
well, to whose political schemes
the alliance of the Schmalkalden
League (as the coalition of Ger-
man Lutheran princes was called)
was necessary, duped the king by
causing Holbein to paint a flatter-
mg miniature of Anne. This was
enclosed in a box of ivory delicate-
ly carved in the likeness of a white
rose, which, when the lid was un-
screwed, showed the miniature at
the bottom. Her contemporaries
vary so greatly in their reports of
her appearance that an exact de-
scription of an original pencil-
sketch (unfinished) among the
Holbein heads in the royal collec-
tion at Windsor may be of some
value. Miss Strickland, in her
Lives of the Queens of EngUnd,
gives it thus : ** There is a moral
and intellectual beauty in the ex-
Th€ Lady Anne of Cleves.
405
piesstOQ of the face, though the
nose and mouth are large and
somewhat coarse in their forma-
tion. Her forehead is lofty, ex-
pansive, and serene, indicative of
candor and talent. The eyes are
large, dark, and reflective. They
arc thickly fringed, both on the up-
{>er and lower lids, with long, black
lashes. Her hair, which is also
black, is parted and plainly folded
on either side the face in bands,
extending below the ears — a style
that seems peculiarly suitable to
the calm and dignified composure
of her countenance." What must
have been most to her disadvantage
•ras ;iot the drawn complexion of
which Southampton, the lord-ad-
miral, so dexterously spoke when
the king asked him in anger, " How
like you this woman — do you think
her so fair?" nor her heavy fea-
tures, but the marks of the small-
pox with which she was plentifully
pitted. This, in itself, may have
materially contributed to the clum-
sJDess of her features. Her " pro-
gress " from her native city of DUs-
ieldorf to the shores of England
Listed two months, partly from
stress of weather, which detained
her nearly three weeks at Calais,
partly from the state of the roads
and the necessary pageantry which
her own countrymen and her future
subjects tendered to her on her
way. Antwerp distinguished itself,
as usual, by a lavish display of
bravery. The English merchants
of that town came out four miles
to meet her, to the number of fifty,
dressed in velvet coats and chains
of gold; while at her entrance into
the town, at daylight, she was hon-
orably received with twice four-
score torches. Again, we find that
she arrived at Calais between seven
and eight o'clock in the morning,
and that in mid- December. As
she is said to have travelled gener-
ally at about the rate of twenty
English miles a day, and each of
these places, at which she arrived
so early, was made the scene of re-
joicing and feasting for her and her
train, it is evident that much of her
journey must have been performed
in the c^y hours before the dawn
of a wTOer's day. In the train
sent to welcome Anne of Cleves
were kinsmen of fiwc out of Henry's
six queens. The time was whiled
away in the then English city of
Calais in the usual festivities, and
she was taken to see the king's
ships Lyon and Sweepstakes, which
were decked in hef honor with a
hundred banners of silk and gold,
and furnished with " two master-
gunners, mariners, thirty-one trum-
pets, and a double-drum that was
never seen in England before ; and
so her grace entered into Calais, at
whose entering there were one hun-
dred and fifty rounds of ordnance
let out of the said ships, which
made such a smoke that not one of
her train could see the other."*
From Dover, after a quick and
prosperous passage of the prover-
bially churlish Channel, she went
to Canterbury and thence to Roch-
ester, where, on New Year's eve,
1540, the king, impelled by a boyish
curiosity ill-suited to his years and
antecedents, told Cromwell that he
intended to visit the queen private-
ly and suddenly. So he and eight
of his attendant gentlemen dressed
themselves alike in coats of *' mar-
ble color " (probably some kind of
gray), and presented themselves in
her apartments. He was taken
aback at her appearance, and for
once ** was marvellously astonished
and abashed." It was the first
time he had had a queen proposed
• From the MS. ypMrnry 0/ tk« Lady Annt 0/
CUwts^ in the Sutc Paper Office.
404
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
racter — is very winning. Her mo-
ther, who, says Nicolas Wotton, was
a " very wise lady, and one that very
straightly looketh to her children,"
had evidently brought her up, as
most Flemish and German girls, in
a womanly, modest, and useful fash-
ion. She is described as ** of very
lowly and gentle concy^ons, by
which she hath so muc^^on her
mother's favor that she is very loath
to suffer her to depart from her.
She occupieth her time much with
her needle. She can read and
Avrite her own, but French, or
Latin, or other language she know-
eth not; nor yet can sing or
play on any Instrument, for they
take it here in Germany for a re-
buke and an occasion of lightness
that great ladies should be learned
or have any knowledge of musick."
It is not surprising that they should
have had such a prejudice at that
lime, considering how polite learn-
ing was fast becoming the all-atoning
compensation for the lowest morals
and most shameless intrigues in the
courts of Italy, of France, and of
England. Later on the English
annalist Holinshed, who wrote of
her after her death, praised her as
**a lady of right commendable re-
gard, courteous, gentle, a good
housekeeper, and very bountiful to
her servants." Of her kind heart
lier will is a striking instance ; for
her heart seems more set on her
** alms-children ** than on any other
of her pensioners and legatees.
Herbert, the author of a short
sketch of her life, gives his opinion
as follows : " The truth is that Anne
v.as a fine, tall, shapely German
girl, with a good, grave, somewhat
heavy, gentle, placid face *' ; but he
goes on to add up her deficiencies
in beauty, style, and accom'J^lish-
ments, and calls her " provincial "
as compared with the " refined,
volatile beauties of the French and
English or the stately donnas of
the Spanish courts."
That she was not beautiful, and
that Henry was purposely deceived
as to her personal charms by the
short-sighted Cromwell, is undeni-
able. Henry, who had so unfeelmg-
ly discarded his once beautiful and
sprightly and his still loving, state-
ly, and queenly wife, Catherine of
Aragon, as soon as his wandering
fancy. had fixed upon a younger
beauty, could not be expected to
feel less than a sheer disappoint-
ment at the sight of Anne of Cleves.
So fastidious was he that he had
actually asked Francis L of France
to send him twenty or thirty of the
most beautiful women in FrancCr
that he might pick anci choose
among them ; and when the hapless
ambassador, Marillac, had respect-
fully proposed that he should send
some one to the court to choose
for him, he had abruptly exclaimed
with an oath : " How can I depend
upon any one but myself.^" Crom-
well, to whose political schemes
the alliance of the Schmalkalden
League (as the coalition of Ger-
man Lutheran princes was called)
was necessary, duped the king by
causing Holbein to paint a flatter-
mg miniature of Anne. This was
enclosed in a box of ivory delicate-
ly carved in the likeness of a white
rose, which, when the lid was un-
screwed, showed the miniature at
the bottom. Her contemporaries
vary so greatly in their reports of
her appearance that an exact de-
scription of an original pencil-
sketch (unfinished) among the
Holbein heads in the royal collec-
tion at Windsor may be of some
value. Miss Strickland, in her
Lh'cs of the Queens of EnglawL
gives it thus : *' There is a moral
and intellectual beauty in the ex-
T!u Lady Anme of Oev€$. iTA
prcssioa of the face, though the s\« Is ti i t' Lite t-ii* i-.-: -*--''
nose and mouth are large ar.d 2u.j it aV, .t v.^ ',\^.t '/ • '^'•
somewhat coarse in their forrri^fc- Err ,:i s. .^ 2. t-' i.-- ^:^ ■ '
lion. Her forehead is lofty, ei- v r*< v.i.--!:- i-: v... i .:.t i" -
pansive, and serene, indicarirc c: i.'- tn-rj. m- ii.i.'^, -;.- .•^^'' • "-
candor and talent. The eyes ire ■' ■- ^ r !-'•'- i^«- - ' jt ■ ' •''" * - "
Urge, dark, and reflectiTc. T:,^ tri. -. r, =: -• .'^^: • : ^ -
are thickly fringed, b>th on tl.e x:,- ;.vi-:^^ 111; * ;-i -. ^--t ^ -. ■ - .
}>er2Dd lower lids with k-ri. ^^'x -i -:*t
lashes. Her hair, wh :-. is i-i.: tc s
black, is parted and ::i':j>. :-i frrr.: v. *-.-. :i*c
on either side t.t £iie _- ii-i^i*- Tt-^ i-i' u^ct ;» :
extending below :-e tnz^ — a ir'jt i- i t j^-: . - <
that seems f^cilarly sr. --2^ it v. *»•:• n ..^ : -^
the caim ai>d d r-.-ici ^'.*ii>i-t-ir* u ::.-t
of licr coHCier— -le-' "--iir niirr :-.*r v- — .^ .
hare been imc-Kt- i.^c_ i^i-iJ.-u:J:i: ^ .' *-• -r : : .
was not tae /r^-x iiid-.i-rLi^c ir »^- >r .-n. r
whxb So-— J^^cit- Vfi: j,-ir-ai^ : - r-rt . . . .^
miraL so oint'.-:^/ ^>.*i t .tn i. -l ..- -^^ •
uickingaiic-r I :a. :=- i-:^-"-* ^ "^ ^ "*<-. :.- -* -^--
like TOO tLi* waa-i-i — '^ '-i -■.::< .^r . -■ . * -,
her so £a-rr* ii:r inr 1-:^ - *^:i^ i-^-i- jr:?r ■ , ,
turcs, bm -:*- Hii-'ij *> "-e _-.—.— • -r* v ^ .- -r -
pox, writ » uai.L iiUt ▼"as ji*;n- * ■ -- -r r*
pitted- Tijfc. n. :i-^" n-' — ' ^ - ^- '^ - ;
miieriaT'r -:":nitr..'.n^i- .• - rr ■ ."^ rr
u«es of Iter izssr r--. --u-r * -'-- =— ,- , * . ,.
»di£in I- lie .- T-r - 1. — - ' ■ T .
LtUri mr- n* -: . - ' - ' - ' * -r
'■t^ew. 'j' wcT— r-^ » :.- — '. , '
her ftd.'*' : n-rr x--:— .: _ _. -' «■
ia*^T iriin. *i- " - -^ ' *-- r . -: ^ ■ -■
ariC Ufc* irr---^* — " ' --^-* ' *» - - .-- ■ ,
L-^ uwi '-1*1X1: — -^ - , .-r . '■' _ . ■ - . -
■ r^, «*"*"^-*' -•- ' - -- -*— . ,- ^
*i uauu« . - _ _ - - . - ,
■f :L.r sr-rr j_ • - .- -- ^ ^ ^
to mc^ ---r: . - -- * '
s-'CMcL a ---rrv^ *- ^. , • . ,
'I! "uii 1 - - -r- " - .-^ .--.'-
::*r tiwt - -i*" - • . •— . .- -- .
wjTt tii: i^ _ ■' ^ , - .-
Ml? ar**' - i - .-'.■■- .^--r * ,
ax»t r: _
4o6
The Lady Anne ofCleves.
to him whom he had not seen be-
forehand, and he felt that, at least
in the eyes of the people, he had
j^one too far to be able to draw
back now. He, who had never
been taught self-restraint in any-
thing, was not the man to exercise
forbearance towards his luckless
bride; yet, for the first md almost
the only time, it was noticed that
he absolutely showed her some
scant civility. Either she knew him
from his portraits or the evident
prominence of one of her visitors
indicated to her who was her
future husband ; for she sank on her
knees at his ^approach, probably
reading his surprise by her own in-
stincts, and wishing to propitiate
him with the meekness and deep
humility of her behavior. Still, it
was not Catherine of Aragon's dig-
nified humility and Christian majes-
ty of demeanor, as she had pleaded
for herself as a stranger no less than
as a loving and faithful wife. The
chronicler Hall says that the king
"welcomed Anne with gracious
words, and gently took her up and
kissed her" — which is likely enough;
yet we cannot rely on Hall's au-
thority as a grave historian, in af-
ter-times, as we always find him a
gossiping and complacent relater
of court pageantries, and a blind ad-
mirer of the king's every word and
look. No doubt he was wise in his
generation — for what else could
contemporary historians do to save
their heads ? — and after three hun-
dred and fifty years we are glad to
have his gorgeous Chronicles to dip
into. Strypc, Lord Herbert of
Cherbury, Burnet, Lin*;ard, and
others agree that immediately after
the king left Anne (with whom he
had supped) he angrily called his
lords together, and reproached them
with having deceived him by false
reports of her beauty ; and, further.
that he sent her the New Year's gift,
which he had intended to present
to her in person, by his master of
the horse, Sir Anthony Browne, with
a cold, formal message, excusing
himself to those about him by say-
ing that "she was not handsome
enough to be entitled to such an
honor " as his personal offering.
The French ambassador, Maril-
lac, preserved the record of many
little details in his sprightly but
gossiping correspondence with his
superiors during the years 1539-40.
These diplomatic gossipings seem
to have been much the fashion ; for
the Venetian envoys also indulge
in them. Courts and cabinets.werc
more intimately connected then
than the bourgeois improvements of
the later domestic life in royal cir-
cles make it possible for them Xi^
be now. But if the French ambas-
sador could be minute in his de-
scriptions, he was not so good an
adept at the piysteries of English
spelling. He invariably spells Green-
wich GreemvigSy and Westminster
Valsemaistre, After Henry's dis-
courteous reception of his bride lie
returned to his palace at the former
place, and there met the cunning
contriver of the match, Cromwel).
whom he upbraided coarsely for
having yoked him with a "great
Flanders mare." The minister tried
to shift the blame on Southampton,
who had conducted the princess to
England ; but the latter bluntly re-
plied that "his commission iras
only to bring her to England ; nnd
. . . as she was generally reputed
for a beauty, he had only repeated
the opinion of others, . . . and es-
pecially as he supposed she would
be his queen." Deahrg with Henrt
Vni. involved a dangerous gnuir.
as no one knew for two days to-
gether to whom to look as the " ris-
ing sun." The mild, gentle woman
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
AP7
who was never to have any influ-
ence, and yet was to win all hearts
save that of the brutal king, was
perhaps an object of chivalrous pity
10 the lord high admiral, who thus
prudently entrenched himself with-
in the safe limits of his ** commis-
sion." .
At length, after repeated, peevish
outbursts of despotic ill-temper and
such expressions as this : " Is there,
then, no remedy but that I must
needs put my neck into the yoke ?"
the king gave orders for his mar-
riage preparations. It is curious to
think of the now dense and unsa-
vory city accumulations that cover
the "fair plain " at the foot of Shoot-
er's Hill, on which were pitched
the tent of cloth of gold and the
say pavilions where the slighted
bride was publicly met and saluted
by her future husband. To do him
justice, he behaved with proper
outward respect towards her. From
Greenwich to Blackheath " the
furze and bushes " were cut down
and a clear road made, lined with
the companies of merchants, Eng-
lish, Spanish, Flemish, and Italian,
in coats of embroidered velvet,
while ** gentlemen pensioners " and
knights and aldermen wore massive
chains of gold. The princess and
her retinue, consisting both of her
English escort and her native at-
tendants, met the king at some dis-
unce from the tent, and patiently
lii»tened to a long Latin oration de-
livered by the king's almoner, and
answered on her behalf by another
solemn string of classical platitudes
by her brother's learned secretary,
of neither of which speeches she
understood one word. Anne wore
^ rich but somewhat tasteless dress,
tut short and round, without any
train, which rather shocked the fas-
tidious eyes of the French ambas-
sador and the English courtiers.
The king, for his fourth bridal,
wore a dress which, though rich,
must have been unbecoming to one
of his size and complexion. The
chronicler Hall describes it as a
sort of frock of purple velvet, " so
heavily embroidered with flat gold
of damask and lace that little of
the groimd appeared. Chains and
guards oT gold hung round his neck
and across his shoulders." The
sleeves and bi^ast were cut and lin-
ed with cloth of gold, and clasped
with great buttons of diamonds, ru-
bies, and orient pearls, . . . hissword
and girdle adorned with emeralds,
. . . but his bonnet so rich of jew-
els that few men could value them ;
. . . besides all this, he wore a collar
of such balas, rubies, and pearls that
few men ever saw the like." He was
on horseback, but his " horse of
state " was led behind him by a rein
of gold, and wore trappings of crim-
son velvet and satin embroideied
with gold. A multitude of gorgeous
ly-dressed pages followed, each
mounted on coursers wilh trap-
pings to match. The princess was
no less loaded with jewels, and hei
horse wore trappings which, together
with the " goldsmith's work " of the
dress of her running footmen, was
embroidered with the black lion of
the shield of Hainaut. The king
advanced and embraced her, and, to
all outward appearance, did prince-
ly homage to her — all through an
interpreter, however; and v;ith more
descriptions of v/ondcrful clothes
and ornaments, the old chronicler
moves the whole pageant forward
through the park lO Greenwich pa-
lace. At one atagc of the proces-
sion the princess seems to have ex-
changed her ho;se for a chariot of
cuiiou3, a;i«:ic»'ae fashion. A promi-
ne.i'i; piStC;; was assigned among het
relic. ue to her three Flemish wash-
er^'Oinen, or, in the language of
4o8
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
that day, her launderers. Then
followed the great water-pageant
on the Thames, where each city
guild rivalled its fellows in display,
every barge rowing up and down,
proudly showing its streamers, pen-
siles, and targets, some painted with
the king's arms, some with her
grace's, and some with those of
their own " craft or mystery.** Then
there was a barge, made like a ship,
called the bachelor*^ bark, decked
with the same streaming banners,
besides a " foyst,'* or gun, " that
shot great pieces of artilfery.** The
barges also bore companies of sing-
ers and players, some concealed,
some elevateti on decorated plat-
forms. This was the fifth time that
they had been decked for a bridal,
if we count Catherine of Aragon's
first wedding-day, when the Prince
Arthur, who might have rivalled
his legendary namesake, received
the acclamations of a loyal people.
The loyalty must have got sadly
rusty by this time, however, as the
unwieldy, bloated king rode past
in his ghastly finery, escorting an-
other perspective victim to a palace
which only good-luck prevented
from becoming her prison. Again
Henry gave Cromwell ominous
hints of his distaste to Anne of
Cleves, as on the evening of this
holiday he asked his opinion of
her beauty. Cromwell answered
that she had a queenly manner ;
and for Henry, whose two behead-
ed favorites, Anne Boleyn and Ca-
therine Howard, chiefly offended
him by their indiscreet and familiar
behavior, this ought to have been
a source of satisfaction ; yet even
on that last day of his liberty he
called his council together, and des-
potically ordered them to see if
he could not, by any quibble, get
rid of his bargain with the despised
princess. Doubtless the indignity
would have seamed rather a boon
to the royal Griselda ; but, such as
it was, it was not granted. Things
had gone too far. The Schmalkaldcn
League might resent the insult; the
English people, with their rough
love of " fair play,*' might even rise
in insurrection. Tudorism had
scarcely yet advanced to absolute
Mahometanism, and the council de-
cided that the marriage must take
place. Henry sullenly acquiesced,
but Cromwell's fate was sealed,
" I am not well handled," exclaim-
ed the king more than once, and
alleged that his bride had been be-
trothed to the Prince of Lorraine in
her childhoo<t, though Anne, when
required, solemnly denied that at
present she was bound by any pre-
contract. This she was forced to
do in public before the whole
council. When the marriage was
fixed for the feast of the Epiphany,
1540, Henry, ignoring the right
of her own countrymen, Overstein
and Hostoden, to give her away,
associated one of his subjects,
Lord Essex, in the office which by
every right, of custom as well as
feeling, belonged only to the repre-
sentatives of her family. The bridal
robes were a repetition of the gor-
geous apparel already described; but
the round dress of the bride seems
ungainly. She wore her long, luxu-
riant yellow hair flowing down her
shoulders, says Hall ; but, as in her
portrait her eyes and hair are dark,
Miss Strickland suggests that these
" golden locks *' were false. The
contrast must have been unfavora-
ble. On her coronal " were set
sprigs of rosemary, an herb of grace,
which was used by maidens, both al
weddings and funerals, for souve-
nance,'* say some MSS. of that day.
The marriage was performed al
Greenwich by Cranmer, Archbishop
of Canterbury, according to the
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
409
rites of the Catholic Church. There
was a solemn Mass, at the Offertory
of which the king and queen went
up to the altar and offered tapers.
Then, returning to the gallery, they
look wine and spices (/>., comfits
and preserves), and at nine in the
rooming (the marriage had been at
eight o'clock) dined together. There
was something terribly incongruous
in the schismatic king, excommu-
nicated for adultery, and the pas-
sive Lutheran princess, being joined
together in matrimony by an arch-
bishop whose complaisant character
and loose morals made many, even
of that day, consider him a false
shepherd. And add to this that
Queen Anne died a Catholic, and
had as her chaplain and confessor
a Spaniard, whom it is permissible
to identify with the same Tomeo
who was once in the service of the
holy Queen Catherine of Aragon.
The wedding-ring which Henry
gave to his third and last lawful
wife* had this motto engraved on
it : " God send me wecl to kepe,"
in Old-English letters. In the even-
ing of the wedding-day the royal
pair attended Vespers in state and
then supped together. These meals
must have been characterized by
the same barbarous etiquette as
those on the occasion of Anne
Boleyn's coronation, during which
we are told : " And under the table
went two gentlewomen and sat at the
queen's feet during the dinner."
Their office was to hold the queen's
handkerchief, gloves, etc. Some-
times there were as many as four of
these attendants. The queen pub-
licly washed her hands in a silver
* TIk fint was Catherine of Aragon ; the second
J««e Seymour ; the third Anne <^ Ckres. Bet «reen
the firu asd second came Anne Bdeyn, who was
•evtr hi« wife : and after the third came two more
'iJeea*, Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr,
•cUher of whom lays claim to the title of wife, tm
Aaae «utEved him for many years.
basin full of scented water, and the
basin and ewer were both held
by the great dignitaries of the
realm. Two countesses stood one
on each side, " holding a fine cloth
before the queen's face whenever
she listed to spit or do otherwise
at her pleasure '* — a most extraor-
dinary office, but probably so old
as to be still in form indispensable
in that land of precedents and of
tenacity concerning all old customs.
Anne's short days with her un-
gallant husband were a sad trial to
her ; she never gained his affections
nor acquired influence with him.
She was too true to feign a love she
did not feel or to use adulation to
conquer power. Henry complain-
ed to Cromwell that she " waxed
wilful and stubborn with him " ; and
her partial biographer. Miss Strick-
land, says of her : ** Anne was no
adept in the art of flattery, and,
though really of * meek and gentle
conditions,' she did not humiliate
herself meanly to the man from
whom she had received so many
unprovoked marks of contempt."
The king, whether from ironical
or politic motives, still called her
" sweetheart " and " darling " before
the ladies of her bed-chamber, but
was already meditating a divorce.
Their last public appearance to-
gether was at the jousts at Durham
House, where a company of knights
in white velvet took part in a tour-
nament and a feast of good cheer
which the king and queen honored
with their presence. This was on
the first of May, after they had
been married but four months.
The queen, whose conduct was so
irreproachable that her direst enemy
could find no link in this " armor
of proof," occupied her time in
embroidery and needlework with
her maids of honor, as the meek
but dignified Catherine of Aragon
4IO
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
had done, both in the days of her
l)Ower and in those of her distress.
Saving the beauty which had once
l)een his first wife's portion, and the
majesty of character which never
left her to her dying day, his third
consort must have reminded him
of the pure, domestic tie which had
been his in his youth, of the blame-
less, gentle, yet stately courtesies
in which his court had rejoiced
under the sway of a royal mistress.
But the unhappy Catherine had
loved him, while the more passive
Anne simply endured him. Even
this was a surprise and a vexation
to him, as appeared a few weeks
later, when, on hearing that she
gladly assented to the divorce, he
wondered that she was so ready to
part with him. When her ladies ven-
tured to ask her if she had told
*' mother Lowe," her confidential
luirse and countrywoman, how the
king neglected her, she answered
truthfully, " Nay, I have not ; but I
receive quite as much of his majes-
ty's attention as I wish." Henry
meanwhile encouraged her English
ladies to mimic and ridicule her
in her dress, her foreign accent, her
want of learning. He openly said
that he had never given his inward
consent to the marriage ; that he
feared he had wronged the Prince
of Lorraine, to whom he persisted
in considering her as " precontract-
ed " ; and further had the assurance
to prate of his conscientious scruples
as to marriage with a Lutheran !*
But the plotter whose schemes her
marriage had served was doomed
to fall before her. Cromwell was
arrested a few days before she was
dismissed from the court on the
pretext of her health requiring
cliange of air. She was banished
to Richmond ; he was confined in
* See Moreri and De Thou.
the Tower. The facile Cranmer for
the third time " dissolved " a mar-
riage he had made, and, obeying
Henry's changeful whims, pro-
nounced both parties free to marr)*
again. But the liberty so formaliy
granted was by no means to bi
literally understood as regarded
the queen. " The particulars of
this transaction (the divorce)," says
Miss Strickland, " show in a strik-
ing manner the artfulness and in-
justice of the king and the slavish-
ness of his ministers and subjects."
A so-called convocation reviewed
the case and pronounced the
divorce, on the grounds already
mentioned, dictated by the king,
and the House of Lords cringingly
passed the necessary bill. Tht
very same Southampton who had
escorted Anne of Cleves to Eng-
land bore the message to her de-
priving her of her royal state. She
swooned at first, thinking that the
deputation had come to pronounce
sentence of death upon her. .As
soon as she understood that herlilc
was safe she showed an alacrity in
stripping herself of her dangerous
honors, which of itself was perhaps
more dangerous. However, the
king was too busy with his new
toy-victim, the wretched Catherine
Howard, to take notice of these
symptoms of Anne's joy at her
safety. The terms were simply
honorable imprisonment. She was
not to leave the realm, and, in
reality, was kept as a hostage for
the good behavior of her relatives
abroad, who might otherwise have
been tempted to resent her wrongs.
Here begins the uniqueness of her
lot. She was adopted as the king's
" sister," was to resign the title of
queen, but to have precedence at
court over every other lady, save
the king's future ** wife " and his
two daughters, and to be amply
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
41]
provided for out of the royal trea-
sury. With Mary and Elizabeth
she was on the most friendly terms,
aad at the beginning of her marriage
endeavored, by every means in her
power, to bring the neglected Mary
into notice. From Anne*s expres-
sions in her letters to her brother
it appears that any hostile demon-
stration on his part to revenge her
would have brought evil on her.
She says : ** Only I require this of
you : that ye so conduct yourself as
tor your untowardness in this mat-
ter I fare not the worse, where-
unto I trust you will have regard. "
She humbly returned her wedding-
ring to her dictatorial husband,
and wrote a letter of submis-
sion in German, which the coun-
cillors sent to him in translation.
A handsome maintenance was al-
lotted her, and she evidently took
kindly to her new position, even
cheerfully acquiescing in the com-
mand to receive no letters or mes-
sages from her kindred. 'J'hus the
leave to " marry again *' was in her
case evidently only a matter of
fomi. The king had the boldness
to allude to her " caprice " as a
•Oman, which might make^ her
breik these promises, and the
meanness to order that measures
i^hould be taken to prevent the pos-
sibility of her breaking them. These
are his words — a monument of des-
picable tyranny : " And concerning
ihesc letters to her brother, how
well soever she speaketh now, with
promises, to abandon the condition
Icapricc] of a woman, ... we
Jliink good, nevertheless, rather by
S<x)d means to prevent that she
siiould not play the woman than to
dfptnd upon her promise ; nor^ ei/ter
s/ie 1im*e felt at our hand all gra-
tuity and kindness^ . . . to leave her
at liberty, to gather more stubborn-
ness than were expedient, . . • she
should not play the woman \i.e,y
change her mind] if she would.
. . . Unless these letters be ob-
tained, all shall [/>., will] remain
uncertain upon a woman's promise
— that she will be no woman — the
accomplishment whereof, on her
behalf, is as difficult in the refrain-
ing of a woman's will, upon occa-
sion, as in changing her womanish
nature, which is impossible."*
Marillac, the ambassador, says
on this occasion that " the queen
takes it all in good part." But the
people had evidently grown to love
her, and, as far as they dared, mur-
mured at the indignity put upon
her ; for he adds : " This is cause of
great regret to the people, whose
love she had gained, and who es-
teemed her as one of the most •
sweet, gracious, and humane queens
they have had ; and they greatly de-
sired her to continue with them as
their queen." No doubt the peo-
ple had a greater sense of* dignity
than their king, and wished the
sovereign lady of so great a realm
to be of royal race and breeding.
It was not for them to be subjects
of a subject, while foreign kingdoms,
and even small principalities, had
queens-consort of royal degree.
They had had sad experience, too,
of the desolating rivalries produced
among the great lords by these in-
termarriages with subjects, and
therefore welcomed the gentle for-
eigner, so quick to learn English
speech and English ways, but
whose kindred was little likely to
embarrass them.
Anne always signed herself
"Daughter of Cleves*' after her
dismissal from court, and her gayety
seems to have revived as soon as
she found her life safe. Scarce-
ly a month after the divorce was
• State Paper J^
4!2
The Lady Anne of Cleves.
pronounced Henry visited her at
Richmond, and she entertained
him so pleasantly, says Marillac,
that he stayed and supped with her
" right merrily, and demeaned him-
self with such singular graciousness
that some . fancied he was
going to take her for his queen
again." If his hostess had thought
so, doubtless she would have abated
her pleasant humor and appeared
less ready to welcome him. As it
was, she put on every day a rich
new dress, " each more wonderful
than the last," fared sumptuously,
held her little court like a noble
English lady of that day, dispensing
alms and bounties, and passing her
time, as Marillac says, ** in sports
and recreations." Her real self
bloomed again in this atmosphere
of safety and unrestricted mental
freedom ; for such this ** honorable
imprisonment " as a hostage cer-
tainly was when compared with the
teasing, daily companionship with
the treacherous king. A feint was
made a little later to give her a
choice as to whether she would
live in England or abroad ; but as
the jointure was tied up in English
lands and their revenue alone, and
to the possessor of these residence
in England was attached as a sine
qua non condition, the liberty of
choice was practically null.
Anne's court at Richmond and
her life of gentle charities and
innocent merry-makings were sud-
denly startled, after sixteen months*
peace, by the news of the trial and
execution of her unhappy succes-
sor, Catherine Howard. Immedi-
ately her partisan maids of honor,
and indeed all her household, who
were devoted to her, began to specu-
late as to the chances of Providence
interfering to reinstate their mis-
tress in her rights. Every one but
herself wished for this restoration.
One of her ladies was actually com-
mitted to prison for having said,
" Is God working his own work to
make the Lady Anne of Cleves
queen again .^" adding that it was
impossible that so sweet a queen as
Lady Anne could be utterly put
down. But, fortunately for the
queen's peace of mind, there was
no such possibility, even though her
brother's ambassadors rather incon-
siderately urged her restoration to
her rightful position. The Privy-
Purse expenses of her step-daughter,
the Princess Mary, mentions a visit
made by her to Anne in the year
1543 and her largesses to the lat-
ter's servants; also a present of
Spanish silk sent by Anne to Mary.
Their intercourse seems to have
been pleasant and familiar ; they
were nearly of the same age and
had many domestic tastes in com-
mon. The contact between them
may have beep in part the means
of Anne's becoming a Catholic,
though there is but little to show
at what precise time this took place.
So English had the queen grown
that when Henry died, in 1547, she
did not care to go to lier own coun-
try, but willingly cast in her lot
with her adopted land. Wise in
her widowhood, as she had been
virtuous in her married life — no less
during the seven years of her sei)a-
ration than the six months of her
reign — she did not marry again nor
in any way mix in political matters.
Posterity has unjustly set her down
as an ugly, ill-conditioned, unlearn-
ed woman, a person without taste
and discernment, at best a naere
puppet of Henry's. But we ven-
ture to see her otherwise ; though
she may not have been learned like
Mary Tudor or Jane Grey, she
was yet sufficiently instructed in all
womanly arts, and quickly learned
English, adapting herself, with rare
The Lady Anne of Cleves,
4U
prudence and discretion, to the
ways of life and even the gorgeous
sports of her adopted land ; a trust-
worthy friend to the king's daugh-
ters, especially the spurned and ill-
fated Mary ; a benevolent and self-
denying woman, a good mistress, a
pleasant hostess, an admirable man-
ager of her tenants, estates, and
household, deft with her fingers,
skilful at her needle, . gentle to-
wards all, and, though not handsome,
>ct so winning that her ladies —
though it was the worst policy —
had no other title for her than their
" sweet queen," their " dear lady,"
their "sweet mistress." She out-
lived her stepson, Edward VI., and
assisted publicly at Mary's corona-
tion, sitting in the same chariot as
Elizabeth. ** But," says Miss Strick-
land, "her happiness appears to
have been in the retirement of do-
tncsiic life." Further on the same
biographer adds that it has been
•surmised, from certain items in her
li:»t of expenses, that she sometimes
made private experiments in cook-
ing. " She spent her time at the
iiead of her little court, which was
a happy household within itself, and
we may presume well governed ; for
wc hear neither of plots nor quar-
•/tls, tale-bearings nor mischievous
intrigues, as rife in her home-circle.
She was tenderly beloved by her
domestics, and well attended by
tiiera in her last sickness." She
Mirvived her husband ten years, and
liicd calmly and happily at the age
of forty-one. In her will she left
ilmost all the money and jewels
which she had at her disposal to
those who had served her and to
'>^>or pensioners, besides scrupu-
lously ordering every debt to be
I^id. She left marriage-portions
'Or her maids of honor, and ended
hy beseeching her executors to
* pray for us and to see our body
buried, . . . that we may have the
suffrages of holy church according
to the Catholic faith, wherein we
end our life in this transitory
world."
Accordingly, Queen Mary had
her buried in Westminster Abbey
with great pomp, and the proces-
sion was graced with a hundred of
her servants bearing torches, many
knights and gentlemen with eight
banners of arms (her own) and fo.ur
banners of " white taffeta wrought
with gold," then the twelve bedes-
men of* Westminster in new black
gowns, bearing twelve burning
torches and four white branches, her
ladies on horseback and in blnck
gowns, and eight heralds, with
white banners of arms, riding
near the hearse. At the abbey-
door the abbot and otlier Cath-
olic dignitaries in mitres and
copes received the corpse witli the
usual solemn ceremonies, and, bring
ing her into the church, " tarried
dirge, and all the night with lights
burning." This stands for the
Vespers in the Office for the depart-
ed. " The next day," says the
chronicler Stow, " requiem was sung,
and my lord of Westminster (the
abbot) preached as goodly a ser-
mon as ever was made, and the
Bishop of London sang Mass in his
mitre, . . . and all the gentlemen and
ladies offered [alms] at Mass. . . .
Then all her head officers brake
their staves, and all her ushers
brake their rods and cast them into
her tomb, . . . and thus they went
in order to a great dinner given by
my lord of Winchester to all the
mourners."
There was more rest and peace
in this funeral pageant than there
had been in thrill-omened wedding
ceremony of which she had been
the object seventeen years before.
Her tomb is near the high altar in
414
In Memory of Harriet Ryan Albee.
Westminster Abbey, at the feet of
King Sebcrt, the original Saxon
founder, before the restoration of
the abbey by Edward the Confessor.
It is a plain-looking slab, like a
bench, placed against ♦he wall, and
on parts of the unfinished structure
the curious inquirer can trace her
initials, A. andC, interwoven ; but,
such as it is, it is more of a memo-
rial than fell to the lot of any of
Henry's queens, not one of whom,
says Stow, " had a monument, ex-
cept Anne of Cleves, and hers was
but lialf a one.**
The horror felt on the Continent
for the excesses and cruelty of the
Bluebeard of England was sucb
that it was long believed that Anne
had either died by unfair means or
had escaped from her " cruel im-
prisonment." An impostor, there-
fore, for a time was enabled to take
her place at one of the German
courts — that of Coburg, where she
was treated with royal considera-
tion — ^but the fraud was afterwards
discovered. This is mentioned in
Shobert's History of the House <*j
Saxwny, Upon the whole, Anne ot
Cleves may be considered as the
most fortunate among the many
women who^e lives were connected
with that of King Henry VHI.
IN MEMORY OF HARRIET RYAN ALBEE.
Like as remembered music long asleep
Within the heavy, o erencumbered brain.
When touched by some remote, unheeded strain,
Returns as turning tides from ocean creep
Along the sandy flats, and fill again
All the least wrinkles and each minute bowl
Which in their ebbing had imprinted been,
And soon with mightier longing overroll
Their wonted, moon-drawn ways, and throb and swell
'Gainst the bared bosom of the happy earth ;
So comes her spirit in the empty well
Of my dead heart, and overflows its dearth
With her all-perfect presence and the spell
Of love as strong, as sweet, as at its birth.
The Roman Ritual and its Cliant.
415
THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT
COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC*
INTRODUCTION.
ON THE DIVINE IDEA.
Tkt Divine Idea, the Exemplar or Pattern,
in conformiiy with which the intellect
and free will of man^ and whatever is
their combined work, finds its perfection.
All persons »ire familiar with the
expression " beau ideal," and in
judging of matters of taste nothing
is more common than to appeal to
the standard of an " ideal " ; as, for
instance, the statue of the ** Apollo
Belvedere " would be, and is com-
monly said to realize, the ** ideal "
of the human form. Of course the
ideal thus appealed to, as existing
generally in the minds of persons
of education, is nothing in itself
absolutely certain or determinate.
But, as far as it goes, it is a natural
indication that the standard and
measure of all perfection is anr
"ideal." For we see that an ideal
which is generally recognized and
acknowledged by persons of taste
and refinement does, in point of
fact, corae to be a standard, the au-
liiority of which is accepted to a
great extent by others.
What is, then, in a measure true
of an ** ideal " subsisting in the
mind of persons of education, as a
^tandard of perfection, must be in-
finitely true of the idea of creation
subsisting in the mind of God from
all eternity. But as this leads to
a speculative portion of Christian
• Thtt cMay, by die Rcy. Henry Formby, pub-
Uledin EagUod io 1349, has been many years out
rf prim. Wc by it before our readers with the
^ penntssion of the author, being assured that
fJ^* who are toteresud in the subject of which it
tR*is win be glad to obtain an opportunity to
torn it.-ED. C. W.
philosophy which can scarcely be
deemed popular, and might perhaps
give rise in some minds to the feel-
ing "parturiunt montes," if they
found that an abstruse foundation
had been formally laid only for the
superstructure of a discussion upon
plain chant, the few remarks that
have seemed necessary to explain
and justify the ground on which
the ensuing essay proceeds have
been collected together, and are
here given in the form of an intro-
duction, for the sake of burdening
the discussion as little as possible
with reasoning that does not pro-
perly belong to it.
All creation, according to Catho-
lic theology, is the work of the ever-
blessed Trinity. For only inas-
much as the Godhead subsisting in
a Trinity of persons is for itself a
perfect and undivided whole (hog-
pioS reXeioS) can God bring into
being a creation external to him-
self, without becoming himself the
world which he creates.
To God the Father theologians
assign the eternal idea, or the con-
ception from all eternity of the
idea or form of creation ;
To God the Son, the realization
of the idea of the Father, or the act
of bringing created things into be-
ing out of nothing, in conformity
with the idea of the Father ;
To God the Holy Ghost, the
bringing creation to its perfection
through the period of its develop-
ment or growth.
S. Basil speaks to this effect in
4i6
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
the following passage : " In the
creation I regard the Father as the
first cause of created being, the Son
as the creating cause, and the Holy
(Jhost as the perfecting cause. So
that spirits, through the will of
the Father, are called into actual
being through the operation of
the Son, and are brought to per-
fection by the presence of the Holy
Spirit. Let no one, however, think
either that I assume the existence
of three original substances or that
I call the operation of the Son im-
perfect. For there is but one first
principle {ocpxr/)^ which creates
through the Son and brings to per-
fection through the Holy Ghost"
{De Spirit u Samto^ c. i6).
The work, then, of God the Fa-
tlier was the eternal idea of all
creation ; in the language of S. Gre-
gory Nazianzen, evvoei 6 narrfp
— nai ro Evvorjixa (idea) epyov-
ifVy Xoycp (yvixnXrfpovfJLBvoy xai
Tcyevpiari reXstovpisrov {Orat,
xxxviii. n. 9) ; and this thought or
idea was a work brought into reality
by the Word, and brought to per-
fection by the Spirit.
The eternal idea of creation is
thus explained by S. Thomas, Sum-
may p. i. quaest. xv. art. i ( Utrum
idea sint) :
" I answer that it is necessary to
suppose ideas in the mind of God.
Idea is a Greek word, and answers
to the Latin format form. Whence
by the term ideas we understand
the forms of things that exist
external (prater) to the things
themselves. The form of a thing
existing external to it may serve
two purposes : i. That it should
be the exemplar (ideal) of that of
which it is said to be the form, or
that it should be, as it were, the
principle of knowledge itself, ac-
cording to which the forms of
things that may be known are said
to exist in the understanding. .\nd
in either point of view it is neces-
sary to suppose ideas, as will be at
once manifest. In all things that
are not generated by chance, it is
necessary that the production of
some form should be the result of
the act of generation. For an agent
would not act with reference to 2
particular form, except so far as he
was already in possession of the like-
ness of the form in question. In some
agents the form of the thing to be pro-
duced already pre-exists in a natnral
manner {secundum esse naturale\ as
in those things which act by natu-
ral laws; but in others the form
pre-exists in the intellect {secundum
esse intelligibile). Thus the likeness
or form of a house already exists in
the mind of the builder, and this
may be called the idea of a house ;
for the architect intends to make
the house resemble the form which
he hasconceived in his mind. As,
then, the world is not made by
chance, it follows that there must
exist a form (idea) in the mind of
God, after the likeness of which the
world was made."
Quite similar to these words of
S. Thomas are the statements of S.
Augustine, Dionysius, and other fa-
thers, who had to deal on the one
hand with the philosophy of Plato,
which taught that God created the
world out of eternal matter, and
according to an exemplar or ideal
existing externally to himself (xo{T-
/iOs voTfToS); and on the other
with the Gnostic Pantheism, which
taught that the divine idea after
which the world was created was
identical with God, and creation
consequently no more than an ex-
tension or manifestation of the God-
head.
Similar also is the following pas-
sage of the Abate Rosmini :
* * Fide intelligiraus aptata esse
The Roman Ritual atid its Cliant.
417
secula verbo Dei, ut ex invisibilibus
visibilia fierent * (Heb. xi. 3). What
ever are these invisible things from
which the things that are visible
have been drawn? They are the
conceptions of the Almighty, which
subsisted in his mind before the
creation of the universe ; they are
the decrees which he has framed
from all eternity, but which remain-
ed invisible to all creatures, because
these latter were not yet formed
and the former not yet carried into
execution. These decrees and con-
ceptions are the design of the wise
Architect, according to which the
building has to be formed. But
this design was never at any time
drawn out on any external mate-
rial, on paper or stone, but existed
only in his own mind " (Rosmini,
DtUa Divina Providenzay ed. Mila-
no, 1846, p. 57). •
Creation proceeds from the
thoaght and will of God jointly ex-
ercised, and is something external
to God, which he has brought in-
to being out of absolute nothing,
to quote Professor Staudenmaier :
"The world is God's idea of the
world brought into being, and the
pcr^tion of the original world con-
sisted in the fact that it absolutely
< orresponded to the divine idea "
{Die Lehre von der Idee^ p. 9 1 4) . " Et
vidit Deusquod essetbonum *' (Gen.
. 10).
The creation which we see, and
"f which we are ourselves immedi-
ately a part, bears the appearance
>!' being an organized system, far
nurcaching the powers of our in-
elligcnce ; and we conclude in-
•iitivcly that not only as an organ-
'td whole it answers to the idea
t (iod, which contemplated system,
order, harmony, and subordination
of parts, but, further, that every
^^cveral part, as it came forth from
the hand of the Creator, was found
VOL. XXI. — 28
good. In creation there are twa
principal parts, the material world
and the world of spirits. Matter,,
from the first instant of creation,
being without free will or mind^
necessarily obeys the laws of its
Creator, and at once absolutely
answers to the divine idea. But
spirits were created in the image
of God, and were endowed with the
likeness of his power of thought
and will, and with a personality re-
sulting from the possession of these
gifts. To them, therefore, there is-
a moral trial or probation to be
passed through before they finally
correspond to the idea of their
Creator. It is indeed true that
from the instant of their creation
they realize the divine idea, in so
far as that idea contemplates them,.
about to enter upon probation ; but
their passing through this trial or
probation to the attainment of
their perfection is also contemplat-
ed, and of this perfection the divine
idea is the exemplar or form.
Spirits, then, formed in the image
of God, and endowed with created
being, intellect, and will, in the
present system of creation, pass
through probation ; and their pro-
bation consists in learning to pos-
sess these gifts in subordination to
their Creator, who is absolute being,
intellect, and will; and this trial is
necessary to the perfection of their
nature and to their passing into the
possession of their permanent place
(raSi?) in the great order and
harmony of the universe. There is
not, and cannot be, in the mind of
God, any idea of evil. Evil has its
sole origin in the rebellion of the
created spirit when it refuses to
possess and use its power of thought
and will in subordination to the
law and majesty of its Creator. And
hence, although the rebel spirit an-
swered equally with others at the
4i8
Tlu Roman Ritual and its Chant.
first moment of its creation to the
divine idea, yet, inasmuch as in its
subsequent career it has placed it-
self against its Creator, it has ceas-
ed to answer to the divine idea; it
has become a contradiction to it,
and henceforward its existence is
evil.
The case as regards the human
creation does not differ at all in
principle. Man is also a spirit,
though his spirit be united to a
Ipody, and he is possessed of the
same trinity of gifts — being, thought,
and will — although from the circum-
stance of his coming into the world
in the form of an infant, with his
intellect and will in a state of germ,
appointed to acquire their natural
maturity only in process of time,
his probation would seem to require
a longer period than that of the
angels, and to be subject to the
fluctuation of rebellions, succeeded
Iby repentances, and vice vcrsd — all
which hardly seems probable in
their case. Still man, like the
angels, passes through his proba-
tion ; and when he has passed
"through it, he is found either realiz-
ing the idea of his Creator, and
happy, or fallen from it, and hence-
forward in contradiction with it,
for an eternity of misery. The
idea of the Creator is to man, as
well as to the angels, the exemplar,
or pattern, of his perfection.
Analogous to the first creation
of the world is the second great
work of God — the redemption or
new creation. Its decree is from
God the Father ; the carrying into
effect the Father's decree is the
work of God the Eternal Son ; and
the conducting it to perfection dur-
ing the period of its growth and
probation is the work of tlie Holy
Ghost.
Nor is this work of redemption
based upon any fundamental change
in the eternal idea of God, after
which man was created. The eii-r-
nal idea of God is incapable ot
change, and the work of grace or
redemption is the restoration to «
state of grace of the whole race
which, in the person of Adam, fell
into a condition of helpless although
not total contradiction with the di-
vine idea ; and in his restored statt
of redemption the power has been
again given to him of issuing out
of his probation through the aid
and guidance of the Holy Ghost,
conformable to the unchanged, eter-
nal idea of the Father.
To prevent misconception, i^
may be further remarked, in the
words of Professor Standennsaier,
" The second creation (or scheme
of redemption) builds itself, on th?
one side, on all that is indestruciihlt
in the divine idea of man, as iniei*
ligence and freedom, and at the
same time labors to restore again
that which was really lost by the
original transgression, viz., the su-
pernatural principle apd the justice
and holiness of life which stands in
connection with it. Hence under
the scheme of redemption mar.
comes to the perfection of his na-
ture, in the manner in which that
perfection was contemplated in the
divine idea (in der Idee gesetz war),
viz., as the union of grace and free
will {tn der Einheit von Freiheit urJ
Gnade)^ (Die Lehre von der hki,
P- 923)-
1'he divine idea, then, is the ex-
emplar or pattern of perfectior
(npoopifffJLO^ Ttapadeiy.^a^ form.i
seu exemplar, das Musterbiid) which,
under the scheme of redemption,
man is called to realize. And bb
term of probation, under the g\iid-
ance and influence of God the Hoh
Ghost, is so constituted as to be
the trial of both his intellect and
will, which in man, as in God, are
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
419
mutually co-operating and co-ordi-
nate springs of action. But though
in man intellect and will must ever
move hand in hand and in mutual
concert to determine his actions,
yet it is possible for him to go
astray through the special fault of
one or the other, and to be found
at the end of his probation not to
be what he might and ought to
have been, as well through some spe-
cial error of the understanding as
through some vicious act of the
will. Hence, after that the sacri-
fice had been paid which purchas-
ed man's restoration to a state 01
giace, God the Father, in the Son
and through the Eternal Spirit,
went on to provide the aid that was
found absolutely necessary to pro-
tect the erring intellect and the in-
firm will, in order that men might
be preserved in th^ state of grace,
be guided in it onward to their
l>erfection, and be furnished with
the medicinal means of restoration
in case they might fall from it.
To this end the great society of
the Catholic Church was instituted
by God the Son, and the command
given to the Apostolic College to go
forth to collect and organize it out
of all the nations of the earth : " As
the Father hath sent me, so send I
you"; while the work of God the
Holy Ghost is the invisible impart-
ing of spiritual gifts to the baptized
members of this society, according
to the needs of their rank, position,
ministry, and functions: and the
whole work is directed to the end
that man" may issue out of his pro-
bation fulfilling and realizing the
divine idea.
Now, as God recognizes, in the
probation of man, the trial of both
intellect and will, and wills that not
without the free exercise of these
he should attain the perfection of
his nature, ou^ first parents, in the
state of innocence, would, from
their then enjoying a communica-
tion with heaven, possess, perhaps,
partly through intuition, partly
from revelation, a knowledge of the
divine Exemplar, into conformity
with which they were called to
bring themselves. But when man
fell and lost the illumination of
sanctifying grace, then the percep-
tion of the divine ideal would be
obscured and would cease to exist,
except in the way of the few mer-
cifully-surviving glimpses of their
higher destination, which tlie histo-
ry of our fallen race seems to indi-
cate were never wholly lost.
It must be obvious, then, that a
clear and practical view of the di-
vine Exemplar, which we are requir-
ed to resemble, is as much the nat-
ural guide of the intellect in its
probation as the view oi the moral
attributes of God is that which wins
the heart and leads captive the
will. It was, among other reasons,
in order to place this Exemplar be-
fore us, that the Eternal Son became
man, and thus laid before the intel-
lect of man, in his own most sacred
humanity, the incarnate Exemplar
of that which humanity was to aim
at becoming during the course and
at the issue of its probation. And
if a doubt could for a moment cross
the mind as to the question, What
is the likeness or ideal that a
Christian, as far as the power is
given to him, should seek to aim at
bringing himself to resemble ? it is
answered by the fiict of the Incar-
nation of the Son of God. He is
the incarnate Exemplar, or Pattern,
for our study. His sacred human-
ity absolutely answers to the idea
of God the Father; and they who,
through the aid of God the Holy
Ghost, succeed in acquiring a re-
semblance to this incarnate Pattern,
will be found at the issue of their
420
The Roman Ritual and its Clitinf,
probation so far to realize the
end for which they were created.
The sacred humanity of the Eter-
nal Son being now no longer visible
in the same manner as in the days
when he taught with his apostles in
Judaea, the church which he has
founded has come to supply his
place, and, by her varied means of
instruction, to bring the knowledge
of this divine Exemplar home to
the minds of all. In the words of
an author quoted by Professor
Mohler, the church is a continua-
tion of Christ {ein fortgesetzer
Christ us).
And thus with the question of
Christian song. The intellect must
at once feel that it needs a guide,
and cannot be safely entrusted to
itself. Nor can this guide be any
other than the divine idea. And
here, of course, it would be a mani-
fest impiety for a human mind to
attempt to construct, h priori^ an
idea of music, and then to call -its
own work the divine idea; for the
whole value of the inquiry that is
to follow is built on the truth that
the main features and the subse-
quently-detailed constituent parts
of the divine idea, as they have
been laid down, are what they
claim to be ; and so far as these
are capable of being disputed, the
comparison will of course fail of .
its effect. Professor Staudenmaier
justly observes, in treating of the
creation, "Both ideas, the divine
and the human, stand in this rela-
tion to each other : that God real-
izes his own eternal idea of the
world in the act of creation, while
man has to acquire his idea of the
world from reasoning and an ex-
perimental examination of the world
as it exists after creation. As the
idea, then, to God is the first, and
the world last, so, on .the contrary,
to man the world is first and the
idea last, as that, namely, which he
has had to gain for himself, as the
result of a scientific examination
of the divine work " {Die Christ-
liche Dogmatiky vol. iii. part i, p. 42.)
But if it be possible for the hu-
man mind to obtain a view of the
divine idea of the creation from the
study of the world as it exists, it
must be also possible, in an analo-
gous manner, to gain a view of the
divine idea of Christian music from
the history of the church and the
legislation of councils, from the doc-
trine of the apostles and fathers of
the church, and, lastly, from the
reason of the thing. The contrary
supposition would involve the inad-
missible alternative that our divine
Redeemer, who had done so much
to furnish our understanding with
its needed measure of guidance in
the fact of his Tncamation and his
living example, has left us without
any principle at all to serve as our
guide in the choice and employ-
ment of sacred music. This cannot
be. The divine Teacher of mankind
cannot, for his mercy's sake, have
left us to ourselves in so important
a matter, that so much concerns the
adoration he has himself taught us
to pay to his Father and the Holy
Spirit. It must be possible, from
his own sacred words, from those
of his inspired apostles, from the
doctrine of the fathers, from the
history and legislation of the church,
as well as from our own Christian
reason and instinct, as has been
humbly and imperfectly attempted
in the ensuing inquiry, to gather n
view of the divine idea sufficiently
clear and intelligible, sufficiently
trustworthy and decisive, to serve
as a guide for the understandings
of those who feel the deep and dear
interest of the question and their
own liability to fatal error, with all
its destructive consequences.
The Roman Ritual atid its Cliant.
421
And if the means of acquiring
such a view be open, it need not
be said how great a duty there is
io search for it; and in whatever
proportion there be ground for be-
lieving that it has been, even though
imperfectly, attained, it becomes so
far a duty — an element in our pro-
bation, as well as a sacred and
meritorious work, by every tended,
considerate, legitimate, and untir-
ing endeavor, to seek to bring Ca-
tholic Church music into confor-
mity with it.
GOFJLAL STATEMENT OF THE BASIS OF
THE COMPARISON.
It would be surely a superfluous
labor at the outset of an inquiry
which it is desirable should be as
short and condensed as possible to
prove, in a learned manner, the
great practical importance of the
question. What, under our present
circumstances, is the wisest, the
best, and the most effectual use
of music in the Catholic Church ?
The oecumenical and provincial
councils that have made ritual
chant the subject of their kgisla-
tion ; the authors, such as Cardinal
Bona and Abbot Gerbertus, subse-
quent to the Council of Trent, not
to speak of those who lived before
it, who spent their lives in the stu-
<if of all lliat Christian antiquity
has thought and written upon it;'
the line of illustrious Roman pon-
tifis who made ^t their study, with
a view to the true direction of its
use in the church, need but to be .
recalled to mind to place in its
true light the exceedingly practical
importance of any controversy
which alTects its efficiency or mode
of employment in the Catholic
Church.* Moreover, if there were
* Mfr. Parku, Bishop of Langrw. tpeskt thtw of
^ iaportancc : ** Far, then, from thinlciiv chat, in
^niyyiiv ouBMhres vith it, ve <lenigate from the
no such evidence of the importance
of the question at issue to be found
in the history of the past, still the
mere obvious fact that vocal music
enters so naturally into all the feelings
of humanity, and domesticates itself
so easily in every people, would be
sufficient to explain its importance.
People in any society are so insen-
siiily moulded by all that surrounds
them, are so much the creatures of
tlie system in which they move,
and grow up so naturally in con-
formity with it, that in such a so-
ciety as the Catholic Church, or-
ganized by a divine wisdom, with a
view to the training and instruction
of its members, it is simply impos-
sible that an agency such as music,
possessed of such power for good
or evil, could ever be regarded with
indifference, or that there should
be no definite views with regard to
it, and its employment be aban-
doned to the indiscretion and ca-
price of individuals.
A question of individual taste,
then, the present inquiry cannot
for an instant be considered. In-
deed, from the moment it were thus
regarded it would have lost its
whole value. Persons are no doubt
to be found who would take a long
journey and pay a large sum to
hear Beethoven's music for the Or-
dinary of the Mass sung among the
performances of a music-meeting,
wh.o,as far as music was concerned,
and setting aside the miracle, would
hardly care to go across the street
to hear S. Gregory sing Mass with
his school of cantors, were they all
to rise from the dead. So that if
music in the Catholic Church could
for a moment be considered as be-
longing of right to the dominion of
individual taste, further controversy,
sanctity of our ministty, we ccnsider ourselves to be
pe rfo rming an imperious duty and to be providing
for aa urgent necessity '* {Jnttruction j^astormit
sur it CAant dt fEgiisi).
422
Tlie Roman Ritual and i/s Chant.
it is plain, would be so far quite
out of the question. The tastes of
individuals, if not only devoid of
rule, still do not go by any rule
sufficiently clear to be made the
subject of a formal controversy.
But in the Catholic Church the
question is not, and cannot be^ one
of individual taste. When the di-
vine Redeemer called his church to
the work of training every nation
and people under he.iven, and gave
to it the gift of sacred song, to be
used as a powerful auxiliary agency
in their work, we are bound to con-
ceive that there existed in his di-
vine mind a clear and definite in-
tention, both relatively to the end
it was intended to accomplish in the
midst of Christian society, and to
its application to this end as time
should advance.
Sacred song has certainly a
mission to accomplisli upon earth,
as well as the proper manner of its
application to its proposed end ;
and both alike have been, in com-
mon with the whole work of crea-
tion, from the beginning contem-
plated and intended by Almighty
God.
Now, the end intended by Al-
mighty God, in his work of redemp-
tion in this world, as say theolo-
gians, ts primarily the manifestation
of his own glory ; and, secondarily,
the re-establishmei>t of order and
virtue, piety and sanctity, in human
society, with a view to the life to
come, or, in other words, with a
view to the true and eternal, as dis-
tinguished from tbe false and fleet-
ing, happiness of his creatures.
From whence it would seem to re-
sult that the true character of the
ecclesiastical song and its true ap-
plication will be that in which it
tends, in its own proper degree, to
become an auxiliary in the accbnw
pHshment of this great end. Nor
is it a second' or a third rate effica
ciousness that should be deemed
sufficient. For if Almighty God,
as many theologians seem with so
much justice to say, not from any
external necessity, but from his
own perfections, in virtue of which
he is a law to himself, freely
chooses only those means that are
most efficacious to the end he pro-
poses, so, in like manner, the Cath-
olic Church, filled as she is with
the outpouring of the divine Spirit*
and called to the imitation of the
divine perfections, cannot but in like
manner feel constrained to choose
that alone for her music which
tends, with the best and most cer-
tain efficacy, to the attainment of
the end which God has designed in
the gift.
The foregoing remarks have, I
hope, now laid* the fonndation on
which the proposed inquiry maybe
conducted. And I think I may be
allowed to say in the outset that
an inquiry which has for its object
to ascertain what that may be in
music and in the manner of its use
whidi answers best to the idea ex-
isting in the mind of God, unless il
very nruch belie its pretensions and
profession, may justly claim re-
spect ; and that the whole investi-
gation is thus at once raised be-
yond the horizon of anything like
human partisanship, as well as the
sphere of those little irritabilities
with which discussions upon nuisic
may so easily be disfigured. And
without at all presuming that the
views here advocated ought neces-
sarily to be adopted, the inquiry is
still not a valueless service rendered
to religion, if it succeed no further
than in impressing wpon the minds
of those into whose way it may fall
the fundamental idea upon which
it is built, viz., that the mission of
sacred song in the Catliolic Churcli
The Roman Ritual and its Cliant.
423
is to realize, not the ititas of men,
which may and do differ in each
individual, but the idea of the mer-
ciful and good God, who gave it
for his own purposes of mercy and
benevolence.
And since the idea, as it subsists
m the mind of God, relative to the
use of song in the Catholic Church,
is made the sole keystone of the
whole inquiry, as well to guard an
avenue against possible misconcep-
tions as also the more clearly to
lay the basis of the discussion, it
will be necessary to state, at a
somewhat greater length, what the
divine idea of sacred song, in its
first broad outline, may be taken
to be. •
Sacred song, it has been said, is
to be regarded as the musical asso-
ciate and auxiliary of the work of
Cimstian instruction and sanctifica-
tion in the church. It cannot be
anything or everything that is lus-
cious or pleasing in music ; more-
over, it is an idea that goes beyond
the notion of mere tune or melody,
or even of the richest combination
of sound that art ever produced.
Sacred song, in the divine idea,
must be more than mere music.
For though it be true that tunes
and other works of art in music are
so far thmgs by themselves as to
l)c capable of being written in no-
tation, and thus preserved, still it
seems impossible that mere tunes
and mere music should answer to
the divine idea of sacred song.
When music has ceased to be
mere sound ; when it has been taken
lip by the feelings and living intel-
ligence of the human heart and
mind ; when these have wedded it
to themselves, have created in it a
dwcUing-place and a home, and out
of it have formed for themselves a
second language and range of ex-
\)ression ; when the charm of mel-
ody has become the organ of a liv-
ing soul and an energetic intelli
gence, then there results the birth
of an element of the utmost power
for good or evil in the heart of
human society; and it is in this
power. Christianized and reduced
to subservience to the church, that
there may be seen the first outline
of the divine idea of sacred song.
This principle is thus stated by
Mgr. Parisis, Bishop of Langres ;
" To preserve the true character
of the ecclesiastical chant it is ne-
cessary to recall to mind the follow-
ing essential maxim :
* Music for words^ and not words for music'
This is not the principle of worldly
music, in which the words are
often nothing but the unperceived
and insignificant auxiliary of the
sound.
" In religion this cannot be, be-
cause articulate language is the es-
sential basis of all outward worship,
especially public worship. This is
a certain truth of both reason and
tradition. It is a truth of reason ;
for language, that marvellous fac-
ulty which the Creator has given to
man alone, is exclusively capable
of finding an adequate expression
for a worship of spirit and truth.
It is also a truth of tradition ; for
the Catholic divine Offices have
always been composed of words
either drawn from the Sacred Scrip-
tures or consecrated by tradition
and chosen by the church. It is
superfluous to press the demonstra-
tion of a principle that has never
even been contested by any sect of
separatists and does not admit of
serious doubt " {Pastoral Insttmc-
tion on the Song of the Churchy part
ii)
The three great social convul-
sions of France have given a re-
markable proof of the above-men-
424
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
tioned power of song. Each called
into being, and was furthered in
its rise and progress, by a song,
La Marseillaise^ La Parisienne^ and
that whose well-known burden runs
thus :
" C*est le plus beau sort, le plus digne d'envie
Que de mourir pour la patrie/*
Separate the words of these songs
from their melodies, and the result
would probably be the insignifi-
cance of both. But unite them,
see them pass into the mouths and
hearts of convulsed multitudes, ob-
serve men, under the delirium of
their influence, march up to the
cannon's mouth and plunge them-
selves headlong into eternity, and
we have an instance of what is
meant by saying that music, united
to intelligence, is an agent of nearly
unlimited power for good or evil
in human society.
This, then, is the sense in which
sacred song is to be viewed as con-
templated in the divine idea, viz.,
as the union of music with thought,
feeling, and intelligence; in the
words of the apostle (i Cor.), I will
sing with the spirit^ and J will sing
7vith the understanding also — not, of
course, as taking the understanding
out of its natural medium, language,
but as clothing this its natural ex-
pression with a superadded charm,
and a charm too, as will be after-
wards seen, which has the gift of
absorbing and, to a certain extent,
of reproducing the idea annexed to
it. The church music which the
divine idea contemplates is that
vocal song which Christian truth, in
all its varied range, has appropriat-
ed, has taken from the sphere of
mffsic and wedded to herself, with
the view of using the song thus as-
sociated to herself as the instru-
ment by which she may pass into
the mouths of men, and in this way
iind a home in their hearts. Analy-
tically, then, in the sacred song
contemplated by the divine idea,
two separate elements are to be
acknowledged — song and truth— but
practically only one ; for in practice
they are indissolubly linked to-
gether, and constitute one moral
whole, as body and soul together
make up but one living being, to
which, even more than to the sacred
architecture of a church, the beauti-
ful sentiment of the Ritual may be
applied :
** O sorte nupta prospers,
Dotata Patris gloria,
Respersa q>oasi giatia,
R^na formosissinia,
Christojugata prindpi.*
De Ded, EceL
Turning now, with this view of
sacred song, to inquire what the
Catholic Church possesses, after
1800 years of labor with the peo-
ple of every variety of race and cli-
mate, in realization of the idea
above stated, her various rituals,
now for the most part withdrawn
to make way for the beautiful Ritual
of the Roman Church, present them-
selves to view. These rituals and
their chant * have, we may be sure,
at least in their day, been in the
church the fulfilment, imperfect
indeed and inadequate, as all that
man does in this world necessarily
is, yet still the fulfilment of the
divine idea with respect to song.
More cannot be necessary in sup-
port of this statement than the
fact of the innumerable churches
that have overspread Christendom,
and the innumerable companies of
saintly men whose lives were spent
in the choirs of these churches — not.
of course, to the exclusion of other
* The Romaa chant exists in two principal caDec>
tions : the Gradual^ which contains the Order of
the Celebration of Mass throaghout the year; vA
the A niifihofuUe^ which contains the chant lor dw
canonical hours. These usually ferm two Ui|t
foUo Tolumes. Besides these there are smaller c^
lections, the Rituale and Processioaale, Hyans*
rium, etc
Tlu Roman Ritual and its CItant.
42s
duties and spheres of labor, yet
mainly spent in the choral celebra-
tion of the offices of the Ritual
and in all that accessory labor of
musical study and tuition which the
rrganization of a choir and the
l»ccoraing celebration of the divine
Office imply. The divine idea, in
nccordance with which sacred song
has a fixed and determinate end to
realize in the church, is the only
way to account for this vast pheno-
menon in the history of Christen-
dom. Nothing but an idea in the
iTiir.d of God that sacred song is
the living adjunct of the living
truth, which the Catholic Church
was sent to teach, could have had
the power to call into being, not
alone the rituals themselves and
their song, but the innumerable
choirs of Christendom which have
been gathered together and govern-
ed by a more than human wisdom
oi organization for the purpose of
their celebration.
Bearing in mind, then, that sacred
song is the combination of music
with the words of inspired truth, I
propose, in the ensuing inquiry, to
draw a detailed comparison between
the Roman liturgy and its tradi-
tional chant, on the one hand, and
the works of the modern art of
music, which constitute the corps
de musique^ if I may use the expres-
sion now in use, adapted as they
are to parts of the liturgy, and in
their own way contributing to sup-
ply the want that is felt for sacred
music; and this with the view to
ascertain, as far as may be, from
the result of the comparison, in
which of the two the divine idea
and intention is best answered and
fulfilled. The human mind will
not, and indeed ought not to, sub-
mit to any mere human idea, but
ought willingly to accept the idea
of God ; and hence nothing but
the divine idea, and this alone, is
or can be the key to the present
inquiry.
THE COMPARISON CARRIED INTO ITS
DETAILS.
It has been already laid down
that sacred song is the union of
music to the words of inspired
truth, with the view of its thus be-
coming an auxiliary in the work of
Christian instruction and sanctifi-
cation.
Before passing on to the ap-
proaching details let us stop for a
moment fairly to consider the re-
sult of this principle as it affects the
comparison generally.
Here, on the one hand, we have
the Canto FermOy with its vast vari-
ety of music, embracing an equally
varied range in the stores of divine
revelation, inasmuch as it is the
counterpart in song of the entire
Ritual ; on the other hand we have
the works of modern music, of
which I am speaking, embracing
scarcely more than a fraction of the
Ritual. With a vast numerical
rather than a real variety in point
of the one constitutive element of
sacred song — viz., music — they are
poverty itself as regards the other
— viz., inspired truth — the Kyriey
Gloria^ Credoy Sanctus, and Agnus
Dd^ from the Ordinary of the Mass,
and a small number of hymns, an-
tiphons, and scattered verses from
the Holy Scriptures, in the form of
motets, being literally the sum-
total of their possession in this ele-
ment.
And now to carry the comparison
into its details. The divine idea
of sacred song could not have been
known to us without a revelation,
the very gift itself being, from its
nature, the companion of a revela-
tion. We are not, therefore, as has
426
New Publications,
been remarked in the introduction,
thrown upon our own natural
powers of speculation either for our
general knowledge of the divine
idea itself or for gaining an insight
into its constituent details; indeed,
without revelation this would have
been altogether beyond our natural
capacities. But since God became
man and founded his own society,
the Catholic Church, and both
taught himself and placed inspired
teachers in it to succeed him, the
ideas of God as to questions that
concern the welfare of his church
have, through the Incarnation of
the Son, been brought to the level
of our capacities, and are to be
found in the Scripture and in
Christian theology, and are there to
be sought for as occasion may re-
quire. Thus examined, then, by
the light of the Christian revelation,
tlie divine idea of sacred song will,
without urging that these are co-
extensive with it, admit of being
resolved into the ensuing points;
the truth of which will be proved
separately, as they come forward
successively in the course of the
comparison. They are as follows:
I. Authority: i, ecclesiastical;
2, moral.
II. Claim to the completeness
and order of a system.
III. Moral fitness: i, as a sacri-
ficial song; 2, as a song for the
offices of the church.
IV. Fitness for passing among the
people as a congregational song.
V. Moral influence in the forma-
tion of character.
VI. The medium or vehicle tor
divine truth passing among the
people.
VII. Medicinal virtue.
VIII. Capacities for durable po-
pularity.
IX. Security against abuse.
X. Catholicity, or companionsh p
of the Catholic doctrines over the
globe.
Upon these, then, the comparison
may be now conducted.
TO BB CONTIltPBD.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
The Internal Mission of the Holy
Ghost. By Henry Edward, Cardinal
Archbishop of Westminster. New
York: The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1875.
Those who have read the most eminent
prelate's Temporal Mission of the Holy
Ghost will know what a spiritual and in-
tellectual feast is before them in the pre-
sent work, ** which traces," says the
author, in his dedicatoiy preface to the
Oblates of S. Charles, " at least the out-
line of the same subject.**
** The former book," he explains, " was
on the special office of the Holy Ghost in
the one visible church, which is the organ
of his divine voice. The present volume
deals with the universal office of the Hoh
Ghost in the souls of men. The fonDcr
or special office dates from the Incarna-
tion and the day of Pentecost ; the latter
or universal office dates from the Creation,
and at this hour still pervades by its opera-
tions the whole race of mankind. It is
true to say with S. Irenasus, * Ubi Eccle-
sia, ibi Spiritus — Where the church is,
there is the Spirit ' ; but it would not be
true to say, Where tne church is not.
neither is the Spirit there. The operations
of the Holy Ghost have always pcr\'adcd
the whole race of men from the begin-
ning, and they are now in full actirity
even among those who are without the
church ; for God * will have all men to be
Neiu Publications.
427
sared 2nd to come to the knowledge of
the troth/ "
"I hare, therefore/* he continues, "in
this present volume, spoken of the uni-
rersal office of which every living man
^as shared and does share at this hour ;
&nd I have tried to draw the outline of
:>ur individual sanctification/*
And then, after expressing a hope that
the Oblate Fathers may be ** stirred up to
Hlit in one volume " certain great trea-
tises, patristic and scholastic, on the Holy
Ghost and his gifts, as " a precious store
for students and for preachers " — a wish in
which we most heartily concur — he goes
on to say :
•'My belief is that these topics have a
special fitness in the XIX th century.
They are the direct antidote both of the
heretical spirit which is abroad and of the
unspiritual and worldly mind of so many
Christians. The presence of the Holy
Ghost in the church is the source of its
in^libility ; the presence of the Holy
Ghost in the soul is the source of its sancti-
fication. These two operations of tiie
same Spirit are in perfect harmony. The
tcM of the spiritual man is his conformity
i) the mind of the church. Sentire cum
EuUsia, in dogma, discipline, traditions,
devotions, customs, opinions, sympathies,
is the countersign that the work in our
beans is not from the diabolical spirit
nor from the human, but from the divine."
And again :
" It would seem to me that the devel-
opment of error has constrained the
church in these times to treat especially
of the third and last clause of the Apos-
tles' Creed : * I believe in the Holy Ghost,
the Holy Catholic Church, the Commu-
nion of Saints/ The definitions of the Im-
maculate Conception of the Mother of
God, of the Infallibility of the Vicar of
Christ, bring out into distinct relief the
twofold office of the Holy Ghost, of which
one part is his perpetual assistance in the
church ; the other, his sanctification of
the soul, of which the Immaculate Con-
ception is the first-fraits and the perfect
cMmplar.
"The living consciousness which the
Catholic Church has that it is the dwell-
ing place of the Spirit of Truth and the
organ of his voice seems to be still grow-
ing more and more vividly upon its pas-
tors and people as the nations are falling
away.**
The work consists of seventeen chap-
ters. The first two are beaded respec-
tively *' Grace the Work of a Person,''
and " Salvation by Grace." Then follow
three on the virtues of faith, hope, and
charity. The sixth treats of " Tlie Glory of
Sons." From the seventh to the fourteenth
we have the *' Seven Gifts of the Holy
Ghost/* The fifteenth is on "The Fruits
of the Spirit"; the sixteenth on "The
Beatitudes." The last chapter deals
with ** Devotion to the Holy Ghost " We
must refrain from making citations from
these chapters ; for if we once began,
we should find it very difficult to stop.
But we would draw special attention to
the ninth chapter, on the "Gift of Piety/'
and again to the seventeenth, on " De-
votion to the Holy Ghost." This devo-
tion is one we have very much at heart ;
for none, we are persuaded, can so help
us to realize the presence of God with
and in us, and also the intimacy and
tenderness of his love. We believe, with
the Ven. Grignon de Montfort, that devo-
tion to the Holy Ghost is to have a spe-
cial growth, in union with devotion to his
spouse, Our Lady, in these last times of
the church.
We commend, then, this beautiful book
to our readers as one of the most valuable
and at the same time delightful it can
ever be their lot to study. The happy
language and luminous style of the author
make his works intelligible to the ordi-
nary mind beyond those of most theologi-
cal writers. We trust that every eiKour-
agement will be given to the circulation
of this work in America.
We have but to add that this is the only
authorized American edition of the work,
having been printed from duplicate sets
of the stereotype plates of the London
publishers.
Mary, Star of the Sea ; or, A Gar-
land of Living Flowers Culled from
the Divine Scriptures and Woven to the
Honor of the Holy Mother of God.
A Story of Catholic Devotion. New
York: The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1875.
It is scarcely necessary to say aught in
praise of so old and well-established a
favorite as this, further than to mention
that the above is identical with the new
and handsome London edition contain-
ing the corrections and additions of the
author. The original edition, published
in i847> 1^2^ hosn some time out of prints
428
New Publications.
and the English market was supplied
ixoTCi this country until the American
plates were consumed in the Boston
fire
This is not like the common run of
^ories ; the story is only a slender thread,
^o which the gailand of flowers culled
by the pious and gifted author in honor
of the Most Holy Virgin Maxyis strung.
The style is subdued, poetic, and devout,
g^d there is just enough of dramatic per-
sonality and incident to relieve the mind
and interest the imagination, while the
reader follows the current of thought and
reflection and pious sentiment which
chiefly demands his attention.
We are now authorized to state that
this work, which has heretofore appeared
anonymously, was written by Edward
Hcaly Thompson, A.M., so favorably
knovtm by the Library of Religious Bi-
ography, embracing Lives of SS. Aloysius
and Stanislaus Kostka, Anna Maria Taigi,
etc., published under his editorial and
authorial supervision.
This work is admimbly adapted, both
in matter and mechanical execution, for
premium purposes at the coming exami-
nations.
Adhei^iar de Belcastel; or, .Be Not
Hasty in Judging. Translated from
the French by P. S., Graduate of S.
Joseph's, Emmettsburg. New York :
The Catholic Publication Society.
i875-
Here is another book fit for a prize for
those who win examination honors, for
which the youthful recipients will doubt-
less be duly grateful. It is brought out
in the usual tasteful style of the Society's
publications.
A Tract for the Missions, on Baptism
AS A Sacrament in the Catholic
Church. By Rev. M. S. Gross. New
Yotk : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1875.
The author*s design in this publication
is to " treat, first, of the valid manner of
baptixing and the effect of baptism, as a
sacrament of the Catholic Church ; and,
•ccondly, of the necessity of baptism for
•11 persons, infants as well as adults.**
The Vatican Decrees and Civil Aux-
GIANCE.
The True and False Infallibiutt.
The Catholic Publication Society tai
collected into two volumes the most p»*
minent pamphlets written in answer to ]b;|
Gladstone's Expostulation and Vatieanim^
and of those having a bearing on the cm^
troversy. The first-named of these volt
umes embraces Cardinal Manning's 7%t
Vatican Decrees in their Bearing on Gv^
Aliegtance ; Dr. Newman's A Letter AS',
dressed to the Duke of Norfolk^ and tbft
Postscnpt to the same ; together with tM
Decrees and Canons of the Vatican OmndsL
The second includes yvs^ Tnu and Fdbt
Infallibility Qi Bishop Fessler; Mr, Glad^
stone* s Expostulation Unravelled^ by Bisbop
Ullathome ; Submission to a Ditnne Tetil
er, by Bishop Vaughan ; The Syltabus ftr
the People: a review of the propositions
condemned by his Holiness Pius IX^
with text of the condemned list, by t
monk of S. Augustine's, Ramsgate. The
works composing these volumes have al-
ready been separately noticed in oiit»
pages. The present editions are priQtc4-
on superior paper and are very convco*
lent in form for preservation and refer*
ence.
Paparchy and Nationality. By Dr.
Joseph P. Thompson. Pamphlet Re-
printed from the British Quarterly Se-
vievf.
It is a very repulsive spectacle to bdiold
when an American citizen prostrates him-
self before a perfidious, unscrupulous
brutal tyrant like Bismarck. For a de
scendant and representative of the Puri-
tans it is an utter denial and abandon-
ment of his own cause and the historical
position of his own sect The noble arti.
tude ^n& language of some of the dis-
tinguished Protestants of Prussia ought
to put to shame this recreant American.
Criterion ; or. How -to Detect Error
and Arrive at Truth. By Rev. J.
Balmes. Translated by a Catholic
Priest. New York : P. O'Shea. 1875.
We wish our reverend friend had tdd
us his name, that we might know whom
to thank for this excellent translation of a
work written by one who is high in rank
New Publications.
429
imonjj the modem glories of the priest-
^00 J in Catholic Spain and Europe.
Balmes had his mind saturated with S.
rhomas, and he possessed an admirable
pft for rendering the doctrine of the An-
p^cal Philosopher of Aquin intelligible
ind attractive to ordinary readers. The
Crittrion is an eminently intellectual and
It the same time a most practical treatise.
The study and practice of its maxims and
instructions are fitted to make one wise
both in the aflgiirs of this life and those
connected more immediately with the per-
fection and salvation of the soul. We
beg of the translator to give us some more
choice reading of the same quality.
The Life of Father Bernard. By
Canon Claessens, of the Cathedral of
Malines. Translated from the French.
New York : The Catholic Publication
Society. 1875.
The many persons who remember the
celebrated Father Bernard, Provincial of
the Redemptorists in the United States,
and director of a g^eat many of the mis-
sions given by his subjects from the year
1S51, will be pleased to read this bio-
i^raphy. Father Bernard was a man of
remarkable gifts and very thorough, solid
learning, but still more eminent for apos-
tolic xeal and personal sanaity. The late
Archbishop Hughes had a very great vene-
ration for him, and said of him, in his
icne, emphatic style, which had more
weight as he very seldom employed it in
the praise of men : " Father Bernard is a
noan of God.** Besides the labors of a
long life, he devoted a large fortune
which he inherited to the service of re-
ligion. He was more celebrated in the
Low Countries, as a preacher in the
French and Flemish languages, than in
the United States and Ireland, where he
vras obliged to make use of German and
Etiglish. The biography is very interest-
ing, and gives a full account of the earlier
and later periods of Father Bernard's life
and his holy death, which occurred at Wit-
tcra, September 2, 1865, at the age of 58.
The history of his administration of the
province of theUni ted States is meagre, al-
though this was the most distinguished
md useful nortion of his public career.
The appendix contains an amusing letter
•iescribing the vovage of Father Bernard
and a band of Redemptorists from Liver-
pool to New York. Father Hecker and
Father Walworth came back on this occa-
sion ; and immediately afterwards, during
the Lent of 185 1, the mission of S.
Joseph's, New York, was given, which is
famous and remembered even now.
Father Bernard's American Iriends will
be specially interested in the history of
the closing scenes of his life. His death
was like that of the saints ; and we may
say without exaggeration that he was in
every way one of the worthiest of the sons
of his great father, S. Alphonsus, who
have adorned the annals of the Congrega-
tion he founded. The portrait at the
head of the volume, though not admirable
as a work of art, is strikingly faithful to
the original.
Brief Biographies. English Statesmen.
Prepared by Thomas Wentworth Hig-
ginson. New York : Putnaras. 1875.
We all know the charm of Col. Higgin-
son's style, and are familiar with his many
spirited sketches of scenes and men. Of
course we expect a treat when we open
a book which bears his name, and the
readers of the very choice, elegant little
volume before us will not be disappoint-
ed. Gladstone, Disraeli, Bright, the Duke
of Argyll, Lord Cairns, and a number of
other prominent English statesmen, are
drawn to the life, and numbers of s]Xirk-
ling anecdotes, bits of eloquent speech,
and witticisms are interspersed. It is a
very readable book and extremely lively
and piquant.
A Lecture on School Education and
School Systems. Delivered before
the Catholic Central Association of
Cleveland, Ohio, by Rt. Rev. B. J.
McQuaid, D.D., Bishop of Rochester.
Cleveland : Catholic Universe office.
1875.
Our Public Schools; are Thev Frse
for All, or are They not ? A lecture
delivered by Hon. Edmund F. Dunne,
Chief-Justice Of Arizona, in the Hall
of Representatives, Tucson, Arizona.
San Francisco : Cosmopolitan Print-
ing Co. 1875.
The Catholic Association of Cleve-
land, we have heard, is an energetic
body, and exercised an active influence
in securing the passage of the bill lately
passed by the Ohio Legislature secor-
430
Neiv Publications,
ing the rights of Catholics to the free
exercise of religion in prisons and State
institutions. The Bishop of Rochester
and his immediate neighbor, the Bishop
of Buffalo, are among the most efficient
of our prelates in promoting Catholic
education ; and the pamphlet of the first-
mentioned prelate, the title of which is
given at the head of this notice, is a new
proof of his zeal and ability in this im-
portant controversy.
The lecture of Chief Justice Dunne is
a well-reasoned document, written in a
plain, direct, and popular style — that of a
lawyer who both understands his subject
and the way of presenting it to an audi-
ence which will make them understand it.
How TO Make a Living. Suggestions
upon the Art of Making, Saving, and
Using Money. By George Carey
Eggleston. New York : Putnams.
1875.
This very small and neat book con-
tains a great many practical and sensible
suggestions.
The Story of a Convert. By B. W.
Whitcher.A.M. New York: P. O'Shea.
1875.
Those who have read the Widow Be-
dott Papers have not forgotten that hu-
morous and extremely satirical, produc-
• tion. The authorship of this clever jeu
d*espnt was in common between Mr.
Whitcher and his former wife, a lady
who died many years ago. Something
of the piquant flavor of that early work is
to be found in 7^/te Stoty of a Cotwert,
It is, however, in the main, serious, ar-
gumentative, and remarkably plain and
straightforward. Mr. Whitcher was an
Episcopalian minister. He became a
Catholic from reading, conviction, and the
grace of God, which, unlike many others,
he obeyed at a great sacrifice. He has,
since that time, lived a laborious, self-
denying, humble life as a Catholic lay-
man ; and his arguments have therefore
the weight of his good example to in-
crease their force. The fidelity to con-
science of such men is a severe reproach
to the dilettanti and amateur theologians
who dabble for amusement in pseudo-
Catholicism, and are ready to sacrifice
their consciences and to mislead others
to their eternal perdition for the sake cf
worldly advantages. This little book if
one well worthy of circulation, and likclT
to do a great deal of good. We notice
that ihe author mentions the name of
McVickar among the convcns firom tibe
General Theological Seminary. We have
never heard of any convert of that na
who was ever a student at this semi^
nary, and we think Mr. Whitchcr's mea-
ory must have deceived him in this ia^
stance. We trust that this excellent littlf
book will find an extensive sale and the
honesty of the author at least a few ini-
tators.
The Orphan's Friend, Etc BjA. A
Lambing, late Chaplain to S. Paiil'»
Orphan Asylum, Pittsburg. New
York : D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1873.
This series of plain, simple insimc-
tions in religion and morals is intended,
by a kind friend of the orphans, to be a
guide to them when they are sent forth
into the world. The poor orphans cer-
tainly need all the friends and all the
sj'mpathy and help they can get, and i!
was a good thought in the pious author
to prepare this excellent little book.
The Old Chest ; or. The Journal of a
Family of the French* People from
the Merovingian Times to feur own
Days. Translated from the French br
Anna T. Sadlier. New York : D. & ]
Sadlier & Ca 1875.
TrtE Straw-Cutter's Daughter, and
The Portrait in my Uncle's Dinlnc;
Room. Two Stories. Edited by Udj
Georgiana Fullerton. Translated from
the French. Same publishers.
The first of these pretty little volume*
is quite unique in its idea. A picture is
given of French life and manners at the
different epochs of history, by a series of
supposed narratives^ preserved and hand
ed down from father to son in an olii
chest, which was bequeathed by the List
of the family to a friend, who published
its contents. It is no: so good in execution
as m conception ; for, indeed, it would n-
quire the hand of a master to cany out
such an idea successfully. Nevertheless \\
is quite interesting and instructive reading
The two stories of the second volume
are romantic, 'ragx, vividly told, an<^
quite original iu conception.
New Publications.
431
Essays on Catholicism, Liberalism, and
Socialism, considered in their funda-
mental principles. By J. D. Cortes,
Marquis of Valdegamas. Translated
from the Spanish by Rev. W. Mc-
Donald, A.B., S.Th.L., Rector of the
Irish College, Salamanca. Dublin : W.
B. Kelly. 1874. (New York : Sold by
The Catholic Publication Society.)
We do not ordinarily feel called upon
10 speak of ntw editions^ but in the present
instance the book under notice is also a
oew translation of a valuable work. These
-£iji//were translated by an accomplished
lady in this country several years since ;
but as the work was not issued by a
Catholic house, it may have escaped the
::itfntion of many of our readers who
would be glad to make its acquaintance.
\Vc perceive that the original work was
submitted to the approval of one of the
3:nedictine theologians at Solesmes, and
iliai Canon Torre Velez has, in an appre-
riaiiv-c introduction, discussed the plan
and analysis of the work, so that the
reader is pretty well certified of the value
and correctness of the opinions advanced.
The title of the first chapter, " How a
great question of theology is always in-
volved in every great political question,"
^ws what a direct beanng the work has
00 topics of permanent interest.
We have a special reason for wishing
that this and similar works may be widely
knotfQ, m the fact that Spain — intellec-
tually, more, perhaps, than physically —
ii so much a ttrra incognita to the rest
of the world.
DoMCS Dei: A Collection of Religious
nnd Memorial Poems. By Eleanor
C. Donnelly. Philadelphia : Peter F.
Cunningham & Son. 1875.
This vol umc is published " for the bene-
fit of chc Church of S. Charles Borromeo,"
in course of erection at Philadelphia.
The authoress is already before the pub-
lic.
Amon.^ ihc ''religious" poems is one
pniiiled ** Bernadette at the Grotto of
biurdes." They are all pleasant reading.
The "memorial" poems, again, will be
•"onsidc red by many the choicest part of
ilj'' l>ook.
We wish the volume an extensive pat-
tooagc.
THE IRISH WOBLD.
It is not customary nor ordinarily pro-
per for a magazine to engage in contro-
versies which are waged among news-
papers. Nevertheless, the one in which
the Irish World is engagring itself with a
considerable number of our. Catholic
newspapers is of such unusual import-
ance and violence that we trust*we may
be permitted to make a few remarks upon
it. Disunion, division of sentiment
founded on differences of nationality and
race, extreme partisan contests on any
pretext whatever, and violent hostilities,
among those who profess the Catholic re-
ligion, especially just at this time and in
this country, are to be deprecated as more
injurious to the cause of the faith and
church of God than any amount of op-
position from professed enemies of the
Catholic religion. These can only be
avoided by adopting and following out
pure and perfect Cntholic principles in
all things whatsoever, and making the
Catholic rule of submission to lawful
authority, and conformity to the Catholic
tradition, the Catholic spirit, and the
common-sense which pervades the whole
b»dy of sound, loyal, hearty Catholics
everywhere, without any exception or
reservation, the standard of judgment
and the law of action. It is necessary' to be
first a Catholic and afterwards French,
German, American, English, or Irish, as
the case may be ; to be first of all sure that
we understand and receive the teaching
and the spirit of the Catholic Church, in
theology, philosophy, morals, politics, and
that we make her rights and interests,
her advancement and glory, the spiritual
and eternal good of the whole human
race, the triumph of Jesus Christ, and the
glory of God, paramount to everything.
Secondary interests, and ideas, opinions,
projects, which spring merely from pri-
vate conviction or characterize nationali-
ties, schools, parties, associations of hu-
man origin, should always be subordi-
nate and be kept under the control of
the higher principles of Catholic unity,
charity, and enlightened regard for the
rights of all men. This is the only true
liberality. Liberalism, as it is called,
which is nothing else than the detestable,
anti-Christian Revolution, destroys all
this by subverting the principle of order,
which alone secures harmony, a just
equality, and the rights cf all. What is
called Catholic liberalism, and has been
denounced by Pius IX. as more danger-
432
New PublicatiorU.
ous and mischievous among Catholics
than any open heresy could be, is a sys-
tem of independence of Catholic autho-
rity, and of separatiou fron* the Catholic
common doctrine and sentiment, of dis-
respect, disloyalty, irreverence, disobe-
dience, and opposition to the hierarchy
and the Holy See, in those things whicb
are not categorically defined as articles
of faith, yet, nevertheless, are doctrinally
or practically determined by authority.
We have not been in much danger in
this country from any clique of ecclesias-
tical and theological liberals. But the
}ine adopted by the Jiish World shows
an imminent danger from another quar-
ter. The editor professes submission to
the authority of the Catholic Church in
respect to the faith, and those precepts of
religion and morals which are essential.
We give him credit for sincerity and hon-
esty and for good intentions. These
are not, however, sufficient guarantees
ngaiiist principles and opinions which
arc erroneous, logically incompatible
with doctrines of faith, tending to sub-
vert faith in the minds of his readers,
and producing an irreverent and dis-
loyal spirit contrary to the true Christian
and Catholic submission and respect to
the prelates and the priesthood which is
commanded by the law of God. If the
respected gentleman who edits the
Irish World desires to employ his ta-
lents and zeal to a really noble and
useful purpose, with success and honor,
for the spiritual and temporal welfare
of men of his own race and religion,
we recommend to him, in a friendly
spirit, to modify some of his ideas in a
more Catholic sense, and to take counsel
from those who understand thoroughly the
doctrine and spirit of the Catholic Church.
Much greater men than any of us — Jan-
senius, De Lamennais, D6llinger, and a
host of others — began by professing to be
Catholics in faith. But they preferred
tl cir own private, notions in respect to
certain reforms in doctrine, discipline or
morals, and politics, which they consider-
ed to be necessary and important, to the
judgment of their spiritual rulers and the
common Catholic sense. Their end was
in heresy or apostasy, and they misled to
their ruin those who followed them. We
trust we shall be spared the misfortune
of seeing a falling away from the faith
of any 4)art of the Catholic race of Ire-
land, either at home or in other countries.
They are in no danger of perversion to
Protestantism, nor are they at pmeiita»-
sailable by open and avowed ec nies «i
religion. It is by hidden poiM>D oii^
that they can be gradually infected vA
destroyed. This poison must diMiiM
itself in some way as Liberal CmW^
cism. This is precisely the lurking jpi^,
son which the unerring Catholic instinct,
has detected in the specious, pseudu Chrb-
tian, pseudo- Scriptural, pseudo-Catholic'^
and pseudo-Irish communism into ^ich
the conductors of the Irish WctlH but.
been unwittingly betrayed. A joumil m \
extensively circulated must Dec<
unless purged from this foreign and
ious element, do a great deal of bann. ff
the good sense, honesty, and CaifaoHc
faith of its editors are strong enough ta-
free them from the specious illusions cf
Liberalism, the Irish World is in a cofr
dition to exert a very great and e2.ten8ive
influence for good, and we shall beartllf
wish it success. We approve of the to
and generous activity of la3rroen in zss^
ciations and through the press. Nevei^
theless, the great liberty enjoyed by thMt
is liable to misdirection, and it is vciy
necessary to guard against disordea
which may spring from its abuse.
" Sacerdos '* is requested to send bis ad-
dress to the editor of The Catbouc
World, who will be happy to answer Idf
note in a private letter.
BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVEO.
From G. P. Putkam*s Sons : The Maintenaacs of
Health. By J. M. FothergiU, M.D. i«mo, pp.
36a. Protection and Free Tnule. By Isaac Birtti.
lamo, pp. Z90. Religion as affected by Modva
Materialism. i8mo. pp. 68.
From KsLLV, Pibt& Co. : Meditations of the Sistcn
of Mercy, before the Renewal of Vows. By the
late Kt. Rev. Dr. Grant, Bishop of Soothwarir
(Reprinted from an unpublished editico of 181(3.)
x8mo, pp. 1x6.
From R. Washbourkb, London : Rome and Her
Captors. Letters collected by Count Henry
D'Ideville. 1875. lamo, pp. 236.
From D. & J. Sadlibr & Co., New Votk: Tb<
Month of S. Joseph ; or, Exerdscs for each day
of the month of March By the Rt. Rev. M. dc
Langalerie, Bishop of Belley. 1875.
From Burns & Oatbs. London : Jesus Christ, the
Model of the Priest. From the ItaKan, by the ^.
Rev. Mgr. Patterson. 24010, pp. 103.
From McGlashan & Gill, Dublin: The Fistcrt
of the Great Irish Famine of 1847. By the Rc^
J. O'Rourke. z2mo, pp. xxiv., 559.
From Lbb & Shbpard, Boston : The Island of Firt
By Rev. P. C. Headiey. j»mo, pp. 339,
From Thb Catholic Publication Socoty, .Vci»
York : The Spirit of Faith ; or. What must I do tv
Believe ? Five Leetures. dehvered at S. Peter'.
Cardiff, by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Hedlcy. O S.B
tamo, pp. X04.
Os
ITERARY
ULLETIN.
PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENTi^
BcRSovr last Buu^BTlN The Catholic Pablica-
Hm Society hM iMued eevenl new books. The
on tbe Oladetone controTeray make
▼ols They are printed on good paper
sad Will bonnd, and will be valoable acce0:»ion8
te Catholic libraries. Cardinal Manning's and
Dr. Newman^a pamphlets, together with the
** Decrees and Canons of the Vatican
Ooimeil,^ make one vtlame ; and Fesg-
ta»4 "True and False Infallibility,"
Bbbop Ullathome's and Bishop Vaaghan's
llspUes 4o Gladstone, and the " Syllalins for
tbe People" make the other volume. The
new and enlarj^ edition of « Mary, Star of
the Sea** is also ready, and so also is "Ad-
kanar de B«»loastel; or, Be Not Hasty in
ivdgbigf^ aa well as Bishop Hedley's able
vofk on '<Tl&e Spirit of Faith; or, What
Host I Do To Believe P" The promised cdi-
tkm of Csrdiual Manning's new work, <' The
iBtenal XiMdon of the Holy ahoet,*' is
tlio ready, and is sold for $1, there being a rival
tiithm in the market, the price of which is
|I 90. As aa explanation of this edition be-
ing pablished. The Catholic Publication Society
jnitifles Itself by the following note attached to
U«««tion:
Mote— This edition of Cardinal Manning's
««k is printed from duplicate plates made for
Bt hj his London publishers with his consent.
The ^tea should have reached us about the let
of March ; through an oversight in the stereotype
ftttdry, they were not shipped until a month
later ; but we had announced the work in Ths
Catbouc Wobld for April, which was Issued on
Uts I8ih of March. Notwithstanding this, an-
oti)«r house, contrary to the established cusiom
Id Micb eatea, reprinted the book before our
{'Istsf arrived. As the plates were sent at; as
^^inUaal Matmlng's American publishers, we feel
ttsdtt obligations to get the book out, and there-
f(ve Issue this edition, which is Bkfac-HmiU of the
EfigHsbone.
"Haw ToRK, May 1, 1875.''
""TheLifbof St. John" and <*The Life
(tfOhxist ** will be ready soon : a translation of
Tttdcrick Ozanam's **Land of the Oid"
I* iiso nesrly ready; and '^The Toun^
I'idias' Header '* is now being printed.
** the MaiiTial of tfaa BtSMsd Sacrament **
will be out about June 1. We give again the
approbation received for this book, being the
very first one signed by Cardinal McCloskey :
*• APPROBATION.
*'We approve, and wish to commend in a
special manner, the Manual of the Blessed Sacra-
ment^ trandlated from the French. It abounds
with useful iostraction, and breathes throughout
a xpirit of faith and piety that can hardly fail to
excite within the hearts of its readers a deeper
lovR for the most august mystery of t^e altar, and
a more tender devotion to the Sacred Heart of
Jesui*. We hope from it many precious fruits to
8onl».
4« JOHN, CVRDINAL McCLOSKEY,
'' ArchMshop of New York.
• Nkw York, April 11, 1875."
Every historical student will be glad to hear,
says the Athentctitn, that the Eiigllt^h govern-
ment, through the Public Record Office, now
employs an agent in Rome to collect matetiale
for English history from the secret archives of
the Vatican. When the request was first made
to the Pope to permit the iuvestigatioi , HIfHoII-
ne9B liberally promised every assistance in his
power ; but ofllcial obstacles were thrown in the
way which prevented the realization «Tf the
scheme. These hindrances, we are happy to be
able to state, have been effectually removed by
the zealous exertions made by Cardinal Manning
on his recent visit to Rome, and thus Protestant
England owes a privilege never before enjoyed
by any nation to a Roman Catholic dignitary.
In the Bodleian Library is preserved a copy of
the Gospels best known as the '* Gospels of Mac
Regol," but also called the " Rush worth Codex "
and "Rushworth Glo«f," from its having been
presented to the library by John Rush worth, the
well-known secretary of Fairfax, depuiy-clerk of
the Long Parliament, and collector of state
papers. Some specimen pages of it have been
lately included among the fac-simlles of Irish
MSS. which are being prepared under the pho-
tographic process at Southampton, Englaiid.
Wanley supposed this volume, which pos^espes
an Anglo-Ssxon interlinear gloss, to have be-
longed to tlie Venerable Bede; but other iiitfinal
evidence, which it is unnecessary to give here,
Literary BuUetin.
eeemt to fix the date of it a c^ntarj later. The
most striking features of the Tolome are its
flgares of the three Svaugelists, Mark, Luke, and
John, and the initials of each Gospel, all of them
severally occupying an entire page. The chief
point in the large initial page of St. John, which
lias been selected for fac-simile, Js terminated by
the bust of a man with an enormously long beard
and whiskers, brought to a point and laced to-
gether in a large knot and a yellow pigtail of yet
larger dimensions, arranged in a fanciful man-
ner on the back of tils head, much after the fash-
ion of some head-gear of the present day. In his
right hand this curious figure bears a pastoral
pipe, by the music of which he is trying to charm
a serpent ; and while he holds this pipe between
his lips with outstretched fingers, he at the same
time applies the end of his thumb to the tip of
his nose. The sinister chiet and dexter base
points of the same page are each terminated by
an interlaced, double-headed creatute bearing
somewhat of the semblance of a turtle or tortoise;
a modification of which figure is also introduced
withi n the border proper. The sinister base point
is imperfect, but still presents the likeness of two
human heads. In the centre of either side of the
border is a projecting ornament grounded with
looped Hues, and having each in the centre two
monsters of dragon-like form, one red, the other
purple, either embracing one another or engaged
in combat. These monsters also appear else-
where in the page. They may be intended for
dogs with their fore-legs curiously distorted, but
their appearance is not such as to furnish a
clue to their identification with any known ani-
mal.
The London TabUt notices Father Hewitts
book, '' The Kind's Highway)'* as follows :
" Professed Calvinists of the old school have
long been scarce amongst us, but they linger on
the Continent still, and are not unknown in some
parts of America. Scattered seeds from the Old
World have germinated in the New, and for the
sake of some of this late growth Father Hewit, a
Panlist, has written an earnest and sterling little
book with the striking title of The King's High-
way. His great motive for the undertaking was
that, having himself been brought up a Calvinist,
he both knows and feels their position, and
rightly thinks that on that account he is entitled
to speak on the subject and to lay befbre his for-
mer friends the mistakes and errors upon which
their tenets are based. He reviews as a Catholic
what he once held and followed as a Calvinist,
and we must say he does it remarkably well, in
spite of the murmuring nature of controversy in
general, and the unpromising look of anything
connected with Calvinism in particular, a few
pages will show the reader that the author knows
how to produce not only an able but also an in-
teresting treatise, upon matters as dull and
gloomy even as controversy and Calvinism.
** It is a clever dissection and a masterly refu-
totion of the dismal theoriea of that sect, iii
Argument is drawn entirely from Scrlptm^ 1
writer's pcactical knowledge has made liiw Mtf
terofthe CalviniHtic position, which he AM
with precision and clearness ; there is oo rtM|
or uncertainty about the sketch. He
work without any tiresome preamble or
tion ; he knows Just what he has to actaolbl
he does it in a way which, for brevity and pk
may be called American. There is none ol«l
is styled in trans-Atlantic phrase * banging ik
and fooling around ' ; no waste of words, aai
tempt at fine writing, and no apinnlng oat
argument to an indefinite point, or, if
beyond it His matter is gathered into pro^o^
tions and then tested by syllogisma, which g|Ni
to the controversy a very busineaa-Uke sir.
'*The second paragraph of his first chaptstltt
good instance : 'The decree of Almighty OodH
provide a way of salvation for men, after tbeHA
of Adam, included the whole human race
any exception, and consequently the
efi'ected by Jesus Christ included all
out exception. I lay down this proporitiaaA
one ta be proved by Scripture. It has two pnw
the first, that Ood decreed to provide and o^
a way of salvation for all men ; and the
that Jesus Christ actually accomplished
Ood decreed should be dona, by his
unto death and his crucifixion. These two part%
however, although distinct, are inaeparably «•*
nected together, and whatever prod is givwd
either one separately proves equally the o tb H h
and thus proves tbe entire complex propodtiM).
For whatever God decreed Jesus Christ aeGCB*
plibhed ; and whatever Jesus Christ accompHlJ'
ed, no less and no more was decreed by God» If
God willed to provide salvation for all men, Aa
Christ died for all ; and if he died for ail, tiM
God willed that he should die to provide 6»r at) a
way of salvation ' (pp. 19, 30). This may bt
taken as a fair specimen of the spirited w^lt
which he writes throughout. Bven In evotftif
the text he keeps the same tight hold of hH
matter. Here is a passage picked op at raadfio.
He has just been speaking of the paraUet vd-
co-extensive lines which unite us to GhriM sa^
to Adam, and goes on in this fashion: *^
Paul f^quently draws this parallel, and aiput
with great force lh>m one member of it U> tlis
other. In his Second Epistle to the CorintUs&f
(V. 14) he aignes that all men had incorred iphi-
tnal death, from the truth, well known to kb
auditors as a doctrine pertaining to the ChrisCisa
faith, that Christ died for aU men. '^Wetliw
judge that, if one died for aU, then were lU
dead.'' This Judgment of the apostle it the cod-
elusion of an informal syllogism, which, rednoed
to a regular form, is the following: AU those to
whom pertains the redemption merited bjr tfcc
death of Jesus Christ died in the first Aduo,
and need restoration to life by the aeoond Adas.
Bat this redemption pertains to all men. Th»r*-
fore all men died in the first Adam, etc Tbe
minor premiss in this syllogism—'
Literary Bulletin,
pflTft^hf to all mvn^^ which is the same in
with the expretB words of the apos-
died for all '*— may be, ttyBrefore, cx-
iBto tlie following proposition : The re-
merited by the death of Jesas Christ
to all those who, being dead in the first
need restoration to life by the second
iB, to all men without exception '
* Iff be were constantly flourishing these propo-
and formolatlng eyerything in scholastic
It would eoon become palling to the
; bat he is loo judicious to make such a
and always brings in his formal logic
U will make a sUong point and throw
B ttfe and Tariety into the general treatment.
ii, howerer, always graphic. The short
he i^vea of the Calvinistic theories
how rapidly he can bring the cream to the
The theory,' he says, * of the strict or
nfnlapnarinn Calvinlsta is plainly contrary to
Iha doctrine of the Scripture and to the dictates
4( iMaon. It denies an essential attribute of
AbA— to wit, his goodness— and therefore sub-
verts the total conception of Qod as a most per-
tet being. According to this theory, God wiUed
Mieeadently to all foresight of sin or innocence
tte Mlradon of the elect angels and men, and
th» damnation of the reprobate. For this end he
licnnd the obedience of the elect and the sins
if the reprobate as the fit and proper means lo
his purpose. The sin of Adam was ,
in order to plunge all mankind into
rain ; and «ie death of Christ in order to
nd sare the elect.' Having stigmatized
a couple of sentences, as stinging as they
be gives * the milder and less repulaive
doctrine. According to this latter
God willed, antecedently to the pre-
kaoviadge of sin. the salvation of all angels and
41 M— The decree of tdection and reprobation,
is consequent to the sin of Adam, and
nen as already lapsed into the state of
sin. All being alike unworthy of the
of heaven, Ood may, without any de-
either to his Justice or goodness, leave
m they are, without any second provision
for their sahration. In his pure mercy he chooses
aevtaia number whom he wills to save through
Ifat Venator whom he predestines, passing over
thenoiainder.'
**We have drawn this large amount of quota-
thm from the early part of the book, first of all,
it conveys a fair idea of the writer's
and manner ; and, secondly, because it
a subject which, at the first blush and
the narrow circle of those who profess
Cfllftaiimpr who are interested in its professors,
■1^ seem both mdancholy and unimportant.
Ti^ dtamal aa the docirinfMs, it offers to religious
Hiimlil a real philosophic interegt. The world
IM bid heresies of every description— the flimsy
9A MhtUe, the gross and degrading, according
to fts drcomstances of times and the fancy of
tbi fnai pilflMval beretia whose teaching and
worship are deeply concerned in them ; but Cal-
vinism is the pink of them all. It cuts both
way»— it opens a deeper hell to the self-elected
saint, and prevents the rest from even aspiring
to the hope of heaven—fills one side with pre-
sumption, the other with despair, and thus tends
to hurl all, without exception, into inevitable
perdition. This system contains intensified the
worst feature of vitiated Judaism— the exclusive
right to God's mercy and favors — and its pro-
fessors, generally, in spite of their lives, are, as
Hood expresses it,
*Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd
cribbed
Tie impression of St. Peter's keys in wax ! '
'• Fatalism in its raw form is surely bad euough,
but this sect sublimates it into a faith and re-
ligion. There are features in sheer paganism
that are, after aJl, not unmiiigatedly repulsive ;
there are ideas in most heresies that contain
some tincture of truth, some line of beauty, and
some little of good ; but view It as you may*
analyze it as you will, there is no element in Cal.
vinism to make it aught but gloomy and for.
bidding— aught but what it really is— the breath
of hell inspiring that which is made after its own
image and likeness.
" As to the rest of the book, we may leave that
to look to itself, as it will easily do, since its
topics are of more general interest than that of
the sect for whom it is mainly intended. Grace
and the Sacraments, the Church, and all it sup-
poses, form the staple of this volume, and as tbe
means of salvattun are brought into strong re-
lief against Calvinism.
" None will regret having read it. Those who
like the delineation of doctrine and the refuta-
tion of dismal theories will read It again ; and
these who take 6ur view of the book will often
take it up with additional relish from the d^sh of
thorough-going Americani«m happily blended in
many a page."
The New York correspondent of the Toronto
Tribune says :
** Recently the Catholic publishers, esptcially
of New York, have exhibited commendable enter-
prise. Foremost among these stands ' The Ca-
tholic Publication Society.' That Society has
kindly favored us with copies of the la?t iwo
numbers of the Young Catholic's Illuitrated Rt ad-
ers. The lUuetrated Fifth Reader is a finely-
bound book of 430 pages. The selections are not
simply good- they are unrivalled ; besides, the
illustrations are realty excellent.
" The Sixth Reader is a companion volume of
477 pages. For many reasons, and after a careful
examination, I consider this by far the best
* higher reader' I have ever seen. Its compiler
is Rev. Dr. J. L. Spalding, one of the most elo-
quent, able, and accomplished young priests in
America. His introductory Treatise-in the
Sixth Reader-on BlocuUon is something we
have long wanted-a beautifully- written, com-
monsense course of instruction on the best
A BOOK FOR EVERY FAMILY.
Mothers^ Fathers^ Teachers^ JReligiouM
Orders^ and all who have the
charge of Children^
read the
Warnings of a Gfreat Bishop. 4
Bi-ingr up a, Oliild in the llVay be
should Gro«
THE CHILD.
BY
Monsigneur Dnpaiilonp, Bishop of Orleans, France.
' CONTENTS.
Chapter I. The Child : His Dispositions, His Faults.
II. The ChUd : My Experiences.
III. The Spoiled Child.
IV. The Child : Some Advice on His Early Education.
V. The Respect Due to the Dignity of Childhood is a Religious Respect.
VI. On Human Nature in the Child ; On His Defects ; Necessity of Knowing
them Well and Correcting them in Him.
VII. Two Important Observations on the same Subject.
Vin. Of the Different Species of Defects.
IX. Classification of Defects.
X. Profound Origin of Our Defects ; Original Sin ; The Triple Concupisoeoce.
XI. Pride, superbia vitas^ the Chief Source of our Defects.
XII. On the Foui- Kinds of Evil Spirits which Pride is Father to.
XIII. A Last Word on the Manner of Treating the Proud.
XIV. Second Sourge of Defects in Man and in the Child ; Sensuality.
XV. What is to be Done in order to Save Children from the Dangers of Sensnalitj.
XVI. Curiosity ; Levity ; Third Source of the Defects in Man and in the Chfld.
XVII. Of the Child, and of the Respect due to the Liberty of His Nature.
XVIII. The Child : The Respect due to the Liberty of His Intellect.
XIX. Of the Child, and the Respect due to the Liberty of his Wia
XX. Of the Child, and the Respect due to the Liberty of his Vocation.
XXI. Nothing on earth Happens by Accident : there is, then, for every one and for
each state a vocation from God.
Conclusion.
Price $1 50. Sent free by maiL For sale by the Publisher,
PATRICK DONAHOE, Boston, Mass.
AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
MAT 10, 1875.
' This supersedes ail previous Catalogues. J^
BOOKS PUBLISHED
BY
The Catholic Publication Society,
9 WAEREN STREET, NEW YORK,
In consequence of the increase of postage on books, which took
effect in March this year, we must request all persons ordering
books by mail to accompany the order by the retail price of the
book.
No books will be sent by mail to booksellers, or others entitled to
a discount, unless at least the money to cover postage accom-
panies the order.
All the publications of the several Catholic Publishers, both in
this country and in England, kept in stock.
** A wonderful book."— i?M/<m Filai.
■t Clerical Friendi, and their Rel»>
ttoas to Modem Thought Contents : Chap.
I. The Vocation of. the Clergy.— II. The
CImy at Home.— III. The Clergy Abroad.
— rVT The Clergy and Modern Thought
t ToL lamo, 1 oO
By the same author.
Gbarek Deteces Report of a Conference
OO the Present Dangers of the Church.
By the author of **My Clerical Friends."
Tk0 Oomedj of Oonvocatioii in the
BogKah Church. In Two Scenes. Edited
by Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D., and dedi-
cftttd to the Pan-Anglican Synod. 8vo,
1 00
OathffMcft AfHJirt ctiPfti
A Ust^of American Catholic Books published
vp to the year iSas. By Rev. J. M. Finotti.
I ToL 8vo, 5 00
WiOto Nettonrillo) or. Om ol the
Tfmna>lanted. A Tale of the Times of Crom-
wdl in Ireland. By Miss Caddell. x vol.
nmo, cloth« extra, .... 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
WBi TimeSi A Tale of the Days of Queen
Itixabetb. B^ Cecilia Mary Caddell. Ftrst
American edition, i voL xamo, . 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
Tht ProproMdoniitB and AnjBTola.
Frem the (yerman of Bolanden. i voK 8vo,
Qoth,gilt, 200
Tht Woghiti ; or, A Mother's Last Reouesi,
tod Other Tales, z vol. lamo, . . 1 25
Migfi o^g H i r tf r y , and Other TaleSi
(Coirrxirrs : By the author of " Marion How-
iri." Maggie^s Rosary— The White Angel
•Mabel-Old Morgan's Rose-Tree. From
the French of Souvestre. translated by Bmilv
Bowles : The Sawyer of ihe Vosges— A Meet-
iag 00 the Alps— The Godson.) x vol. lamo,
*^ 100
Littfe Pierre, the Pedlar of Alsace
Translated from the French, and illustrated
nfirstcla&s woodcuts. (This maices one
t handsomest premium books ever
isned in this country.) Cloth, extra, 1 50
Cloch, foil gilt, . . . . . 2 00
Peter's Jonmey, and Other Tales
and Wilfulness and its Consequences, i voU
xamo, frontispiece, . . . • 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
The Threshold of . the Catholic
Church. A course of plain instructions lor
those entering her communion. By Fr.
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x vol. xamo, 1 50
Sermons on Bcclesiastical Sntjects.
Vol. I. By Archbishop Manning. Cloth,
extra, 2 00
The same, Vol. II 2 00
The Internal BSission of .the Holy
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lamo, 2 00
A Winded Word, and Other Stories.
By the author of **The House of Yorkc,"
ete 1 50
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Transhued from the French by P. S. ™ne
illustration, i vol. i6mo, cloth, extra, 1 OQ
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Pasha of Salonique. Translated from the
French by P. S. x vol. i6mo, cloth extra.
With two illustrations, .1 00
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fcif Three or more lainilics might join together and purchase the three I-ibtHries. thereby
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LIBRARY No. i, Coniaining 20 Vols., $12.
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Way of salvation.
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Lite of Chribi, illuslruted
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No.
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Home of the Lost Child.
Fathers of the Desert.
Following of (^hrisl.
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2, Containing 40 Vols., $22.
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Mercy of God.
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journal of Eugenie de Gu^rio.
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"The Young Catholic's Illustrated Readers.'H
^^4
St. lOWATlUS COLLKQK, 413 W. TWKLFTH ST., CUIOAOO, III ., Jolj «, 1874,
L. Kbhoe, Esq .New York :
Dkar Sir : Please to acoept the thanks of the Faculty for the three Tolumes entitled ^ ToM
Catholic's Illustrated School Series '*— Primer. First Reader, Seooad Reader. Upon htustji
sal I find them excellent for the use of our sonools, and my wish is that they may b« tnt
into every Oatholio school in the States. In haste, very respectfully,
JOHN Q. VBNNEMAN,
•
From the Boston Pilot,
** We have received the Primer and the First and Second Readers of this series, i
delighted irith them. If the whole series be as good as these first parts, the Catbo^
country wiU have solid reason to be grateful to the Catholic Publication Societ^v. A I
long felt will now be supplied, and in a manner second to no other edTioatl(malBjr«tei_..
United States. These firat books are beautifully printed and are copiously fflastrnted.
arrangement and gradual progression of words, to suit the infant mind, are admirable. Caflbi
the school-books hitherto used by Catholic children, the illustrations in wis series are connectsl
with the matter printed in the same page. The illustrations have the advantage of being w<i
drawn and wall engraved, and will themselves give children a good lesson in piotoresque ut
We shall be glad to see this series complete, and we hope the books to comu will do no ~
to those before us."
From the New York Catholic Review.
" The Oatholio Publication Society has begun its promised series of school-books by the i
of a Primer and First and Second Readers, carefully compiled by competent persona, and reviaetf
by the Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L., a clergyman well Known as a careful and conscientious wo * ~
in a more ambitious literary field. •It £s also the intention of the Publication Society to I
Grammars, Arithmetics, Histories, Geographies, and all the books needed in a weU-rocv^
Catibolic sohooL The work is a necessary one, and ludging from the manner in which tho \
already issued are prepared, we should say it would be admirably well performed. Thety^,
graphicid work of tlus publishing house ranks always with the best that is done in the conntiv *
and the clear type, excellent paper, and the pretty and generally appropriate woodottts trflft
which these readers are illustrated, are characteristic of the house. l7o doubt the selectiooa f 4
reading will be as Judiciously made, although the scope allowed by a Second Reader does xkA
give very ample grounds either for judgment or prediction.^' •
From the Morning Star^ New Orleans,
** We have before us specimen copies of the school-books lust issued b^ the Catholic Puh^
cation Society, and we certainly agree with the circular in thinlong them fully equal to any Ixwlav
of a like character in use, and iu matter and arrangement far superior to any yet preee^aifi
the Catholic public. The first is the * Illustrated Primer,* a charming little volume, wichl«s|K
clear type and entertaining. Instructive woodcuts. The mere appearance of the al|^iabctii
singularly attractive, while every page unfold^ to view most tempting food for the enqoinoc
mind of childhood. The ' First Reader * bears upon its pages this same attractive charm ; aal
we perceive, as we continue our examination, that the pretty illustrations are nearly all oiigiB *^
and drawn irom the text. The pictures are very neat and suggestive, replenishing the c&fii
mind with simple thoughts and wholesome information. The ^Second Reader ' realise lAI
promises of tho Firat, out is, of course, of a higher intellectudl order, both in regard to f
designs and the lessons conveyed in the text. The four remaining volumes of this series wOl ^
ready shortly, and, if judged by these primary books, will be of a hi^ order of merit, and vahu
ble as contributions to theliterature of our day. We congratulate the Catholic Publication Soci^
upon the issue of these high-toned, intellectual, and instructive school series, beaatiful in hwa-
ing, clear in type, excellent in matter, and superior to any books of the kind in present use am^^ic
our schools."
From the Portland^ Oregmij Sentinel,
" We are indebted to the Catholic Publication Society for advance copies of tl>e ' Yinin^
Catholic's Series of Readers,' which, so far as we have examined them, fill a void that has loiu;
existed in the Catholic educational literature of the land. We trust our Catholic instracton
will give these Readers an early trial by casting out the chaff they have heretofore been nuiag,
and supply their pupils with the wholesome mental food to be found in this series of Oathoik
readers, which are truly Catholic in name, text, and illustrations."
From the Pittsburg Catholic.
'* The Catholic Publication Society of New Tork has commenced the publication of a aeort
of Catholic school-books, of which the above (Primer, First Reader, Seconti Reader) are the flrrf
of the series. If the remainder wiU be in keeping with the general character of the tiiree befoc«
us, we can heartily recommend them to our educational institutions as a very valuable acoesskc
to our Catholic school-books akeady in use."
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXI., No. 124.-JULY, 1875.
SPACE.
I.
Ka-Thsmaticians admit three
kif%4is of continuous quantities, viz.,
tlie <|uan tity of space measured by
If frT^i movement, the quantity of
employed in the movement,
id the quantity of change in the
snsicy of the movement. Thus
continuity, according to them,
JtHfirnfl'' on movement ; so that, if
" '«rere no continuous move-
it, nottiing could be conceived
■■oontinuous. The ancient phi-
iphers generally admitted, and
ly still admit, a fourth kind of
Hinuous quantity, viz., the quan-
of matter ; but it is now fully
castrated that bodies of matter
not« and cannot be, materially
tinuous, even in their primitive
rules, and that therefore the
itity of matter is not continuous,
JivK consists of a discrete number
4lf primitive material units. Hence,
y«.^^^ter is not divisible in infinituniy
n d ^ve« no occasion to infinitesi-
1 il qti^nlities, except inasmuch as
% e volumes, or quantities of space,
4 copi^ (j^^^ filled) by matter are
conceived to keep within infinitesi-
mal dimensions. We may, there-
fore, be satisfied that space, time,
and movement alone are continuous
and infmitely divisible, and that the
continuity of space and time, as
viewed by the mathematicians, is
essentially connected with the con-
tinuity of movement But space
measured by movement is a relativi
space, and time — that is, the dura-
tion of njpvement — is a relative du-
ration; and since everything rela-
tive presupposes something absolute
which is the source of its relativity,
we are naturally brought to inquire
what is absolute space and absoluU
duration ; for, without the know-
ledge of the absolute, the relative
can be only imperfectly understood.
Men of course daily speak of time
and of space, and understand what
they say, and are ^understood by
others ; but this does not show that
they know the intimate nature, or
can give the essential definition, of
either time or space. S. Augus-
tine asks : " What is time ?" and
Aooordlag to Act of Co«gre», in tlie year 1875, by Rev. I. T. Hickbk, io tht Ofiiot of ik*
libimriaa of Congreis, at WaJiingtoo, D. C.
434
Space.
he answers : " When no one asks
me, I know what it is ; but when
you ask me, I know not." The
same is true of space. We know
what it is ; but it would be hard to
give its true definition. As, how-
ever, a true notion of space and
time and movement cannot but be
of great service in the elucidation
of some important questions of phi-
losophy, we will venture to investi-
gate the subject, in the hope that
by so doing we may contribute in
some manner to the development
of philosophical knowledge con-
cerning the nature of those myste-
rious realities which form the con-
ditions of the existence and vicissi-
tudes of the material world.
Opinions of Philosophers about
^ace. — Space is usually defined " a
capacity of bodies," and is styled
** full " when a body actually occu-
pies that capacity, "void," or
" empty," when no body is actually
present in it. Again, a space which
is determined by the presence of a
body, and limited by its limits, is
called " real," whilst the space
which is conceived to extend be-
yond the limits of all existing bod-
ies is called " imaginary."'
Whether this definition and di-
vision of space is as correct as it is
common, we shall examine hereaf-
ter. Meanwhile, we must notice that
there is a great disagreement among
philosophers in.regard to the reali-
ty and the essence of space. Some
hold, with Descartes and with Leib-
nitz, that space is nothing else than
the extension of bodies. Others
hold that space is something real,
and really distinct from the bodies
by which it is occupied. Some, as
Clarke, said that space is nothing
but God's immensity, and consider-
ed the parts of space as parts of
divine immensity. F^nelon taught
that space is virtually contained in
God s immensity, and that immen-
sity is nothing but unlimited exten*
sion — which last proposition is much
criticised by Balmes* on the ground
that extension cannot be conceived
without parts, whereas no parts can
be conceived in God's immensity.
Lessius, in his much-esteemed
work on God's perfections, after
having shown (contrary to the opin-
ion of some of his contemporaries)
that God by his immensity exists
not only within but also without
the world, puts to himself the fol-
lowing objection : " Some will say,
How can God be in those spaces
outside the skies, since no spaces
are to be found there which are not
fictitious and imaginary ?" To which
he answers thus : " We deny that
there are not outside of the whole
world any true intervals or spaces.
If air or light were diffused through-
out immensity outside of the exist-
ing world, there would certainly be
true spaces everywhere ; and in
the same manner, if there is a Spirit
filling everything outside of this
world, there will be true and real
spaces, not corporeal but spiritual,
which, however, will not be really
distinct from one another, because
a Spirit does not extend through
space by a distribution of parts, but
fiils it, so to say, by its totalities. . . J
Hence, when we say that God is
outside of the existing world, and-
filling infinite spaces, or that God
exists in imaginary spaces, we do
not mean that God exists in a
fictitious and chimerical thing,
nor do we mean that he exists
in a space really distinct froni
his own being; but we mean thai
he exists in the space which his
immeiisity formally extends, and to
which an infinite created space may
correspond We may there-
• F^Mdamtnial Pkihtt^f^ Hb. liL c ix.
Space.
43S
ibre distinguish space into created^
uncreated^ and imaginary. Created
space embraces the whole corporeal
extension of the ii\aterial world*
Uncreated space is nothing less
than divine immensity itself, which
is the primitive, intrinsic, and funda-
mental space, on the existence of
which all other spaces depend, and
which by reason of its extension is
equivalent to all possible corporeal
spaces, and eminently contains
them all. Imaginary space is that
which our imagination suggests to
us as a substitute for God's immen-
sity, which we are unable to con-
ceive in any other wise. For, just
as we cannot conceive God's eter-
nity without imagining infinite time,
so neither can we conceive God's
immensity without imagining infi-
nite space."*
Boscovich, in his Theory of Natu-
ral Philosophy^ defines space as " an
infinite possibility of ubications,"
but he does not say anything in re-
gard to the manner of accounting
for such a possibility. Others, as
Giarleton, were of opinion that
real space is constituted by the
real ubication of material things,
and imaginary space by the actual
negation of real ubications.
Among the modern authors,
Balraes, with whom a number of
other philosophers agree on this
subject, gives us his theory of space
in the following propositions :
**ist. Space is nothing but the
extension of bodies themselves.
"2d. Space and extension are
identical notions.
**3d. The parts which we con-
ceive in space are particular ex-
tensions, considered as existing un-
der their own limits.
"4th. The notion of infinite
space is the notion of extension in
* th Diwinis Pvr/tetUnibut^ Hb. U, c t.
all its generality — tliat is, as con-
ceived by the abstraction of all
limits.
"5th. Indefinite space is a fig-
ment of our imagination, which
strives to follow the intellectual
process of generalization by de-
stroying all limits.
"6th. Where no body exists,
there is no space.
" 7th. Distance is the interposi-
tion of a body, and nothing more.
**8th. If the body interposed
vanishes, all distance vanishes, and
contiguity, or absolute contact, will
be the result.
"9th. If there were two bodies
only, they would not be distant;
at least, we could not intellectually
conceive them as distant.
" loth. A vacuum, whether of a
large or of a small extent, whether
accumulated or scattered, is an ab-
solute impossibility." *
These assertions form the su]>-
stance of Balmes* theory of space.
But he wisely adds : " The appar-
ent absurdity of some of these con-
clusions, and of others which I
shall mention hereafter, leads me
to believe cither that the principle
on which my reasonings rest is not
altogether free from error, or that
there is some latent blunder in the
process of the deduction."!
Lastly, to omit other suppositions
which do not much differ from the
ones we have mentioned, Kant and
his followers are of opinion that
space is nothing but a subjective
form of our mind, and an intuition
a priori. Hence, according to
them, no real and objective space
can be admitted.
Amid this variety and discord
of opinions, we can hardly hope to
ascertain the truth, and satisfy our-
selves of its reality, unless we settle
^ Fundmmtmimt PkiUs0/ky^ lib. iii. c. za, n. 8a.
t Jbid,, n. 83.
436
Space.
a few preliminary questions. It is
necessary for us to know, first,
whether any vacuum is or is not to
be admitted in nature; then, we
must know whether such a vacuum
is or is not an objective reality.
For, if it can be established that
vacuum is mere nothingness, the
consequence will be that all real
space is necessarily and essentially
filled with matter, as Balmes and
others teach ; if, on the contrary,
it can be established that vacuum
exists in nature, and has an objec-
tive reality, then it will follow that
the reality of space does not arise
from the presence of bodies, and
cannot be confounded with their
extension. In this case, Balmes*
theory will fall to the ground, and
we shall have to borrow from Les-
sius and F^nelon, if not the whole
solution of the question, at least the
main conceptions on which it rests.
Existence of Void Space. — The
first thing we must ascertain is the
existence or non-eocistence of vac-
uum in nature. Is there any space
in the world not occupied by matter f
Our answer must be affirmative,
for many reasons. First, because
without vacuum local movement
would be impossible. In fact, since
matter does not compenetrate mat-
ter, no movement can take place in
a space full of matter unless the
matter which lies on the way gives
room to the advancing body. But
such a matter cannot give room
without moving ; and it cannot
move unless some other portion of
matter near it vacates its place to
make room for it. This other por-
tion of matter, however, canpot
make room without moving; and it
cannot move unless another portion
of matter makes room for it ; and
so on without end, or at least till
we reach the outward limits of the
material world. Hence, if there is
1*0 vacuum, a body cannot begin to
move before it has shaken the
whole material world throughout
and compelled it to make room for
its movement. Now, to make the
movement of a body dependent on
such a condition is absurd ; for the
condition can never be fulfilled.
In fact, whilst the movement of the
body cannot begin before room is
made for it, no room is made for it
before the movement has begun;
for it is by moving that the body
would compel the neighboring mat-
ter to give way. The condition is
therefore contradictory, and can
never be fulfilled, and therefore, if
there is no vacuum, no local move-
ment is possible.
Secondly, it has been proved in
one of our articles on matter* that
there is no such thing in the world
as material continuity, and that
therefore all natural bodies ulti-
mately consist of simple and unex-
tended elements. It is therefore
necessary to admit that bodies
owe their extension to the intervals
of space intercepted between their
primitive elements, and therefore
there is a vacuum between all the
material elements. This reason is
very plain and cannot be ques-
tioned, as the impossibility of con-
tinuous matter has been established
by such evident arguments as defy
cavil.
Thirdly, bodies are compressi-
ble, and, when compressed, occupy
less space — that is, their matter or
mass is reduced to a less volume.
Now, such a reduction in the vol-
ume of a body does not arise from
material compenetration. It roast
therefore depend on a diminution
of the distances, or void intervals,
between the neighboring particles
of matter.
• Tub Catholic Wobld, Jaaiuiir, iSts* P- 4*7*
space.
4i7
Fourthly, it is well known that
equal masses can exist under un-
equal volumes, and vice versa — that
is, equal quantities of matter may
occupy unequal spaces, and un-
equal quantities of matter may oc-
cepy equal spaces. This shows
that one and the same space can be
more or less occupied, according as
the density of the body is greater
or less. But the same space can-
not be more or less occupied if
there is no vacuum. For, if there
is no vacuum, the space is entirely
occupied by the matter, and does
not admit of different degrees of
occupation. It is therefore evi-
dent that without vacuum it is im-
possible to account for the specific
weights and unequal densities of
bodies.
Against this, some may object
that what we call " vacuum" may
be full of imponderable matter,
say, of ether, the presence of which
cannot indeed be detected by the
balance, but is well proved by the
pbenomena of heat, electricity, etc.
To which we answer, that the pres-
ence of ether between the mole-
cules of bodies does not exclude
vacuum ; for ether itself is subject
to condensation and rarefaction, as
is manifest by its undulatory move-
ments; and no condensation or
rarefaction is possible without
vacuum, as we have already ex-
plained.
Another objection against our
conclusion may be the following:
Simple elements, if they be attrac-
tive, can penetrate through one an-
other, as we infer from the New-
tonian law of action. Hence, the
possibility of movement does not
depend on the existence of vacuum.
Wc answer, that the objection de-
stroys itself; for whoever admits
simple and onextended elen?ents,
must admit the existence of vacuum,
it being evident that no space can
be filled by unextended matter.
We may add, that natural bodies
and their molecules do not exclu-
sively consist of attractive elements,
but contain a great number of re-
pulsive elements, to which they owe
their impenetrability.
The ancients made against the
existence of a vacuum another ob-
jection, drawn from the presumed
necessity of a true material contact
for the communication of move-
ment. Vacuum, they said, is contra
bonum naturce — that is, incompatible
with the requirements of natural
order, for it prevents the interac-
tion of bodies. This objection
need hardly be answered, as it has
long since been disposed of by the
discovery of universal gravitation
and of other physical truths. As
we have proved in another place
that " distance is an essential con-
dition of the action of matter upon
matter,'** we shall say nothing
more on this point.
Objective Reality of Vacuum, — The
second thing we must ascertain is
whether space void of matter be a
mere nothings or an objective reality.
Though Balmes and most modem
philosophers hold that vacuum is
mere nothingness, we think with
other wciters that the contrary can
be rigorously demonstrated. Here
are our reasons.
First, nothingness is not a region
of movement. But vacuum is a re-
gion of movement. Therefore, va-
cuum is not mere nothingness.
I'he minor of this syllogism is
manifest from what we have just
said about the impossibility of
movement without vacuum, and
the major can be easily proved.
For, the interval of space which ii
meajiured by movement may be
• Tub Cathouc Wmoo, Augost, 1874, p. sli3*
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442
Space.
creature. It is no material creature ;
for it excludes matter,. It is no
spiritual creature; for, whether
there be spiritual creatures or not,
it is necessary to admit occupable
space.
Secondly, no created thing is
immovable, unchangeabl:e, and un-
limited. Absolute space is evident-
ly immovable, unchangeable, and
unlimited. Therefore, absolute
space is not a product of creation.
Thirdly, space considered abso-
lutely as it is in itself, exhibits an
infinite and inexhaustible possibili-
ty of real ubications. But such a
possibility is to be found nowhere
but in God alone, in whom all pos-
sible things have their formal possi-
bility. And therefore, the reality
of absolute spaoiJ is all in God
alone ; and accordingly, such a re-
ality not only is not, but could nev-
er be, created.
Fourthly, whatever is necessary,
is uncreated and eternal. Space
considered absolutely as it is in it-
self is something necessary. There-
fore, absolute space is uncreated and
eternal. The major of this syllo-
gism is evident ; the minor is thus
proved: Space absolutely consid-
ered is nothing else than the formal
possibility of real ubications ; but
the possibility of things contingent
IS necessary, uncreated, and eternal ;
for all contingent things are possi-
ble before any free act of the crea-
tor, since their intrinsic possibility
does not depend on God's volition,
as Descartes imagined, but only on
his essence as distinctly and com-
prehensively understood by the di-
vine intellect.
Our next proposition will afford
a fifth proof of this conclusion.
Meanwhile, we beg of our reader
not to forget the restriction by
which we have limited our present
question. We have spoken of space
ctbsoluiely considered as it is in itsell
— that is, of absolute space. Om
conclusion, if applied to relative
space, would not be entirely true; for
relative space implies the existence
of at least two contingent terms,
and therefore involves something
created. We make this remark be-
cause men are apt to confound rela-
tive with absolute space, owing to
the sensible representations which
always accompany our intellectual
operations, and also because we
think that the philosophical diffi-
culties encountered by many writ-
ers in their investigation of the na-
ture of space originated in the lat-
ent and unconscious assumption
that their imagination of relaiire
space was an intellectual concept
of absolute space. It is thus thai
they were led to consider all space
void of matter as imaginary and
chimerical.
Quiddity of Absolute Space. — ^It
now remains for us to ascertain tkc
true nature of absolute space, and to
point out its essential definition. Our
task will not be difficult after the
preceding conclusions. If absolute
space is an uncreated, infinite, eter-
nal, and unchangeable reality, it
must be implied in some of the at-
tributes of Godhead. Now, the di-
vine attribute in which the reason
of all possible ubications is contain-
ed, is immensity. Hence, absolute
space is implied in God's immensi-
ty, and we shall see that it is no-
thing else than the virtuaJity or the
extrinsic terminability of immensity
itself.
Before we prove this proposition,
we must define the terms virtualit^
and terminability. " Virtual ity "
comes from virtus as formality from
forma* Things that are actual
owe their being to their form:
hence, whatever expresses some ac
tual degree of entity is styled ''a
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXI., No. 124.— JULY, 1875.
SPACE.
HAtHEMATiciANS admit three
kiitiis of continuous quantities, viz.,
the quantity of space measured by
local movement, the quantity of
lim^ employed in the movement,
M»d. the quantity of change in the
ilte&sity of the movement. Thus
iD continuity, according to them,
Abends on movement ; so that, if
4«fc*werc no continuous move-
9Wtt| nothing could be conceived
ir continuous. The ancient phi-
•tMOphers generally admitted, and
SUBy still admit, a fourth kind of
MtttBoous quantity, viz., the quan-
tity of matter ; but it is now fully
doBOfistrated that bodies of matter
Mtt aoty and cannot be, materially
coiteuous, even in their primitive
Mkeales, and that therefore the
I qaintily of matter is not continuous,
I hm consists of a discrete number
of primitive material units. Hence,
I matter it not divisible in infinitum^
»nd give* no occasion to infinitesi-
ttuj {oiuitities, except inasmuch as
the >oiaiiies, or quantities of space,
00c »ied (not filled) by matter are
conceived to keep within infinitesi-
mal dimensions. We may, there-
fore, be satisfied that space, time,
and movement alone afe continuous
and iniinitely divisible, and that the
continuity of space and time, as
viewed by the mathematicians, is
essentially connected with the con-
tinuity of movement. But space
measured by movement is a relaiivi
space, and time — that is, the dura-
tion of njovement — is a relative du-
ration; and since everything rela-
tive presupposes something absolute
which is the source of its relativity,
we are naturally brought to inquire
what is absolute space and absolute
duration ; for, without the know-
ledge of the absolute, the relative
can be only imperfectly understood.
Men of course daily speak of time
and of space, and understand what
they say, and are understood by
others ; but this does not show that
they know the intimate nature, or
can give the essential definition, of
either time or space.- S. Augus-
tine asks : " What is time ?" and
10 Act of CoQgrett, in the year 2875, by Rev. I. T. Hkkxk, ta the Office of tiw
libnuian of CoogroB, at Washiagtoo, D. C
446
Space.
from which the relative borrows its
relativity. On the other hand, it is
obvious that real space, as under-
stood by Descartes, and by Balmes
too, is something purely relative;
for " space," says Balmes, ** is
nothinj^ but the extension of bodies
themselves " ; to which Descartes
adds, that such a space *' consti-
tutes the essence of bodies." But
the extension of bodies is evidently
relative, since it arises from the
relations intervening between the
material terms of bodies. The
three dimensions of bodies — length,
breadth, and depth — are nothing but
distances, and distances are rela-
tions in space. Hence, no dimen-
sion is conceivable but through re-
lations in space ; and therefore,
before we can have real dimensions
in bodies, we must have, as their
foundation, real space independent
of bodies. Finally, since the opin-
ion of which we are speaking affirms
that relative space is a reality,
while it denies that space without
bodies is real, the same opinion
lays down the foundation of real
and of ideal Pantheism, as we have
already remarked. This suffices
to show that such an opinion must
be absolutely rejected.
Nothing therefore remains but to
accept the doctrine of those who
account for the reality of absolute
space either by divine immensity
or by the possibility of real ubica-
tions. But these authors, as a little
reflection will show, though employ-
ing a different phraseology, teach
substantially the same thing; for it
would be absurd to imagine the
possibility of infinite real ubications
as extraneous to God, in whom
alone all things have their possibil-
ity. We must, therefore, conclude
that space, considered absolutely
as to its quiddity, may be defined
to be the infinite virtuality, or ex-
trinsic tcrminability, of divine ia-
mensity.
A Corollary, — Absolute space ii
infinite, eternal, immovable, imrao-
table, indivisible, and formally sim-
ple, though znrtually extended with-
out limits — that is, equivalent to in-
finite length, breadth, and depth.
Solution of Objections. — It may be
objected that absolute space, being
only a virtuality, can have no for<^
mal existence. In fact, the virtu*
ality of divine immensity is die
mere possibility of real ubications;
and possibilities have no format ei*
istence. Hence, to affirm that al>*
solute space has formal being a
the order of realities, is to give
body to a shadow. It would be
more reasonable to say that spaces
contained in divine immensity \vA
as the velocity which a body maf
acquire is contained in the power
of an agent ; and that, as the povet
of the agent is no velocity, so die
virtuality of immensity is no spscA
This objection may be ansirered
thus : Granted that the viruudttf
of divine immensity is the mcw
possibility of real ubicationSi tf
does not follow that absolute space
has only a virtual existence, boi^
on the contrar.y, that, as the rirfih
ality of divine immensity is alto-
gether actual^ so also is absolute
space. The reason alleged, that
" possibilities have no formal exist-
ence," is sophistic, A term whkh
is only possible, say, another world,
has of course no formal existence;
but its possibility — that is, the ex-
trinsic tcrminability of God's om-
nipotence — is evidently as actual 2s
omnipotence itself. And in the
same manner, an ubication which '\&
only possible has no formal exist-
ence ; but its possibility — that is, the
extrinsic terminability of God's im-
mensity — is evidently as actual a>
immensity itself. If absolute space
Space.
447
were conceived as an array of ac-
tual ubications, we would readily
concede that to give it a reality not
grounded on actual ubications
would be to give a body to a
shadow; but, since absolute space
must be conceived as the mere pos-
sibility of actual ubications, it is
manifest that we need nothing but
the actual terminability of God's
immensity to be justified in admit-
ting the actual existence of abso-
lute space.
Would it be "more reasonable"
to say, as the objection infers, that
space is contained in divine im-
mensity just as velocity is con-
tained in the power of the agent ?
Certainly not, because what is con-
tained in divine immensity is the
virtuality of contingent ubications,
not the virtuality of absolute space.
There is no virtuality of absolute
space ; for there is no virtuality of
possibility of ubications ; as the
virtuality of a possibility would be
liclhing else than the possibility of
a possibility — that is, a chimera.
Hence, the words of the objection
should be altered as follows :
''Contingent ubications are con-
tained in divine immensity just as
velocity is contained in the power
of an agent ; for, as the power of the
agent is no actual velocity, so the
virtuality of immensity is no actual
contingent ubication." And we
may go further in the comparison
by adding, that, as the formal pos-
sibility of actual velocity lies
wholly in the power of the agent,
so the possibility of actual ubica-
tions— that is, absolute space — lies
in* the virtuality of divine immen-
sity.
Thus the objection is solved. It
will not be superfluous, however, to'
point out the false assumption
which underlies it, viz., the notion
that the extrinsic terminability of
divine immensity has only a virtual,
not a formal, reality. This as-
sumption is false. The termina-
bility is the formality under which
God's immensity presents itself to
our thought, when it is regarded as
the source of some extrinsic rela-
tion, «/ habens ordinem ad extra.
Such a formality is not a mere con-
cept of our reason ; for God's im-
mensity is not only conceptually,
but also really, terminable adexira ;
whence it follows that such a ter-
minability is an objective reality in
the divine substance. Termina-
bility, of course, implies virtuality ;
but this does not mean that such a
terminability has only a virtual
reality ; for the virtuality it implies
is the virtuality of the extrinsic
terms which it connotes, and not
the virtuality of its own being.
Were we to admit that the extrinsic
terminability of God's immensity is
only a virtual entity, we would be
compelled to say also that omnipo-
tence itself is only a virtual entity ;
(or omnipotence is the extrinsic
terminability of God's act. But it
is manifest that omnipotence is in
God formally, not virtually. In
like manner, then, immensity is in
God not only as an actual attri-
bute, but also as an attribute
having an actual terminability ad
exiray which shows that its termi-
nability is not a virtual, but a for-
mal, reality.
A second objection maybe made.
Would it not be better to define
space as the virtuality of all ubica-
tionsy rather than the virtuality of
God's immensity t For when we
think of space, we conceive it as
soinething immediately connected
with the ubication of creatures,
without need of rising to the con-
sideration of God's immensity.
We answer that absolute 3pace
may indeed be styled " the virtuality
448
S^atf.
of all ubications ; for all possi-
ble ubications are in fact virtually
contained in it But such Sl phrase
does not express the quiddity of
absolute space ; for it does not tell
us what reality is that in which all
ubications are virtually contained.
On the contrary, when we say that
absolute space is " the virtuality of
divine immensity," we point out the
very quiddity of space ; for we
point out its constituent formality
which connects divine immensity
with all possible ubications.
True it is that we are wont to
think of space as connected with
contingent ubications; for it is from
such ubications that our knowledge
of place and of space arises. But
this space thus immediately con-
nected with existing creatures is
relative space, andMts representation
mostly depends on our imaginative
faculty. Hence, this manner of
representing space cannot be alleg-
ed as a proof that absolute space can
be intellectually conceived without
referring to divine immensity.
A third objection may be the fol-
lowing. Whatever has existence is
either a substance or an accident.
But absolute space is neither a sub-
stance nor an accident. Therefore,
absolute space has no existence,
and is nothing. The major of this
argument is well known, and the
minor is proved thus : Absolute
space does not exist in any subject,
of which it might be predicated ;
hence, absolute space is not an ac-
cident. Nor is it a substance; for
then it would be the substance of
God himself — an inference too pre-
posterous to be admitted.
This objection will soon disap-
pear by observing that, although
everything existing may be reduced
either to the category of substance
or to some of the categories of acci-
dent, nevertheless, it is not true that
every existing reality is formally i
substance or an accident. There
are a great many realities which
cannot be styled " substances,**
though they are not accidents.
Thus, rationality, activity, substanti-
ality, existence, and all the essential
attributes and constituents of things,
are not substances, and yet they are
not accidents ; for they either enter
into the constitution, or flow from,
the essence, of substance, and are
identified with it, though not for-
mally nor adequately. Applying this
distinction to our subject, we say
that absolute space cannot be styled
simply " God's substance," notwith-
standing the fact that the virtuality
of divine immensity identifies itself
with immensity, and immensity with
the divine substance. The reason
of this is, that one thing is not sai^
simply to be another, unless they
be the same not only as to their re-
ality, but also as to their conceptual
notion. Hence, we do not say that
the possibility of creatures is " God's
substance," though such a possibil-
ity is in God. alone ; and in the
same manner, we cannot say that
the possibility of ubication is "God's
substance," though such a possibili*
ty has the reason of its being io
God alone. For the same reason,
we cannot say simply that God's
eternity is his omnipotence, nor
that his intellect is his immensity,
nor that God understands by bis
will or by his goodness, though
these attributes identify themselves
really with the divine substance
and with one another, as is shown
in natural theology. It is plain,
therefore, that absolute space is not
precisely ** God's substance "; and
yet it is not an accident ; for it is
the virtuality or" extrinsic terraina-
bility of divine immensity itself.
A fourth objection arises from
the opinion of those who consider
space.
449
God's immensity as the foundation
of absolute space, but in such a
manner as to imply the existence
of a real distinction between the
tiro. Immensity, they say, has no
fonnal extension, as it has no parts
outside of parts ; whereas, absolute
space is formally extended, and has
parts outside of parts ; for when a
body occupies one part of space, it
does not occupy any other — which
shows that the parts of space are
really distinct from one another ;
and therefore absolute space, though
it has the reason of its being in
God's immensity, is something real-
ly distinct from God's immensity.
To this we answer, that it is
impossible to admit a real distinc-
tion between absolute space and di-
vine immensity. When divine im-
mensity is said to be the foundation,
or the reason of being, of absolute
space, the phrase must not be taken
to mean that absolute space is any-
thing made, or extrinsic to God's
immensity ; its meaning is that
God's immensity contains in itself
virtually^ as we have explained, all
possible ubications of exterior
things, just as God's omnipotence
contains in itself virtually all possi-
ble creatures. And as we cannot
affirm without error that there is a
real distinction between divine om-
nipotence and the possibility of
creatures which it contains, so we
cannot affirm without error that
there is a real distinction between
divine immensity and the possibili-
ty of ubications which it contains.
That immensity has no parts out-
side of parts we fully admit, though
we maintain at the same time that
Ciod is everywhere formally by his
immensity. But we deny that ab-
solute space has parts outside of
parts; for it is impossible to have
parts where there are no distinct
entities. Absolute space is one
VOL. XXI — 29
simple virtuality containing in it-
self the reason of distinct ubications,
but not made up of them ; just as
the divine essence contains in it-
self the reason of all producible
essences, but is not made up of
them.
As to the formal extension of im-
mensity, Lessius seems to admit
it when he says that " God exists
in the space which his immensity
formally extends^** F6nelon also
holds that " immensity is infinite
extension " ; whilst Balmes does not
admit that extension can be con-
ceived where there are no parts.
The question, so far as we can
judge, is one of words. That God
.is everywhere formally is a plain
truth ; on the other hand, to say
that he is /<7/7;/^//v extended, taking
" extension " in the ordinary signi-
fication, would be to imply parts
and composition ; which cannot be
in God. It seems to us that the
right manner of expressing the in-
finite range of God's immensity
would be this : " God through his
immensity is formally everywhere,
though by a virtual, not a formal,
extension." In the same manner,
space is formally every wliere, though
it is only virtually, not formally,
extended. And very likely this,
and nothing more, is what Lessius
meant when saying that immensity
"formally extends" space. This
phrase may, in fact, be understood
in two ways; first, as meaning
that immensity causes space to be
formally extended — which is wrong ;
secondly, as meaning that immensi-
ty is the formaly not the efficient,
reason of the extension of space.
This second meaning, which is phi-
losophically correct, does not imply
the formal extension of space, as is
evident, unless by " formal exten-
sion " we understand the " formal
reason of its extending " ; in which
450
Corpus Christi.
case the word ** extension " would
be taken in an unusual sense.
Lastly, when it is objected that
" bodies occupying one part of space
do not occupy another," and that
therefore "space is composed of
distinct parts," a confusion is made
of absolute space, as such, and
space extrinsically terminated, or
occupied by matter, and receiving
from such a termination an extrin-
sic denomination. Distinct bodies
give distinct names to the places
occupied by them; but absolute
space is not intrinsically affected by
the presence of bodies, as we shall
see in our next article ; and, there-
fore, the distinct denominations of
different places refer to the distinct.
ubications of matter, not to distinct
parts of absolute space. As wc
cannot say that the sun and the
planets are parts of divine omnipo-
tence, so we cannot say that their
places are parts of divine immensity
or of its terminability ; for as the
sun and the planets are only extrin-
sic terms of omnipotence, so are
their places only extrinsic terms of
immensity. Such places, therefore,
may be distinct from one another,
but their possibility (that is, abso-
lute space) is one^ and has no parts.
But this subject will receive a
greater development in our next
article, in which we intend to in-
vestigate the nature of relative
space.
TO BB CONTDIVBD,
CORPUS CHRISTI.
Not lilies here, their vesture is too pale.
Nor will they crush to fragrance 'neath the tread
Where every step must rapturous thought exhale
Of the triumphant King whose thorn-crowned head
Dripped crimson life-drops but a while ago.
Not lilies here, to-day the roses know \
It is Love*s feast, and sacred banquet-hall
And holy table should be decked and strewn
With Love*s bright flowers, the perfumed gifts of June.
Oh ! that our hearts might lie beneath his feet
Even as the drifting petals, pure and sweet !
Joy, drooping soul ! His peace is over all.
Gethsemane is past, Golgotha's darkness fled :
To-day the guests are bidden, the heavenly banquet spread.
Are You My Wifet
451
ARE YOU MY WIFE ?
1 AOTROI of **PAUt BSFOKB THB WAR," ^^mriCBBR THnmWC,** ** PIUS VI.,** WC
CHAPTER VI.
THE DEBUT.
The three days had expanded to
ten when Admiral de Winton open-
ed the breakfast-roora door on Mon-
day morning, and, standing on the
threshold, said in his most emphatic
manner: "Harness, I'm going up
by the 3.20 this afternoon. Now,
not a word, or Til bolt this minute.
... I can bear a good deal, but*
there is a lim*it to everything.
You've wheedled me and bullied me
into neglecting my business for a
whole week, in spite of myself ; and
I'm off to-day by the 3.20."
** Well, depart in peace whatever
you do," said Sir Simon, " and I
suppose you had better have some
breakfast before you start 1 It's
struck nine already, but you will
have time to swallow a cup of tea
between this and then."
" The fact is it serves me right,"
continued the admiral, advancing
to his accustomed seat at the
table; "hard-worked drudges of
a my kind ought never to trust them-
selves in the clutches of idle swells
like you — they never know when
they'll get out of them. Here's a
letter from the Admiralty, blowing
me up for not sending in that re-
port I was to have drawn up on the
Russian fleet ; and quite right, too —
only it's you who ought to get the
blowing up, not me."
"But, uncle, I thought you had
settled to remain till Thursday,"
said Glide; "you said you would
yesterday."
" One often says a thing yester-
day that one has to unsay to-day,"
retorted the admiral, clearing for
action by sweeping his letters to
one side; "I'm going by the 3.20.
I tell you I am. Harness !"
" Well, I've not said anything to
the contrary, have I ?"
"But you needn't be trying to
circumvent me, to make me late for
the train, or that sort of thing. I'm
up to your dodges now. Ryder will
be on the look-out; he's packing
up already."
"I must say its rather shabby
behavior to Lady Anwyll," observ-
ed the baronet ; " the dinner and
dance on Wednesday are entirely
for you and Glide."
" Glide must go and make the best
of it for me ; an old fellow like me is
no great loss at a dinner, and I don't
suppose she counted much on me
for the dance. How much longer
do you intend to stay here, eh?"
This was to his nephew •
"What's that to you .?" said Sir
Simon, interrupting Glide, who was
about to answer; " you'd like him to
do as you are doing — set the county
astir to entertain him, and then de-
camp before anything comes off."
But the admiral was not to be
moved from his determination by
any sense of ill-behavior to the
county. He started by the 3.20.
Sir Simon and Glide went to see
him off, and called at The Lilies on
their way back.
452
Arc You My Wifff
" Its perfectly useless, he never
would consent to it ; and in any case
it's too late now, * Sir Simon re-
marked, with his hand on the wick-
et ; " it's for Wednesday, and this is
Monday. We should have thought
of it sooner."
" Well, you'll speak to him any-
how ; it may serve for next time,"
urged elide in a low voice; *it's
cruel to see her cooped up in this
way."
It was as Sir Simon guessed.
M. de la Bourbonais would not
hear of Franceline's going to Lady
Anwyirs. Why should he .^ He
did not know Lady Anwyll, and
he was not likely to accept an invi-
tation that had clearly been sent
at somebody else's request, at the
eleventh hour. But quite apart
from this he would never have
allowed his daughter to go. He
never went out himself, and his
paternal French instinct repelled as
a monstrous inconvenance the idea
of letting her go without him —
above all, for a first appearance.
"But, happily, Franceline does
not care about those things," he said ;
" she has never been to a party, as
you know. She is happier without
amusements of the sort ; her doves
are all the amusement she wants." .
" Hem ! . . . I'm not so sure of
that, Bourbonais," said Sir Simon ;
^* we take for granted young people
don't care for things because we
have ceased to care for them ; we
forget that we were young once
upon a time ourselves. Why should
Franceline not enjoy what other
young girls enjoy } "
" She is not like other young
girls," replied her father, in a tone
of gentle sadness.
** Unfortunately for other girls
and for mankind in general," as-
sented Sir Simon.
Raymond smiled.
"I meant that their circum-
stances are not alike. You know
they are not, mon cher."
** You make mountains out of
mole-hills, Bourbonais," said the ba-
ronet ; " however, I give in about this
hop of Lady Anwyll's. It wouldn't
quite do to bring Mile, de la Bourbo-
nais out in that fashion ; she must be
presented differently ; those young-
sters don't consider these important
points." And he nodded at Glide,
who had sat listening with none
the less interest because he was
silent. " But something must be
done about it; the child can't be
thrown any longer on her doves for
society ; she must have a little
amusement ; it will tell on her health
if she has not."
It was not without intention that
he pointed this arrow at Raymond's
shield. Sir Simon knew where hi^
vulnerable spot lay, and that it was
possible to make him do almost
anything by suggesting that it might
affect his child's health. He had,
so far, no grounds for alarm, or cvco
anxiety about it ; but the memory
of her mother, to whom she bore in
many ways so strong a resemblance,
hung over him like the shadow of
an unseen dread. It was this that
conquered him in the riding scheme,
reducing him into acquiescence
with what he felt was not frankly
justifiable. Sir Simon had indeed ^
assured him that Ix)rd Roxham had
declined to take Rosebud ; but he
did not explain the circumstances.
Glide had taken a fancy to the
spirited bay mare, and on the very
morning after the letter was de-
spatched he announced his inten-
tion of riding her while he remaii ed;
whereupon the baronet, more keenly
alive to the courtesies of a host
than the obligations of a debtor,
instead of telling him how matters
stood, wrote a second letter on re-
Are YouiUy Wifef
453
ccipt of Lord Roxhara's accepting
the offer, to say he could not let
him have the horse for a week or
5^, and as Lord Roxham wanted
her immediately as a present for his
intended bride, he could not wait,
and thus ^i,ooo slipped out of Sir
Simon's hands. Mr. Simpson, his
incomparable man of business, had,
however, stopped the gap by some
other means, and the rascally archi-
tect was quieted for the present.
Raymond observed that Lord
Roxham was not the only person
in England who was open to the
offer of a mare like Rosebud, though
it might be difficult to meet with
any one willing to give such an ex-
orbitant price for her ; one does
not light on a wealthy, infatuated
bridegroom every day. ** Yes, that's
jnst it," replied Sir Simon, grasping
at any excuse for procrastination,
** one must bide one's time ; it's a
mistake selling for the sake of sell-
ing; if you only have patience
you're sure to find your man by-
and-by." And Raymond, feeling
that he had done all that he was
called upon to do in the case, re-
curred to it no more, and was satis-
fied to let Franceline use the horse.
There was no doubt the exercise
was beneficial to her. Ang^lique
said her appetite had nearly dou-
bled, and the child slept like a dor-
mouse since she had taken the rid-
ing; and as to the enjoyment it
afforded her, there could be no
mistake about that.
Sir Simon had promised to think
over what next should be done to
amuse his young favorite, and he
was as good as his word. He gave
the m;.tter, in ministerial parlance,
his most anxious consideration, and
the result was that he made up his
mind to give a ball at the Court,
where Franceline should make her
debut with the Mai that became
her real station and the hereditary
friendship of the two families. He
owed this to Raymond. It was
only fitting that Franceline should
come out under his roof, and be pre-
sented by him as the daughter of
his oldest and most valued friend.
He was almost as fond of the child,
too, as if she were his own ; and be-
sides, it was becoming desirable at
this moment that her position in
society should be properly defined.
He came down to breakfast big
with this mighty resolution, and
communicated it to Glide, who at
once entered into the plan with
great gusto, and had many valuable
hints to give in the way of decora-
tions ; he had seen eastern pageants,
and Italian and Spanish festas^ and
every description of barbaric gala
in his travels, and his ideas were
checked by none of the chains that
are apt to hamper the flights of
fancy in similar cases. Sir Simon
had never hinted in his presence
at such a thing as pecuniary em-
barrassments, and there was noth-
ing in the style and expenditure at
the Court to suggest their existence
there. Sir Simon winced a little as
Clide unwittingly brought his prac-
tical deception home to him by
speaking as if money were as plen-
tiful as blackberries with the owner
of Dullerton; but he was deter-
mined to keep strictly within the*
bounds of reason, and not to be
beguiled into the least unnecessary
extravagance.
** Bourbonais would not like it,
you see ; and we must consider him
first in the matter. It will be better
on the whole to make it simply a
sort of family thing, just a muster-
ing of the natives to introduce
Franceline It would be in bad
taste to make a Lord Mayor's day
of it, as if she were an heiress, and
so on. We'll just throw all the rooms
454
Are You My Wife?
open, and make it as jolly as we
can in a quiet way. I'll invite every-
body — the more the merrier."
So they spent a pleasant hour or
so talking it all over ; who were to
be asked to fill their houses, and
what men were to be had down
from London as a reserve corps for
the dancing. They had got the
length of fixing the date of the ball,
when Sir Simon remembered that
there was the highly important
question of Franceline's dress to be
considered.
" I must manage to get her up to
London, and have her properly
rigged out by some milliner there.
I dare say your stepmother would
put us up to that part of the busi-
ness, eh V* And Glide committed
his stepmother to this effect in a
most reckless way. It had already
been mooted with Raymond by Sir
Simon that Franceline should go to
London for a few days to see the
sights, and he could fall back on
this now for the present purpose.
He was surprised to find that Ray-
mond consented to the proposal,
not merely without reluctance, but
almost with alacrity.
" If you really think the change
will do her good, I shall be only
too grateful to you for taking her,"
he said; "but does it strike you
she wants it ?"
• Sir Simon felt a slight shock of
compunction at this direct question,
and at the glance of timid inquiry
that accompanied it. He had never
intended to distress or alarm his
friend; he only made the remarks
about Franceline's health as a means
of compassing his own ends towards
amusing and pleasing her.
" Not a bit of it !'* he answered
contemptuously; " what could have
put such a notion into my head }
When I say a little change of one
sort or another will do her good, I
only judge from what I hear all the
mothers say ; when their daughters
are come to Franceline's age they re
constantly wanting change, and if
they are too long without it they
begin to droop, and to look pale,
and so forth, and the doctor orders
them off somewhere. I don't imag-
ine Franceline is an exception to
the general rule ; and as prevention
is better than cure, it's as well to
give her the change before she feels
the want of it. It's a good plan
always to take time by the forelock;
you see yourself that the riding has
done her good."
" Yes, mon cher, yes," said M. dc
la Bourbonais, tilting his specta-
cles, " it certainly has strengthened
her. She has lost that pain in her
side she used to suffer from, though
I never knew it — I only heard of it
when it was gone. Ang^lique should
not have concealed it from me," he
added, a little nervously, and with
another of those inquiring looks at
Sir Simon.
"Pooh, pooh, nonsense! Whit
would she have worried you about
it for } All young people have pains
in their sides," returned the baronet
oracularly. " She's not done grow-
ing yet. Well, then, it's settled that
I carry her off on Monday. We
will start early, so as to be there to
receive Mrs. de Winton, who ar-
rives at Grosvenor Square by the
late afternoon train."
" But there is one thing you must
promise me," said Raymond, going
up to him and laying a hand im-
pressively on his arm ; " you will go
to no unnecessary expense. You
must give me your word for that"
" There you are, as usual, harp-
ing on the old string," laughed the
baronet, with a touch of impa-
tience. " What expense do you ex-
pect me to go to } The house is
there, and the servants arc there
An You My Wifef
455
and whether I'm there or not the
expenses go on. You don't sup-
pose Franceline will add very
heavily to them, or Mrs. de Win ton
cither ? "
** But you talked about taking her
to the operas, and so on, and I am
sure she would not care for amuse-
ments of that sort ; they would be
too exciting for her. The change
of scene and the sights of the city
will be quite enough."
" Make your mind easy about all
that. Mrs. de Win ton will take
care the child doesn't overdo her-
self. She's a very sensible woman,
and not at all fond of excitement."
As the baronet pronounced Mrs.
de Winton*s name, it occurred to
him for the first time to wonder if
it suggested nothing to Raymond,
and whether Glide's assiduity at The
Lilies, and prolonged stay at Dul-
lerton after his announcement that
he was only to remain three days,
awoke no suspicion in his mind. The
thing would have been impossible
in the case of any other father ; but
Raymond was so absorbed in his
studies, in hunting out and analyzing
the Causes of the Revolution, the
proposed title of the work that was
to be Francpline's doi, and so alto-
gether unlearned in the common
machinery of life, that he was capa-
ble of seeing the house on fire, and
not suspecting it concerned him
until it singed his pen. He knew
that Glide's meeting with him had
been a turning-point in the young
man's life ; that it was Raymond's
advice and influence that determin-
ed him to return to Glanworth, and
enter on his duties there with a
vigorous desire to fulfil them at the
sacrifice of his own plans and incli-
nations. He was already acting
the part of mentor to Glide, who
carried him his agent's letters to
read, and consulted him about the
various philanthropic schemes he
had in his head for the improve-
ment of the people on his estate —
notably the repression of drunken-
ness, which Raymond impressed on
him must be the keystone of all
possible improvement among the
humbler classes in England. Was
it possible that this demeanor and
the son-like tone of respect which
Glide had adopted toward him sug-
gested no ulterior motive on Glide's
part, or awoke no parental fear or
suspicion in Raymond } Sir Simon
was turning this problem up and
down in his mind, and debating
how far it might be advisable to
sound his friend, when Raymond
said abruptly :
" Mr. de Winton is not going
with you, of course } "
" No ; he is to run down to his
own place while we are away. I
expect him back when we return."
Their eyes met. Sir Simon
smiled a quizzical, complaisant
smile, but it died out quickly when
he saw the alarmed expression in
Raymond's face.
"The idea never struck me be-
fore," he exclaimed. " How should
it ? There was nothing to suggest
it ; the disparity is too great,"
" How so ? They are pretty well
matched in age — eighteen and eight-
and-twenty — and as to Glide's fam-
ily, he cannot certainly count quar-
terings with the De Xaintriacs, err
perhaps even the Bourbonais ; but
the De Wintons are . . ."
" Enfantillage, * cnfantillage !"
broke in Raymond with a gesture of
wild impatience ; "as if it signified in
a foreigner living in exile whether his
family be illustrious or not, when it
is decayed and without the smallest
actual weight or position ! The dis-
parity I allude to is in fortune. With
* Childishness.
456
Are You My Wifef
such a barrier between my daugh-
ter and Mr. de Winton, how could
any airangenient have entered into
my imagination V*
"And you have actually lived all
these years in England without get-
ting to understand Englishmen and
their ideas better than that 1" said
Sir Simon. "As if it mattered that'*
— snapping his fingers — " about any
difference in fortune ! Why half
the wealthiest men I know have
married girls without a penny. I
did it myself," added the baronet,
with a change from gay to grave in
his tone ; " my wife had no fortune
of her own, and if she had, I
wouldn't have taken a penny with
her. No man of spirit, who has a
fortune large enough to support his
wife properly, likes to take money
with her. Glide de Winton has
^15,000 a year, and no end of
money accumulating in the funds ;
he hasn't spent two years* income
these last eight years, I'll lay a
wager; it would be a crying shame
if he were to marry a wife with
money ; but he's not the man to do
it."
M. de la Bourbonais had risen,
and was walking up and down with
his hands behind his back and his
chin on his breast, his usual atti-
tude when he was thinking hard.
It was the first time that the idea
of Franceline's marriage had come
home to him in any practical form —
indeed, in any form but that of a
remote and shadowy abstraction
that he might or might not be some
day called upon to discuss. He
had not discussed his own marriage,
and there was no precedent in his
mind for discussing hers. As far
as his perceptions carried him,
those things were entirely arranged
by outsiders; when everything was
made ready in the business depart-
ment, the parties concerned were
brought together, and the wed-
ding took place. But what busi-
ness was there to arrange in
Franceline's case } If Mr. de Win-
ton had been a high-bom young
gentleman without a penny to bless
himself with, there would have
been some sense in his being pro-
posed as a candidate for Mile,
de la Bourbonais ; but it was
against all law and precedent that
a millionnaire should dream of mar-
rying a girl without a doi.
"This is very foolish" he said,
taking another turn up the long
room — they were in the library —
" if it occurred to you before, you
should have told me."
" Told you what ? That Mile.
de la Bourbonais was a deuced
pretty girl, and Mr. de Win-
ton a remarkably good-looking
young man, neither blind nor de-
void of understanding. I should
think you might have found that
out for yourself."
" It is not a thing to joke about,
Simon. I cannot understand your
joking about it." And Raymond
halted before Sir Simon, who was
lounging back in his chair, his
coat thrown back, and his thumbs
stuck into his waistcoat, while
he surveyed his friend's anx-
ious face with a look of comical
satisfaction. "Has Mr. de Winton
spoken to you on the subject ?"
" No."
" Have you said anything to him
about it ?"
" Not I!"
" And yet you speak as if you
had something to go upon."
"And so I have. I have my
eyes and ray intelligence. I have
been making use of both during
the last ten days."
"Then am I expected to speak
to him ?"
**'You are expected to do nolh-
Are You My Wife t
457
ig of the sort/' said the baronet,
larting from his listless attitude,
nd speaking in a determined man-
cr; "it does net concern you at
his stage of affairs. If you inter-
cre you may just put your foot in
L Leave the young people to
lanage their own affairs ; they un-
lerstand it better than we do."
**Not concern me!" echoed
Uymondy protruding his eyebrows
x\ inch beyond his nose; "and if
his idea, that seems so clear to you,
hould seem clear to others, and
tothing comes of it, how then.^
kfy child is compromised, and I am
K)t to interfere, and it does not
;onccrn me?"
** You talk like an infant, Bour-
wnais!" said Sir Simon, changing
lis bantering tone to one of re-
icntmcnt. "Am I likely to en-
jourage De Win ton if I did not
bow him; if I were not certain
that he is incapable of behaving
Mhcrwise than as a gentleman !"
" But you confess that he has not
taid anything to you; suppose he
thould never have thought of it at
111?"
"Suppose that he's a blind
idiot! Is it likely that a young
fellow like Glide should be thrown
into daily society with a girl like
Pranccline and not fall in love
with her .> Tell me that!"
But that was precisely what Ray-
Bond could not see. His mental
vision was not given to roaming
beyond the narrow horizon of his
own experience : this furnished him
with no precedent for the case in
point — ^a young man falling in love
^nd choosing a wife without being
told to do so by his family.
** If it were suggested to him,"
be replied, dubiously, " no doubt
be might; but no one has put it
into his bead ; even you have not
given him a hint to that effect."
Sir Simon threw back his head
and roared.
"Really, Bourbonais, you're too
bad ! Ton my honor you are. To
imagine that a man of eight-and-
twenty waits for a hint to fall in
love when he has the temptation
and the opportunity ! But you
know no more about it than the
man in the moon. You live in the
clouds."
"I have lived in them perhaps
too long," replied Raymond, hum-
bly and with a pang of self-re-
proach. " I should have been more
watchful where my child was con-
cerned ; but I fancied that her pov-
erty, which hitherto has cut her off
from the enjoyments of her age,
precluded all possibility of mar-
riage — at least until the fruit of my
toil should have given her a right
to think of it. It seems I was mis-
taken."
" And are you sorry for it ?"
Raymond walked to the window,
and looked out for a moment before
he answered.
" Admitting that the immense dis-
parity in fortune were not an insu-
perable barrier, there is another
that nothing would overcome in
Franceline's eyes — he is not a
Catholic."
" Yes, he is. At least he ought
to be ; his mother was a Catholic,
and he was brought up one.
" Strange that he should not have
mentioned that to me!" said Ray-
mond, musing; " but then how is it
that we did not see him in church
last Sunday?".
" Hem ! . . . I'm not quite sure
that he went ; it was my fault.
I kept them both up till the small
hours of the morning talking over
business, and so on," said Sir Si-
mon, throwing the mantle of friend-
ship over Clide's delinquency.
" You know it does not do to draw
458
Are You My Wifat
the rein too tight with a young fel-
low. He's been so much abroad,
and unhappy, and that sort of thing,
you see; but a wife would bring
him all right again, and keep him
up to the collar."
"Franceline would^ attach para-
mount importance to that. Har-
ness," said the father, with a cer-
tain accent of humility ; he did not
dare insist on it in his own name.
" Of course she would, dear little
puss, and quite right ; but she won't
be too hard on him for all that."
It required all Sir Simon's pow-
ers of persuasion to make Raymond
promise that he would leave things
alone, and not speak either to Glide
or Franceline on the subject of
this conversation. He gave the pro-
mise, however, feeling in some in-
tangible way that the possibility of
Franceline's marriage under such
unprecedented, such unnatural cir-
cumstances, in fact, was a pheno-
menon too far beyond his ken for
him to meddle with in safety. It
was decided that she should go to
London on the day appointed, as
if nothing had transpired between
the friends since the proposed visit
had been agreed to.
A ball anywhere at Dullerton
was always a momentous occasion,
stirring the stagnant waters with
pleasurable agitation ; but a ball at
the Court was an event of such
magnitude that it set the neighbor-
hood in movement like a powerful
electric shock. It was, compared
to ordinary entertainments of the
kind, what a Royal coronation is to
a Lord Mayor's show. Wonderful
reports were afloat as to the mag-
nificence of the preparations that
were going on. Nobody had been
allowed to see them ; but conjec-
ture was busy, and enough trans.-
pired to excite expectation to the
highest pitch. It was known thai
men had been brought down froa
London with vans full of all soitl
of appliances for transforming tbe
solemn Gothic mansion into a faiiy
palace. How the transformation m
to be effected no one had the v»*
guest idea, and this made expecta*
tion all the more thrilling.
It was indeed but too true that
Sir Simon had abandoned his ^xtL
wise intention of making it no idoi^,i
than a gay mustering of the c!
Fate so ordained that just at
time he got news of the rapid^
declining health of his interesta||
relative. Lady Rebecca Hamtflb'
*' She cannot possibly hold outoftf
the autumn ; her physician aIio«dl
as much to transpire to a profi»
sional friend of mine, so we
be prepared for the worst,"
Mr. Simpson ; " it is certainly |»i»i
vidential that the ;^5o,ooo and
reversion of her ladyship's joini
should fall in at this momeaU*
And Sir Simon felt that he
not better express his grateful
of the providential coincidence,
at ,the same time cheer himself
under the impending bercavi
than by giving for once full play
the oriental element of hospitali^
and magnificence, so long pent
in him by a sordid bondage to
nomy.
*' Glide, that idea of yours abcHtt
turning the Medusa gallery int» «
moonlight walk, with palms
ferns, and so on, was really too
good to be lost. I think we must
have the Govent Garden peopk
down to do it. And then the Diana
gallery would make a capital pen
dant in the Ghinese style. It's really
a pity to do the thing by halves ;
I owe it to Bourbonais to do iv hand-
somely on an occasion like this; and.
hang it ! a couple of hundreds more
or less won*t break a man, eh ?
Are You My Wifef
459
And Glide being decidedly of
)pinion that it would not, the Co-
rent Garden people were had down,
md preparations went on in right
foyal style.
M. de la Bourbonais had been
Wormed that a dance was in view
orihc purpose of introducing Fran-
:cline,and accepted the intelligence
B a part of the mysterious web
lat was being woven round him
^ unseen hands. Perhaps he
kaguely connected the event with
tttething like a soiree de contrail
a forerunner of it, and this would
pccount for his passive acquies-
cence, and the tender, preoccupied
Ur that marked his manner during
Ike foregoing week. Sir Simon, like
\ wiljr diplomatist as he was, man-
^d to keep Glide from going to
The Lilies for nearly the entire
tk, by throwing the whole bur-
of overseer on him, filling his
ads so full of commissions for
tidon, and shifting the responsi-
Hty of everything so completely
Wi shoulders that he had scarce-
linae to eat or sleep, being either
Ion the railroad or in a state of
porkroanlike dhfiabilli that made
p impossible for him to show him-
Wf beyond the precincts of the
tecnc of action until dinner-hour,
^hen Sir Simon was always abnor-
mally disinclined for a walk, and
insisted on being read to or other-
|»ise entertained by his young friend
|till bed-time.
Franceline, meanwhile, had her
Own preoccupations. Not about
Her dress— that had been settled
to her utmost satisfaction, being
aided by the Ambined action of
Mrs. de Winton and that lady's
French milliner. But there was
another important matter weighing
heavily upon her mind. It was
josl three days before the great
day. Mr. dc Winton had rushed
down with the Edinburgh Review for
M. de la Bourbonais, apologizing
profusely to Franceline, who was
sitting in the summer-house, for
presenting himself in such a state
of undress, and saying something to
the effect that it was the servants*
dinner-hour, and they were so
much engaged, etc. But he could
not keep the count waiting for the
book, which ought to have been
sent several days ago. No, he
would not disturb the count at that
hour, if Mile. Franceline would be
kind enough -to take the book and
explain about the delay. France-
line promised to do so ; which was
rash, considering that she did not
understand a word about it, or that
there was any delay whatever.
" Oh ! I may as well profit by the
opportunity to ask if you are en-
gaged for the first waltz on Thurs-
day .> *' said Mr. de Winton, turning
back after he had gone a few steps,
as if struck by a happy thought.
No, Franceline was not engaged.
" Then may I claim the privilege
of the first-comer, and ask you for
"Yes, thank you. I shall be
very happy."
And she began immediately to be
very miserable, remembering that
she did not know how to waltz,
never having had a dancing lesson
in her life. She shut up her book,
and set out toward the vicarage.
She never felt quite at home with
the Langrove girls ; but they were
the essence of good nature, and
perhaps they could help her out of
this difficulty. She was ashamed
to say at once what had brought
her, and went on listening to them
chattering about their dresses,
which were being manufactured out
of every shade of tarlatan in the
rainbow. Suddenly Godiva. ex-
claimed : " I wonder if you'll have
460
Are YouAfy Wifef
any partners, Franceline ? Do you
think you will? You know you
don't know anybody ? You've
never even spoken to Mr. Charl-
ton." And Franceline, crushed
under a sense of this and another
inferiority, blushed, and said " No."
" Perhaps Mr. de Winton will ask
you } Oh, I should think he's sure
to. Hasn't he asked you already ? "
And Franceline, painfully conscious
of ten eyes staring at her, blushed
deep crimson this time, and an-
swered " Yes" ; and then, suddenly
recollecting that she had something
important to do, she said good-by
and hurried away. She had not
closed the gate behind her when
the five Misses Langrove who were
•*out " had rushed up to the nurse-
ry and informed the five who were
not " out " that Franceline de la
Bourbonais was engaged to that
handsome, rich young Mr. de Win-
ton, who had ;^6o,ooo a year and
the grandest place in Wales. Only
fancy !
" How stupid I was to get red
like that, instead of telling the truth
and asking Isabella to teach me
how 10 do it !" was Franceline's
vexed exclamation to herself, as
she entered the garden, and, swing-
ing her sunshade, looked up at her
doves perched on a branch just be-
hind the chimney that was curling
its blue rings up against the deeper
purple of the copper-beech.
"What is my child meditating
on so solemnly ? " said M. de la
Bourbonais, meeting her at the
door ; and taking her face between
his hands, he looked into the dark,
deep eyes that had never had a
secret from him. Had they now }
He had watched her walking up the
garden, and noticed that fold in the
smooth, white brow ; he was always
watching her of late, though Fran-
celine did not perceive it.
" I am worried, petit p^re. I
I were not going to this ball !*" Aai
she leaned her cheek against \S^
with a sigh.
Raymond started as if he hal
been stabbed.
" My child ! my cherished ooe*
what is it? What has happencdf*
"0 petit p^re! its noihmg/' die
cried eagerly, smitten with remori^^
by his look of anguish. " It's Mil!
worth being unhappy about ; onljr
I never thought of it before, mm
now I'm afraid it can't be heipcA
They will ask me to dance, and 1
don't know how."
** Mon Dieu! it is true,
should have thought of that,
was very heedless of us all.
there must be a master here
could give thee some lessons,
child. We will speak to
Merrywig. Stay, where's my htH
There is no time to be lost."
But Franceline checked
*" Petit p^re, I should be ashaottl
to get a master now ; every
would know about it and lau^ lA
me ; all the young girls would
such fun of me."
" What dances dost thou want t»
dance ?" inquired her father,
ting his brows, as if searching
forgotten clew in the backgrooad
of memory ; ** I dare say I codd
recall the fnifmet de la cour a liUk^
if that would help thee."
** I never hear them speak of It
I don't think they dance that nov;
only quadrilles and waltzes,** «id
Franceline.
" Ah ! quadrilles were after my
day; but the veUse d trots iew^ I
knew once upon \ time. Come
and let us see if I cannot remem-
ber it."
They went into the dining-room,
pushed the table and chairs into a
comer, and M. de la Bourbonais
fixing his spectacles as a prelimi-
Are You My Wife?
461
iry step, put himself into position ;
s right foot a little in advance,
s eye-brows very much protruded,
id his head bent forward; he
ade the first steps with hesitation,
en more boldly, assisting his ntem-
y by humming the tune of an old
ilu.
Angelique, who was spinning in
|C room overhead, came down to
|e what the table and chairs were
iking all this clatter about, and
Irst in on a singular spectacle :
pr master pirouetting to the tune
\un, deux^ trots! round the eight-
p, square apartment, while Fran-
Aine, squeezed against the wall,
^ up her skirt so as to afford a
B view of her shabby little boots,
id tried to execute the same evo-
poDS in a space of one foot square.
r Papa is teaching me to waltz,"
Kplained the pupil, not looking up,
pit keeping her eyes stuck on the
^lAfcssor*s feet lest she should miss
Ik thread of their discourse.
• Wdl, to be sure ! To think of
poosieur le Comte's remembering
h steps at this time of day ! What
\ wonderful memory monsieur
■•r was Ang^lique's admiring
Minent.
•Now, then, shall we try it to-
plbcr?" said M. de la Bourbonais,
■d placing his arm round France-
be, the two glided round the room,
kc professor whistling his accom-
ttniment with as much emphasis
ipoHible, while the pupil counted
Wc, two, three, and Angelique kept
irac by clapping her hands.
**0h, petit i>ere, I shall do it beau-
'fiilly!** cried »Franceline, sus-
pending the performance to give
'im an energetic kiss that nearly
cm his spectacles flying across t)ie
00m. ** Now if you only could
each me the quadrille !**
But this recent substitute for the
>n of dancing was bejFond the scope
of Raymond's abilities ; quadrilles,
as he said, had come into fashion
long after his time. It was a grand
thing, however, to have accom-
plished so much, and Franceline
felt a sense of triumphant security
in her newly-acquired possession
that cleared away all her tremors.
She spent the rest of the afternoon
practising the vaise d trots temps, so
as to be quite perfect in it. Sir
Simon found her thus profitably
employed when he came down just
before his dinner with a newspaper.
" What were we all thinking about
not to have remembered that?"
was his horrified exclamation.
" Why, of course you must know the
quadrille ; you will have to open
the ball, child. You must come up
this evening to the Court, and we'll
have a private little dancing lesson,
all of us, and put you through the
figures."
And so they did ; and the result
was so successful that, when the
great day came, Franceline felt
quite sure of being able to behave
like everybody else. Her dress
came down with Mrs. de Win ton
on the eve of the ball, and she was,
in accordance with that lady's de-
sire, to dress at the Court under her
supervision.
It was a new era in Franceline's
life, finding herself arrayed in a
fairy robe of snow-white tulle, with
wild roses creeping up one side of
it, and a cluster of wild roses in her
hair. Angelique stood by, survey-
ing the process of transformation
with arms a-kimbo, too much im-
pressed by the splendors of the
whole thing to vindicate her rights
as bonne, and quite satisfied to see
her natural functions usurped by
nimble Croft, Mrs. de Winton's
maid. But when that ex[)cricnced
])erson whipped up the gossamer
garment and shook it like an apple-
462
Are You My Wifef
tree, and tossed it with a sweep
over Franceline's head, it fairly
took away her breath, for the pink
petals stuck on in spite of the shock,
and the soft flounces foamed all
round just in the right place, rip-
pling down from the neck and
shoulders, and flowing out behind
like a sea-wave. Then Croft crowned
it all by planting the pink cluster
in the hair just as if it grew there.
Mrs. de Winton came in at this
crisis, however, and suggested that
they would be more becoming a
little more to the front.
" Well, ma'am, if you'll take the
responsibility," demurred the abi-
gail with pinched lips, and stepping
aside as if to get clear of all partici-
pation in the rash act herself, " in
course you can; but my maxiom
always, was and is, as modesty is
the most becoming ornament of
youth ; if you put them roses for-
warder, anybody'U see as how it
was meant to be a set-off to the
complexion — as you might say, put-
ting a garding rose alongside of a
wild one, to see which was the best
pink."
" Oh ! indeed, it's very nicely
done ; it could not possibly be bet-
ter," said Franceline earnestly.
She was rathier in awe of the fine
lady's maid, and looked up appeal-
ingly to Mrs. de Wrnton ndt to
gainsay her ; but that serene lady
paid no more heed to the abigail's
protest than she might have done
to the snarling of her pet pug.
With deft and daring fingers she
plucked out the flowers, pushed the
rich, bright coils to one side so
as to make room for them, and then
planted them according to her
fancy. If the change were done
with a view to the effect foretold by
Mrs. Croft, there was no denying it
to be a complete success. Ang^li-
quc, by way of doing something.
took up a candle and held st
at arm's length over Franceliaeli
head, making short chuckling nma
to herself which the initiated kna|
to be expressive of the deepest
isfagtion.
** Now, my dear, I thinlc yo«
do," said Mrs. de Winton, 1
up and down the young girl
a smile of placid assent^ while
washed her long, tapering
with the old Lady-Macbeth
ment ; " let us go down,"
Sir Simon and the Admiral
M. de la Bourbon ais were
bled in the blue drawing-
where the guests were to be
ceived,when the two ladies ent
Mrs. de Winton, in the mellow
dor of purple velvet, old point,
diamonds, looked like the p:
ing divinity ot the cloud
nymph tripping shyly after her.
involuntary murmur of admii
burst from the Admiral and
Simon, while M. de la Bourbaul
all smiles and joy, came forwaid %
embrace Franceline.
" O my dear child ! . . ."
** Count, take care of her Fovetf
cried Mrs. de Winton, ruffled im^
motherly alarm as she saw Fraiqi^
line, utterly oblivious of her h0w
gear, nestling into her father's IM^
Raymond started, and looUJ
with deep concern to see if he tan
done any mischief. Happily not.
" Come here and let me look al
you!" said Sir Simon, holding kd
at arm's length out before \im
" They've not made quite a fn|^
of you, I see — eh, admiral ?"
" Dear Sir Simgn, it's all a greH
deal too pretty. It's like being in j
story-book, my lovely dress and eve*-
ry thing ?" said Franceline, standini
on tip-toe to be kissed.
Mr. de Winton came in at IhM
juncture.
" I say, Clide, it's rather hard oo
Are You My Wifef
463
\% to have to stand by and not fol-
ow suit," grumbled the admiral.
Franceline crimsoned up; the
tare suggestion of such a possibi-
ity as the words implied made her
leart leap up with a wild throb. She
Sd not mean to look at Glide, but
omehow, involuntarily, as if moved
»y some mesmeric forcp, their eyes
bet. It was only for a moment, but
bat rapid, mutual glance sent the
ifc-current coursing through her
fouDg veins with strange thrills of
foy. Glide had turned quickly to
knnt out something in the decora-
Sons to his uncle, and Franceline
lipped her arm into her father's,
bd began to admire the beauty of
ke long vista of parlors leading on
b the ball-room, where the orches-
tra was already inviting them to the
lance with abrupt flashes of music,
|Ae instrument answering another
b sudden preludes, or chords of
preetness " long drawn out."
! **You have not seen the galleries
^et/'said Sir Simon; "come and look
It them before the crowd arrives."
They followed him into the Me-
dusa gallery, and the transition
ftom the brilliant glare of wax-
^ghts to the subdued twilight of
Ike blue dome, where mimic stars
•ere twinkling round a silver cres-
tent, was so solemn and unexpected
that Raymond and Franceline stood
on the threshold with a kind of awe,
»s if they had come upon sacred
precincts. Tall ferns and palms nod-
ded gently in the blue moonlight,
swayed by some invisible agent. The
change from this to the gaudy bril-
liancy of the Diana gallery was in
its way as striking ; myriads of Ghi-
ncse lanterns were swinging from
*he ceiling ; some peeped through
flowers and plants, and some were
held by Ghinese mandarins with
pig-tails and embroidered bed-
gowns. ^
" Are they real Ghinamen V* en-
quired Franceline in a whisper, as
she passed close by one of them
and met his eyes fixed on her with
the appreciating glance of an outer
barbarian.
" Real ! To be sure they are. I
imported a small cargo of them
from Hong Kong, pig-tails and all,
for the occasion," replied Sir Simon.
But a twinkle in his eye, and a
broad grin on the face of the genu-
ine John Ghinaman, belied this
audacious assertion. Franceline
laughed merrily.
" How clever of you to have in-
vented it, and how exactly like real
Ghinamen they are !" she cried, in-
tending to be complimentary to all
parties ; which the mandarin under
consideration acknowledged by a
slow bend of his skull-capped head
and a movement of the left hand
towards the tip of his nose, sup-
posed to represent a native saluta-
tion.
** Bestow your commendation
where it is due," said Sir Simon ;
" it's all that young gentleman's
doing," pointing with a jerk of his
head towards Glide, who had saun-
tered in after them. "But he're
comes somebody ; we must be un-
der arms to receive them."
The baying of the bloodhounds
chained in the outer court an-
nounced the arrival of a carriage ;
they reached the reception-room in
time to hear it wheeling up the ter-
race.
And now the master of Dullerton
Gourt was in his element. The
tide of guests poured in quickly,
and were greeted with that royal
courtesy that was his especial attri-
bute. No patter what the worries
and cares of life might be else-
where, they vanished as if by en-
chantment in the sunshine of Sir
Simon's hospitality. He forgot no-
464
Are Yoti My Wife t
body ; the absent ones had their
tribute of regret, and he remem-
bered the precise cause of the ab-
sence : the daughter who had an in-
opportune toothache, the son forced
to remain in town on business, and
the father pinned to his bed by the
gout; Sir Simon was so sorry for
each individual absentee that while
he was expressing it you would
have imagined this feeling must have
damped his joy for the evening;
out the cloud passed off when he
shook hands with the next arrival,
and he was radiantly happy in spite
of sympathetic gout and toothache.
Mrs. de Winton seconded her
host well in doing the honors. If
she was a trifle stiff, it was such a
graceful, well-bred stiffness that
you could not quarrel with it, and
she neglected no one.
" There are Mr. Lan grove and
the girls !" exclaimed Franceline,
in high excitement, as if that inevi-
table spectacle were an extraordin-
ary surprise.
** Oh ! how gorgeous you are, Fran-
celine," was Godiva's awe-stricken
sotto voce^ as if she feared that loud
speech might blow away the bubble.
" And what a delicious fan ! Do
let me look at it !** panted Arabel-
la in the same subdued tone.
"Oh! but look at her shoes,"
cried Georgiana, clasping her hands
and looking down, amazed, at the
white satin toe, with its dainty pink
rosette, that protruded from under
the skirt.
** I'm so glad you like it all," said
Franceline, delighted at the naive
and good-natured expressions of
admiration. They were all as art-
less as birds, the Langrove girls,
and had not a grain of envy in their
composition.
"Oh! there's Mr. Charlton,"
whispered Matilda, nudging Alice
to look as the observed-of-all-ob-
servers in Dullerton appeared \k
the doorway.
The room was now full to ovet*
flowing, and the crowd, swajd
by one of those spontaneous raovfr;
merits that govern crowds, sudden*
ly poured out of the blue drawioi^
room into the adjoining ones^ leaf-.
ing the former comparatively emp^,
Franceline was following the streps'
when Sir Simon called out to her:
" Don't run away ; come here li'
me. I want to introduce you toaif'
friend Lady Anwyll. Mile, de fa
Bourbonais — I was going to sa}^
my daughter, but unfortunately
is only the daughter of my c^doft
friend and second self, the Conto:
de la Bourbonais; you have
him, I believe .^"
Lady Anwyll had had that db*
tinction, and was charmed now t»i
make his daughter's acquaintaiMb
She had none of her own to dt^)OK
of, which the wily Sir Simon pcf
haps remembered when he singed
her out for this introduction.
" You'll see that she has a few
partners. I dare say they won't be
very reluctant to do their duty
a little pressing."
" It's the only duty young
seem equal to nowadays,*" said
the plump <)ld lady, nodding in tlic
direction of a group of the dcgcn*
erate race; and she drew France-
line's hand through her ann, and
bore her off like a conquest.
" Who's that girl .> She's awfully
pretty ! What color are her eyes
— black, blue, or brown } I've not
seen such a pair of eyes this season,
by Jove !" drawled a blasi young
gentleman from the raetro|K>lis.
" You're a luckier man than your
betters if you have ever seen a pair
like them," retorted Mr. Charlton,
superciliously; "that's the belle of
the evening. Mile, de la Bour-
bonais." •
Are You My Wifet
46$
** You'll be a good fellow, and intro-
duce me — eh, Charlton?" said his
friend.
But Mr. Charlton turned on his
heel without committing himself
further than by a dubious " I'll
see about it." His position as
native gave him the whip-hand over
all interlopers, and he meant to let
them know it. •
And now the orchestra has burst
out in full storm, and engaged
couples are hunting for each other
imidst the vortex of tarlatan and
dress-coats. Clide has found his
partner and led her to the top of
the room, where Sir Simon and
Lady Anwyll are waiting for their
m-a-vis, A little lower down, Miss
Merrywig is standing up with Mr.
Charlton.
" How very absurd of him, my
dear," the old lady is protesting to
Arabella Langrove, who made their
d0$^k'dos ; "but he will have me
dance the first quadrille with him.
Was there ever anything so absurd !"
Arabella was too polite to contra-
dict her; and Mr. Charlton bent
down to assure Miss Merrywig there
was no one in the room he could
have half as much pleasure in open-
bg the evening's campaign with ;
a speech which was overheard by
several neighboring young ladies,
who commented on it in their own
way, while Franceline, who beheld
with surprise the ill-assorted couple
stand up together, thought it show-
ed very nice feeling on the part of
Mr. Charlton to have selected the
dear old lady for such a compliment,
and that she looked very pretty in
her lavender watered silk and full
blonde cap with streamers flying.
But it was quite clear that Miss
Bulpit thought differently. That
estimable and zealous Christian had
with much difficulty been persuad-
ed by Sir Simon to condescend so
VOL. XXI. — 30
far to sanction the vanities of the
unconverted as to be present at the
ball, and she had discarded her
funereal trappings of black bomba-
zine for the mitigated woe of black
satin ; but the cockade of limp black
feathers that sprouted from some
hidden recess where her back hair
was supposed to be protested sor-
rowfully against the glossy levity
of her dress, and bobbed with a
penitential expression that was
really affecting. Mr. Sparks was
hawking her about like a raven in
a carnival. He entered into her
feelings ; it was chiefly the desire to
support her by his countenance and
sympathy that had brought him to
this scene of ungodly dissipation.
Franceline was terribly nervous
in the first figure, and Clide felt it
incumbent on him to give her his
utmost help in the way of prompt-
ing beforehand, and commendation
when the feat was over. They got
on swimmingly until the third figure,
when she became hopelessly entan-
gled in the ladies'-chain, giving her
hand to Lady Anwyll instead of
Sir Simon, and then rushing back
to Clide, while Sir Simon rushed
after her and made everything
inextricable.
" Really, governor, you're too
bad !" protested Mr. de Winton ;
" why don't you mind what you're
about } You're putting my partner
out disgracefully !"
Sir Simon bore the broadside
with heroic magnanimity, apologiz-
ed to everybody all round, except
Clide, who ought to have called
him to order in time, and not let
him go bungling on, confusing
everybody. By the time he had
done scolding and they had all got
into position again, the figure was
over. The rest of the quadrille
was got through without any mis-
haps to speak of, and when Clide
466
Are You My Wifit
carried his partner off for a pro-
menade in the moonlit gallery, as-
suring her that she had done it all
beautifully, Franceline felt that the
praise, for being a trifle strained,
was none the less due. Other
couples followed them in amongst
the ferns and palms, and France-
line was soon besieged by entreat-
ing candidates for the next dances.
Mr. Charlton came up with the
graceful self-possession that belongs
to six thousand pounds a year and
a decidedly handsome and rather
effeminate face, and requested the
favor of a quadrille. It was promis-
ed, and he stood by her side and
in that earnest tone that was ac-
knowledged to be so captivating by
all the young ladies of Dullerton
asked Mile, de la Bourbonais if this
was her first ball.
** Ah ! I thought so. One can al-
ways tell by the freshness \vith
which people enjoy it. For my own
part, I confess I envy every one
their first experience of this kind ;
it so soon wears off — the pleasure, I
mean — and one feels the insipidity
of it. Perhaps you already antici-
pate that ? " There was a depth of
expression in her face that sug-
gested this remark. Mr. Charlton
considered himself a reader of
character — a physiognomist, in fact.
^* Oh ! • no," exclaimed France-
line, with artless vehemence; "I
don't think I should ever get tired
•of it ; it's far more enjoyable than
I imagined !**
"Ah, indeed! Well, just so;
It's as people feel; for my part I
think it's a mistake —I mean getting
Jflasi of things ;" and he ran a tur-
quoise and diamond finger through
his curly straw-colored hair.
" I hate people who are blasiy*
was the unconventional rejoinder;
" they are always so tiresome and
woe-begone. Papa always says he
feels under a personal obligation to
people for being happy ; they do
him good — like dear little Miss
Merrywig, for instance. I'm sure
she's not blasi of anything; hot
she did enjoy herself in the quad-
rille ! And it was so pretty to sec
her dancing her demure little dd*
fashioned steps."
"She's a vtry old friend of yours,
is she not, Charlton ?" said Clide.
" Oh ! yes ; since before I was
bom. She's a dear old girl, if she
would only not bother one to guess
what she gave for her buttons," re-
plied Mr. Charlton. " But just see
here ! Is our Christian friend trying
to deal with Roxham?"
Miss £ulpit was coming acroa
the conservatory out of the Diana
gallery, leaning on Lord Roxhanii
with whom she was conversing in
an earnest manner.
"Oh! here you are, Roxhaa
I've been hunting for you this quar-
ter of an hour," called out Sir Si-
mon, appearing from behind t
mandarin who was holding a tray
full of tea-cups to the company.
" Franceline, my friend Lord Rox-
ham has threatened to shoot me if
I don't get him a dance from you;
so in self-defence I had to make
over my right to the first walti. I
couldn't do more, or less. What do
you say. Miss Bulpit ? "
Miss Bulpit considered Sir Si-
mon was behaving very handsomely.
" It's easy to be generous at other
people's expense," observed Mr*
de Winton, tightening his grasp on
the light arm that was obediently
slipping from him ; " it so happens
that Mile, de le Bourbonais ha.^
promised the first waltz to me."
" I'm sorry to disappoint you, my
dear fellow, but you might bavc
had a little thought for other peo-
ple's rights. You won't deny that I
deserve an early favor ? " said the
Are You My Wi/ef
467
baxonet, with playful peremptori-
** Dear Sir Simon, I never thought
of your asking me," said France-
hne penitently.
** Oh ! that's it," said the baronet,
shaking his head; ^'that's sure to
be the way of it; we poor old
fogies get shoved out of the way
by the youngsters. Well, you see
I'm letting you off easier than you
deserve. Roxham, we'll change
partners, if Miss Bulpit does not
abject to taking an old man in-
stead of a young one."
Franceline was again going to
draw her arm away, but again the
tightening grasp prevented her. She
looked up at Glide; but he was
looking away from her, his mouth
set in a rigid expression, and an
angry fold divided the straight
brows that lay like bars across his
forehead.
"* Mile, de la Bourbonais promis-
ed me this dance," he said, coldly,
to Lord Roxham.
" But I overrule the promise ; she
had no business to give it without
consulting me, naughty, unfeeling
little person ! Come, De Winton,
nake way for my deputy!" And
with a nod and a laugh that were
clearly not to be trifled with, he
beckoned Glide to follow him.
Franceline looked up with the
beseeching glance of a frightened
fawn as Glide released her arm, and
with a low bow walked away. She
was ready to cry ; but there was
nothing for it but to accept Lord
Roxham's proffered arm, and go in-
to the ball-room where in a mo-
ment she was caught up and was
whirling mechanically along with
the waltzers. She was too preoc-
cupied to be nervous about the per-
formance that she had looked for-
ward to with so much trepidation,
and so she acquitted herself admi-
rably. Her partner stopped after
the first round to let her take
breath.
**Yes, thank you, I am a little
giddy ; I am not accustomed to
dancing."
So they stood under the colonnade.
Lord Roxham would have been a
pleasant partner if Franceline had
been in a mood to enjoy his lively
talk on air sorts of subjects. He
saw there were likely to be breakers
ahead between Glide and some one
about this dance ; but he had had
nothing to say to that. He felt rath-
er aggrieved than otherwise, being
forced, as it were, on a girl against
her will, or at any rate without her
being consulted. And it was hard
on De Winton, whether he parti-
cularly held to his pretty partner
or not. What the dickens did Har-
ness mean by meddling in it at all?
He was not given to putting spokes
in other people's wheels. Lord
Roxham was very intelligent, but
though furnished with an average
share of masculine conceit, it never
occurred to him to think that the
falling through of his marriage late-
ly, and the fact of his being the
eldest son of a peer with a fine es-
tate — a good deal encumbered, but
what of that? — might afford any
clue to Sir Simon's odd behavior.
^* No, I did not mean in the poli-
tical issue of the contest; ladies
are not expected to take much in-
terest in that part of the business,"
he was saying to his partner ; ** but
they are apt to get up very warm
partisanship for the candidates, irre-
spective of politics."
** Who are the candidates ?" in-
quired Franceline.
Lord Roxham laughed.
" Poor wretches ! They are to
be pitied. Sir Ponsonby Anwyll
on the Gonservative side and Mr.
Gharlton for the Liberals."
468
Are You My Wifef
** Mr. Charlton ! He is then
clever ? Can he make speeches ?**
Lord Roxham laughed again, and
hesitated a little before he replied :
*' It's rather a case, I fancy, of the
man who could not say whether he
could play the fiddle, because he
had never tried. We none of us
know what we can do till we try.
Charlton does not strike you as
having the making of an orator in
him, I see."
" Oh ! I don't know. I spoke to
him to-night for the first time; he
did not give me the idea of a person
who could make speeches and
laws ; one must be very clever to
get into Parliament, must he not ?"
" If elections were conducted on
the competitive examination sys-
tem, one might assume that ; but
Tm afraid we successful candidates
can hardly take our success as the
test of merit," said her companion.
*' I see you have rather a high stan-
dard about electioneering."
Franceline had no standard at
all, and was fullof curiosfty to hear
about the mysteries of canvassing
and constituents, and the poll, from
some one who had gone through
the various stages of the battle, from
being pelted with rotten eggs on
the hustings to the solemn tak-
ing possession of a legislator's seat
in the Imperial Parliament. A
legislator must be a kind of hero.
She was glad to have met one.
Lord Roxham, who liked to hear
himself talk, proceeded to enlighten
her to the best of his ability ; he
had no end of droll electioneering
stories to tell, and scandalous tales
of corruption through the medium
of gin-shops, etc. ; he opened her
eyes in horror by his account of
the rotten-borough system, and the
rottenness of the law-makmg ma-
chine in general, touching the heroes
of the Liberal party with a light dash
of satire and caricature that brouglit
the dimples out in full force in Fran-
Celine's cheeks, and made her laugh
merrily ; in short, he was so hvely
and entertaining that she was quite
sorry when he held out his arm for
them to start off again in the dance.
As they stepped from under the
colonnade, she saw Glide leaniDg
against a pillar at the other side,
with his eyes fixed on her.
** Oh ! stop, please," pleaded
Franceline, after one turn over
the spacious floor, and they rested
for a moment ; just as they did so,
a couple flew past — Mr. de Vintoo
and a very beautiful girl, as tall as
Franceline, but in no other way re-
sembling her; her hair was blaiA
as ebony, with black eyes and «
clear olive complexion.
" Who is that lady V*
? Lady Emily Fitznorman, a
cousin of mine."
** How beautiful she i§ ! I icvcr
saw any one so handsome ?"
"Did you not?" with an incred-
ulous smile, then looking quickly
away. *' She is a very striking per-
son ; she is the belle of aur coun-
ty. You look warm ; shall w«
take a turn in the galleries } "
Franceline assented. Passing
through the conservatory, they came
upon two persons seated in a rece^
partly screened by a large fan-leav-
ed plant. It was Clide and Lady
Emily ; she was talking with greit
animation, gesticulating with her
fan, while he sat in an attitude of
deep attention, his elbows rcstinj;
on his knees, and his head bent
forward. Franceline felt a sudden
shock at her left side, as if her heart
had stopped, while a spasm of pain
shot through her, making every
fibre tingle. What was this olive-
skinned beauty saying to Clide that
he was listening to with such rapt
attention ? He did not even look
Are You My Wifef
469
ap, though he must have seen who
was passing. Poor Franceline ! what
tremor is this that shakes her from
head to foot, convulsing her whole
being with one fierce throb. of angry
emotion ! Poor human heart ! the
demon of jealousy had but to blow
one breath upon it, and she whose
life had hitherto been a sort of in-
verse metempsychosis of a lily and
a dove, was transformed into a wo-
man fired with passionate vindic-
tiveness, longing to snatch at an-
other human heart and crush it.
But the woman's pride, that woke
up with the pain, came instinctively
to her assistance. She began talk-
ing rapidly to Lord Roxham, sink-
ing her voice to the sotio voce of con-
fidence and intimacy, so that he had
to lower his head slightly to catch
what she was saying; thus they
swept by the two in the rec^s,
without glancing towards them.
Qide meantime had seen it all.
He had been straining every nerve
lo catch what Franceline was say-
ing, and was voting his friend Rox-
ham a confounded puppy, whose
conceited head he would have much
pleasure in punching on the first
opportunity. He could not punch
Sir Simon's, though he deserved it
more than Roxham.
^ May I ask you for an explana-
tion of your behavior to me just
now, Sir Simon ?" he had said to
his host as soon as Miss Bulpit had
set him free ; " what did you mean
by interfering with me in that man-
ner ?*'
** Did I interfere with you ?*' was
the supercilious retort, with a bland
smile. " I'm very sorry to hear it ;
bat I think I had a right to the
second dance from a young lady
whom I consider my adopted
daughter."
**If it had been for yourself I
should have yielded without a
word ; but it was for Roxham you
shoved me aside.'*
" Well, suppose I choose to elect
a deputy to do my duty ? I had a
right to choose Roxham."
" I fancied I might have had a
prior claim."
" Indeed ! Then you should have
told me so. How was I to know
it ? — Well, vicar, I see your young
ladies are in great request ; how
does Miss Godiva happen to be in
your company ?"
"What can he be driving at?"
muttered Glide, as his host turned
away to get a partner for Godiva
Langrove ; " has he been fooling
me all this time — is he playing
me off against Roxham? And is
she — " He walked into the ball-
room, and there saw, as we know,
Lord Roxham and Franceline very
happy in each other's society.
He went straight to Lady Emily
Fitznorman, and asked her for the
waltz that was going on. She was
fiancee to a friend of his, he knew ;
so he was safe so far, and she had
plenty to say for herself, and he must
talk to some one. He was not a man
to show the white feather, whatever
he might feel. He kept steadily
aloof from Franceline after tliis,
and Lord Roxham, taking for grant-
ed that he had been mistaken in his
first impressions, secured her for
three more dances, which was all
he dared do in the face of Duller-
ton.
Franceline was grateful to him.
She felt suddenly forsaken in the
midst of the gay crowd, as if some
protecting presence had been with-
drawn. Her father was playing
piquet in some distant region where
there were card-tables. But even
if he had been within reach, there
was something stirring in her newly-
awakened consciousness that would
have prevented her seeking him.
470
Are You My Wife?
Glide should not see that he had
grieved her. She could enjoy her-
self and be merry without him, and
she would let him see it !
"Has the honor of taking you
in to supper been already secured,
mademoiselle ?" said Mr. Charlton,
making sure at this early stage that
it had not, and coming up to claim
it with the air of elaborate grace
that springs from the habit of easy
conquest.
" Yes, it has," replied Lord Rox-
ham, quickly taking the answer out
of Franceline's mouth. " I was
before you in the field, Charlton, I
am happy to say."
** How could you tell such a
story ?" whispered Franceline, with
an attempt to look shocked when
Mr. Charlton had gone away.
" I told you everything was con-
sidered fair in electioneering," re-
plied the member of Parliament.
** Then electioneering must be
very bad for everybody who has to
do with it, if it teaches them to tell
stories and call it fair."
But she promised, nevertheless,
to act as accomplice in this particu-
lar case of badness, and to let him
take her in to supper. He came to
claim his privilege in due time, and
they went in together. But the
tables were already so crowded that
they could not find two contiguous
seats. Some one beckoned to Lord
Roxham that there was a vacant
chair higher up, on a line with
where they stood. He elbowed his
way through the crowd, and seized
the chair, and placed Franceline
in it. She was sitting down before
she noticed that her next neighbor
was Clide de Winton. He was
busily attending to the wants of
Lady Emily, but turned round
quickly on feeling the chair taken,
and moved his own an inch or so
to make more space. At the same
moment he looked up to see vU
Franceline's attendant was. ** Cai^
you find a seat, Roxham ? Ill m^
way for you presently. We htvc
nearly done." There was not if
trace of vexation in his manner,
in his face.
" No hurry ! I can bear up fori
minutes more," replied his frii
good-humoredly ; "but help me
attend to Mile, de la Bourboi
What will you begin with V ben
over her chair.
Franceline did not care. Anf*
thing that was at hand.
" Then let me recommend
of this jelly; it is pronounced
cellent by my partner," said Qkh
politely, and scanning the wel!-g»*
nished table to see what else Ib
could suggest.
" Thank you. I will take
of these chocolate bonbons,"
" Nothing more substantial .'"
"Bonbons are always noarisb*
ment enough for me. I think I
could live on them without any-
thing stronger; I have quite a pas-
sion for them — my French nature
coming out, you see."
She spoke very gayly. He helped
her without looking at her. She
made a feint of nibbling the /r#-
lineSy but she could not swallow;
her heart was beating so hard and
loud she fancied Clide must hear it
" Roxham, suppose you made
yourself useful and get a glass of
champagne for these ladies," said
Clide. "Waylay that fellow with the
bottle there."
Lord Roxham charged valiantJf
through jthe crowd, snatched the
bottle from the astonished flunky,
and bore it away in triumph ovci
the heads of the multitude.
" Well done ! That's what I call
a brilliant manoeuvre," said Gide,
laughing. " No, you must help them
yourself; you deserve that reward
Are You My Wifet
471
ftfter such a feat of arms, and
liUe. de la Bourbonais, who has a
peat admiration for heroes, will
drink to your health I daresay."
"I've been trying to excite her
admiration by the recital of my he-
roic exploits at the last elections ;
but I'm afraid I rather scandalized
bcr instead," said the young man, as
he poured the sparkling wine into
ber ^ass.
"Served you right," said Lady
Emily, with cousinly impertinence ;
**when people fish for compliments
they generally catch more snakes
than eels."
**Roxham, will you reach me
those sandwiches?" cried a gentle-
man struggling with a lady on his
arm beyond arm's length of the
table. Lord Roxham immediately
went to his assistance, and some one
else instantly pressed into his place
behind Franceline.
" We had better go now, if you
have quite finished," said Glide to
Lady Emily.
Franceline made a movement to
rise, but sat down again; Glide's
chair was on her dress.
** Oh ! I beg your pardon. Have
I done any mischief?" he exclaim-
ed, starting up and lifting his chair;
the foot had caught in the tulle and
made a slight rent.
** Oh ! I am so sorry. I beg your
pardon a thousand times !" he said
with great warmth and looking deep-
ly distressed.
** It's of no consequence ; it will
never be noticed," she answered,
gently.
"lam so sorry!" Glide repeated.
Their eyes met at last ; he was dis-
armed in an instant.
"Will you dance with me now ?"
he iaid almost in a whisper.
"Yes."
They were soon in the ball-room
again.
" Why did you turn me off in that
way ? Was it that you preferred
dancing with Roxham ?"
"O Glide!" The words escap-
ed her like the cry of a wounded
bird, and, with as little sanction of
her free will, the tears rose.
He made no answer — no audible
one at least ; but there is a language
in a look sometimes that is more
eloquent than speech. Franceline
and Glide dwelt for a moment in
that silent glance, and felt that it
was drawing their hearts together
as fiame draws flame.
She never knew how long the
dance lasted ; she only knew that
she was being borne along, treading
on air, it seemed to her, and encom-
passed by sweet sounds of music as
in a dream. But the dream was
over, and she was being steadied on
her feet by the strong protecting
arm, and Glide was looking down
upon her from his six feet of height,
the frown that had made the dark
bars over his eyes look so formida-
ble a little while ago quite vanished.
** Is Sir Simon angry with us ?"
she asked, looking up into his face.
" Not he ! Why should he be
angry with us? And if he were,
what does it matter?" he added, in
a voice of low-toned tenderness;
" what does anything matter so long
as we are not angry with each
other?"
He drew her hand within his arm»
and they walked on in silence.
Franceline's heart was too full for
words. Was it not part of her hapr
piness that this new-found joy
should be overshadowed by a
vague and nameless fear ?
TO BB c ow r mu KD.
472
The Cardinalaig.
THE CARDINALATE.
flKOMD AND CONCUmiNO PATIS.
The manner of creating Cardi-
nals has differed in different ages.
Moroni * {DizUmario^ ix. p. 300,
et seq^ gives a description of the
ancient, the mediaeval, and the
modern ceremonies used on the oc-
casion. In the earliest period of
which there are details we know
that the pope created the cardi-
nals on the ember-days of Advent
in the churches of the Station.
There were three stages in the
proceeding: the first on Wed-
nesday at S. Mary Major's, the
second in the Twelve Apostles ', and
the third in S. Peter's. The sub-
jects of the cardinalate were call-
ed out in the first two churches by
a lector after the pope had read
the Introit and Collect of the sol-
emn Mass ; but in the last one, the
pope himself declared such an one
to be elected cardinal-priest, or
deacon, by a formula the beginning
and essential words of which were :
"Auxiliante Domino Deo et Sal-
vatore Nostro Jesu Christo, eligi-
mus in ordinem diaconi Sergium
(for instance) subdiaconum." The
cardinal-elect then received from
the pope "inter missarum solem-
nia," the necessary Order of the
diaconate or priesthood. In those
days there was a much stricter con-
nection required between the (sa-
cred) character of a subject and his
* The Chevalier Gaetano Monmi is a gentleman
« the bedchamber to die present Pope. His farra-
ginotts work, m one hundred and three Tolames, u an
inexhaustible source of ecclesiastical erudition ; but
as Niebuhr said of CancelUeri s writings, these large
octavos contain some things that are important,
many things that are useful, and everything that is
order in the cardinalate than there
now is, when a bishop often belongs
to the presbyterial and a priest to
the diaconal order. In the Middk
Ages, cardinals^ were no longer
created during Mass or in churcli
in presence of the people ; but it
the pope's residence of the Lateran,
before the Sacred College. The
season was still the same and the
custom of creating them only on a
fast-day of December lasted for
over six hundred years.
In the mediaeval creations three
consistories were held in the Apos*
tolic Palace, of which two were
secret and one was public. In the
first consistory the pope deputed
two cardinals to go around te the
house of every sick or legitimatdj-
absent cardinal and get his opinion
on these point's : Ought there to be
a creation ? And if so, of hov
many?
On the return of the deputies Ae
pope asked the cardinals present the
same questions. All voted thcce-
on ; and after the votes had been
counted, if the pope saw fit he
pronounced that he followed the
advice of those who were in favor
— " Nos sequimur consilium dicen-
tium, quod fiant." Then the car-
dinals voted on the number to be
created, and after the counting of
the votes, the pope said that be
followed the advice of those who
proposed that six (for instance)
should be created — ''^ Nos sequiroor
consilium dicentium, qnod fiant
sex." After a recommendation to
reflect maturely, and deliberate
The Cardiualatt.
473
upon the persons proper to be elect-
ed, the consistory broke up. On
tbc Friday following it assembled
ij;ain, and when two cardinals, sent
»it for the purpose as on the first
Jay, had returned with the names
)f those suggested by the absent
)nes, the pope commanded an
empty chair to be brought — " Por-
tciur nuda cathedra." Then the
cardinals ail stood up behind the
two rows of benches that ran down
tbe great aula consktorialis^ and the
senior advanced and, sitting down
beside the pope, was made acquaint-
ed in a low voice with the names of
those whom the pope wished to
create, and was asked his opinion.
"Quid tibi videtur?" As soon
as tbe cardinal had answered, the
next one went up, and so on until
til had been heard. The pope then
innounced the result of this auricu-
lar consultation and declared such
and such persons created cardinals
of the Holy Roman Church. The
tttxt day a public consistory was
held in which they were solemnly
published; after which the elect
*ere introduced and heard an
aiiocuiion addressed to them by
the pope on the duties and dignity
of their office, and received from
his hands the large hat, with the
designation of their churches. All
the cardinals dined that day with
^c pope, and in the afternoon the
new ones went in grand cavalcade
to take possession of their Titles or
Deaconries, as the case might be.
In more recent times, that is,
about 1646, when Lunadoro wrote
his celebrated account of the Ro-
man court,* the manner of creating
*as almost as at present, except
^^^ the now unheard-of Cardinal
^^pkiw (who was called in Italian
2^^*i^^9n*dfiUc9rtediR^m. The best edi-
J»>»Uiat pubfisbed at Rome in 1774, with notes
^*tkaiMd J«aai^ F. A. ZMsewia.
— vaey vae / — II cardinale Padrone)
had a large share in the ceremo-
nies, as he doubtless had a decided
influence in the nominations, and
that the red beretta^ or cap, was
placed on the head of the elect by
the pope himself, with the words
Esto cardinalis^ and the sign of the
cross. According to the modem
ceremonial, the pope summons a
consistory, and, after delivering an
appropriate address, asks the cardi-
nals their opinion with the custo-
mary (but, since the XVth century,
rather perfunctory) formula, " What
think ye?" Then they rise, take
off their caps, and bow assent ;
whereupon the pope proceeds to
create the new cardinals in the
words : " By the authority of Al-
mighty God, of the blessed apostles
Peter and Paul, and of our own,
etc."
On account of the present Pied-
montese occupation of Rome, the
subsequent ceremonial has to be
dispensed with in the case of those
cardinals who may be there at the
time of their elevation to the dig-
nity. Those who are absent re-
ceive the lesser insignia of their
rank from two papal messengers;
one of whom is a layman and mem-
ber of the Noble Guard, carrying
the zuccheitOy or skull-cap, the
other an ecclesiastic of some minor
prelatic rank in the pope's house-
hold, bringing the beretta* If the
head of the state be a Catholic, he is
permitted to place the cap (brought
by the ablegate) upon the new car-
dinal, the function taking place in
the royal chapel; but in other
countries a bishop or archbishop is
appointed by the pope for the pur-
pose.
Atone period, particularly during
the XVIth century, many serious
scandals were occasioned by the
practice of betting on or against
474
The Cardinalati.
the advancement of certain individ-
uals to the cardinalate, and some
who had staked heavily were con-
victed of resorting to inf^imous ca-
lumnies to hinder the nomination
of those against whom they had
betted. Things finally became so
outrageous that Gregory XIV., in
1591, issued a bull in which excom-
munication, already declared, was
pronounced against any one who
should presume to wager on the
promotion of cardinals (Bui. 4, Gre-
gory XIV. cogU fios).
The expression applied to a car-
dinal of being or having been re-
served inpetto^ means to be created
but (for reasons known only to the
pope) not published or promulgated
as such. It is not certainly known
when this practice began, and the
subject has been so often confound-
ed with that of secret creation that
it is difficult to assign a precise
date. The secret creation was
simply the creation of a cardinal
without the usual ceremonial. It
originated with Martin V. (Colon-
na), probably urged thereto by the
jealousies and dangers that still
lingered after the great schism of
the West was happily ended. The
other cardinals were consulted, and
notice was given to the honored
individual, who was not, however,
allowed to assume the distinctive
ornaments or the station of his
rank. In the in petto appointments,
only the pope and perhaps his
Uditore^ or some extremely confi-
dential person bound to secrecy,
know the names of those reserved.
It is related of a certain prelate,
Vannozzi, who was much esteemed
by Gregory XIV. for his varied learn-
ing and long services, that having
been commissioned one day to take
note of the names of a few cardi-
nals to be created in the next con-
sistory, he had the satisfaction to
be ordered to write his own
in the list. Although bound to
secrecy, he was weak enough to
give in to the importunate solicita-
tions of the Cardinal Nephew and
show him the paper, which coming
to the pope's ears, he called the
prelate and made him erase his
name — and that was the end of
Vannozzi.
A cardinal created, bat reserved
in petto^ if he be subsequently pub-
lished, takes precedence of all others
(in his order) created subsequent-
ly, notwithstanding the reservation.
If the pope wish to create and re-
serve in this manner, after publish-
ing the names of the cardinals
created in the ordinary way, he uses
the formula : " Alios autem duos
(for example) in pectore rescrva-
mUs arbitrio nostro quandocum*
que declarandos." It is belto'ed
that Paul III. (Farnese, 1534-49)
was the first to reserve in petta ;
and we think that he may have done
so to reward attachment to faith and
discipline in that heretical age with-
out seeming to do so too openly, to
avoid its having an interested look.
The celebrated Jesuit (himself a
cardinal) and historian of the
Council of Trent, Sforza Pallavicini,
gives a curious reason — thatcertais-
ly shows how great was the idea
entertained in his day, the middle of
the XVIIth century, of the Roman
cardinalate — why the expression
creation of a cardinal is officiallr
used; and says (vol. i. p. xiti.)
that it is meant to intimate by the
word that the excellence of the
dignity is so exalted that all degrees
of inferior rank are as though tbey
were not ; so that when the pope
makes a man a cardinal, it is as ff
in the sphere of honors he called him
out of non-existence into being.
In the first consistory held, in
which the newly-created cardinals
The Cardinalate.
475
appear, the pope performs on them
the ceremony of Sealing the Lips
(more literally of Closing the
Mouth). It is done in the follow-
ing formula : " Claudimus vobis os,
ut neque in consistoriis neque in
congregationibus aliisque functioni-
bus cardinalitiis sententiam vestram
dicere valeatis. " At the end of
the consistory, when the junior
cardinal-deacon rings a little bell,
the pope unseals their lips by say-
ing (in Latin) : " We open your
mouths, that in consistories, congre-
gations, and other ecclesiastical
functions, ye may be able to speak
your opinion. In the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost, Amen "; making over
them meanwhile three times the
sign of the cyss. This custom
must be pretty old, for it is men-
tioned in theXIIIth century by Car-
dinal (Stefaneschi) Gaetani, nephew
of Pope Boniface VIII., as already
in existence. It has been conjec-
tured that the intention of such a
ceremony was to pass the newly-
created cardinals through a kind
of novitiate before receiving what
is called, in canon law, the active
and passive voice, /.^., the right of
electing and of being elected to
the pontificate; but it may also
have been intended to impress
upon them the necessity of pru-
dence and modesty of speech in
such august assemblies.
The College of Cardinals is the
seed and germ of the papacy, and
the greatest act that one of its
members can perform is to take
part in a papal election. This is
done in a convention called the
Conclave^ which is subject to many
regulations, as becomes so im-
portant an occasion. The pres-
ent order of this assembly dates
from the pontificate of Gregory
XV., in 1621. When Rome was
not occupied by some sacrilegious
invader, it took place in the Quiri-
nal Palace by secret voting, the
votes being opened and counted in
a chapel called, from the circum-
stance, Capella Scrutinii. When the
election was complete, the senior
cardinal-deacon, whose office corre-
sponds to that of the ancient arch-
deacons of the Roman Church,
announced it to the people. Ori-
ginally, however, the cardinals were
not the only electors of the pope,
but any foreign bishop in com-
munion with the Holy See, who
happened to be present during a
vacancy, was permitted to take
part in the election. Thus, when
Cornelius was exalted to the Chair
of Peter, in 254, sixteen such bi-
shops, of whom two were from
Africa, concurred in the act. The
rest also of the Roman clergy
had some voice in the election, but
it was greatly weakened by Pope
Stephen III. alias IV., in a council
held at the Lateran in the year 769,
who made it obligatory to elect a
member of the Sacred College.
Alexander III., bf the advice and
with the approval of the eleventh
General Council (third of Lateran),
in 1 179, considering the difficulties
arising out of a great number of
electors (no less than thirty-three
schisms having already been 9cca-
sioned thereby), solemnly decreed
that in future the cardinals alone
should have the right to choose, con-
firm, and enthrone the pope, and that
two-thirds of the votes cast would be
necessary for a canonical election.
Lucius III., his successor in 1181,
was the first pope elected in this
manner by the exclusive action of
the Sacred College. This wise pro-
vision was confirmed for the edifi-
cation of the faithful, and to show
that the bishops dispersed -through-
out the church did not claim any
476
The CardinaJate.
share in the election of its head, by
the general councils of Lyons (i id)
in 1274, and Vienne in 131 1. But
once since have any others had an
active voice in the matter, which
was at Constance, when the twenty-
three cardinals, to put an end to
the schism, opened the conclave
for this time only to thirty prelates,
six from each of the five great na-
tions represented there. This re-
sulted in the election of Martin V.
(Colonna) on November 11, 1417.
Since the year 1378 no one not a
cardinal has been elected pope ;
but before that time a good many,
despite the decree of Stephen III.
(or IV.), were elected without being
cardinals ; six in the Xlth, two in
the Xllth, three in the Xlllth, and
three in the XlVth century. Of
these were S. Celestine V. and, be-
fore him, Blessed Gregory X. A
curious circumstance attended the
election of the latter, in which the
cardinals were treated as jurymen
who are locked up until they agree
upon a verdict. After the death
of Clement IV., in 1268, the Holy
See was vacant longer than ever be-
fore, viz., two years nine months
and two days, on account of the
dissensions of the eighb-en cardi-
nals who composed the Sacred Col-
lege. The conclave was held at
Viterbo ; but, although King Philip
III.' of France and Charles I. of
Sicily went there to hasten the
election, and S. Bonaventure, gen-
eral of the Franciscans, induced the
towns-people to keep the fathers
close prisoners in the episcopal pal-
ace, nothing availed, until the hap-
py thought struck Raniero Gatti,
captain of the city, to take off the
roof, so that the rain would pour
in on wet, and the sunshine on hot
days.* This had the desired effect,
• This strange fNtxreeding of the belted custodian
U the Goadave kcoofimed by a doouBent whhh
and after S. Philip Beniti, general
of the Servites, had refused the offer
of election, the cardinals promptly
agreed upon Theobald Viscooti,
archdeacon of Liege, and apostolic
legate in Syria. It was on this oc-
casion that an episcopal quasi-poet
improvised the leonine verses :
**" Pa^ot munis tuMt Arehidiaoootts aaat.
Quern Patrem Patrum fedt discordia Fratraa.'
About this time it became cus-
tomary for the cardinals to act as
" protectors " of nations, religious
orders, universities, and other great
institutions, which were liable 10
be brought into relations with the
Holy See more frequently then than
at present ; but Urban VI., in 1378,
without absolutely prohibiting this
species of patrocination, forbade
cardinals to accept gifts or any kind
of remuneration from those whose
interests they guarded. Martin V.
in 1424, Alexander VI. in 1492,
and Leo X. in 15 17, issued various
decrees to moderate or entirely
abolish such an use of their influence
by the cardinals for private parties,
because it might easily, under cer-
tain circumstances, stand in the wiy
of that impartial counsel to the
pope and equity of action to whiv '
they were bound before all things.
Yet it shows the immense irajwii
ance of the cardinalate in iIc
XlVth and XVth centuries, llu:
powerful sovereigns gave to indi-
viduals in the Sacred College the
high-sounding title of protectors of
their kingdoms. At the present
day, cardinals are allowed to assume,
gratuitously, a care of the interests
of religious orders, academies, col-
leges, confraternities, and other in-
stitutions, mostly in Rome, whici
may choose to pay them the com-
pliment of putting themselves under
their patronage.
was issued by the cardinals od the Sthof Jiiac>— *' b
palatio diacooperto episcopatus Vit eibi ciMi i * (Ib^
The Cardinalate.
477
In the IXth centur)% S. Leo IV.
made a rule that the cardinals
should come to the ai>ostolic palace
twice a week for consistory, and John
VIII., towards the end of the same
century, furthermore ordered them
to meet together twice a month to
treat of various affairs appertaining
to their office. We find here the
beginning of those later celebrated
assemblies called Roman Congrega-
tionSf which are permanent commis-
sions to examine, judge, and expe-
dite the affairs of the church
throughout the world. Each car-
dinal is made a member of four or
more of these congregations, and a
cardinal is generally at the head —
with the name of prefect — of each
of those the presidency of which
the pope has not reserved to him-
self. It is always from among the
cardinals that the highest offfcials
of the Church in Rome and of the
Sacred College are chosen. The
fomicr are the palatine cardinals,
so called because they are lodged
in some one of the pontifical palaces
and enjoy the fullest share of the
sovereign's confidence and favor.
They are at present four in number,
viz., the pro-datary, secretary of
briefs, of memorials, of state.
Next come the cardinal vicar,
grand penitentiary, chamberlain,
vice-chancellor, librarian. The car-
dinal-archpriests are at the head
of the three great patriarchal ba-
silicas of S. John of Lateran,S. Mary
Major, and S. Peter. The officials
of the Sacred College number fi^ii^
«rho are all, except onty.ex-officio ;
these arc : the dean, who is always
Bishop of Ostia and Velletri, is head
of the Sacred College, and repre-
sents it on certain occasions of state,
as when he receives the first visit
of princes and ambassadors, and
expresses to the Holy Father any
sentiments that he and his collea-
gues may wish to announce in a
body. The sub-dean supplies his
place when absent, or incapacitated
from whatever cause. The First
Priest and First Deacon, who were
anciently called the Priors of their
order, have precedence, other things
being equal, over those of the same
class, besides certain rights and
privileges of particular importance
during a vacancy of the See. The
chamberlain is appointed annually
in the first consistory held after
Christmas. His office is not so
venerable or so significant as the
others are in times of extraordinary
occurrences ; but in days of peace
it is of the highest practical import-
ance. It was instituted under Leo
X., but received its present devel-
opment under Paul III., in 1546.
Each cardinal habitually residing
in Rome must serve in his turn, be-
ginning with the dean and ending
with the junior deacon. From this
arrangement it may be imagined
that fe'w cardinals live long enough
in the dignity to have to assume
more than once the rather onerous
duties of the office.
The pope gives the chamberlain
possession in the same consistory
at which he has been named, by
handing him a violet silk purse
fringed with gold and containing
certain consistorial papers and the
little balls used by the cardinals to
vote with in the committees in
which they treat of their corporate
affairs. The principal duties of the
chamberlain are of a two-fold char-
acter : as chancellor, to sign and
register all cardinalitial acts, and as
treasurer, to administer any proper-
ty that may be held in common by
the cardinals. He is assisted in his
office by a very high prelate, who is
secretary of the Sacred College and
consistory. The archives are in a
chamber of the Vatican palace as-
478
The Cardinalate.
signed for the purpose by Urban
VIII., in 1625. The chamberlain
is also charged to sing the Mass at
the solemn requiem of a cardinal
dying during his tenure of office,
and on November 5 for all de-
ceased cardinals. But if he be of
the order of deacons, even if he have
received the priesthood, he must in-
vite a cardinal of the higher order
to officiate. This anniversary was
established by Leo X. in 15 17.
On account of the great antiquity
of the cardinalate, there are many
things of minor importance con-
nected with it that are buried in
the obscurity of ages. Such are
appellations of honor and distinc-
tions in dress ; but all writers agree
that after the IXth century there
was a remarkable increase in what
we might call the accessories of this
great office. Passing over a decree
which Tamagna (who yet 4s an au-
thority on cardinalitial matters)
ascribes to the Emperor Constantine,
in which the cardinals of the Holy
Roman Church were put on the
same footing before the state with
senators and consuls, and received
other marks of imperial favor, it is
certain that during the Middle Ages
they were frequently called sena-
tors, were styled individually Do-
minus^ and addressed as Vetierande
Pater^ as we learn from a memo-
randum drawn up by a Roman ca-
nonist in 1227. In the accounts of
the Sacred College from the begin-
ning of the XlVth century up to
the year 1378, the cardinals are call-
ed Reverendi Patrcs et Domini. But
from this period they assumed the
superlative, and up to the whole
of the XVth century were styled
Reiser endissimi,"^ Urban VIII., on
• Our English distinction of Very, Right, and
Most Reverend is unknown in good Latin. Admc^
dum Rntrendus is barbarous and repudiated by
the Mtylus curim.
the loth of June, 1630, gare thca
the title of eminence, which was
not, however, unknown to the
early Middle Ages, when it was
given to certain great officers of
the Byzantine Empire in Italy.
Urban 's immediate successor. In-
nocent X., forbade cardinals to
use any other designation than
that of cardinal, or title thae
that of eminence, or to put any
crown, coronet, or crest above their
arms, which were to be overarched
by the hat alone. When Cardinii
de* Medici read the decree, with
what was theii in such a personage
considered exemplary submission,
he requested his friends and the
members of his household never to
call him highness any more, and
immediately had the grand-duci-
crown removed from wherever 1:
was blazoned. In course of time,
however, cardinals of imperial or
royal lineage were allowed to assume
a style expressive of their birth; tbm
the last of the Stuarts, the Cardinai
Duke of York, etc., was always call-
ed Royal Highness at Rome. The
pope writes to a cardinal-bishop 15
** Our venerable brother," but to a
cardinal-priest or deacon as " Oni
beloved son '*; and a cardinal writ-
ing to the pope who has raised him
to the purple should add at the cod
of his letter, after all the other for-
mulas of respectful conclusion, the
words, et creatura* Although the
cardinals hold a rank so exalted
they are in many ways made to re-
member their complete dependence
in ecclesiastical matters upon the
sovereign pontiff. There is a
peculiar act of homage due by theta
to the pope, which is called OteS^
ence^ and consists in going up pub-
licly one by one in stately proces-
sion, with cappa fMafs^na of royil
ermine, and outspread trailing scar^
let robe, to kiss the ring after mak*
. The Cardinalate.
47Q
ing a profound inclination to the
pontiff sitting on his throne. This
is surely the grandest sight of the
Sistine Chapel, and we have often
thought in seeing it what a good
reminder it was to those most emi-
nent spiritual princes that, how
great soever they might be, they
were after all but the rays of
a greater luminary without which
they would have no existence.
The obedience is done at Mass and
Vespers; but never twice on the
same day, nor in services for the
dead.
The color of a cardinal's dress is
red, unless he belong to a religious
order, in which case he retains
that of his habit, but uses the
same form of dress as the others.
In 1245, Innocent IV. conferred
upon the cardinals at the first
Council of Lyons the famous
distinction of the red hat, which
is so peculiarly the ornament of
their rank that, in common parlance,
to "receive the hat " is the same as
to be raised to the cardinalate.
The special significance of the hat
is, that it is placed by the hands of
the pope himself upon the dome of
thought and seat of that intellect by
which the cardinal will give learned
and loyal counsel in the govern-
ment of the church ; and its color
signifies that the wearer is prepar-
ed to lose the last drop of his blood
rather than betray his trust. Our
readers will be reminded here of
that angry vaunt of Henry VIII.
about Fisher, Bishop of Rochester,
who was lying in prison because he
would not acknowledge the royal
supremacy in matters of religion.
When news came to England that
Paul III. had raised him to the pur-
ple, the king exclaimed, "The
pope may send him the hat, but I
will take care that he have no head
to wear it on **\ in fact, the bishop
was shortly afterwards beheaded.
This hat is now one of ceremony
only, and serves but twice : once,
when the cardinal receives it in
consistory, and next when it rests
upon the catafalque at his obsequies.
It is then suspended from the ceil-
ing of the chapel or aisle of the
church in which he may be buried.
The form is round, with a low crown
and wide, stiff rim, from the inside
of which hang fifteen tassels attach-
ed in a triangle from one to five.
At the ceremony of giving the hat
the pope says, in Latin : " Receive
for the glory of Almighty God and
the adornment of the Holy Aposto-
lic See, this red hat, the sign of the
unequalled dignity of the cardina-
late, by which is declared that even
to death, by the shedding of thy
blood, thou shouldst show thyself
intrepid for the exaltation of the
blessed faith, for the peace and
tranquillity of the Christian people,
for the increase and prosperity of
the Holy Roman Church. In the
name of the Father ^ and of the
Son 4t and of the Holy + Ghost.
Amen. Paul II., in 1464, added
other red ornaments, and among
them the red bcretta or cap to be
worn on ordinary occasions ; but
cardinals belonging to religious
orders continued to use the hood
of their habit or a cap of the same
color, until Gregory XIV. made
them wear the red. This point of
costume is illustrated by an anec-
dote which we have heard from an
eye-witness ; it also shows that one
should not be sure of promotion —
until it comes.
Pope Gregory XVI. was a great
admirer of a certain abbot in Rome,
whose habit was white, and rumor
ran that he would certainly be
made a cardinal. ,Some time be-
fore the next consistory, the pope.
with a considerable retinue — it was
48o
The Cardinalate.
thought significantly — went to visit
the monastery, the father of which
was this learned monk, and there re-
freshments were served in the suite
of aj)artments called, in large Ro-
man convents, the cardinal's rooms,
because reserved for the use of that
dignitary, should one be created be-
longing to the order. When the trays
of delicious pyramidal ice-creams
were brought in, the pope deliberate-
ly took the white one presented to
Jiim on bended knee by a chamber-
lain and handed it to the Lord Ab-
bot sitting beside and a little behind
him, then took a redone for himself.
No one, of course, began until Gre-
gory had tasted first, and while all
eyes were on him he took the top off
his own ice-cream, turned and put it
on his neighbor's, saying with a
smile as he looked around him,
" How well, gentlemen, the red
caps the white!" Alas! the poor
abbot ; he understood it as doubt-
less was meant he should, but
he was foolish enough to act
upon it, and procure his scarlet
outfit. This came to the ears of
the pope, who was so displeased
that he scratched him off the list,
nor could any friends ever get him
reinstated ; and it was only when
Cardinal Doria said that he was
positively wasting away with the
disappointment and mortification,
that the pope consented to make
him an archbishop inpartibus.
In the greater chapels, in the
grand procession on Corpus Christi,
and on ether occasions the cardinal-
bishops wear copes fastened by a
pectoral jewel Q,2}\td.Formaie^ which
is of gold ornamented with three
pine cones of mother-of-pearl, the
priests (even though they may have
the episcopal character) wear chas-
ubles, and the deacons dalmatics,
but all use white damask mitres with
red fringes at the extremity of the
bands. In their Titles and Dcacon-
ries, also elsewhere, when they oflB-
ciate, the cardinals have the use of
pontificals. The custom of wear-
ing mitres is said to have begun for
cardinals of the two lower orders
only in the Xlth century. One of
the distinctive ornaments of a car-
dinal is the gold ring set with a
sapphire, and engraved on the metal
surface of the inside with the arms
of the pope who has created him.
It is put on his finger by the Sove-
reign Pontiff with tRese words, some
of which are omitted in the case of
deacons : " For the honor of Al-
mighty God, of the holy apostles
SS. Peter and Paul, and of the
blessed N. N. (naming the Title) we
commit unto thee the church of—
(naming it), with its clergy, people,
and succursal chapels.** The ac-
tual value of this ring is only twen-
ty-five dollars, but for many ccnto-
ries the newly-created cardinal has
been expected to give a large sum
of money for some pious purpose,
which was different under diflfereiit
l>opes, but was perpetually allotted
by Gregory XV., in 1622, to the Sa-
cred Congregation for the Propaga-
tion of the Faith. Students of the
Propaganda will remember the ele-
gant tablet and commemorative in-
scription originally set up in the
college church, but now encased
in the wall near the library. For a
long time the sum was larger than at
present and was paid in gold, bat
in consideration of the general
distress in the early part of this
century Pius VII. reduced it to six
hundred scudi of silver, equal to
about seven hundred and fifty dollan
of our paper money. The last cardi-
nal who gave the full amount before
the reduction was Delia Somaglia,in
1795.
TJie Roman ceremonial shows
the singular importance of the car-
The Cardinalate.
481
dinalate, by the disposition ordered
to be made of its members even af-
ter death. It is prescribed that
when life has departed a veil be
thrown over the face, and the body,
dressed in chasuble if bishop or
priest, otherwise in dalmatic, shall
lie in state.
The hat used in his creation must
be deposited at his feet, and after
his funeral be suspended over his
tomb. His body must be laid in a
rypress-wood coffin in presence of
a notary and his official family, a
member of which — the major-domo
— lays at his feet a little case con-
taining a scroll of parchment on
which has been written a brief ac-
count of the more important events
of his life. Then the first coffin is
enclosed in another of lead, and the
two together in a third one of some
kind of precious wood, each coffin
having been sealed with the seals
of the dead cardinal and the living
notary. The body thus secured is
borne by night with funeral pomp
of carriages and torches and long
array of chanting friars to the
charch of requiem, where it remains
until the day appointed for the
Mass, at which the cardinals and
lK>pe are present, and the latter
gives the final absolution.
When carriages first came mto
use in Italy, which was about the
year 1500, they were considered
effeminate and a species of refined
luxury, so much so that Pius IV.,
at a consistory held on November
27, 1564, in a grave discourse ex-
horted the cardinals not to use a
means of conveyance fit only for
women, but to continue to come to
the palace in the virile manner that
• had been so long the custom — that
IS, on horseback ; and reminded them
ihat when the Emperor Charles V.
retemed into Spain from his visit
to Italy, he had said that no sight
VOL. XXI. — 31
pleased him there so much as the
magnificent cavalcade of the cardi-
nals on their way to the chapels
and consistories. After this they
always rode or were carried in lit-
ters or sedan-chaifs, until the be-
ginning of the XVIIth century, when
it became impossible any longer to
hinder them from using the new
and more convenient style which
had become general for all people
of means. Urban VIIL, in 1625, by
ordering cardinals to put scarlet
head-gear on their horses, seemed
to sanction the change ; but it ap-
pears to have been abused, by some
at least, in a manner described by
Innocent X, (1676), in a pathetic
address, as i)l becoming those who
had renounced i\\Q pomps and van-
ities of the world. We may get an
idea of the ostentation, when we
know that but a few years previously
Maurice of Savoy (who afterwards
by permission renounced the car-
dinalate for reasons of state) used
to go to the Vatican with a following
of two hundred splendid equipages
and a numerous escort of horse-
men in brilliant uniforms. The
modem custom (which has been
interrupted by the Italian usurpers)
is certainly very modest.
The cardinals proceed to the mi-
nor functions with a single carriage
and two on gala days, but princes
by birth have three.
Each carriage is red, finished with
gilt ornaments, and drawn by a pair
of superb black horses from a par-
ticular breed of the Campagna.
The scarlet umbrella carried by one
of the somnolent footmen behind
is seldom taken out of its cover,
being merely a reminiscence of the
old fashion when their eminences
rode, and it might be of service
against tl>e rain or the sun.
Cardinals belonging to a religious
order of monks or friars who wear
4S2
The Cardiualate.
beards retain them after their exal-
tation ; but others must be clean
shaven. There have been consid-
erable changes in this matter, and
cardinals wore no beards in the
XVth century. In fact, the long,
silky, and well-cultivated beard of
Bessarion (a Greek) lost him the
election to the papacy after the
death of Nicholas V., in 1455. It
was also the occasion of his death
Avith chagrin at an atrocious insult
offered him by Louis XI. of France ;
for being on an embassy to com-
pose the differences between that
monarch and the Duke of Burgun-
dy, he wrote to the latter stating
the object of his mission before
having made his visit to the former,
which so enraged that punctilious
king that when the legate came
the first thing he did was to pull his
magnificent beard and say:
** Barbara graeca genus retinent quod habere sole-
bant.''
Under the pontificate of Julius
II., who gave the example, cardi-
nals wore long beards; but in the
next century only mustaches and
la barbetta (the " goatee") — varied
among the more rigid by just a little
bit beneath the under lip, and called
a mouche by the French — were re-
tained until, in the year 1700, Cle-
ment XI. introduced the perfectly
beardless face, which now shows it-
self under the beretta (Cancellieri,
Possessi (fe* Papiy page 327).
Not to mention S. Lawrence,
who is generally reckoned an arch-
deacon (/.^., cardinal first deacon)
of the Roman Church, or S. Jerome,
in vindication of whose cardinalate
Ciacconius wrote a special treatise
(Rome, 1581), the Sacred College
counts among its members fifteen
saints either canonized or beatified.
The first is S. Peter Damian, in
1058, and the last Blessed Pietro-
Maria Tommasi, in 17 12. The
cardinals have the privilege of
a Proprium for these in the Offiofr
There are besides nine others pop»»
larly venerated as Blessed, bit
without warrant from the Holf'
See that we are aware of. Tlii
noblest families of Europe, impekj
rial, royal, and of lower rank, hx««
been represented in the Saciei
College, tliose of Italy, of cou]
preponderating : and no other
we believe, has had so many <
dinals as that of Orsini, wh
claims over forty-two, beginni
with Orsino, cardinal-priest
500. Yet merit has never been
fused a place among its meml
because it made no ** boast of
aldry" or other pretension to s(
superiority. Where so many h»
been distinguished in a very hi
degree, it is difficult to select half
dozen names from as many diffe
nations that have been represei
in the Sacred College, and that stai
out above all the rest in their sevecd
countries. Among the Gernum^
Nicholas de Cusa, in 1448, is sape*
rior to all others for his intrepid dv* '
fence of the Holy See and his rar
mense learning, especially in raath^
matics. Rediscovered the annual n^ J
volution of the earth around the
before Copernicus or Galileo
born. Among the Spaniards, Xi-
menes, in 1507, is easily chief, as«
minister of state and encouragerrf
education. In England, Wolset;
created by Leo X., in 15 15, alihou^
Panvinius {^Epitome ^ p. 377) instK
lently calls him "the scum and
scandal of the human race,** i*
thfe greatest figure, and needs no
praise. In Scotland, Beaton is
first as state minister and patron
of learning. He was put to
death in hatred of the faith which
could not be subverted while he
lived. Among the Italians, Be!'
larmine may be placed first; cer-
The Cardinalate.
483
ainlf no other cardinal has filled
o often and so long the minds of
he adversaries of the faith. Clem-
nt VIII., in 1599, when he creat-
ti him, said that there was no
me his equal for learning in all
he church. In France, Richelieu,
he greatest prime minister that
!Tcr lived, and the savior of the
pvcmraent and the church by ef-
ectually putting down the rebel-
bus Huguenots. Everything that
J good and very little compara-
ively that is bad has been repre-
ented in the Sacred College ; but
est we shouhl be thought to flat-
cr we will give a few examples
hat show how no body of men is
utirely above reproach. Moroni
tas a special article on pseudo-car-
linals and another on cardinals
tho have been degraded from their
kigh and sacred office. We say
loihing of the former, or we would
>c led into an interminable article
» the ambition, intrigue, and
schisms that have disgraced indi-
nduals and injured the church.
Boniface VIII. was obliged to de-
jrade and excommunicate the two
urbulent Colonnas, uncle and
»€phew; but doing penance under
lis successor, they were restored,
fulius II. and Leo X. had difficulties
'ith some of their cardinals, and
ffie of them, Alfonso Petrucci, for
inspiring against the sovereign,
fi5 decapitated in Castle Sant'
^Dgelo on July 6, 151;^ Odet de
'OligTM, who had been made a car-
linal very young at the earnest re-
[uest of Francis I., afterwards em-
*faced Calvinism, and, as usual with
apostates, embraced something else
>«ide«. Although he had thrown
'fl^ his cassock, yet when Pius IV.
Pronounced him degraded and ex-
^wnmunicatcd, he resumed it, out
'f contempt, long enough to get
o»rried in his red robes. Cardi-
nals Charles Caraffa * and Nicho-
las Coscia t in Italy ; de Rohan X of
the Diamond Necklace affair, anddc
Lom^nie de Brienne § in France, //,
on the one hand, they have not been
what we would expect from those
so highly honored, on the other,
they give us proofs of the impar-
tial justice of the popes, and that
no one in their eyes is above the
law. Among the curiosities of the
cardinalate is that of Ferdinand
Tavema, Bishop of Lodi, who was
raised to the purple in 1604, and
died of joy. This reminds us
that Cancellieri, with his usual sin-
gularity of research, has a passage
in his work on the Enthronement of
the Popes^ about ** persons who have
gone mad or died of grief because
they were not made cardinals," and
tells of one in particular who hoped
to make his way by his reputation for
learning, and had a little red hat
hung up above his desk to keep
himself perpetually in mind of the
prize he was ambitiously seeking —
and, of course, never found. Poor
human nature ! The importance
of the telegraph as a means of
avoiding inconvenient nominations
is shown by a good many cases of
men elevated to the cardinalate
when they were already dead.
Three occurred in the XlVth cen-
tury; but as late as 1770 Paul de
Carvalho, brother of the infamous
Pombal, was published (having been
reserved in petto) on January 20,
three days after he had expired.
The Orsini are noted for their
* Betrayed his unde Paul IV., was tried by eight
of his peers and condemned to death.
t Abused the confidence of Benedict XIII. ; con-
demned by Clement XII. to a 6ne of two hundred
thousand crowns, to loss of all dignities, and ten
years' imprisonment.
X He purged himself and was reinstated in the
cardinalate ; seems to have been more of a dupe
than a rogue.
9 Deprived of his dignity by Pius VI. on Sept.
ai, X791, for taking the schismatical civil oath of
the French clergy.
484
The Cardinalaii.
longevity, and it has shown itself in
the cardinals as well as in others of
tlie family. Giacinto Bob5 Orsini
was made a cardinal at twenty by
Honorius II., and after living
through sixty-five years of his dig-
nity and eleven pontificates, was
himself elected pope (being only
a deacon) at the age of eighty-
five, and reigned for nearly se-
ven years as Celestine III. (1191-
1198). Another one, Pietro Orsi-
ni, after having three times refused
the honor, was at length induced to
accept it, wore the purple for fifty-
four years and finally became Bene-
dict XIII (1724-1730).
Gregory XL, who brought back
the See from Avignon, was made a
cardinal by his uncle at seventeen ;
Paul II. by his, at twenty-one ; Pius
III. by his, at twenty ; and Leo X.
by his, at fourteen — but not al-
lowed to wear his robes until three
years later. The last example, we
believe, of a very young cardinal is
that of a Spanish Bourbon, Don Luis,
created at twenty-three by Pius VII.,
in 1810; he was permitted afterwards
to renounce it. Although excep-
tions may occasionally be made in
future, a mature age has for many
pontificates come to be considered
absolutely necessary before being
raised to the dignity. Ariaud de
Montor has an anecdote in his Life
of Pius VIII, y about the inexorable
Leo. XII. in connection with the
young Abb(§ Due de Rohan-Chabot,
a Montmorency, and as such, one
would think, quite the equal of an
Orsini, Colonna, or the son of any
other great Italian family. When-
ever Leo was pressed on the subject,
and he was urged by many and very
influential persons, to confer the
dignity upon the princely, learned,
and virtuous priest, he had a new
Latin verse ready in praise of him,
ibut always ending with his inevita*
ble youth, as this one for exampk:
Sunt mores, doctrina, genus— si4
deficit aetas {Ariaud^ i. p. 205)»
He was thirty-seven at the time.
We conclude with a few wordf
the bibliography of the cardiul-
ate. Not to mention the almost o^
numerable separate lives of carfr,
nals which have been published]
all countries, particularly Ita||i^
the greatest work or series of wodi
connected with the subject is 1
doubtedly that of the Spanish Di^
minican, Chacon, who wrote a ^^
tory of the Popes and Cardinals \
to Clement VIII. His work ws
corrected and continued by tip
ItaUan Jesuit, Oldoin^, up to Qt^
ment IX. inclusive, all with beai^
ful portraits and arms. At the 1
quest of Benedict XIV., a leaiaoM
prelate named Guarnacci contH
ued this work to the pontificM
of Clement XII. inclusive. Itvfl
sumptuously brought out in 1751.
There is a continuation of this, cott-
taining the whole of Benedict XIV.%
pontificate, and later matter from
MSS. left by Guarnacci and from
other sources, that appeared in
1787, and is actually (if our memory
does not deceive us) rarer at Rome
than the other parts of the work, a^
though published so much latec
We have understood that there a»
still some precious MS. coliecttoM
on the same subject in the posses*
sion of the noble Del Cinque famiij«
which are probably waiting for t
Maecenas to accept the dedication
before being published. These are
the full titles of the works referred
to :
Alphonsi Ciacconii, Vii€e et res
gestae Pontificum roman^rumy et 5.
R, E, Cardinalium cUf initio nascen-
tis Ecciesiay usque ad Clenuniem /A'.,
eib Augustino Oidoino recognita,
Romae: 1677 (3d ed., 4 vols, fol.)
Mario Guarnacci, Vita et resgests
Horn Head.
485
^ontificum romanorum^ et S. J^. E.
Zariinalium a Clemente IX, usque
\d Qemeniem XII. Romae : 1751
2 vols, fol.)
Vita et resgesia summorum Ponti-
fcuvi et S. R. E, Cardinalium ad
liacconii exemplumcontinuatCB^ quibus
^cedit appendix, qua vitas Cardina-
ium perfecit, a Guarnaccio non ab'
viufas. Aiictoribus Equite Job.
'aulo de Cinque, et Advocato Ra-
kbaele Fabrinio. Romae: 1787.
The best work in Italian is Lor-
nzo Cardella's Memorie storiche dt*
JirtHrmli delta S, Romana Chiesa^
n (omminciando da quelli di S. Ge-
mo /., sirw ai creati da Benedetto
UK Roma: 1792.
A recent and probably very ex-
*llent work in French is Etienne
Fisquet's Histoire ghUrale des Rapes
iiksCardinaux. Chez Etienne Re-
>os, 70 rue Bonaparte, Paris (5 vols,
(vo).
The principal work on the cardi-
nalate in general is by Plati : De
Cardinalis dignitate et officio, of
which a sixth edition was published
at Rome in 1836 ; and an exquisite
monograph, small in size (one little
volume) but full of research, is Cardi-
nal Nicholas Antonelli's De Titulis
quos S, Evaristus Romanis Presby-
teris distribuit, dissertatio. Publish-
ed at Rome in 1725 ; rather rare.
The Calcografia Camerale, near
the Fountain of Trevi at Rome,
used to have for sale at a reasonable
price the engraved portraits of all
the cardinals from the pontificate
of Paul V. (1605-21) to that of
Pius IX. ; but being an establish-
ment belonging to the papal gov-
ernment, the present occupiers of
the city in their zeal for the fine arts
may have turned it upside down.
A collection of portraits in oil
colors of all the British Cardinals
was begun at the English College
in Rome in 1864.
HORN HEAD.
(COUNTY or DOMKGAL.)
Stster of Earth, her sister eldest- bom.
Huge world of waters, how unlike are ye !
Thy thoughts are not as her thoughts : unto thee
Her pastoral fancies are as things to scorn :
Thy heart is still with that old hoary mom
When on the formless deep, the procreant sea,
God moved alone : of that Infinity,
Thy portion then, thou art not wholly shorn.
Scant love hast thou for dells where every leaf
Boasts its own life, and every brook its song ;
Thy massive floods down stream from reef to reef
With one wide pressure ; thy worn cliffs along
The one insatiate Hunger moans and raves.
Hollowing its sunless crypts and sanguine caves.
AuBRET DE Vers.
4S6
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
STRAY LEAVES FROM A PASSING LIFE.
CHAPTER IV.
WE ALL MEET TO PART.
A SECOND time I recovered. I
was still in the same place, and the
same hand was supporting me.
Some brandy was forced down my
throat, and it revived me.
" Now listen," he said. " I have
good news for you. Why, the man
is going off again ! Here, Roger,
take another nip. So. Now you
are much nearer being a dead man
than your father, only you will not
let me tell you quietly. Hush,
now ! Not a word, or I am dumb.
You lie still and listen, and let me
talk. Everything is well here. That
is about as much information as you
can bear at present. There is
nothing the matter with anybody,
except with yourself. Miss Her-
bert, in consequence of a lucky
little telegram received this after-
noon commissioned me to await
your arrival here, and tell you just
that much. Everything else was to
be explained at the Grange, where
your father and some friends are
waiting to receive with open arms
the returned prodigal. This much
I may add : Your father has been
ill, very ill. But he has recovered.
Now, another nip and I think we
may be moving. That was Sir
Roger at whose feet you fell out-
side. The noble old veteran never
moved a foot, or your brains might
have been dashed out. He is a
truer friena than I, Roger, for he
knew you at once, pricked up his
ears, bent down his head towards
you, and gave a low whinny tbA
told me the whole story in a second.
I'll be bound you have had nothiig
to eat all day. That is bad. Wh|,
you are the sick man after all. Dt!
you feel equal to moving now?
Well, come: easy — in — hold tlm
skin up to your chin — so! Aad
now we are off. Mr. Roger He^
bert, I wish you a very meny
Christmas !"
I sat silent with that deliciovf
sense of relief after a great danger
averted while the shadow of that
danger has not quite passed away.
Kenneth did all the talking.
The snowfall had ceased and the
moon was up. How well I remem-
bered every house we passed, a
the cheery lights flashed out of the
windows, and the sounds of racny
voices, whose owners I could almost
name, broke on my ear. Leigh-
stone seemed fairy-land, which I
had reached after long wanderings
through stony deserts and over
barren seas. There is the old
Priory, rising dark and solemn outof
the white snow, with the white grave-
stones standing mute at the head
of white graves all around it. The
moonlight falls full on the family
tomb. I shuddered as I looked upon
it, not yet quite assured that it is
not oi>en for another occupant. lean
see the frozen figure of Sir Roger
stiff and stark with his winter grave-
clothes upon him as we roll by the
Priory gates. And there, at last,
Stray Lcat»es from a Passing Life.
487
arc the gleaming windows of the
Grange, and the faint feeling again
steals over my heart.
The heavy snowfall deadens the
sound of the wheels, and we are
within the house before our arrival
is known. Miss Herbert is called
out quietly by a servant, a stranger
to me. Dear hearts ! What these
women are ! She does not cry out,
she does not speak a word ; watch-
ing and suffering had made her so
wise. She clings to me, and weeps
silently on my breast a long while,
?imothering even the sobs that
threaten to break her heart. When
at last we look around for Kenneth
he is nowhere to be seen, but there
is a strange hush over all the house,
and the voices that I heard on my
entrance are silent.
"Papa is alone in the study —
waiting," whispered Nellie. " I
received your telegram. O Roger !
that little scrap of paper was like a
message from heaven. He is grow-
ing anxious, but expects you. Hush !
follow me."
She stole along on tiptoe, and I
aft^r her. The door of the study
was ajar. She opened it softly, and,
standing in the shadow, I peeped
in. He was seated in an easy-chair
and had dozed off. His face wore
that gentle, languid air of one who
has been very ill and is slowly re-
covering; of one who has looked
death in the face and to whom life
is still new and uncertain. Ten
years seemed to have been added
to his Ufe. Whether owing to his
illness or to some other cause, I
could not tell, but it seemed to me
that a certain look of firmness and
resolve, that was at times too promi-
nent, had quite disappeared. In-
stead of his own brown locks he
wore a wig. He had suffered very
niuch. The door creaked as Nellie
entered, disturbing but not awaken-
ing him. He sighed, his lips moved,
and I thought he muttered my
name.
** Papa !" said Nellie, touching
his arm lightly. How matronly the
Fairy looked! "Papa!"
** Ah ! Yes, my dear. Is that
you, my child .^ Is — is nobody
with you V What a wistful look in
the eyes at that last question !
" Do you feel any better, papa ?
It is time to take your medicine."
How slow the demure minx is
about it.
" Is it } I don't think I will take
any now. I want nothing just now,
my darling."
** What — no medicine ! Nothing
at all, papa.^"
" Nothing at all. Is not that
train arrived yet?" he asked, lo£)k-
ing aroimd anxiously at the clock.
** I — I think so, papa. And it
brought such a lot of visitors.**
" Any— any— for us, Nellie V He
coughed, and his voice trembled
into a feeble old treble as he asked
this question.
** Only one, papa. May he come
in?"
He knew all in an instant. He
rose and tottered towards the door,
where he would have fallen had
I not caught him in my arms.
Only one word escaped him.
"Roger!"
After some time Kenneth stole
in, and seeing how matters stood in-
sisted on bearing me off to dinner.
He took me into the parlor, which
was blazing with lights and deco-
rated with holly and red berries in
good old Christmas fashion. The
first object to meet my eyes was a
great " Welcome Home " which
flashed in letters of fragrant blos-
soms cunningly woven in strange
device about my portrait. Mrs.
Goodal came forward and kissed
me while the tears fell from her
488
Stray Leaves from a Passing-Life.
eyes. " You don't deserve it, you
Avicked boy, but I can't help it,"
she said. Mr. Goodal had seized
both my hands in his. A beauti-
ful girl stood a little apart watching
all with wondering eyes, and in
them too there were tears, such is
the force of example with women.
I had never seen her before, but I
needed no ghost to tell me that she
was Kenneth's sister.
** This is Elfie, Roger," said
Fairy. " She wants to welcome
you too. Elfie is my sister. I
stole her. Oh ! a sister is so much
nicer than a great rough brother
who runs away !"
"And this," said Mrs. Goodal,
leading forward a tall, spare gentle-
man, with that closely shaven face
and quiet lip and eye that, with or
without the conventional garb,
stamp the Catholic priest all the
world over — "this is our dear
friend and father, the friend and fa-
ther of all of us. Father Fenton."
There was a general pause at this
introduction. I suppose that my
countenance must have shown some
perplexity, for a general laugh fol-
lowed the pause. Mrs. Goodal
came to the rescue.
" You expected to meet Mr.
Knowles, I suppose, sir, or the Ab-
bot Jones. Kenneth has told me
about the Abbot Jones. But you
must know that the present Arch-
deacon Knowles is far too high and
mighty a dignitary for Leighstone,
and the abbot is laid up with the
gout. Your father has not been to
the Priory for a very long tinle — for
so long a time that he thinks he
would no longer be known there.
The Herbert pew is very vacant ;
and Nellie has had no one to take
her. Still mystified ? You sec
what comes of silly boys running
away from home and never writing.
They miss all the news."
She led me to the other end of
the parlor, and I stood before a
lofty ivory crucifix. The light of
tapers flashed upon the thin paJe
face ; blood gleamed from the
nailed hands and feet, from the
pierced side, from the bowed i»d
thorn-crowned head. It was the
figure of "the Man of Sorrows,**
and the artist had thrown into the
silent agony of the face an explo-
sion of infinite pity. My own hean
bowed in silence.
"We are all Papists, Roger.
What are you V* whispered Mis.
Goodal at my elbow.
" Nothing," I murmured. ** No-
thing."
" Nothing yet," she whispered
again. But do you think that ve
have all been praying to Him aR
this time for nothing V
" And my father .>"
" The most inveterate Papist of
us all !"
There was a tone of triumph in
her voice that was almost amu^og.
" How did it all come about ?^
" She did it," broke in Kenneth,
pointing to his mother. ** Did I
not tell you that she was the sireeC-
est woman to have her own way.'
If I were a heretic, I would sooner
face the Grand Inquisitor himsdf
than this most amiable of women.
Set a thief to catch a thief, Roger.
But come ; heretics don't abstain as
do wicked creatures like these la-
dies. I forget, they do, though ; and
my heretic, fair ladies, has had no-
thing to eat all day ; so I insist upon
not another word until the fatted
calf is disposed of by our returned
prodigal."
That was a merry Christmas eve.
We all nestled together, and bit by
bit the whole story came out. On
the receipt of my first letter, aiicr
a fruitless inquiry for me, Kenneth
and his mother posted down to
Stray Leaves f ram a Ptissing Life.
489
Ldghstone. Their arrival was most
opportune ; for my father, on hear-
ing of my departure, suffered a re-
lapse that laid him quite prostrate.
Poor Nellie was in despair, brave
heart though she was. By unremit-
ting care he was partially restored,
and then followed the long dreary
months and the weary waiting, day
after day, for some scrap of news
from me. In such cases, the worst
is generally dreaded save when the
worst actually takes place, and my
father drooped gradually. He was
prevailed upon to pay a visit to the
Goodals, and there it was that his
heart, pierced with affliction, and
bowed down with sorrow, opened to
the holier and higher consolation
that religion only affords. Father
Fertton, who was invalided from a
severe course of missionary labors,
was staying with them, and the in-
tercourse thus begun developed into
what we have seen. On his return
to Leighstone, the silent house
opened up the bitter poignancy of
his grief. Every familiar object on
which his eye rested only served to
remind him of one who had passed
away ; whom he accused himself of
having driven away by an order
ihat he could only now regard with
abhorrence. A cold, something
slight, seized him, and soon ap-
peared alarming symptons. In view
of the recent changes, Nellie knew
not to whom of our relatives to ap-
ply in this emergency, and could
only write to Mrs. Goodal, who flew
to her assistance. The arrival of
ray letter brought down Kenneth,
'* like a madman," his mother said.
The letter arrived just at the crisis
of the fever in which my father lay ;
the good news was imparted to him
in one of his lucid intervals, and
the crisis took a favorable turn.
The Christmas holy-days brought
Elfic from her convent ; and finally
all came together, awaiting my ex-
pected return. How that letter
had been kissed, petted, wept over,
laughed over, spelt out inch by
inch ! I wonder that a fragment
of it remained ; but even had it
been worn to dust by reverent fin-
gers, it would not have mattered :
the women knew every word of it
by heart. It formed the staple to-
pic of conversation whenever they
met. There never yet was such a
letter written, and the idea that the
writer of it should only receive ten
dollars — how much money was ten
dollars } — a week was proof positive
that the American people did not
appreciate true genius when it found
its way among them. Mr. Culpep-
per, indeed ! Who cared what he
would think ? The idea of a per-
son of the name of Culpepper hav-
ing to do with men of genius ! They
wondered how I could consent to
write for such a person at all. And
Mrs. Jinks ! Good gracious ! that
dreadful Mrs. Jinks and her " lit-
tery gents " ; Mrs. Jinks and the
beefsteak; Mrs. Jinks and the pork
chops ; Mrs. Jinks and her ** mock
turtle " soup ; Mrs. Jinks and "her
Jane," etc. etc. Poor old Roger !
Poor, dear boy ! How miserable
it made them all, and yet how ab-
surdly ridiculous it all was. It
made them laugh and cry in the
same breath.
What a hero I had become !
What was all my fancied triumph
to this? What is all the success
one can win in this world to the
genuine love and the foolish adora-
tion of the two or three hearts that
made up our little world before we
knew that great wide open beyond
the boundary of our own quiet gar-
den? And all this fuss^and affec-
tion was poured out over me, who
had run away from it, and thought
of it so little while I was away. It
490
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
was, speaking reverently, like the
precious ointment in the alabaster
vase, broken and poured out over
me, in the fond waste of love.
Why, indeed, was this waste for
me ? This ointment was precious,
and might have been sold for many
pence and given to the poor — the
poor of this great world, who were
hungering and thirsting after just
such love as this, that we who have
it accept so placidly, and let it run
and diffuse itself over us, and take
no care, for is not the source from
which it comes inexhaustible, as the
widow's cruse of oil ? But so it is,
and so it will continue to be while
human nature remains truly human
nature. The good shepherd, leav-
ing the ninety-nine sheep, Avill go af-
ter the one which was lost, and find-
ing him, bear him on his own travel-
weary and travel-worn shoulders in
triumph home. The father will kill
the fatted calf for the prodigal
who has lived riotously and
wasted his inheritance, but the
faint cry of whose repentant an-
guish is heard from afar off. The
mother's heart will go out after the
scapegrace son who is tramping the
world alone, turned out of doors
for misbehavior; and all the joy
she feels in the good ones near her
is as nothing compared with the
thought that he at last has come
back, sad and sorrowful and for-
lorn, to the home he left long ago, in
the brightness of the morning, with
so gay a step and so light a
heart. It is unjust, frightfully
unjust, that it should be so. Did
not the good son so feel it, and
was his protest not right? Did
not the laborers in the vineyard so
find it when those who came at
the eleventh hour, and had borne
naught of the heat and the burden
of the day, received the same re-
ward as they ? And who shall say
that the laborers were not right
and the lord of the vineyard ud-
just } What trades-union couW
ever take into consideration such
reasoning as this, forbidden by the
very book of arithmetic' Wait
awhile, friends. Some day when
we, who now feel so keenly the in-
justice of it all, are fathers and
mothers, let us put the ques-
tion then to ourselves: "Why
this waste of precious ointment oo
one who values it not ? I will seal
up the alabaster jar, let the oini-
ment harden into stone, and no
sweetness shall flow out of it." \>ii
so — if you can, and the world will
be a very barren place. It would
dry and shrivel up under arid jus-
tice. Did not the Master tell us,
so ? Did he not say that he came
to call not the just but sinners to re-
pentance ? And is it not this very in-
justice that makes earth likest hea-
ven, where we are told there shall
be more joy over one sinner doing
penance than over the ninety-nine
just who need not penance ?
And here am I preaching, instead
of spending my Christmas merrily
like a man. But the thought of ail
this affection wasted on so callous
a wretch as I had proved myself to
be, was too tempting to let pass.
Suddenly the chimes rang out
from the old steeples, and we were
silent, listening with softened hearts
and moistening eyes,
"There is another surprise for
you yet," said Mrs. Goodal, myste-
riously. " Come, I want to show
you your room."
She took me upstairs, paused a
moment at the door to whisper:
** It has another Occupant now,
Kenneth. Go in and visit him/*
opened the door and pushed me
gently in.
The room was lighted only by a
little lamp, through which a low
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
491
flame burned with a rosy glow. The
flame flickered and shone on an
altar with a small tabernacle, before
which Father Fenton was kneeling
in silent prayer. My old room had
been converted into a chapel, and
»here they had knelt and prayed
for me. Presently the chapel was
lighted up, and my father was as-
sisted to a chair that had been pre-
pared for him. Mr. Goodal took
up his position near a harmonium,
in one corner, while I retired into
the other. One or two of the house-
hold came in and took their places
quietly. Father Fenton rose up,
and, assisted by Kenneth, vested
himself, and the midnight Mass
began. Soon the harmonium was
heard, and then in tones that trem-
bled at first, but in a moment clear-
ed and grew firm and strong and
glorious, Elfie, laughing Elfie, who
now seemed transformed into one
of those angels who brought the
glad tidings long, long ago, burst
forth into the Adeste Fideles . ^
** Natum Tidete
Regem angelorum."
All present joined in the refrain,
Nellie's sweet voice mingling with
the strong, manly tones of Kenneth.
I saw his face light up as a soldier's
of old might at a battle cry. How
happy are the earnest !
Before the Mass was ended, Fa-
ther Fenton turned and spoke a
few words :
** One of old said, * When two or
three arc gathered together in my
name, there am I in the midst of
them.' I need not point out to
you the solemn manner in which a
few moments since he who made
that promise fulfilled it, for he has
spoken to your own hearts. But
I would call your attention to
the wonderful and special manner
in which Christ has visited and
bkssed the two or three gathered
together here this night in his
name. We are here like the shep-
herds of old, come to adore the
Christ born in a manger. One by
one have we dropped in, taken in
hand and led gently, as though by the
Lord himself. This great grace has
not been given us for nothing. It
has been the answer to fervent, ear-
nest, and unceasing prayer, which,
though it may sometimes seem to
knock at the gates of heaven a long
while in vain, has been heard all
the while, and at length, entering in,
falls back on our hearts laden with
gifts and with graces. The two or
three have* increased now by one,
now by another, and under Provi-
dence are destined to increase until
the Master calls them away unto
himself. Happy is the one who
comes himself to Christ, thrice hap-
py he who helps to lead another !
He it is who answers that bitter
cry of anguish that rang out from
the darkness and the suffering of
Calvary — * I thirst.* He holds up
the chalice to the lips of the dying
Saviour filled with the virtues of a
saved soul. It was for souls Christ
thirsted, and he gives him to drink.
But when a conversion is wrought,
when a stray sheep is brought into
the fold, the work is only begun.
All the debt is not paid. It is well
to be filled with gratitude for the
wonderful favor of God in bringing
us out of the land of Egypt and the
house of bondage into the land
flowing with milk and honey, where
the good shepherd attends his
sheep, where we draw water from
the living fountain. We have left
behind us the fleshpots of Egpyt.
But there is ingratitude to be re-
membered and wiped out. Many
weary years have we wandered in
desert places seeking rest and find-
ing none. Yet the voice of the
shepherd was calling to us all the
492
Stray Leaves from a Passing* Life.
while. Peace, peace, peace ! Peace
to men of good-will has been ring-
ing out of the heavens over the
mountains of this world these long
centuries, yet how many ears are
deaf to the angels' song ! The star
in the East has arisen, has moved
in the heavens, and stood over his
cradle — the star of light and of
knowledge — yet how many eyes
have been blind to its lustre and
its meaning. It is because it points
to a lowly place. In Bethlehem
of Judaea Christ is bom, not in the
city of the king; in a stable, not in
the palace of Herod ; in a manger
he is laid, wrapped in swaddling-
clothes, not in the purple of royal-
ty. He is lowly; we would be
great. He is meek ; we would be
proud. He is a little innocent child ;
we would be wise among the
children of men. The birth-place
of Christianity is humility. We
must begin there, low down, for he
himself has said it : * Suffer little
children to come unto me ' : * Un-
less ye become as one of these little
ones, ye shall not enter the king-
dom of heaven.'
" My brethren, my dear chil-
dren, little flock whom Christ
has visited really and truly in
his body and blood, soul and di-
vinity, this is our lesson — to be
humble as he is. In this was his
church founded on this memorable
night, at this solemn hour, while
day and night are in conflict. The
day dawned on the new birth and
the night was left for ever behind.
There is no longer excuse for being
children of the darkness, for the
light of the world has dawned at
length. It dawned in lowliness,
poverty, suffering — these are its
surroundings. Christ's first wor-
shippers on this earth were the one
who bore him and her spouse,
Joseph the carpenter. His second.
the poor shepherds, whose watchlul
ears heard first the song of peace
The kings from afar off followed
who were looking and praying for
light from heaven, and it came.
The angels guided the ignorant
shepherds to where he lay; but
of those to whom more was given,
more was expected. The gifts of
intellect, learning, and the spirit of
inquiry are gifts of God, not of
man, or of Satan. They are to be
used for God, not sharpened against
him. Happy are those to whom he
has given them, who, like the Kings
of the East, though far away from
the lowly place where he lies,
hearken to the voice of God calling
to them over the wildernesses thii
intervene, and make answer to the
divine call. Search in the right
spirit — search in the spirit of ho-
mility, and honesty, and truth. To
them will the star of Truth appear
to guide them anght over many
dangers and difficulties, and disas-
ters mayhap, to the stable where
Christ is sleeping, to lay at his feet
the gifts and offerings he gave tbem
— the gold of faith, the frankincense
of hope, the myrrh of charity."
I suppose it is intended that ser-
mons should apply to all who hear
them. That being the case, how
could Father Fenton's words apply
to me ? There was not a single
direct allusion to me throughoat
What he said might apply equally
to all, and yet surely of all there I
was the most guilty. I alone did
not adore ; and why > After all, was
humility the birthplace of Chris-
tianity > But was not I homble as
the rest of them ? " You ! who arc
so fond of mounting those stilts,"
whispered Roger Herbert senior—
"you, who spend your days and
nights dreaming of the divinus afia-
tus — you, who would give half your
life, were it yours to give, to con*
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
493
vert those little stilts into a genuine
monument, and for what purpose ?
That men might point and look up at
the dizzy height and say, Behold
Roger Herbert, the mighty, his feet
on earth, bis head among the gods
of. heaven !" And was it true that
Truth had been speaking all this
time, all these centuries, to so little
purpose ? Why was it ? how could
it be if the voice was divine ? " The
devil, the world, and the flesh,
Roger; forget not the devil, the
world, and the flesh. Were there
only truth, we should all be of one
mind ; but unfortunately, truth is
confronted with falsehood." What
is truth — what is truth ? Ay, the
old agony of the world. One alone
of all that world dared to tell us
that he was the Truth, he was the
Way, he was the Life. " Let us find
him, Roger. Father Fenton says
he is in the midst of those gathered
together in his name,"
Christmas passed, and a New
Year dawned on us — a happy new
year to all except myself. I was
the only unhappy being at the
Grange. Elfie went back to her
convent school. My father's health
was on the high road to restoration,
and the growing attachment between
Kenneth and Nellie was evident
even to my purblind vision. Strange
to »ay, I did not like to talk to Ken-
neth as openly as at first about my
doubts and difficulties, and Father
Fenton's company, when alone, I
avoided, although he was the most
amiable of men, gifted with wit
softened by piety, and a learn-
ing that not even his modesty could
conceal. He must have observed
how studiously I shunned him, for,
after seeking ineffectually once or
twice to draw me into serious con-
versation, he refrained, and only
spoke on ordinary topics. I began
to grow restless again.
The season had advanced into
an early spring ; the green was al-
ready abroad and the birds begin-
ning to come, when one afternoon,
that seemed to have strayed out of
summer, so soft and balmy was the
air, Nellie and I sat together out
on the lawn as in the old days.
My father was taking a nap within ;
the Goodals had driven to Gnares-
bridge to meet a friend whom they
expected to pass by the up-town
train to London. Nellie was work-
ing at something, and I was musing
in silence. Suddenly she said :
"Roger, do you remember the
promises you made me the night
before you ran away V*
"Yes, Fairy."
"Well, sir.?"
" Well, madam ?"
" Is that all r
" Is what all r
"Do you only remember your
promise ?"
" Is not that a great deal V*
" No ; unless you have kept it.'*
"Ah— h— h!"
" What do you mean by ah — h .?"
" What did I promise ?"
" That from that day forward
you would not only try not to do
harm, but to do some good for
others as well as for yourself."
" That is a very big promise."
** No bigger now than it was
then."
" But it means more now than it
did then."
" Not a bit, not a bit» not a bit !"
"Things look to me so different-
ly now. One grows so much older
in a year sometimes."
" Then you have not kept your
promise? O Roger!"
" Good, though you can spell it
in four letters, is a very large word,
Nellie, and means so much ; and
others mean so many. Not to do
much harm is one thing ; but to do
494
Stra} Leaves from a Passing Lift.
good, not once in a while, but to
be constant in it — that is another
things Nellie, and that was what I
promised. That promise I cannot
say I have kept."
Nellie bent her head lower over
her work, and I believe I saw some
tears fall, but she said nothing. I
went on :
*• Now Kenneth does good."
There was no mistake about the
tears this time, although the head
bent a little lower still. " Kenneth
does a great deal of good. He
^oes about among the poor as
re^iilarlv as a ph)*sician, and what-
ever his medicine may be it seems
lo do them more good than any
tae> can get at the druggist's. He
has sent 1 don't know how many
Youn^ters off to school, where he
rM>s for them. In fact, he seems
to me to be always scheming and
thinking about others and never
dreaming of himself, >«hereas I am
always scheming and thinking about
iriN'self and never seem to see any-
body else in the world. Why, what
are you doing with that stuff in
your hands, Nellie } You are sew-
ing it anyhow."
*• O Roger ! You — you — " she
could say no more, but hid her face,
that was rosy and pure as the dawn,
on my breast.
" A very pretty picture," said a
deep voice behind us, and Nellie
started away from me, while all the
blood rushed back to her heart.
She was so white that Kenneth— for
it was he who had stolen up un-
observed at the moment — was
frightened, and said :
** Pardon me. Miss Herbert, if I
have startled you. I have only this
instant come, and quite forgot that
the grASs silenced the sound of my
footsteps. Take this chair— shall I
bring J' g^^ss of water .>"
•• No. thank you; i am better
now. It was only a moment We
did not hear you."
" May I join you, then } Or was
it a iSU'it'tSte T*
**No; sit down, Kenneth. The
fact is, we were just discussing the
character of an awful scamp."
"Who arrived just too late to
hear any evil of himself — ^is that
it?"
" No, he was here all the tiaie,"
said Nellie, laughing, and herself
again.
" But what brings you from
Gnaresbridge so soon, Kenneth,
and all alone ? Where have yoa
left Mr. and Mrs. Goodal.>"
** Mrs. Goodal had some shopping
to do at Gnaresbridge, and Mr.
Goodal, as in duty bound, waited
patiently the results of that interest-
ing operation. His patience makes
me blush for mine. The shopping
is such a very extensive operation
that I preferred a walk back, and
even now you see I have arrived
before them."
'* How very ungallant, Mr. Good-
al ! I am surprised at you. I thought
Roger was the only gentleman who
didn't like shopping."
** On the contrary, 1 am qoilc
fond of it. I used to do all my
own shopping in New York. 1 got
Mrs. Jinks to buy me some things
once, but as she, woraan-like, mea-
sured everybody by Mr. Jinks, the
articles, though an excellent fit for
him, were an abomination on rac."
" And what did you do with
them ?"
"What could I do with them?
Gave them to Mrs. Jinks, of course,
and for the future did my own
shopping. Indeed, I am getting
quite lazy here. There is nothing
for a fellow to do — is there, Ken-
neth r
" I was thinking of that as I came
along."
Stray Leaves from a Passing Life.
495
"ThinkingA)fwhat?"
** The great puzzle — What to do.
[ put it in every imaginable form.
The question was this : ' Kenneth
joodal, what are you going to do
vith yourself.'' and the whole
right miles passed before I could
irrive at anything like a satisfac-
tory conclusion. I finally resolved
to leave the question to arbitration,
md get others to decide for me. I
have already applied to one."
He paused, and his gaze was fix-
ed on the ground. His face was
flushed, and his broad brow knitted
as though trying to find the right
clue to a puzzling query. I glanc-
ed at Nellie, and observed that her
face had whitened again, while her
eyes were also bent upon the ground,
and her breath came and went
painfully.
" Yes," he went on without rais-
ing his head — Nellie was seated be-
tween us — ** I determined to leave
mycase to arbitration. Your father
was one of the arbiters ; you were
to be another, Roger; and a certain
young lady was to be a third. I
had intended to attack the members
of this high court of arbitration
singly; but as I find two of them
here together, I see no reason why
1 should not receive my verdict at
once. . . ."
A further report of this most im-
f>ortant and interesting case it is
not for me to give, inasmuch as I
was not present. I saw at once
lliat the decision rested now with
the third arbiter, and that my opin-
ion was practically valueless in the
matter. How the case proceeded
I cannot tell. Thinking that there
was little for me to do, and how
<ieeply engaged were the other two
parties, I took advantage of the
noiseless grass to slink away with-
out attracting the attention of either,
heartily ashamed of myself for be-
ing so persistent an intruder where
it was clear I was not particularly
wanted. It was a lovely evening,
and I took a long quiet ramble all
by myself. How much longer the
court was in session I do not know,
I only know that it was broken wp
before I entered, just in time for
dinner. I noticed that in my fa-
ther's eyes there was a softer look
than usual ; that Mrs. Goodal took
Nellie's place at table, opposite to
my father; that Mr. Goodal and
myself were neighbors, while oppo-
site to us sat the adjourned court
of arbitration, looking — looking as
young persons look only once in
their lives. There was a rather
awkward silence on my entrance,
which I found so unpleasant that I
rattled away all through dinner. I
must have been excellent company
for once in my life ; for though at
this moment I do not recollect a
single sentence that I uttered, there
was so much laughter throughout
the dinner, laughter that grew and
grew until we found ourselves all
talking at length, all joining in, al
joking, all so merry that we were
astounded to find how the evening
had passed. My father looked
quite young again.
As I was retiring to my own room
for the night, Nellie caught me, put
both her arms around my neck, and
looked up into my eyes a long time
without saying a word, until at last
she seemed to find in them some-
thing she was looking for, and when,
kissing her, I asked if I should blow
the candle out again, as I did on a
former memorable confession, she
flew away, her face lost amid blush-
es, laughter, and tears. I was con-
gratulating myself on seeing an end
to a long day, when a guilty tap
came to my door, and Kenneth
stole in with the air of a burglar
who purposed making for the first
496
Stray Leaves ftpm a Passing Life.
valuable he coald lay hands on, and
vanishing with it through the win-
dow. He closed the door as cau-
tiously as though a policeman, whom
he feared to disturb, was napping
without, and sat down without say-
ing a word. I looked at the ceil-
ing ; he sat and stared at me. In
his turn, he began examining my
eyes. I could bear it no longer,
but burst out laughing, and held out
my hand, which he almost crushed
in his.
" You arc as true a knight as ever
was old Sir Roger,*' said Kenneth,
wringing my hand till I cried out
with pain. " I went on talking for
I don't know how long, and saying
I forget now what, but, on look-
ing up, I found there was only one
listener. Well, we did without
you."
** So now you know what to do
with yourself. Happy man ! What
a pity Elfie is only fourteen ! She
might tell me what to do with Rog-
er Herbert."
I saw the two who, after my father,
I loved the best in all the world
made one. I waited until they re-
turned from the bridal trip, by which
time my father was fully restored
to health. We spent that season in
London, and when it was over re-
turned to Leighstone. The brown
hand of autumn was touching the
woods, when one morning I begaa
packing my trunk again, and tki:
same evening ate my last dinner at
the Grange. It was not a pleasant
dinner. The ladies were in tcan
at times, and the gentlemen were
inclined to be taciturn. I did mj
best to rally the party as on a fb^
mer occasion, but the effort was nol
very successful.
" Oh ! you are all Sybarites here,"
was my closing rejoinder to ai
queries, tears, and complaints;
**and I should never do anythiaf
among you. Not so fortunate at
Kenneth, who has found some oae
to tell him what to do with himself^
I am driven back on my own r^
sources, and must work oat that
interesting problem for mysel£ I
was advancing in that directiot
when called away. I go back tc
resume my labors in the old way.
You cannot realize the delicioai
feeling that comes over one at timcf
who is struggling all alone* and
groping in the darkness towards a
great light that he sees afar off and
hopes to reach. I leave my father
with a better son than I, and ay
sister with something that even sis-
ters prefer to brothers. I am only
restless here. There is work to be
done beyond there. I may be
making a mistake: if so, I sbaQ
come back and let you know." *
An Old Irish Tour.
AafJ
AN OLD IRISH TOUR.
It was the long vacation in Dub-
in, 186 — . Summer reigned su-
)reme over the Irish capital. The
iong, bright afternoons, still and
irowsy, seemed never to have an
:nd. The soft azure overhead, so
iiflerent from our deep blue skies,
iras whole dayi without a cloud —
rare phenomenon in Irish weather,
[t was hot. The leaves drooped
and the insects hummed, till I, a
sohury American student, holding
my chambers in college for a couple
of weeks after all others had left —
waiting for some friends to make
up a party for the seaside — began
U) think of the fierce blaze of the
Broadway pavement in July. The
four o'clock promenade on Grafton
and Westmoreland streets seemed
almost abandoned by the tail, fresh-
colored Dublin belles; and even
the military band on Wednesday
Afternoons in Merrion square drew
few listeners. It was dull as well
as hot.
Taking down volume after vol-
inne at a venture from the shelves
of the house library, I happened
on Arthur Young's Tour in Ireland
in 1776-9. I opened it at the ac-
count of his visit to the Dargle. I
had not yet visited the glen, and
was interested by his description.
"What!" said I, laying the book
open on my knee, " shall I stay here
broiling for another week ? I will
run down to Bray and Wicklow for
a day or two, and have a look at
the lions." From my windows
every morning I used to look out
at the distant hills, till they seemed
to me like old acquaintances. The
VOL. XXI. — ^32
next day I started. The trip is
still a pleasant one in my memory ;
but it is not of my own short Wick-
low tour I am going to write, al-
though in these fast days it also
might now be called ancient.
This was my first acquaintance
with Arthur Young's celebrated
Totir. Not long ago I met with his
work again. It was a copy of the
second edition, ** printed by H.
Goldney for T. Cadell in the
Strand, mdcclxxx." I recog-
nized my old friend at a glance.
The quaint engraving of the " Wa-
terfall at Powerscourt, I. Taylor,
sculp, ^'' renewed old associations,
and led to a second and more atten-
tive reading.
Although Young's works are still
the standard authority on the agri-
cultural condition of England and
Ireland, one hundred years ago,
recognized in those countries, he
is not so well known on this side
of the water, and a few facts con-
cerning his life and writings may
be given. He was born in 1741.
He was the son of the Rev. Arthur
Young, rector of Bradford, and
sometime chaplain to Speaker On-
slow. His father was noted for
some fierce blasts against "Pope-
ry," but our author, in many pas-
sages of a just and humane spirit,
shows that he did not imbibe the
iconoclast zeal of Arthur Young
the elder. His works are volumi-
nous, comprised in twenty volumes.
They relate almost exclusively to
the state of agriculture in the two
kingdoms and in France. His
Travels in the East, West, and
498
An 0/ J Irish Tour.
North of England, in Wales, in
Ireland, and in France, and his
Poliiical Economy^ are the chief
titles. But Arthur Young was
more than a pracycal farmer,
honorable as that vocation is.
He was a man of liberal education
and cultivated taste, and his works
often rise above th^ dull level of
the fields and are pervaded with a
true Virgilian flavor. They have
been warmly praised by such wide-
ly different authorities as McCul-
loch, De Tocqueville, and the
7/>/^'x Commissioner in 1869; and
Miss Edgeworth, herself now grown
a little antiquated, says of his Tour
in Ireland: "It was the first faith-
ful portrait of its inhabitants.** Ar-
thur Young died in 1820. An ex-
tended but not complete list of his
works will be found in Allibone.
Young had a high but well-
grounded idea of the place that
agriculture holds in the economy
of the state.
•* The details," he says, "of common
management are dry and uncntcrtaining ;
nor is it easy to render them interesting
by ornaments of style. The tillage with
which the peasant prepares the ground ;
the manner with which he fertilizes it ;
the quantities of the seed of the several
species of grain which he commits to it ;
and the products that repay his industry,
necessarily in the recital run into chains
of repetition which tire the ear, and fa-
tigue the imagination. Great, however, is
the structure raised on this foundation ;
it may be dry, but it is important, for these
are the circumstances upon which depend
the wealth, prosperity, and power of na-
tions. The minutias of the farmer's
management, low and seemingly incon-
siderable as he is, are so many links of a
chain which connect him with the state.
Kings ought not to forget that the splen-
dor of majesty is derived from the sweat
of industrious and too often oppressed
peasants. The rapacious conqueror who
■destroys and the great statesman who
protects humanity, are equally indebted
for their power to the care with which the
iarmer cultivates his fields. The monarch
of these realms must know, when k
is sitting on his throne at Westroioster,
surrounded by nothing but state and
magnificence, that the poorest, the most
oppressed, the most unhappy peasant, io
the remotest corner of Ireland, cootn-
butes his share to the support of the gaiety
that enlivens and the splendor that
adorns the scene."
Our author, it will be seen, Hved
close enough to the great Dr. John-
son to catch something of the sweiF
ing and sonorous rotundity of styk
which he impressed upon the Geoi*
gian era. And, in truth, there is 4
weighty and nervous energy about
the prose writing of that age which
contrasts, not to our advantage
with the extenuated and sharply
accented style of our day.
The careful investigation of his
special study led Young into minute
inquiries and much experimental
journalizing, into which it would
not be possible or even desirabkl
for us to follow him. Wc shall
therefore content ourselves with ij
notice of his more general obscna-
tions in the character of tourist.
Arthur Young started from Holy-
head for Dunleary — as Kingstown
was then called, before the **Fini
Gentleman in Europe " set his au-
gust foot upon its quay — on the 19th
of June, 1776. What a tremendous
turn of the wheel has the world tak-
en since then ! These colonies had
just plunged slowly but resolutely
into that great struggle for indepen-
dence, the centennial commcroon-
tion of which we shall celcbnie
next year. Progress in Irelandtj
though not so radical, has beed
such as would have been derided
as a day-dream by the gencratioft
then living. In the arts and scieoi
ces the advance has been as ama**
ing as in politics. As wc read of
Young's tedious passage of twenty*
two hours on board the small sai^
ing packet of those days, we take i«
An Old Iris A Tour.
499
at a glance the difference of times
which has substituted for those
** Dutch clippers " the magnificent
steamships which now make the
passage between those ports with
andeviating regularity in four hours.
Young's tour was made under the
auspices of the English Board of
Agriculture. It was his intention
to make a complete survey of the
state of the art in the island. He
complains, however, of the want of
encouragement his project met with
in England ; the Earl of Shelbume,
** Edmund Burke, Esq.," and a few
others being the only persons of
eminence who took the trouble to
interest thenjselves in the undertak-
ing. ** Indeed," says our author,
commenting on this indifference,
"there are too many possessors of
great estates in Ireland who wish
to know nothing more of it than
the collection of their rents " — a
remark which has not lost its force
in our own day.
The reception he met with in
Dublin, however, when the pur-
pose of his visit became known,
seems to have compensated him for
the coldness he had experienced ou
the other side of the Channel.
The most distinguished persons of
the Irish capital — a title then to
some extent real — warmly encour-
aged him in his project, treated
him with true Irish hospitality in
their own houses, and provided
him with letters of introduction to
facililate his inquiries. Thus equip-
ped, Young felt sure of bringing his
undertaking to a successful issue ;
nor did he disappoint his subscrib-
ers. But before going further, let
us first note his impressions of the
capital.
Dublin exceeded his anticipa-
tions. Its public buildings, which
still recall its old glories to the Irish-
American tourist, "are," he says.
" magnificent ; very many of the
streets regularly laid out, and ex-
ceedingly well built." The Parlia-
ment House, within the walls of
which Grattan and Flood were then
exerting their growing powers, at-
tracted his admiration, although
some of its architectural features
seemed to him open to criticism.
Young found the subject of Union
an unpopular one wherever broach-
ed, and, although an advocate of the
scheme, does not appear to have
imagined that in a little over twen-
ty years the doors of the Parliament
House would be closed upon the
representatives of Ireland. The
cold and business-like precincts of
the Bank of Ireland, as the building
is now called, make stronger by con-
trast the recollection of the fervid
eloquence once heard within its
walls. Young attended the debates
frequently; but, whether it was from
English phlegm, or perhaps it wpuld
be more just to him to say, from
the recollection of the transcendent
powers of Burke and Chatham, he
does not appear to have been car-
ried away by the perfervidum inge-
nium of the Irish orators. After
naming Mr. Daly, Mr. Flood (who
had dropped out of the scene), Mr.
Grattan, Serjeant Burgh, and others,
he says : " I heard many eloquent
speeches, but I cannot say they
struck me like the exertion of the
abilities of Irishmen in the English
House of Commons."
Young's opinion of the musical
talent of Dublin would be apt also
to excite the ire of its present
opera-goers. No city in the United
Kingdom fiatters itself more upon
its correct musical taste and warm
encouragement of talent. But this
is what our unabashed tourist says :
" An ill-judged and unsuccessful
attempt was made to establish the
Italian opera, which existed but
500
An Old Irish Tour.
with scarce any life for this one
winter; of course, they could rise
no higher than a comic one. ' La
Buona Figliuola/ *" La Frascatana/
and * II Geloso in Cinento * were
repeatedly performed, or rather
murdered, except the part of Ses-
tini. The house was generally emp-
ty and miserably cold." This is
no doubt an honest description of
the fortunes of the opera in his day,
but those who have witnessed .the
successive appearances of Grisi, of
Piccolomini (in light r6les\ of Ti-
tjens, and Patti will not accuse a
modern Dublin audience of want
of sympathy.
Dublin, always a gay city social-
ly, was enlivened in Young's day
by the presence of a larger resident
aristocracy than ever since. The
greater power and state of the " Cas-
tle *' before the Union, the splendid
hospitality of the old Irish nobility,
the beauty of its fair dames — the
toast of more than one court, the
gallant, open-handed manners of
the native landed gentry, made it
then one of the most brilliant capi-
tals in Europe. Young supposes
the common computation of its in-
habitants, two hundred thousand, to
be exaggerated ; he thinks one hun-
dred and forty or one hundred and
fifty thousand would be nearer the
mark. Although Dublin, to-day,
nearly if not quite doubles the lat-
ter figures, and in countless ways
shares in the general progress of
the age, she misses the independent
spirit her native parliament gave
her, and which filled the smaller
city of the last century with an ex-
uberant life that is now absent in
her streets and along her quays.
Young thus sums up his observa-
tions on the city : " From every-
thing I saw, I was struck with all
those appearances of wealth which
the capital of a thriving communi-
ty may be supposed to exhibit
Happy if I find through the
country in diffused prosperity the
right source of this splendor!"
Whatever the gaiety of the capital,
the impartial observer, as Young
himself soon found, could not fail
to note through the country, not-
withstanding some gleams of better
times, the fixed wretchedness of a
whole people, bowed down under
the yoke of those penal laws the
unspeakable horror of which no
later English legislation, however
beneficent, can ever redeem. But
the native buoyancy of the Irish
character was well exemplified in
the comparatively cheerful and
quiescent spirit with which tliey
bore their hard lot in the breathing
space, if one may so term it, be-
tween 1750 and 1770. For some
years previous to Young's Tmr^
the general state of the country,
contrasted with what it had been
seventy years previously, was what
might almost be called prosperous.
The population was increasing, aad
was not suffering from want of food;
and the penal laws in some in-
stances were allowed to fall into
abeyance. The country was com-
paratively free from agrarian dis-
turbances. Whiteboys and " Hearts
of Steel" had sprung up in some
counties after Thu rot's landing io
1759, but were quickly suppressed;
their indiscriminate attacks upon
private property in some instances
causing the Catholic country peo-
ple to rise against them. The trade
of Ireland was still oppressed bf
the English prohibitory laws, but
some mitigation had been granted;
and in 1778 the threatening atti-
tude of the Irish Volunteers at last
wrung a tardy measure of justice
from the English government. The
value of land in many counties had
more than doubled in the previous
An Old Irish Tour,
501
thirty years. Much of this rise in
valne was undoubtedly due to nat-
ural causes — improved and extend-
ed cultivation, and the increase of
population — but it is plain from
Young's testimony, without going
to Catholic contemporary evidence,
that the rents were raised artificially
in numberless cases by the grinding
agents of the absentee landlords.
l*he Irish woollen trade had been
annihilated by English monopoly.
The manufacture of linen, which
was at its height in 1770, had
j^reatly declined in consequence
of the American difficulties, but was
beginning to revive a little. The
effect of the war had also been to
rheck the emigration, which was
chiefly confined, however, to the
North. Young gave particular at-
tention to this subject, noting down
the emigration in each parish he
visited; and the result'of his obser-
vations is summed up in these
words : ** The spirit of emigrating
in Ireland appeared to be confined
lo two circumstances, the Presby-
terian religion and the linen manu-
facture. I heard of very few emi-
grants except among the manufac-
turers of that persuasion." This
remark has of course been com-
pletely nullified in later years by
the famine and continued misgov-
emment, which at last, breaking
down the Irishman's strong love of
home, have sent him forth as a
wanderer, but, in the designs of
Providence, to carry with him his
faith and build up a greater Catho-
lic Church in America — happy
also in the country and the laws
which enable him by his own exer-
tions to gain a position equal to
any other citizen's, and to throw
oflf that poverty and servility which
too often weighed down his spirit
at home.
On the whole, then, it may be said
that the time of Arthur Young's
visit was a favorable one, if any
time might be accounted favorable
in that long night of oppression
which was still brooding over Ire-
land, and which had yet to reach
its darkest hour before the first
faint streaks of dawn gladdened the
eyes of its weary watchers. The
country was just touching on that
short period of flickering prosperity,
culminating in the assertion of its
constitutional independence in 1 782,
but destined to set in fire and blood
in the tragedy of '98 and the ill-
starred Union of 1800.
Leaving Dublin, Young first made
a short tour through Meath and
Westmeath, returning by way of
Carlow, Wexford, and Wicklow to
the capital before entering on his
more extensive circuit of the island.
In this first excursion he at onCe
exhibits the plan of his journal,
noting down with minuteness the
character of the soil, the course of
the crops, the nature of the tenancy,
and the condition of the people.
Potatoes were flie great article of
culture, alternating with barley,
oats, and wheat. Much of the best
land was given to grazing. The
average rent of the county of West-
meath, exclusive of waste, was nine
shillings — including it, seven shil-
lings ; but in this, as in the other
counties near Dublin, the best land
let from twenty shillings to as high
as thirty-five shillings sterling an
acre. The rise in the price of
labor for ten years was from five-
pence and sevenpence to eight-
pence and tenpence per day, but
the laborers worked harder and bet-
ter. Women got eightpence a day
in harvest. Lands in general were
leased to Protestants for thirty-one
years or three lives, but Catholics
were in almost all cases at the
mercy of their landlords. The law
502
An Old Irish Tour.
allowing Catholics to hold leases
for lives was not yet passed. June
28th, he notes :
'*Took the road to Summerhill, the
seat of the Right Hon. H. L. Rowley ;
the country cheerful and rich ; and if the
Irish cabins continue like what I have
seen, I shall not hesitate to pronounce
their inhabitants as well off as most Eng-
lish cottagers. They are built of mud
walls, eighteen inches or two feet thick,
and well thatched, which are far warmer
than the thin clay walls in England.
Here are few cottars without a cow, and
some of them two, a bellyful invariably
of potatoes, and generally turf for fuel
from a bog. It is true they have not al-
ways chimneys to their cabins, the door
serving for that and window too; if
(heir eyes are not affected with the smoke
it may be an advantage in warmth.
Every cottage swarms with poultr>', and
most of them have pigs. Land lets at
twenty shillings an acre, which is the
average rent of the whole county of
Meath to the occupier, but if the tenures
of middlemen are included it is not
above fourteen shillings. This interme-
diate tenant between landlord and occu-
pier is very common here. The farmers
are very much improved in their circum-
stances since about the year 1752."
Although we may partially agree
in Arthur Young's opinion that
some amelioration was visible in the
material surroundings of the Irish
peasant during the quarter of a
century preceding his visit, no equal
concession can be made regarding
his political rights. These remained
absolutely nil. The comparative
tranquillity that prevailed was the
lethargy not the security of freedom.
In a slightly altered sense might
have been uttered of the whole na-
tion what Hussey Burgh said of a
year or two later, referring more
particularly to the Volunteers:
** Talk not to me," he exclaimed,
"of peace; it is not peace, but
smothered war !"
Contrasted with this description
of the cabins of the peasantry, the
following account of an Irish nobk-
man's country mansion in the same
county one hundred years ago will
be found interesting. Headfort is
still one of the principal residences
in that part of the country :'
"July I St: Reached Lord Bective's io
the evening through a very fine countrr.
particularly that part of it from which b
a prospect of his extensive wood& No
person could with more readiness give
me evcrj' sort of information than K$
lordship. The improvements at Head-
fort must be astonishing to those who
knew the place seventeen years ago, foj
then there were neither building, walliag
nor plantations ; at present almost cv«t-
thing is created necessary to form a con-
siderable residence. The hoase and
offices are new-built. It is a large plait
stone edifice. The body of the boa$e
145 feet Jong, and the wings each r9a
The hall is 31}^ by 24, and 17 high. The
saloon of the same dimensions :"on the
left of which is a dining-room 48 by 24.
and 24 high. From the thickness of ibc
walls, I suppose it is the custom to buiW
very substantially here. The groands
fall agreeably in front of the house to a
winding narrow vale, which is filled with
wood, where also is a river which Loni
Bective intends to enlfcrge. And on the
other side, the lawn spreads OTcr a laiye
extent, and is everywhere bounded br
large plantations. To the right the town
of Kells, picturesquely situated among
groups of trees, with a fine waving coan-
try and distant mountains ; to the left, a
rich tract of cultivation. Besides these
numerous plantations, considerable man-
sion, and an incredible quantity of wall-
ing, his lordship has walled in 26 acrts
for a garden and nursery, and built six or
seven large pineries, each 90 feet loo|-
He has built a farm yard 280 feet squaife
surrounded with offices of varioos
kinds."
July 4th, there is an entry of
interest, as showing the position of
Catholic tenants at that day even
under the best landlords. Young
was then a guest of Lord Longford'^
at Packenhara Hall. We give the
passage in his own words, as it is a
favorable index to our author's
character:
Ah Old Irish Tour.
503
'* Lord Longford carried me to Mr.
Marly, an improver in the neighborhood,
who has done great things, and without
the benefit of such leases as Protestants
in Ireland commonly have. He rents
1,000 acres; at first, it was tweniypence
an acre ; in the next term, five shillings, or
two handred and fifty pounds a year ; and
he now pays eight hundred and fifty
pounds a year for it. Almost the whole
&rm is mountain land ; the spontaneous
l^rowih, heath, etc.; he has improved 500
acres. ... It was with regret I heard
the rent of a man who had been so spirit-
ed an improver should be raised so ex-
ceedingly. He merited for his life the
returns of his industry. But the cruel
laws against the Roman Catholics of this
country remain the marks of illiberal
barbarism. Why should not the indus-
trious man have a spur to his industry,
whatever be his religion ; and what in-
dustry is to be expected from them in a
country where leases for lives are general
among Protestants, if secluded from terms
common to every one else ? What mis-
chiefs could flow from letting them have
leases for life? None; but much good
ia animating their industry. It is im*
possible that the prosperity of a nation
should have its natural progress where
four-fifths of the people are cut off from
those advantages which are heaped upon
the domineering aristocracy of the small
remainder."
Young made many inquiries here
concerning the state of the " lower"
classes, and found that in some re-
spects they were in good circum-
stances, in others indifferent. They
had, generally speaking, plenty of
potatoes, enough flax for all their
linen, most of them a cow and
some two, and spun wool enough for
thcur clothes ; all, a pig, and quanti-
ties of poultry. Fuel, and fish from
the neighboring lakes, were also
plenty.
** Reverse the medal," says Young:
•* they arc ill clothed, make a wretched ap-
pearance, and, what is worse, are much op-
pressed by many, who make them pay too
dear for keeping a cow. horse, etc. They
have a practice also of keeping accounts
with the laborers, contriving by that means
to let tlie poor wretches have very little
cash for their year's work. This is a great
oppression ; farmers and gentlemen keep-
ing accounts with the poor is a cruel *
abuse. So many d|iys' work for a cabin —
so many for a potato garden — so many
for keeping a horse — and so many for a
cow, are clear accounts which a poor
man can understand ; but farther it ought
never to go; and when he has worked
out this, the rest ought punctually to be
paid him every Saturday night. They are
much worse treated than the poor in
England, are talked to in more oppro.
brious terms, and otherwise very much
oppressed."
Passing through the county Wex-
ford, Young diverged a little from
his route to visit the baronies of
Forth and Bargy, the peculiar char-
acter of the people of which had
always attracted the attention of
tourists. They are supposed to
have been completely peopled by
Strongbow's followers, and have
retained a language peculiar to
themselves. They had the reputa-
tion even then of being better far-
mers than in any other part of Ire-
land.
** July 12th : Sallied from my inn,
which would have made a very
passable castle of enchantment in
the eyes of Don Quixote in search
of adventures in these noted bar-
onies, of which I had heard so
much." He did not find, however,
as much difference in the husband-
ry as he expected, but the people
appeared more comfortable. Pota-
toes were not the common food all
the year through, as in other parts-
of Ireland. Barley bread and pork^
herrings and oatmeal, were much
used. The cabins were generally
much better than any he had yet
seen ; larger, with two and three
rooms in good order and repair, all
with windows and chimneys, and
little sties for their pigs and cattle.
They were as well built, he says, as
was common in England. The girls
S04
An Old Irish Tour.
and women were handsomer, hav-
ing better features and complexions
than he saw elsewhere in Ireland.
Young was a poor authority on this
point, however; for he says, in the
most ungallant manner, that ** the
women among the lower classes in
general in Ireland are as ugly as
the women of fashion are hand-
some." A remark equally com-
|K)sed of truth and falsehood : a
handsome Irish lass being as easily
found in any townland as in any
Dublin drawing-room. Young was
a good man and a good farmer; but
we fear in this case his cockney
prejudices deceived him.
Understanding that there was a
part of the barony of Shellmaleive
inhabited by Quakers, rich men and
good farmers, our tourist turned
aside to visit them. A farmer he
talked to said of them : " The Qua-
kers be very cunning, and thed 1
a bad acre of land will they hire."
This excited Young's admiration
for these sagacious Friends. He
found them uncommonly industri-
ous, and a very quiet race. They
lived very comfortably and happily,
and many of them were worth sev-
eral hundred pounds.
Returning through Wicklow to
Dublin, he passed through the Glen
of the Downs and the Dargle, as
we have already noticed. His de-
scription of the scenery of these
noted spots is picturesquely writ-
ten, but too long to quote. July
1 8th, he set out for the North.
Leaving Drogheda, he made a visit
to the Lord Chief Baron Foster at
Cullen. This " great improver," " a
title/* he says, " more deserving esti-
mation than that of a great general
or great minister," had reclaimed in
twenty years a barren tract of land,
containing over 5,000 acres, which,
when Young visited it, was covered
with com. In conversation with
him, the Chief Baron said that b
his circuits through the North d
Ireland he was on all occasions
attentive to procuring inforautioo
relative to the linen manufacture.
It had been his general observa-
tion that where linen manufacture
spread tillage was very bad. Thirty
years before, the export of linen aod
yarn had been about ^^500,000 a
year; it was then ;;^i, 200,000 to
^1,500,000. In 1857, the export of
linens, according to McCulloch, wa^
^4,400,000. In 1868, there were 94
flax-spinning factories in Ireland,
driving 905,525 spindles, employing
about 50,000 {linde I. N. Murphy's
valuable work, Ireland — Industrial,
Political^ and Social^ London, 1870).
In conversation upon the ** Pope-
ry" laws. Young expressed his sur-
prise at their severity. The Chief
Baron said they were severe in ihc
letter, but were never executed.
It was rarely or never, he said
(he knew no instance), that a Pro-
testant discoi'erer got a lease by
proving the lands let under two-
thirds of their real value to a
Catholic. But it is plain the Chief
Baron took a more roseate view of
the situation than it deserved ; tbtr
explanation of the last-mentioned
circumstance being, as we have
seen in the case of Mr. Marly,
already mentioned, that the land-
lord generally took good care to
keep the rent well up to the two-
thirds value. The penalties for
carrying arms or reading Mass were
severe, the Chief Baron admitted
but the first was never execoted
for merely poaching (rare clem-
ency !), and as to the other, '* Mass-
houses were to be seen every-
where." The Chief Baron did
justice, Young says, to the merits
of the Roman Catholics, by ob-
serving that they were in general
a very sober, honest, and indostri-
An Old Irish Tour.
505
ous people. Arthur Young winds
up this conversation with Chief
Hajron Foster, however, with the fol-
lowing spirited remark, which shows
thai he had not listened in vain to
the great orator of that age : ** This
account," he says, " of the laws
ag^ainst them brought to mind
an admirable expression of Mr.
Burke's in the English House of
Commons : connivance is the rclaxa-
Han of slavery y not the definition of
libiftyy
The Chief Baron was of opinion
that the kingdom had improved
more in the last twenty years than in
a century before. The great spirit
began, he said, in 1749 and 1750.
With regard to the emigrations,
"which then made so much noise in
the North of Ireland, he believed
they were principally idle people,
w^ho, far from being missed, benefit-
ed the country by their absence.
They were generally dissenters, he
said; very few Churchmen or Ca-
tlK>lic$.
Coming to Armagh, Young found
the "Oak Boys *' and " Steel Boys"
active in that part of the country.
He attributes their rise to the in-
crease of rents and the oppression
of the lithe-proctors. The manu-
facture of linen was at its height;
the price greater, and the quantity
also. A weaver earned from one
shilling to one shilling and fourpence
a day, a farming laborer eight-
pence. The women earned about
threepence a day spinning, and
drank tea for breakfast.
July 27th, in the evening, he
reached Belfast. He gives an ani-
mated description of the town and
its trade and manufactures. " The
streets," he says, ** are broad and
ttraight, and the inhabitants, amount-
ing to about fifteen thousand, make
it appear lively and busy." The
population of Belfast is now proba-
bly one hundred and twenty-five
thousand. It was then already noted
for its brisk foreign trade with the
Baltic, Spain, France, and the West
Indies. The trade with North Amer-
ica was greatly affected by the con-
tumacious behavior of the " rebels."
Thence our tourist wended his
way through the North, through
the mountains and moors of Done-
gal, and down the wild west coast
of Sligo and Galway. Here he de-
scribes a wake, and the " howling "
of the " keeners " ** in a most horrid
manner," in a tone of alarm and
amazement which would put to
shame the stage " English officer "
of some of our modern Irish melo-
dramas.
Continuing his route through
Clare and Limerick, he arrived at
Cork September 21st. This is his
description of the city one hundred
years ago :
" Got to Corke in the evening, and
waited on the Dean, who received mc with
the most flattering attention. Corke is
one of the most populous places I have
ever been in ; it was market-day, and I
could scarce drive through the streets,
they were so amazingly thronged ; the
number is very great at all t\mes. I
should suppose it must resemble a Dutch
town, for there arc many canals in the
streets, with quays before the houses.
Average of ships that entered in nine,
teen years, eight hundred and seventy-
two per annum. The number by people
in Corke, upon an average of three calcu-
lations, as mustered by the clergy, by the
hearth-money, and by the number of
houses, sixty-seven thousand souls, if
taken before the first of September ; after
that, twenty thousand increased.*'
These last figures appear large.
The population of Cork in 1866
was estimated at eighty thousand.
Ships entered and cleared in 1859,
4,410.
From Cork, Young set out for
Killamey. The lakes were already
5o6
An Old Irish Tour.
a great point of attraction for the
tourist. Young was in raptures
with the mingled beauty and sub-
limity of the scenery. His descrip-
tion of Glena, Mucross Abbey, Man-
gerton, and the other wild and
beautiful features of lakes and
mountain, might almost be taken
for an account of their appearance
within the last ten years. Of In-
nisfallen, he says :
** September 29ih : Returning, took
boat again towards Ross Isle, and as Muc-
niss retires from us nothing can be more
beautiful than the spots of lawn in the
terrace opening in the wood ; above it,
the green hills with clumps, and the
whole finishing in the noble group of
wood above ihe abbey, which here ap-
pears a deep shade, and so fine a finish-
ing one, that not a tree should be touch-
ed. . . • Open Innisfallen, which at this
distance is composed of various shades,
within a broken outline, entirely different
from the other islands. No pencil could
mix a happier assemblage. Land near a
miserajDle room where travellers dine. —
Of the isle of Innisfallen it is paying no
great compliment to say it is the most
beautiful in the king's dominions, and
perhaps in Europe. It contains twenty
acres of land, and has every variety that
the range of beauty, unmixed with the
sublime, can give. The general feature
is that of wood ; the surface undulates
into swelling hills, and sinks into little
vales; the slopes are in every direction,
the declivities die gently away, forming
those slight inequalities which are the
greatest beauty of dressed grounds. The
little vallies let in views of the surround-
ing lake between the hills, while the
swells break the regular outline of the
water, and give to the whole an agreeable
confusion. Trees of large size and com-
manding figure form in some places nat-
ural arches ; the ivy mixing with the
branches, and hanging across in festoons
of foliage, while on the one side the lake
glitters among the trees, and on the other
a thick gloom dwfeUs in the recesses of
the wood. These are the great features of
Innisfallen. Every circumstance of the
wood, the rocks, and lawn are character-
istic, and have a beauty in the assemblage
from mere disposition."
With the exception of the ** mis-
erable room where travellers dine,**
which happily has disappeared, thk
is a good picture of the scene whet
the writer visited this lovely spot.
Young elsewhere complains of the
" want of accommodations and ex-
travagant expense of strangers " vis-
iting Killarney. The " Victoria,*
the " Lake," and other good hotds
now leave no room for reproach «•
the first score ; though the " Strang
er " may still feelingly recogniit
the point of Young's last remark.
Moore had not yet written :
** Sweet Innisfallen long shall dwefl
In memory's dream, that sonny smile
Whidi o*er thee on that eveaiag fiefl.
When first I saw thy fairy isle.**
From Killarney Young took the
road through Limerick and Tip-
perary. Here he stopped at Sr
William Osborne's, near Clonrod
Always on the alert to note tio*
provements, he here describes m'
scene of industry and labor whidk
in an extended form still attract!
the attention of the tourist :
"This gentleman" (Sir W. OsbomH
he says, '* has made a mountain im|
ment which demands particular att
being upon a principle very di
from common ones. Twelre years ag^
he met a hearty-looking fellow of ion%
followed by a wife and six children is
rags, who begged. Sir Wiliiam qoes>
tioned him upon the scandal of a man hi
full health and vigor supporting himself
in such a manner. The man said b«
could get no work, * Com ♦ along with
me, I will show you a spot of land upon
which I will build a cabin for rou, and if
you like you shall fix there.' The fellow
followed Sir William, who was as good is
his word ; he built him a cabin, gare
him five acres of a heathy mountain, lent
him four pounds to stock with, and pve
him, when he had prepared his groosd,
as much lime as he would come for.
The fellow flourished ; he went on gra^
dually ; repaid the four pounds, aad
present!)' became a happy little cottir:
he has at present twelve acres under
cultivation, and a stock in trade wonti
An Old Irish Tour.
507
t least eighty pounds. The success
rhich attended this man in two or three
eais brought others, who applied for
ind. And Sir William gave them as
hey applied. The mountain was under
»se to a tenant, who valued it so little
tiat, upon being reproached with not
ultivating or doing something with it,
e assured Sir William that it was utter-
f impracticable to do anything with it,
nd oflTered it to him without any deduc-
ion of rent Upon this mountain he fixed
Item, giving them terms as they came
leterminable with the lease of the farm,
n this manner Sir William has fixed
:venty-two families, who are all upon the
mproving hand, the meanest growing
icher, and find themselves so well off
hat no consideration will induce them
o work for others, not even in harvest.
Their industry has no bounds; nor is the
lay long enough for the revolution of
iieir incessant labor.
** Too much cannot be said in praise of
[his andertaking. It shows that a reflect-
ing, penetrating landlord can scarcely
move without the power of creating
'ipportuniiies to do himself and his coun-
try service. It shows that the villany of the
greatest miscreants is all situation and
circumstance; employ , don't hang them.
Let it not be in the slavery of the cottar
system, in which industry never meets its
reward, but, by giving property, teac*h the
TJiloe of it ; by giving them the fruits of
their h^>or, teach them to be laborious.
All this Sir William Osborne has done,
and done it with effect, and there proba-
bly is not an honester set of families in
the county than those which he has form-
ed from the refuse of the Whiteboys."
Exception will be justly taken
here to the use of the word " mis-
creants," of which nothing appears
lo show that these poor people were
deserving the name, and which is
probably used generally ; but let it
be remembered that these senti-
ments were written one hundred
years ago, and by an Englishman
who, from his position, might well
be supposed to share all the preju-
dices of his race, and the pliilan-
thropy and love of justice which
belonged to Young's character will
conspicuously appear. What a rev-
elation of the state of the country
and the condition of its native peo-
ple, when a stranger utters these
appalling words (to our ears) to its
landlords: ^^ Employ ^ don't hang
them."
In September, 1869, the Times
Commissioner in Ireland thus wrote
of the gre^t-grandchildren of these
men:
*' I took care to visit a tract in this
neighborhood which I expected to find
especially interesting. Arthur Young
tells us how, in his day, Sir William Os-
borne of Newtownanner encouraged a
colony of cottiers to settle along the
slopes that lead to the Commeraghs, and
how they had reclaimed this barren wild
with extraordinary energy and success.
The great-grandchildren of these very
men now spread in villages along the
range for miles, and, though reduced in
numbers since 1846, they still form a con-
siderable population. The conunual
labor of these sons of the soil has carried
cultivation high up the mountains, has
fenced thousands of acres and made
them fruitful, has rescued to the uses of
man what had been the unprofitable do-
main of nature. These people do not
pay a high rent. They are for the most
part under good landlords ; but I was
sorry to find this remarkable and most
honorable creation of industry was gene-
rally unprotected by a certain tenure.
The tenants with hardly a single excep-
tion declared they would be happy to
obtain leases, which, as they said truly,
would ' secure them their own, and stir
them up to renewed efforts.' "
A few years before the visit of
the Times Commissioner, the writer
of this article passed along the
same road on his way to Cionmel
and Fethard, and still vividly re-
members the remarkable appear-
ance of the long range of these little
holdings climbing high up the steep
side of the mountains; the cli^ster-
ing cabins ; the narrow paths wind-
ing up to them ; and, higher than all,
the gray masses of mist sweeping
along the rocks and purple heath.
5o8
Ah Old Irish Tour.
From Clonmel Arthur Young pro-
ceeded to Waterford, and thence, on
the 19th of October, the wind being
fair, took passage in the sailing
packet, the Countess of Tyrone^ for
Milford Haven, Wales — thus bring-
ing to an end his first and most in-
teresting tour in Ireland.
In a subsequent volume, he re-
lates his experiences two years
later. But this second volume,
though valuable, is not of the
same interesting character as the
first. It consists chiefly of chap-
ters under general headings, such
as Manufactures, Commerce, Popu-
lation, etc. It is speculative and
theorizing, and has not the fresh-
ness of particular incidents and
observations. Nevertheless, it will
always be consulted by the student
who desires to learn from an im-
partial English observer the condi-
tion of Ireland one hundred years
ago.
The following are the laws of
discovery, as they were called, given
by Young in his chapter on ** Relig-
ion," vol. ii., as in force in his day.
They are given in his own words :
**i. The whole body of Roman Catho-
lics are absolutely disarmed.
*' 2. They are incapacitated from pur-
chasing land.
" 3. The entails of their estate are
broken.
*'4. If one child abjures that reli^ioii,
he inherits the whole estate, though he is
the youngest.
" 5. If the son abjures the religion, the
father has no power over his estate, but
becomes a pensioner upon it in faror of
such son.
"6. No Catholic can take a lease for
more than 31 years.
"7. If the rent of any Catholic is less
than two-thirds of the full im
value, whoever discovers takes the
fit of the lease.
" 8. Priests who celebrate Mass mast
be transported ; and if they return, to be
hanged.
'*9. A Catholic having a horse in kif
possession above the value of five pound*
to forfeit the same to the discoverer.
" 10. By a construction of Lord Hart-
wick's they are incapacitated from leod-
ing money on mortgage."
" The preceding catalogue,^ sjy»
Young, with grave irony, " is very
imperfect. But," he continues, ** it
is an exhibition of oppression faOf
sufficient.**
With these words may filly be
concluded a notice of Ireland €Nie
hundred years ago. Twenty yean
after Arthur Young wrote them, the
short period of comparative peace
he chronicled ended, and the pitcb-
cap became the emblem of £ngli^
government in Ireland
Brother Philip.
509
BROTHER PHILIP.
CONCLUDED.
It was reserved for Brother Philip
)t only to give, a fresh impetus
) the Institute of the Christian
rhools, but also to see it acquire
1 additional and important title
\ respect by a new form of Self-
cvotion on the fields of battle,
ever had the Brothers failed to
rove their loyal love of their coun-
y, but the year 1870, so terrible to
ranee, brought out their patriot-
m in all its active energy.
There is no need that we should
ilale how, in the July of that year,
lapoleon III., who was unprepared
or anything, provoked King Wil-
iira, who was prepared for every-
hing, it being our object to give
be history of self-devotion, not to
ccall mistakes.
The best Christians are always
he truest patriots. The heart of
Brother Philip thrilled at the very
lirac of France, and he so well
tncw that France could equally
reckon on his Brothers that he did
not even consult them before he
»rote his letter of the 15th of Au-
gust to the Minister of War, in
which he said that they would wish
Jo profit by the time of vacation
to serve their country in another
manner than they had been wont ;
at the same time placing at his dis-
posal, to be turned into ambulances,
all the establishments belonging to
the Institute, as well as all the com-
njunal schools directed by the Bro-
tticrs, who would devote themselves
to the care of the sick and wounded.
I he soldiers love our Brothers,"
vroic the Superior, "and our Bro-
thers love the soldiers, a large num-
ber of whom* have been their pupils,
and who would feel pleasure in being
attended to by their former masters.
. . . The members of my Coun-
cil, the Brother Visitors, and myself
will make it our duty to superintend
and to encourage our Brothers in
this service." All the houses of
the Christian Schools, therefore,
were speedily put in readiness to
receive the wounded. Some of the
Brothers were left in charge of the
classes. Wherever they were want-
ed they were to be found. We find
them for the first time engaged in
their new work after the engage-
ments of the 14th, i6th, and iSth
of August, which took place around
Metz, where trains filled with
wounded were sent by Thionville
to the Ardennes and the North.
Supplies of provisions were organ-
ized at Beauregard-lez-Thionville
by the Brother Director of that
place, for these poor sufferers, who
were in want of everything; all the
families of the town with eager
willingness contributing their share.
Thus eight trains, carrying ^\^
hundred wounded, successively re-
ceived the succor so much need-
ed. At St. Denis, the Brothers
responded to the municipal vote
which had just been passed for
their suppression by their active
zeal in the service of the bureau de
subsistence^ or provision-office. In
many towns the military writings
were entrusted to them. At Dieppe,
being installed in the citadel, they
made more than 130,000 cartridges.
3IO
Brotlier Philip.
On the 17th of August, Brother
Philip received, with the most cor-
dial kindness, two hundred firemen
of Dinan and St. Brieuc, forming
part of the companies of the Cdtes-
du-Nord, who had hastened to the
defence of Paris — himself presiding
at their installation in the mother-
house, and bidding them feel quite
at home there, as the Brothers were
the "servants of the servants of their
country.** There the good Bretons
remained four days, each receiving
a medal of Our Blessed Lady from
the Superior-General when the time
came for departure. The Brothers
of the pensionnat of S. Marie at
Quimper, during the early part of
August, received more than fifteen
hundred military in their dormito-
ries, the Brothers of Aix-les-Bains,
Rodez, Moulins, and Chiiteaubri-
ant also affording hospitable lodging
to numerous volunteers. " At one
time," said the Brother Director of
Avignon, "we were distributing
soup, every morning and evening, to
from five hundred to seven hundred
engaged volunteers, and also to a
thousand zouaves who had been
housed by the Brothers of the Com-
munal Schools; we were at the same
time lodging at the pensionnat three
hundred and sixty of the garde mo-
bile ; thus, in all, we had charge of
about two thousand men."
The officers and .soldiers of the
eighth company of mobiles at Aubus-
son were so grateful for the kindness
shown them by the Brother Director
that they wished to confer on him
the rank of honorary quartermaster,
and decorate him with gold stripes.
The Brothers at Boiilay, six leagues
from Mctz, were the first to observe
the superior quality of the enemy's
army and the severity of its dis-
cipline. A doctor of the Prussian
anny said to them on one occasion,
" We shall conquer because we pray
to God. You in France have no j
religion ; instead of praying, jpwi
sing the Marseillaise* You ha« ]
good soldiers, but no leaders cap^
ble of commanding : Wissemboufj
Forbach, and Gravelotte • hate
proved this. Your army is «4th<ail
discipline, while our eight hMdrei
thousand march as if they were OM
man. And then our artillery . • «
which has hardly yet opened fire!*
These words were uttered on At
25th of August, by which time the
fate of France could be only tot
plainly foreseen. The Brothers af
Verdun showed a courage equal 1»
that of the defenders of the placCi
From the 24th of August to Ai^
loth of November, they were to k
seen on the ramparts succoring tlw
wounded, carrying away the dcadi
working with the firemen, in tie.
midst of the bombs, to extingoiA
the conflagrations, besides atterf'
ing on the wounded in the am!**
lance of the Bishop's house. Tbe
Brothers at Pourru-Saint-R^ray,tf
their courageous remonstrances,saf*
ed the little town from destructwt,
and also the lives of two Frenchniett
whom the Prussians were about to
shoot.
The same works of mercy wdt
being carried on at Sedan aniid
the horrors of that fearful time-
when seventy thousand men were
prisoners of war, . and in want of
everything; when every public
building, and even the church, was
filled with wounded. Some of tht
Brothers went from door to door
begging linen, mattresses, and straw,
while others washed and bound np
the wounds, aided the surgeons
and acted as secretaries to the poor
soldiers desirous of sending Vktt^
of themselves to their families.
•After the battle of Gnvdotte, the Chziiii*
Brothers carried eight thousand wounded frontM
sanguinary field.
Brother Philip.
511
The Brother Director at Rheims
;ives the following account of his
isii on the 22d of September to
lie battle-field around Sedan : ** We
Krgan by Bazeilles," he writes, ** and
Tuly it was a heartrending specta-
:le. This borough of two thousand
ive hundred inhabitants, which I
ud recently seen so rich and pros-
)crous, is entirely destroyed. The
>nly house left standing is riddled
rith shot, all the rest being mere
leaps of charred stones, still smok-
ng from the scarcely extinguished
auraing. The field of battle was
still empurpled with blood, and
trampled hard like a road, while in
ill directions were scattered torn
garments, rifled wallets, and broken
weapons." *
The ambulance of Rethel receiv-
ed, in four months, eight hundred
men, many Prussians being of the
number. Several of the Brothers
fell ill from their excessive exer-
tions, and from typhus, caught in
the exercise of their charitable em-
ployment, the latter proving fatal
in the case of Brother B^nonien.
One of the Directors dying at Chi-
lons-sur-Marne, the Prussians, in
loken of their respect, allowed the
bells, which had been silent since the
invasion of the town, to be tolled
for his funeral. At Dijon the Bro-
thers were repeatedly insulted by a
handful of demagogues, who would
<ain have compelled them to take
anus and go to the war while they
themselves staid at home ; but when,
«)on afterwards, these same Bro-
thers who had been derided as " lazy
cowards," were seen bearing in their
wnis the wounded men — whom
they had on more than one occasion
Roncout to seek with lanterns, amid
rain and mud and darkness — gently
laying them in clean white beds,
•See £.« Frhrn det EcoUt ckrUitnnti p^n-
*^^U Cu4rr0 dt t870-7X, pw J. d'ArMC
and attending to all their wants
with the tenderest solicitude, the
mockers were silenced, and their
derision forgotten in the admira-
tion of the grateful people. It was
here also that, after the battle of the
30th of October, many Garibaldians
who were among the wounded be-
held with astonishment the calm
devotedness of these "black-robes,**
whom they had always been accus-
tomed to malign. Not content
with begging their pardon merely,
they were exceedingly desirous that
Garibaldi should award military
decorations to certain of the Bro-
thers, who would have had as strong
an objection to receive the honor
from such hands as the godless
Italian would have had to confer
it; nor did the cares lavished by
these religious on his companions
in arms hinder his execrations of
the priests and religious orders in
his proclamation of January 29,
1871.
In Belgium as well as in France
the good offices of the Brothers
found ample exercise. After the
defeat of Gen. de Failly, more than
eleven hundred exhausted and fam-
ishing soldiers, with their uniforms
torn to shreds after a march of ten
leagues through the woods, arrived
at a late hour of the night, on the
ist of Septemljer, at the house of
the Brothers at Carlsbourg, not
knowing what place it was. Great
was the joy of the poor fugitives at
the unexpected sight of that well-
known habit and those friendly
faces. All were welcomed in, and
their lives saved by the timely hos-
pitality so freely accorded to their
needs. The sick and wounded had
already been brought in carts from
the scene of the engagement, and
were receiving every care under the
same roof. All through the month
of September this house was a cen-
512
Brother Philip.
tre of assistance, information, and
correspondence, as well as of un-
bounded hospitality. At Namur
the Brothers converted their house
into an ambulance, and, in their
work of nursing the sick and wound-
ed, had able auxiliaries in many
Christian ladies of high rank.
While the red flag was floating
over the Hotel de Ville at Lyons,
and those who talked the most
loudly about " the people " troubled
themselves the least on their ac-
count, the Brothers of this town
prepared a hundred beds in their
house, and successively had charge
of seven hundred soldiers, the Bro-
ther Director during all that time
having to maintain a persevering
resistance to the revolutionists, who
no less than twelve times attempted
to disperse the community. The
devotion of the Brothers was char-
acterized by a peculiar courage in
the ambulance at Beaune, reserved
for sufferers from the small-pox,
and which none but they dared
approach. At Chdlons-sur-Saone
they had four ambulances, in the
charge of which they were aided by
some nursing Sisters. Many Ger-
mans were among their wounded at
Orleans and at Dreux. It was at
the latter place that one of the
chief medical officers of the Prus-
sians, a very hard-hearted man,
who had made himself the terror
of the ambulance as well as of the
town, gave orders that every French
soldier, as soon as he began to re-
cover, should be sent a prisoner to
Germany; the Brothers, however,
did not rest until they had so far
softened him ai; to save their con-
valescents from the threatened cap-
tivity.
But we should far exceed the
limits of our notice were we to fol-
low with anything like complete-
ness the work of the Brothers in
the departments of France. Tfee
places particularized suffice as an
indication of what was done is
numbers more, in several of whick
some of the Brothers fell victims to
their charity. The testimony of
the medical men, in praise not onlf
of their unwearied devotion, brt
also of their skill in the care of
the sick and wounded, was every
where the same. It seems scarcely
credible that in several localities —
at Villefranche and Niort amoogtf
others — where they were unostcft-
tatiously carrying on these setf-
denying labors, the municipal coum
cils, as if to punish them for their
generosity, withdrew the annual
sum which had for years past (ia
one case, for sixty- four yean)
been allowed to their schools for
the expenses of administration. \X
frequently happened that, in open*
ing ambulances, they did not, foi"
that reason, discontinue thdf
classes, those who taught in the day
watching by the sick at night; gif*
ing up for the good of others their
time, their repose, their comfort-
all they had to give. The Co»-
mittees of Succor did much, but it
seemed as if without them some-
thing would have been wanting to
the ambulances. For additional
particulars we must refer the read*
er to the interesting pages of M.
Poujoulat, from which wc have
drawn so largely. And now, bar-
ing in some measure sketched the
work of the Brothers in the provin-
ces during the war, we must m»t
leave it unnoticed in the capital.
Towards the end of November.
1870, Brother Philip, after receiving
the appeal from the ambulances of
the Press, issued no order to the
Brothers of the crommunitics in
Paris, but simply infoniied themof
the request that had been maik
him, bidding 'them consider it be-
Br<4her Philip.
513
ore God, and adding, " You are free
o give your assistance or to with-
»oId it." The Brothers prayed,
rentjto Communion, and then said
o their Superior, " We are ready."
Cven the young novices in the
^iie Oudinot wrote to him letters
T touchingly earnest entreaty to
« allowed to serve with their el-
ers. We give the following in the
rords of M. Poujoulat :
•*On the 29ih of November, at six
'clock in the morning, in piercing cold,
hundred and fifty of the Brothers of the
Christian Schools were assembled at the
xtrcmity of the Quai d'Orsay, near the
)bamp de Mars. An old man was with
*cm in the same habit as themselves ;
his was Brother Philip, his eighty years
ot appearing to him any reason for stay-
»g at home. They were awaiting the
rder to march. Gen. Trochu, acting
ess in accordance with his own judg*
acnt than with the imperious despatches
ent from Tours and with the wishes of
lie Parisians, proposed to pierce through
be enemy's lines and join the army of
be Loire. The attack having been re-
arded by an overflow of the Marne, and
he necessity of throwing additional
>ridge« across the river, the Brothers
litcd eight hours for an order which
»evcr came. On the following morning,
he 30th, they were again with Brother
i*bi!ip at the same post, at the same
»our, and shortly received the order to
iJTance, while, with profound emotion,
be venerable Superior, after seeing his
children,' as he was wont to call them,
Icpart, returned alone to the Rue Uudi-
JOI.
'* Cannonaaing was heard towards the
southeast. The two corps of the army,
mdcr Gens. Blanchard and Renault, had
utackcd Champigny and the table-land
>f Villicrs. The Brothers, mounted in
arious vehicles, proceeded towards the
larrier of Charenton, on their way re-
xiving many encouraging acclamations
rom the people. Their work commenced
5n the right bank of the Marne, which
ihcy crossed on a bridge of boats, not far
from Champigny and Villiers, amid the
rattling of musketry and the roar of
bcavy guns. Divided into companies of
ten, each with its surgeon, provided with
lUten, and wearing the armlet marked
VOL. XXI.— 33
with the Red Cross, they proceed to
seek the wounded, troubling themselves
little about finding death. They are at-
tended by ambulance carriages, in which
they place the sufferers, who are taken to
Paris by ^^ bateaux mouc he tismzW packet-
boats of the Seine). When litters are not
to be had, the Brothers themselves carry
those whom they pick up, sometimes for
long distances, never seeming to think
themselves near enough to danger, be-
cause they wish to be as near as possible
to those who may be reached by the shell
and shot They walk on tranquilly and
fearlessly, the murdering projectiles ap-
pearing to respect them. They have
lifted up the brave Gen. Renault, mortally
wounded by the splinter of a bomb.
"This general, before his death, a few
days afterwards, said to the Brother Direc-
tor of Montrouge: *I have grown gray
on battle-fields ; I have seen twenty-two
campaigns ; but I never saw so murder-
ous an engagement as this.' And it was
in the midst of this tempest of fire that
the Brothers fulfilled their charitable
mission. No one could see without ad-
miration their delicate and intelligent
care of the wounded."
On this latter subject, M. d'Arsac
writes as follows :
"They" (the Brothers) "knelt down
upon the damp earth— -in the ice, in the
snow, or in the mud — raising the heavy
heads, questioning the livid lips, the ex-
tinguished gaze, and, after aflbrding the
last solace that was possible, recommenc-
ing their difficult and perilous journey
across the ball-ploughed land, tlirougb
the heaps of scattered fragments and of
corpses, amid the movements to and fro-
upon the field of carnage. Very gently
they lift this poor fellow, wounded in the
chest, raising him on a supple hammock
of plaited straw, keeping the head high,
and placing a pillow under the shoulders,
avoiding anything like a shock. . .Thus
they advance with slow and even pcicc-
never stopping for a moment to wipe
their foreheads. A woollen covering en*
velops the wounded man from the shoul-
ders downward. Often his stiffened
hand still clutches his weapon with a
spasmodic grasp, ... the arm hangs
helplessly, and from minute to minute
a shiver runs over the torn frame. He
fa-'nts, or in a low whisper names tho*
he loves. The Brothers quicken theii
5H
Brother Philip.
steps. The 'Binder' carriage is not
yet there; so they lay their burden
gently down upon a mattress, in some
room transformed into an ambulance,
where a numbei of young men, in turned-
up sleeves and aprons of operation, are
in attendance. They pour a cordial
through the closed teeth of the sufferer,
complete the amputation of the all but
severed limb, and do that to save life
which the enemy did to destroy it."
The Brother Director of Mont-
rouge gives the following account
of the night which followed the
battle of Chanipigny :
** Being stronger and more robust than
the rest, I got into one of Potin*s wagons,
and returned to beat the country around
Champigny, Petit-Bry, and Tremblay.
On reaching the plateau of Noisy, where
lay many wounded, uttering cries of pain
and despair, a soldier, who was cutting a
piece of flesh from a horse killed that
morning, told me that the Prussians
would not allow them to be removed, and
that if I went further I should be made
prisoner. I went on, notwithstanding,
in the hope of succoring these poor fel-
lows, but presently a patrol fire barred
ihe way against me, and compelled me
to believe the statement of the marauding
soldier. It was one o'clock in the morn-
ing ; and I went away, grieved to the
4ieart at the thought of those unhappy
men lying there on the cold earth, into
which their life-blood was soaking, in the
piercing cold, and under the pitiless eye
•of an inhuman enemy. The man who
■drove my conveyance was afraid, and his
iwearied horses refused to go a step fur-
ther ; I left them therefore in the road,
and, lantern in hand, walked along the
lanes, through the woods, across the
fields, but found ever}'where nothing but
corpses- I called, and listened, but
everywhere the only answer was the
silence of death. At last I went towards
the glimmering lights of the watch-fires
of our soldiers, and learnt that on the
hill, into a house which had been left
standing, several men had been carried
at nightfall ; and there in fact I found
them, twenty-one in number, lying at the
foot of a wall whither they had dragged
themselves from a ditch where they had
been left, and patiently waiting until some
one should come to their assistance.
Happily I was soon joined here by others,
who helped me to place the wounded it
different vehicles, and we set out far
Paris, where we arrived at half- past Ibei
in the morning. After seeing them safdy
housed, I set out again for Champigny,
longing to know the fate of the poef
creatures whose cries had pierced 07
very soul, without my being able to sne-
cor them. I hastened to the plateau ol
Noisy, and there found eighty frozea
corpses. Some had died in terrible coa-
tortions, grasping the earth and teaiiic
up the grass around them ; others, witk
open eyes and closed fists, appeared fierci
and threatening even in death ; vli3c
others again, whose stiffened hands weft
raised to heaven, announced, by the cooh
posure of their countenances, that thef
had expired iir calmness and resignatioa,
and perhaps pardoning their exccutioneis
the physical and moral tortures they en-
dured."
During any suspension of aniis»
the Brothers buried the dead, dig-
ging long trenches in the hard aiid
snow-covered earth, in which the
corpses, in their uniforms, were laid
in rows. A single day did not sa£-
fice for these interments, everything
being done with order and respect.
When all was ended, the falling
snow soon spread one vast winding-
sheet over the buried ranks, wbttc
the Brothers, having finished their
sad day's toil by torchlight, kndt
down and said the DeprofunSi.
Every fresh combat saw these
acts of intrepid charity renewed
Brother Philip, although, on ac-
count of his advanced age, not him-
self on the field, was the moving
spirit of the work. Daily, before
the Brothers started for their labon«
he multiplied his affectionate and
thoughtful attentions, going from
one to another during the frugal
breakfast which preceded their de-
parture, with here a word of en-
couragement and there of regard-
He arranged and put in readiness
with his own hands the meagre pit-
tance for the day, and examined
the canteens and wallets to see that
Brother Philip.
5»5
nothing was wanting. His paternal
countenance wore an expression of
happiness and affection, not un ting-
ed with melancholy, andseemed to
say, " They go forth numerous and
strong, but will they all return?"
On the morning of the 21st of
December, 1870, long before day-
break. Brother Philip and a hun-
dred and fifty of his " children "
were at their usual place near the
Giamp de Mars ; others of their
number, under the direction of Bro-
ther dementis, having been sent
on the previous evening to sleep at
St. Denis. The roar of the cannon
on this morning was terrible. It
was the battle of Bourget. The
Brothers, after reaching the barrier
of La Villette, hastened to the
points where men must have fallen,
and were so9n carrying the wound-
ed in their arms to the ambulance-
carriages, and returning for more,
regardless of the hail of shot whis-
ding around them. Two courageous
Dominicans had joined the com-
pany led on by Brother dementis,
which was preceded by a Brother
carrying the red-cross flag of the
Convention of Geneva, and not at-
tended by any soldier, when they
received a charge of musketry. One
of ihe Brothers, " Fr^re Nethelme,"
fell mortally wounded, and was
laid on the litter he was carrying
for others, and taken by two of his
companions to St. Denis, whither
Brother Philip immediately hasten-
ed on receiving tidings of what had
befallen hira. Brother Nethelme
was one of the masters at S. Nico-
las, Rue Vaugirard, and thirty-one
years of age. He lived three days
of great suffering and perfect resig-
nation, and died on Christmas Eve.
His funeral took place on S. Ste-
phen's Day, December 26, in the
Church of S. Sulpice, which was
thronged with a sympathizing mul-
titude. This death of one of their
number, instead of chilling the zeal
of the Brothers, kindled a fresh
glow of their courageous ardor.
Other trials of a similar nature
were in store for the Superior-Gene-
ral. When, in the midst of the
bombardment of January, 187 1,
great havoc was made in the house
of S. Nicolas by the bursting of a
shell, it was with an aching heart
that he beheld so many of the pupils
killed or wounded, and that, a
fortnight after the funeral of Bro-
ther Nethelme, he followed the
young victims to their graves. This
cruel bombardment on the quarters
of the Luxembourg and the Inva-
lides excited the minds of the peo-
ple to vengeance, and led to the
sanguinary attempt of Buzenval.
Brother Philip having had notice
the evening before, a hundred of
the Brothers assembled in the Tui-
leries, from whence they started
for the scene of action, and ap-
proached the park of Buzenval
through a hailstorm of balls, to find
the ground already strewn with
wounded. The soaking in of the
snow having made the land a per-
fect marsh, greatly increased the
difficulty of their labor, but they
only exerted themselves the more,
astonishing those who observed
them. On the 19th the Committee
of the Ambulances of the Press for
the second time addressed to the
Superior-General it§ thanks and
congratulations.
After the battle near Joinville-
le-Pont, the Brothers had to carry
the wounded a league before reach-
ing the carriages.
In this brief sketch we can give
but a very inadequate idea of the
work of the Brothers, not only in
collecting and housing the wound-
ed, but also in nursing them with
unwearied assiduity day and night.
5i6
Brother Philip.
The ambulance at Longchainps, a
long wooden building, had been or-
ganized by Dr. Ricord, the first
physician in Paris, and an excellent
Christian, who had obtained nu-
merous auxiliaries from Brother
Philip. One of these. Brother
Exup^rien, showed an extraordi-
nary solicitude for the four hun-
dred wounded of whom he there
shared the charge. The cold was
intense; there was scarcely any
fuel ; and food of any kind was
difficult to be had. This good
Brother never wearied in his con-
stant and often far-distant search
for supplies for the many and press-
ing necessities of the sufferers;
day after day walking long dis-
tances, and often having to exer-
cise considerable ingenuity to get
even the scanty provision which
his perseverance succeeded in ob-
taining.
Brother Philip bestowed his es-
pecial interest on the ambulance
established in the Mother-house,
Rue Oudinot, and which was called
the ambulance of S. Maurice. The
novices had been removed into the
nooks and corners of the establish-
ment, so as to give plenty of air
and space to the suffering soldiers*
All the Brothers in this house, young
and old, devoted themselves to their
sick and wounded ; Brother Philip
setting the example. He would go
from one bed to another, contrive
pleasant little . surprises, and do
everything that could be done to
cheer the spirits of the patients as
well as to afford them physical re-
lief. The Abb6 Roche, the almon-
er of the mother-house, exercised
with the greatest prudence and
kindness the priestly office in this
ambulance.
On the ist of January, 187 1,
one of the soldiers decorated at
Champigny for bravery read aloud
to Brother Philip, in the "great
room," turned into an ambulance,
a ** compliment," in which lie offct^
ed him, as a New Year's gift on be-
half of all, the expression of their
gratitude. On the 6th, in a letter
to the Superior-General from Count
S^rurier, vice-president of the S^-
ciU^ de Secours^ and delegate of the
Minister of War and of the Mar-
ine, he says : ** All France is pcne*
trated with admiration, revercnci;
and gratitude for the examples of
patriotism and self-devotion af-
forded by your institute in the
midst of the trials sent by Provi-
dence upon our country."
The first Brother who re-entered
Paris on the day after the signing
of the armistice at Versailles was
the Director of the orphanage H
Igny. It was like an apparition
once more from the world withottf;
after the long imprisonment under
the fire of the enemy.
It must not be forgotten tbili
besides all that we have mentioned
from the beginning of the war to
the end of the first siege, teacbinf
was not neglected by the Brotheis
for a single day; all else that they
were doing was but a supplemeitt
to their ordinary occupations; and
all went well at the same time, ia
the schools, the ambulances and
on the field of battle. It was as if
they multiplied thenistlves for the
good of their fellow-countrymen.
Acknowledgments in honor of
their courageous devotion were
sent from nearly every civilized
country ; but amongst all these wc
select one for mention as having a
particular interest for Araericanf.
We give it in the words of Bi.
Poujoulat — first stating, however,
that the Acadhiie Frartfoise had
awarded an exceptional prize, de
clared " superior to all the other
prizes by its origin and its object,''
Brother Philip.
517
to the Institute of the Christian
Brothers. M. Poujoulat writes as
follows :*
** In 1870, wc were abandoned by every
Iforemment, but when our days of mis-
lortune commenced, we were not forgot-
ten by the nations. There arose, as it
were, a compassionate charity over all
the earth to assuage our sorrows. The
amount of gifts was something enormous.
One single ciiy of the United States,
Boston, with its environs, collected the
som of eight hundred thousand francs.
The IVoixesUr, a vessel laden with pro-
visions, set sail for Havre, but on hearing
of the conclusion of peace, the insurrec-
tion, and the second siege of Paris, the
American captain repaired to England,
where the ship's cargo was sold, and the
amount distributed among those locali-
ties in France which had suffered most.
When this had been done, there still re-
mained two thousand francs over, which
the members of the Boston Committee
offered to the Acadimie Fran^aise^ to* be
added to the prize for virtue which was to
be given that year. ' This gift/ said the
tetter with which it was accompanied, ' is
part of a subscription which represents
lU classes of the citizens of Boston, and
is intended to express the sympathy and
respea of the Americans for the courage,
generosity, and disinterested devotion of
the French during the siege of their capi-
tal'
** The Academy, in possession of this
gift, deliberated as to whom the prize
should be decreed, it being difficult to
point out the most meritorious among so
many admirable deeds. After having re-
marked, not without pride, upon the equa-
lity of patriotism, the Academy resolved
to^ive to tMs prize the least person.il and
the most collective character possible.
•* * Wc have decreed it,* said the Due
de Noailles. speaking for the Academy,
*to an entire body, as humble as it is
useful, known and esteemed by every one,
and which, in these unhappy times, has,
by its devoted ness, won for itself a veri-
uble glory : I allude to the Institute of
the Brothers of the Christian Schools.'
•'After the Director of the AcatUmii
Frawfaisr^ in an eloquent speech had
justified the decision, he added that
'this prize would be to the Institute as
the Cross of Honor fastened to the flag
of the regiment.* **
• See K.V ^m Frirt Philipp*, p. egtf.
Already had the Government of
the National Defence perseveringly
insisted upon Brother Philip's ac-
ceptance of the Cross of the Legion
of Honor, the reward of the brave ;
but his humility led him to do all in
his power to escape it, and he had
already refused it four times in the
course of thirty years. It was only
when he was assured that it was not
himself, but his Institute, that it was
desired to decorate in the person
of its Superior-General, that, sorely
against his will, he ceased to resist.
Dr. Ricord, in his quality ,of prin-
cipal witness of the devotedness of
the Brothers, was charged to attach
the Cross of Honor to Brother
Philip's cassock, in the grande salU^
or principal room, of the mother
house. Never had the saintly Su-
perior known a more embarrassing
moment than this in all the course
of his long life ; and when he con-
ducted Dr. Ricord to the door of
the house, he managed so effectively
to conceal his new decoration that
no one would have suspected its ex-
istence. He never wore it after
this occasion ; and this Cross of
Honor which he wished to hide
from earth remains as a sort of
mysterious remembrance. It has
never been found again.
Always clear-sighted and well-
informed, the Superior-General had
been watching the approach of the
insurrection of the i8th of March,
and sent away th« pupils of the
Little and Great Novitiates, fore-
seeing that Paris was about to fall
into the power of the worst enemies
of religion and civilization. The
Satanic character of the Commune
declared itself in the words of Raoul
Rigault, one of its chiefs, who
said : " So long as there remains a
single individual who pronounces
the name of God, everything has
yet to be done, and there more
5i8
Brother Pkitip.
shooting will always be necessary."
The Commune began its work by
beating down the cross on the
church of S. G^nevi^ve, and put-
ting the red flag in its place. We
cannot wonder, therefore, at its
hatred of the Christian Brothers —
their Christianity being an unpar-
donable crime. They were not
even allowed to remove the wound-
ed, who were left to die untended
in the street, rather than that they
should be succored by religious.
Two decrees were passed, one
putting the state in possession of
all property, movable or otherwise,
belonging to the religious commu-
nities, and the other incorporating
into the marching companies all
valid citizens between nineteen and
forty years of age. The Commune
was returning to its traditions of
*93» " interrupted," it was stated,
" by the 9th of Thermidor." There
were to be no more Christian
schools; no more Christ; no more
religion; no more works of piety,
Catechism, First Communion, the
Church — all these were proscribed,
and none but atheists might keep
a school.
But we will give some extracts
from a circular issued to his com-
munity by the Superior on the 21st
of June, 1872, in which he briefly
notes down the events of these
dreary days :
" The festival of Easter (April 9th) was
spent in anxiety, "sadness, and mourning,
for Monseigneur the Archbishop and
several priests have been arrested as
hostages.
** April loth : Some of our Brother Di-
rectors were officially informed that my
name had been placed on the proscrip-
tion list, and that I should be arrested
forthwith. Yielding, therefore, to the so-
licitations of mv Brother Directors, and
to the injunctions of our dear Brother As-
sFstants, I quitted Paris to visit our houses
in the provinces.
**Oq the nth of April, towards ten
o'clock in the morning, a con
and delegate of the Commuc
panied by forty of the Natioi
surrounded the house, annou
they had orders to talce meat
search the establishment. Brc
tus told them that I was abse
com panied them wherever the;
go. They carried off the moi
mained in the chest, as well a
ria, two chalices, and a pyx,
they declared that, in default
the Superior, ihey were to li
person who had l>een left tl
place.
** The dear Brother Calixtui
himself, and was ordered by t
sioner to follow him ; where
ensued a scene which it wou!
sible to describe. All the 1
sisted on following our dear
sistant ; and some even of tl
Guards were moved to tears
of people collected in the sir«
ing grief and indignation,
missioner then gave a proini
ther Calixtus should not be
prisoner, at the same time I
get into a cab, which took
prefecture of police. There
at liberty, and returned to
house.
** From the loth to the 13
thers of Montrouge, Belter
Nicolas were expelled, and
put in their place. On the i^
at M6nilmontantwassearche
time that the Brothers were e
the classes ; they were arres
tained prisoners until the
which time they were thrc
insulted in various ways.
staff of military infirmirrs wa
for the Brothers in charge
lance at Longchamps, and
Assistants were officially info
was resolved upon to arrest
en masse^ in order either 1
them or to enrol them for
vice. Thus they put soldie
sick, and intended to send
ramparts to defend the caus<
secutors, who were also the
order and religion. It was a
ment, but Providence came 1
a particular manner. Many
eral of whom were unknown
their assistance in contriving
of Paris those of our Brothi
between nineteen and forty i
Brother Phitip.
519
uuly thanks to God's goodness and to
this friendly aid, a certain number, by
one means or another, daily effected their
escape.
** During the period between the 19th
of April and the 7th of May, all our free
schools were successively closed, and the
emtgraiion of the Brothers continued.
This, however, could not be completely
accomplished ; new orders, more and
more suspicious and oppressive, having
been issued by the Commune, an in-
creasingly rigorous surveillance was
kept up, and the Brother Director of S.
Marguerite and two of his subordinates
were arrested in their community. To-
wards the 7th of May, from thirty to forty
of the Brothers who were attempting to
escape were also arrested, either at the
railway stations or at the city gates, or
even outside the ramparts. A few of
these were released, but twenty-six were
taken to the Conci^rgerie, and from thence
to Mazas.
*'Of all our establishments, one alone
never ceased working, namely, that of S.
Nicolas, Vaugirard, which, even when
times were at their worst, numbered its
thirty Brothers and three hundred pu-
pils.
"The projectiles of the besieging army
having reached Longchamps, it was
kmnd necessary to remove further into
the city the sick and wounded with which
the ambulance was crowded. It was
then that, en an order of the Committee
bf Public Health, our house was requisi-
tioned by the Administration of the Press,
who required there a hundred beds. It
was arranged that the Brothers should
undertake the attendance on the sick, but
scarcely had they begun to organize the
work before a new order arrived from the
committee, forbidding any of the Brothers
to remain in the house under pain of
arrest and imprisonment. Our dear
Brother Assistants therefore, with the
others who until then had remained at
the post of danger, as well as our sick
and aged men, found themselves com-
pelled to quit that home which could no
longer, alas ! be railed the mother, but
the widowed, house, and. during five or
sii days, the abode of pain and death.
The ambulance was established there
under the direction of the Press, the ad-
ministrators of which testified a kindly
loicrcst towards us, and we ghidly ac-
knowledge that to them we owe the pre-
lervatlon of our house, which, but for
them, would in all probability have beeo
given up to the flames.
**On Sunday, the 21st of May, there
was no Mass in our deserted chapel, from
whence the Blessed Sacrament had been
removed the evening before. The perse-
cution against us had reached its height,
and also its term. That same day the
besieging army forced the Gate of St.
Cloud, and on the next, the 22d, took
possession of our quarter, and put an
end for us to the Reign of Terror. . . .
"All this week was nothing but one
sanguinary conflict; our mother-house
was crowded with wounded to the number
of six hundred ; a temporary building
had also been erected within its precincts,
to which were brought those who were
slain in the neighborhood ; as many as
eighty dead would sometimes be carried
in at a time. On Wednesday, the 24lh.
however, the militarj' authorities decided
that the ambulance should be transferred
back again to Longchamps, and that the
Brothers should immediately be restored
to the possession of the mother-house as
well as of their other establishments.
From that day a new order of things
commenced for us, and with it the reflux
into Paris of our emigrated Brothers.
** But all were not able to return;
some were prisoners at Mazas. Already,
out of hatred to religion, the Commune
had shot Monseigneur the Archbishop,
the curi of the Madeleine, and several
other priests, secular and regular, . . and
they now proposed to shoot ail their pris-
oners, and renew in 1871 the massacre
of 1792. But again time failed them.
** The liberating army, like an irresisti-
ble torrent, carried away the barricades,
and the firing soon began around Mazaq,
whereupon the keepers of the prison
seized the Communist director and locked
him up, opening all the doors, and bring-
ing down the captives — between four and
five hundred in number — into the court,
from whence they made their exit three
by three. Our Brothers went out ; but
only to find themselves entangled in the
lines of the Federals, and forced to work
at the barricades, until night seemed to>
favor their escape. It was while he was.
thus employed that our dearest Brother
N^omede-Justin, of Issy, was killed by
the bursting of a shell."
During three days and nights the
Brothers were the objects of the
most active surveillance, and had
5ZO
Brahir Philip.
to watch their opportunity to re-
cede from one barricade to another.
In this way several managed to
reach the mother-house on Friday,
the 25th ; others, on the two follow-
ing days, but not all. To continue
in the words of Brother Philip:
'* On Whit- Sunday^ towards one o'clock
in the morning, all the insurgents were
surrounded on the heights of Belleville,
disarmed, chained five together* taken to
La Roquette (the prison of the con-
demned), and brought before a council
of war. Our two Brothers, who had
been also chained to three insurgents,
were present at the interrogation of those
who had preceded them, and at the exe-
cution of sentence of death upon a large
number. For the space of three hours
they waited thus in the most anxious ex-
pectation. When it was their turn to
appear, they said that they were Broth-
ers of the Christian Schools, just out of
prison, but that for three days they had
found it impossible to escape from the
vigilant oppression of the insurgents.
On ascertaining the truth of their state*
ment, the council gave them a pass, and
facilitated their return to the mother-
house.
" They came back to us worn out and
broken down by fatigue, as well as by
all the terrible emotions they had under-
gone, and blessing God for their wonder-
ful preservation."
On hearing of the restoration of
order the emigrated Brothers has-
tened back to Paris, their venerable
superior joining them at the mother-
house on the evening of the 9th of
June.
" It was," writes Brother Philip,
**the hour of Benediction of the
Blessed Sacrament, . . . after which
we sang the psalm, Eccequam bonum^
. . . and then I attempted to say a
few words to our dearest Brothers,
reunited once more, but I found it
impossible, so great was my emo-
tion."
WHien, during his absence, Bro-
ther Philip had heard of the arrest
of Brother Calixtus, he immediate-
ly set out from Epernay, to give
himself up in the place of his
but learning, at St. Denis,
had been set at liberty, he ji
ed to the visitation of othei
of his institute in the pr<
We can understand with w
these two holy friends wou
again.
After some great calani
passed away, life, emerging i
regions of death, seems as
to begin anew. Brother
who regarded the misfort
France as a warning from <
vited all the members of h
tute to carry on their work
creased energy and devotion
the beginning of the year
if he had had some prest
of his approaching end, I
more attention than ever
perfecting of his " childre
completed various little worl
ty which he thought migl
useful to them. An illness
had at this time he regar
first warning. The Archb
Paris, Mgr. Guibert, who
then long succeeded his 1
predecessor, came at this
visit the venerable Superic
Brother Philip presided
sittings of the general chapt
was assembled from the
June, 1873, to the 2d of Ji
wards the conclusion of th
ting, in reply to some r
words which had been add
him, he answered ; " My
Brothers, soon, yes, soon
again assemble together, bi
be no longer among you.
have had to render to Gc
count of my administrat
was with heavy hearts that
ther Assistants heard thes
while their Superior proc
consecrate the Institute t(
cred Heart of Jesus.
Our Holy Father Pius
Brother PhUip.
Sai
)r the heart of Brother Philip an
nspeakable attraction. On the
2d of October, 1873, the latter set
ut on his fifth journey to Rome,
lis first visit to the Eternal City
ras in 1S59, when h( was welcomed
y the Pope with paternal affection,
ie was there again in 1862, for the
anonization of the Martyrs of Ja-
an, when he had an opportunity
f conversing with the bishops of
oany distant regions in which the
brothers of the Christian Schools
rere established. On this second
►ccasion, the day after his arrival
Q Rome, he hastened to the Vatican
ind mingled with the crowd in the
lall of audience ; but the Pope
taving observed his name in the
ong list of the persons present, im-
nediately sought with his eye the
lumble Superior, and, perceiving
birn far off in the last rank of the
Lssembly, his Holiness, wirii that
clear and sweet voice so well known
lo the faithful, said to him. Philips
where shall we find bread enough for
«// this multitude^ (S. John vi. 5),
and bade him come near. Brother
Pliilip, confused at so great a mark
of attention, approached, and, kneel-
ing before the Holy Father, pre-
sented the filial offering of which
he was the bearer on the part of his
Institute. He made his third jour-
ney to Rome in 1867, to be present
*t the eighteenth centenary anni-
versary of the Martyrdom of the
Apostles SS. Peter and Paul. On
seeing him, the Pope said, " Here
is Brother Philip, whose name is
known in all the world.*'
'* It will soon be so at Madagas-
car, Most Holy Father," answered
Brotlicr Philip, smiling, " as we are
just now establishing ourselves
Uierc."
In 1869, about the time of the
opening of the Vatican Council, the
Superior-General was again at
Rome. True as the needle to the
magnet was his loyal heart to tiie
Vicar of Christ ; and yet once more
must the veteran soldier look upon
the face of his chief before laying
down his arms and receiving his
crown. He took his fifth and last
journey lo the city of Peter in
1872, accompanied by Brother Fir-
minien. Of this last visit, which
especially concerned the beatifica-
tion of the founder of his Institute,
as well as of the preceding ones,
full particulars are given in the
work of M. Poujoulat. The Pope
received Brother Philip to private
as well as to public audiences, ask-
ing many questions and conversing
with interest upon the details of the
various works in which the order
was engaged. On the Festival of
All Saints, more than a hundred of
the Brothers being assembled with
their Superior-General in the throne-
room at the Vatican, the Pope en-
tered, preceded by his court, and
attended by five cardinals, numer-
ous bishops, and other ecclesiastics,
for the reading of the decree refer-
ring to the beatification of the ven-
erable De la Salle. When a few
lines had been read. His Holiness
said to one of the prelates, ** Do not
allow Brother Philip to continue
kneeling ; the brave old man must
be fatigued."
The reading being ended. Bro-
ther Philip was invited to approach
the Holy Father, to whom he made
an address of thanks for the pro-
gress of his founder's cause, con-
cluding with the following words :
" With regard to our devotion to
the Holy Church, to this ever-cele-
brated chair of Peter, and to the
illustrious and infallible Pontiff who
occupies it so gloriously, it will be
the same all the days of our life ;
and, moreover, we shall never cease,
Most Holy Father, to offer to God
$22
Brother Philip.
our most fervent prayers that he
will speedily put an end to the ca-
lamities which afflict so profoundly
the paternal heart of Your Blessed-
ness, . . . praying Your Blessedness
to be pleased to bestow your holy
benediction upon him who has at
this moment the exceeding happi-
ness of kneeling at your feet, and
also upon all the other children of
the venerable De la Salle."
Copies of the decree were then
distributed amongst those present,
the original manuscript, which was
presented to the Superior, being now
in the archives of the Regime, The
Pope addressed his answer directly
to his "dearest son. Brother Philip,"
as if to testify his esteem not only
for the Institute but for the man.
Immediately after the closing of
the audience, the Pope despatched
messengers to the Palazzo Poli with
two immense baskets full of various
kinds of pastry, etc., saying, " Bro-
ther Philip must assemble the Bro-
thers to-day for a little family feast,
and I wish to regale them **; and
when afterwards the Superior ex-
pressed his thanks for this paternal
mark of attention, the Holy Father
answered : " Some good nuns thought
of the Pope, and the Pope thought
of Brother Philip."
On his return from this last jour-
ney to Rome, the Superior reached
Paris at seven o'clock in the morn-
ing, was present at Mass in the
mother-house at eight, and half an
hour later was seated at his bureau
as usual in the Salle du Rdgime^ as
if he had never quitted his place.
The longest life is short ; but what
can be done by a man who never
wastes a moment of his time is
something prodigious. One result
of this unceasing activity on the
part of Brother Philip was the fact
that) having found 2,300 Brothers
and 143,000 pupils when he was
placed at the head of th<
he left 10,000 of the fom
ed in the education c
youths and children.
man of study, prayer, ai
no one could be more hi
he, nor yet more qualifi
ern. He listened patie
guments and suggestions
his resolution was once
adhered to it. He sji
having neither taste n(
much talking, but what I
always to the point, the
at the right time, and tl
every question. His <
ence was a reflection
his letters containing ji
syllables as were suffic
press his meaning : witl
ter was an action. He
same time the most d<
ligious and the most a
workers; severe to h
never accepting the litt
ces which others wouli
mingled with the hard
life. The Abb6 Roc^
that on one occasii
Philip, arriving in a lii
Cantal after forty hou
ling, had one hour to
shown the way to the
Brothers, he found thei
in the chapel, where 1
until the prayers were c
after exchanging gre
them, and taking a mo
moistened with wine a
resumed his journey,
few communities of his
France which he did n
in all these his pres€
abiding remembrance.
The art of ruling pi
knowledge of men. U
pie and modest extei
Philip had a keen pen
very quickly formed li
of what a man was an
Brother Philip.
523
lis capabilities, and there could be
to better proof that he chose his
nstruments wisely than the fact
hat all his establishments have
mcceeded ; not that he always al-
owed human prudence to have
nuch voice in his undertakings,
IS he frequently preferred to leave
(nuch to Providence. His look
ind manner were reserved, almost
cold, but in his heart were depths
of real tenderness and feeling. He
allowed no recreation to his fully
occupied existence except indeed
his one refreshment and rest, which
was in attending the services at the
chapel; and his great enjoyment,
the beauty of the ceremonies and
the grand and ancient music of the
church. He never failed to bestow
the most particular attention on
every detail of the procession on
the Feast of Corpus Christi, and
took an especial delight in being
present at the First Communion of
the pupils. For this great act of
the Christian life he recommended
a long and serious preparation, and
wrote a manual with this intent,
entitled The Young Communicant.
He excelled in the art of solving
difficulties, not by having recourse
to human wisdom, but by imploring
light and guidance from above.
To overcome obstacles, he prayed ;
he did the same to lead his enemies
to a better mind ; and against their
decisions, again he armed himself
with prayen
The municipal council of Chi-
tons had, in 1863, suppressed the
Christian schools in that town.
Brother Philip repaired thither on
the 2d of May. The mayor gave
notice that the council would as-
semble on the following day. The
Superior was suffering from acute
rheumatism, but would not accept
anything but the regulation supper
of the Brothers, who made him a
bed in the parlor. The next morn-
ing, at four o'clock, when the
community had risen, they found
Brother Philip kneeling on the
pavement of the chapel, and it
was observed that his bed had
not been touched. He had pass-
ed the night in prayer before the
Tabernacle. At six o'clock he at-
tended Mass with his foot bound
up in linen. On the evening of
the same day the municipal coun-
cil, annulling its decision of the pre-
ceding year, permitted the re-estab-
lishment of the Christian* Schools
in Chalons. The Superior had not
prayed in vain.
One of his principal cares was
always the reinforcement of his
Institute, and it was with exceed-
ing happiness that, on the 7th of
December, 1873, he presided at
the reception of fifty-four postu-
lants.
It was not without apprehension
that the Brothers had seen their
venerated Superior, at eighty-one
years of age, undertake his last
journey to Rome, but after his
return his activity was unabated,
and he did not in any way dimin-
ish his daily amount of work. On
the 30th of December, having re-
turned to the mother-house in the
evening from a visit to Passy, he
was indisposed, but rose the next
morning at the hour of the com-
munity. After Mass he was seized
with a shivering ; he repaired, how-
ever, to the Salle du R^gime^ where
deputations from the three estab-
lishments of S. Nicolas were wait-
ing to offer him their respectful
greetings for the New Year. On
receiving their addresses he an-
swered, in a weak and failing
voice : " My dearest children, I
thank you for your kindness in
coming so early to wish me a
happy New Year; perhaps I shall
524
Brother Philip.
not see its close. I am touched
by the sentiments you have so well
expressed, but, for my own part,
there is but one thing that I de-
sire, and that is, that you should
go on increasing in virtue." After
a few more words of paternal coun-
sel, he bade them adieu.
The exchange of good wishes
between himself and the commu-
nity was not without sadness. On
the ist of January he made a great
effort to go to the chapel, where he
heard Mass and received Holy Com-
munion.' This was the last time
that he appeared amid the assem-
bled Brothers; his weakness was
extreme, and his prayers were ac-
companied by evident suffering.
From the chapel the Superior went
to his bed, from which he was to
arise no more. On the 6th of Jan-
uary, the Feast of the Epiphany,
he received the last sacraments,
while the Brother Assistants were
prostrate around his bed, weeping
and praying. One who appeared
more broken down with sorrow
than the rest was Brother Calixtus,
the old and most intimately be-
loved friend of the dying Superior.
The Apostolic Benediction solici-
ted by Brother Floride at four
o'clock arrived at six, but Brother
Philip, having fallen into a profound
slumber, was not aware of it until
past midnight. The morning pray-
ers were being said in a low voice
in his cell, it not being known
whether he was unconscious or
not, but the Brother who presided
having, through distraction, begun
the Angelas instead of the Memo-
rare, the dying man gave a sign to
show that he was making a mistake.
There is a little versicle and re-
sponse particularly dear to the
dying members of the Institute:
" May Jesus live within our hearts /*'
to which the answer is, ''^ For ev<r,'*
It is, as it were, their ^
on the threshold of eter
the morning of the 7th ol
Brother Irlide, assistant
over the Superior, prono
words of Jesus on the Cr
iher, into thy hands I co
spirit,** adding, ^^ May
within our hearts" Brot
like a faithful soldier, <
with the countersign, att
utter the answer ** For rv
the effort his soul pas
The community being tli
bled in the chapel for th(
of the Rosary, at once c
the De profundis. Th<
had lo%t its father and h.
The death of Brother
duced a profound impres
gether with the sense
loss, a feeling of admiral
great qualities of the de]
gratitude for the immen
he had rendered to h
men, burst forth from a
society. The working-c
especially felt keenly li
friend they had lost, ai
nouncement, " Brother
dead," plunged every
mourning. From the 1
his death the cell of tl:
was constantly filled by 1
who in successive con
cited the Office of the
the evening, the body w
into the Chamber of R
had been transformed
pelle ardente, or liglited
there in the course ol
more than ten thousa]
came to pay their resp<
pray by the dead. On
evening the remains we
in a c ffin, which was c
garlands and bouquets
been brought, a tall
placed at the top ; anc
day morning it was tri
Brother Phiiip.
i2$
\t chapel, where the sorrowing
miinunity had assembled, and
here a Low Mass of requiem was
lid by the Reverend Almoner, the
bb^ Roche.
But another kind of funeral was
raiting the humble religious. The
istitute, in accordance with its
lies, had ordered merely a funeral
the seventh class ; but France,
lie to herself, was about to honor
r benefactor with triumphant ob-
quies. The coffin, taken out of
c mother-house at a quarter past
vcn, and placed upon a bier used
r the poorest of the people, was
►rnc to the church of S. Sulpice,
rough silent and respectfu^multi-
des, and placed upon trestles, sur-
undcd by lighted tapers, in the
ve. A white cross on a black
Dund behind the high altar com-
scd ail the funeral decoration of
e church. But a splendor of its
m was attached to this poverty
d simplicity, contrasted as it was
th the vast assemblage present,
long whom were two cardinals,
rcral bishops, and many of the
wt important personages of the
urch and ^ate. There were the
|)rcscntatives of all the parishes
Paris, and of all the religious or-
is, as well as of the public admin-
ration. Not the smallest space
nained unoccupied in the vast
urch; and, when it was found
cessary to close the doors, more
in ten thousand persons remain-
in the Place St. Sulpice. Car-
lal (^uibert, Archbishop of Paris,
re the absolution, and M. Buffet,
fsidcnt of the National Asscm-
r, threw the first holy water on
' coffin.
• On both sides of the streets,"
ktcs an eye-witness, " the crowd
mcd a compact mass; the men
cowered, and the women crossing
rnuelves, as the body of the ven-
erated Superior passed by. Long
lines of children conducted by the
Brothers marched continuously on
each side. In the course of the
progress to the cemetery of P^re la
Chaise, ten thousand pupils of the
Christian Brothers, school by school
taking its turn, joined without fa-
tigue in the procession."
Paris, this city so wonderful in
its contrasts — in the brightness of
its lights and the depths of its
shadows — is more Christian than
men are apt to suppose. Out of
this Paris no less i\\^ii forty thou-
sand persons attended the remains
of Brother Philip to the grave, and
many were the tears of heartfelt
sorrow which mingled with the last
prayers at the brink of that vault
where he was laid, the place of
burial reserved for the Superiors of
his order. On the day of the funeral
itself, the memory of Brother Philip
received from Cardinal Guibert, in
his circular letter addressed to the
venerable cur^ of S. Sulpice, a tes-
timony which will remain as a page
in the history of the church of
Paris.
And it was not Paris only, but
France, which paid its homage to
the memory of Brother Philip. The
whole French episcopate testified
its regard for him by requiem
Masses on his behalf, by solemn
services, funeraf orations, allocu-
tions, or circular letters. Nor was
this religious mourning limited to
France : it was expressed in all the
lands where the Christian Schools
have been founded, so that through-
out the world honor has been done
to him who never sought it, but who,
on the contrary, shrank from ce-
lebrity, feared the praise of man,
and singly and simply did all for
God.
As the crown and completion of
all other witness to the merits of
526
Submission.
the departed Superior, the Brothers
received in answer to the letter an-
nouncing their bereavement a Brief
from our Holy Father Pius IX.,
most honorable to the departed,
and for themselves full of sympa-
thy and consolation.
Five months after the death of
Brother Philip, the venerable Broth-
er Calixtus, who had for sixty-four
years been his dearest friend, and
who was chosen as Superior-Gen-
eral in his place, followed him to
the grave.
His present successor is Brother
Jean-Olympe, an excellent and
devoted religious, who, at tise
time we write, has just returned
from Rome, where with four of the
Brother Assistants he has been wd*
corned by the Holy Father with
marks of particular regard. Wc
conclude our sketch in the words
of M. Poujoulat, the admirable
writer already so often quoted
"The undying remembrance of
Brother Philip will remain a mo-
tive power for his Institute, an ef-
fective weapon in time of conflict
an incitement to perseverance il
well-doing, to the love of God, (
neighbor, and our duty."
SUBMISSION.
When the wide earth seems cold and dim around me,
And even the sunshine is a mocking thing ;
When the deep sorrow of my soul hath bound me,
As the gloom swept from a dark angel's wing;
When faces, dearer to my soul than being.
Like shadows faint and frozen past me flee,
I turn to thee — Almighty and all-reeing
God of the universe! — I turn to thee I
When in my chamber, lone and lowly kneeling,
I pour before thee thoughts that inly burn ;
I lay before thy shrine that wealth of feeling
Whose ashes sleep in my heart's funeral urn :
I pray thee, in a mercy yet untasted.
To raise my spirit from its dark despair ;
To give back prospects crushed, and genius wasted.
That have no memory save in that wild prayer.
It may not be ! O Father ! high and holy.
Not thus fhy chosen bow before thy shrine ;
But with submission, beautiful and lowly.
Asking no boon save through thy will divine ;
Bearing with faith the Saviour's cross of sorrow,
Filling his bleeding wounds with tears of balm.
Seeking his cankering crown of thorns to borrow —
To make them worthy of the pilgrim's palm.
Thi Roman Ritual and its Chant.
S27
THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT
COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC.
II. — CONTINUED,
CSTECnVE AUTHORITY, ECCLESIASTICAL
AND MORAL.
Natural religion attaches the
lea of authority to God. God is
ang, ** Dominus Exercituum,** the
.ord of Hosts, the one supreme
bsolutc source of all power and
othority. Moreover, society im-
Ues authority, in order thatf it may
list. In social life there cannot
« discordant purposes and inde-
►endent wills. Now, God called
Jl created society into being out
if nothing, and through the princi-
ple of authority and subjugation of
iie will maintains his work in love,
bppiness, and mutual concord.
And in the scheme of redemption
be has sent his church, a working
society upon earth, to heal by her
sweet and divine yoke of a lawful
authority the social anarchies and
disorders of a fallen race. In the
church, then, as sent by him who
is the absolute source of authority
and order, governed by him, and in
continual correspondence with him
through prayer, we expect to find
jH her important elements and
modes of acting upon, and of deal-
ing with, mankind under the direc-
tion of the principle of authority ;
and since God declares of himself
that he is a God of order, and the
** author, not of confusion, but of
peace in the churches " (i Cor. xiv.
33)» ^c conclude that God will con-
template sacred song in the Chris-
tian Church as subject to the prin-
ciple of authority, as an instrument
placed by himself at the disposal
of the church for carrying out her
divine work, and as such to be
used, under the guidance and direc-
tion of the authority which governs
her.
To put, then, what is meant by
the claim about to be made that
the Ritual or Gregorian Chant pos-
sesses this authority, in its true light,
it would be a misconception to
suppose that the notion of z. positive
auihoriiy is identical with that of
absolute monopoly. The positive
authority of the chant of the Ritual
by no means implies that the use
of modern music cannot, under
certain conditions, enjoy a just
toleration, as will be plain from an
instance. The sick man who is
slowly recovering from a severe
disease may be fully aware of the
positive authority which his physi-
cian has for many reasons attached
to a particular rule of diet, and may
yet have the permission occasional-
ly to deviate from it. But now, if
it be asked, what is this authority
which is claimed for the Roman
Ritual chant-books ? it may be re-
plied, if a spectator, at a review of
British military, were to ask what
authority the infantry regiments
had for wearing red coats, he, I
suppose, would be answered at once,
that in a disciplined army the regi-
mental uniform could not be other-
wise than authorized. In the same
manner, in an organized state of
society so perfect as that of the
528
The Roman Ritual atid its Ckcmt.
Catholic Church, the mere existence
of such song-books as the Gradual
and Antiphonary, and their im-
memorial use in connection with
the Missal and Breviary, necessari-
ly implies their authority. It would
be in place here, if space permitted,
to cite the various arch i episcopal
and episcopal synods that have
made these or similar song-books
the subjects of their legislation,
providing, down to the minutest de-
tails, for the different questions
which might be liable to arise out
of their use. But it may here suf-
fice to refer to the fact, not perhaps
sufficiently known, that the whole
of the Roman Liturgy, the entire
Breviary, the whole of the Missal,
except the few parts which the cele-
brant himself recites in an under-
tone of voice at the altar, has its
proper notation in music, which
every efficient choir-singer and
celebrant priest is required to know,
as the necessary accompaniment of
his functions.
The authority, therefore, of the
Ritual chant is to a considerable
extent identified with that of the
Ritual itself in the character of the
authorized form of its solemn cele-
bration. No other music has been
at any time published by the church.
No other is co-extensive with the
Ritual ; and the use, therefore, of
any other, however permissible it
may have become through force of
circumstances, can only be regard-
CQ as a deviation from perfect Ritual
rule.
That such was the view of the
fathers of the Council of Trent is
evident from the fact, that they se-
riously debated whether it might
not be advisable to put an end to
the scandalous musical excesses
that had found their way into the
church through the partial aban-
donment of the Ritual chant, by
rendering it henceforth m\
But though this measure wi
mently urged by more than
ther as the best remedy for
complained of, still the fal
the council at length dec
pass the decree. They se
have judged it to be on tli
wiser to leave the Ritual ch
claims as the acknowled
authorized song of the Liti
to have thought that the
required was rather to b
for in prayer to God to
people a better and mo
mind than in a severe and
tory legislation, which mig
provoking the further ai
evil of a more formal a
disobedience.
But to return to the sii
the positive ecclesiastical
of the Ritual chant-boc
truth and the reason of tli
rity appear at once, on
how impossible it is that a
directed by the Spirit of
der the government of 3
founded hierarchy, shoul
sacred song to the extent
Catholic Church does, ^
sanctioned and authentic
of it. That this form i
absolutely imperative, to
exclusion of every oil
occur to no one to main
.still, without an acknowle
and form of song, of sucl
able authority as to clain
ing confidence of those w
ing is with sacred song, i
is certainly lamed and i
impeded. Men that hav
do in God's vineyard
know not merely the gei
that what they are engag
in the main good, but
desire to know that the \
God is with the mannt:
work, and the means th<
The Roman Ritual ^nd its Chant.
529
low, such confidence nothing but
n authorized body of song can
apply.
For what reason do we trust the
hurch in her definitions of faith ?
kcause we feel our own weakness ;
ecause we feel how impossible it
fc for the mind to repose on its own
onclusions. We know, from a
oice that speaks from within the
«art, that our heavenly Father
ould not have given a revelation
rithout the conditions necessary to
It it to meet our wants. And be*
anse we feel the need of a positive
withority in matters of faith, we
believe it to have been given, and
hat the Catholic Church istthe
lepository of it, as alone possess-
ng the satisfactory credentials.
Mow, although it may be true that
m equal need for a positive autho-
lity in matters of song cannot be
Bicrted, yet if ecclesiastical music
io really possess those many heaU
hg virtues which at once betoken
its divine origin and heavenly mis-
won, it may be asked, is it a wise,
k it a self-distrusting, is it a pious
coarse for each individual to
imagine himself free from such an
authority? Is it not rather true
that, in proportion as his sense of
the heavenly mission of the ecclesi-
»tical chant deepens, the more
vivid will become his perception of
the need of an express living au-
thority to which the individual can
commit himself, in perfect confi-
dence that that song which a divine-
ly directed hierarchy shall put forth
and acknowleflge as their own work,
till be sure to carry along with it
the blessing of God upon its use.
I do not see how a reasonable
person can refuse to admit that
Sttch is the positive authority at-
tachingtothe liturgical song-books,
and that it is to the devout and
skilful use of these books by her
VOL, XXI. — 34
own priests, cantors, and devout
people, that the church mainly
looks for the fulfilment of the di-
vine idea with respect to sacred
music. How otherwise will you
account for their existence? to
what purpose has the wisdom of
saints who contributed and collect-
ed their contents been exerted ?
Why has the church not let the
Gregorian system of music alone»
as she has the modern? why has
she formed a complete system and
body of song in the one, and not in
the other, if her work, when com-
plete, has no positive authority?
Or will the advocate of modem
art say, that this her work is defec-
tive and superannuated ; and that
it is time it should be locked up,
out of the way, in collections of an-
tiquities, and cease to be an offence
to ears polite ? Yet, if such be the
case, an abrogation is not to be
presumed; it must be proved. But
the fact is, that the Council of
Trent caused the song-books to be
reissued, and directed the eccle-
siastical chant to be taught in the
seminaries of the clergy.* And
when those very canonized saints,
. of whose conditional approbation
of the use of modern art so very
much is made, came to the dignity
of obtaining a record in the church 'si
song of her warriors departed, here
was surely a fit occasion, if, indeed
the church had abandoned her
former song, and disembarrassed
herself of its defective scale and
wearisome monotony, to call for
*^Fonna erigendi sen^narium dericoram :'*—
^* Ut vero in eadem duciplina ecdesiaRtica commo-
dius instituantur, tonsura statim atque habitu
dericali semper utentur ; grammatkeSf cantus com-
putt ecclesiastic!, aliarumque bonarum artium di»>
dplinam diacent/' etc. — CoHciUum TrideMtimum :
Seasio xxitt. de Refonn. c. x8.
[In the letters of the Holy Father Pius IX. estab-
lishing the Seminario Pio, he ordered that the stu-
dents thouM be taught Gregorian Chant, and no
other. "Cantus Grvgorianut, omni alio n^«cto»
tndetur.*'— £0. C. W.
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Cl-.ZT *-.:
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: - .z-
rerr cfi : -
— -
.r---- rr
= .Jr
-.-:rti iri:t
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■ .^ " ^
T-ru-u 5;:
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L -^ --W J -1 ^STLiUeSS- sad CI'
irta Lie - -jti^ mria of i
sysrem» arrc-r n ac the
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
531
ipokesman of a kingdom that is
endowed with the power of draw-
ing its manifold materials to a con*
rordant and coherent system, and
moulding multiform and varied
iiinds to a unity of type and con-
iistency of action. " Such was the
trici subordination of the Catholic
"hurch/'says the historian Gibbon
ffist.y ch. XX.), "that the same
oncerted sounds might issue at
>ncc from a hundred pulpits of
taly or Egypt, if they were tuned
>jr the master hand of the Roman
ir.\lcxandrian primate." Carry the
anic principle of system and or-
Icr into the song of the church,
nd it will be found impossible
5 stop short of the Ritual chant-
ooks.
2. With regard to the moral au-
iority of the chant : moral author-
y, in the legislation of the church,
\ ever a necessary companion of
By act of her legislative authority.
ft should not, however, overlook
■fcat seems to be a distinct element
r moral authority, in the historical
snnection of the Ritual chant with
»e generations now past and gone
» their rest. It was their song, the
mg of saints long ago departed.
: is the song which S. Augustine
mg, and which drew forth his
ais : •* Quantum flevi in hymnis
canticis, suave sonantis ecclesise
tt voctbus commotus acriter ;
Mres illae influebant auribus meis,
eliquebatur Veritas tua in cor
tarn, et ex ea aestuabat. Inde
fecias ptetatis, et currebant lacry-
r, et bene mihi erat cum ilHs" —
How often have these sacred
mns and songs moved me to
irs, as I have been carried away
th the sweetly musical voices of
f church. How these sounds
ed to steal upon my ear, and thy
ith to pour itself into my heart,
tkh felt as if it were set on fire !
Then would come tender feelings
of devotion, my tears would flow,
and I felt that all was then well
with me " {Con/ess, lib. vi. cap. 6).
It was the song of S. Augustine,
the apostle of Saxon England, of
S. Stephen the Cistercian, and of
all the holy warriors of our Isle of
Saints. Nor is it only the song
which the saints sang, but it is the
song that sings of the saints — the
only song which cares to pour the
sweet odor of their memory over
the year, or to spread around them
its melodious incense, as they too
surround the throne of their Lord
and Ring.
Again: a moral authority at-
taches to the Roman Ritual chant
in the very name Grej^orian, by
which it is so generally known. S.
Gregory was the first to collect it
from the floating tradition in which
it existed in the church, and to
digest it into that body of annua!
song for the celebration of the
Ritual which has come down to U5.
This work came to be called after
him, Cantus Gregorianus^ and forms
at this day the substance of the
Roman chant-books, enriched and
added to by the new ofllices and
Masses that have since then been
incorporated in the Ritual. No-
thing is known with any positive
historical certainty as to the au-
thorship of the several pieces in the
song-books; but as to the main
fact, that the music of the Ritual is
the work of the greatest saints of
the church — of the Popes Leo, Da-
masus, Gelasius, and S. Gregory
himself — of many holy monks in
the retirement of their cloisters —
history leaves no doubt. This fact,
then, is beyond dispute: that the
Roman Ritual chant, which the
present inquiry concerns, is the
creation of the saints of the Roman
Church, for the decorum and
532
The Roman Ritual and its C/utnt,
solemnity oi the public celebration
of the Liturgy.
And now, to come to Hie com-
parison : if to the adequate realisa-
tion of the divine idea of sacred
song, as an instrument placed at
the disposal of the church, to aid in
carrying out her work of sanctifi-
cation and instruction, the notion
of a definite authority, both defin-
ing what it should be, and prescrib-
ing and regulating the manner of
its use, necessarily belongs, the
conclusion I think is that this au-
thority is found attaching itself to
the Ritual chant ; and, from the
nature of the case, it is incapable
of attaching itself to the works of
modem music. First, because it
would seem to be an inseparable
principle as regards their use, that
every individual must be at liberty
to ask for or to demand their em-
ployment according to his own
pleasure; and secondly, because a
positive authority can attach to
that alone which exists in a definite
and tangible shape, which is far
from being the case with the works
of modern music. They not only
do not form a definite collection,
but, such as they are, are subject to
perpetual change — that which is on
the surface to-day and admired, be-
ing to-morrow nauseated and con-
demned ; and hence there is no
resting point whatever in them for
the idea of a positive authority.
And as regards the comparison
on the score of moral authority,
the attempt to draw it will, I fear,
touch upon delicate ground ; for,
to confess the honest truth, it can-
not be drawn without bringing to
light the degeneracy of our popular
ideas respecting sacred music. Who
is there who seriously thinks of
claiming for the works of modern
music any connection with the
saints, past or present? or who is
there who either cares to
or to attribute any chara
sanctity to its authors? o
even be likely to think vei
the more highly of the mus
fact of its saintly origin <
established? And what I
persons, for the most part,
authors been ? Mozart die
ing tlie last sacraments ; B<
is supposed by his German
pher, Schindler, to have
pantheist during the grea
of his life ; Rink was a Pn
Mendelssohn a Jew, whi
very little for his Jewish fa
the different maestri di cap
have been throughout Eu
chief composers of thes<
were, for the most part,
directors of the theatres an
houses of their royal patro
But enough has been
make it evident upon how
a footing the chant of \\
and the works of moder
spectively stand, as regar
and ecclesiastical authorit
RESPECTIVE CLAIM TO THE CO^
AND ORDER OF A SYSTl
The idea of a God I
manifesting himself in tl
of man on earth, necessg
tains the idea of a system t
displayed in his works,
rent system, it is tnie,
necessarily imply God i
thor; but absence of sy
its consequence, positive \
and disorder, is undeniab
that the mind of the Al
not there. If, then, the
Church be the kingdom
Incarnate, and the abiding
his Spirit, it follows that h
a system, if God is at all tc
ledge it in any respect of
But the idea of system lea
to the Ritual song-books.
The Roman Rilual and its C/iani.
533
m has not as yet furnished even
:hc necessary materials out of
which to construct a system, not to
5[>eak of the hopelessness of form-
ing one, when the materials should
txist. Do but remove the Ritual
chant from the church, and you re-
move a wonderful and perfect sys-
tem, which an order-loving mind
lakes pleasure in contemplating —
one that moves with the ecclesiasti-
cal year, that accompanies the Re-
deemer from the annunciation of
his advent, the Ave Maria of his
coming in the flesh, to his birth,
his circumcision, his manifestation
to the Gentiles, his presentation
and discourse with the learned doc-
tors in the Temple, his miraculous
fast in the companionship of the
wild beasts in the wilderness, his
last entry into his own city, his
betrayal, his institution of the Holy
Eucharist, his agony in the garden,
liis death upon the cross, his resur-
rection from the dead, his ascension
iolo heaven — a system of song
which places around him, as jewels
in a crown, his chosen and sainted
servants, as the stars which God
let in the firmament of heaven to
give light upon the earth. Cceli
tnarrant gloriam Dei^ et opera ma^
nuum €/us annuntiat firmainenium —
** The heavens declare the glory of
God, and the firmament showeth
his handiwork" (Ps. xviii.) Yet
if we saw the heavens only in the
way in which we are treated to the
performances of modern music, the
greater and the lesser light occa-
sionally changing places, after the
manner of the vicissitudes of Mozart
and Haydn, the planets moving out
of their orbits in indeterminate
succession, at the caprice of some
archangel, as the organist changes
his motels and introits, the Psal-
mist would hardly have spoken of
the "/rwtfw^/// showing God's handi-
work" Where is there a trace of
order and system in the use of th6
works of modern art ? Where is
the musician who regards " duplex,'*
" semiduplex," or " simplex" ? Mo-
zart in one church, Haydn in an*
other, Beethoven in a third, and a
host of others whose name is Le*
gion, taken like lots from a bag, as
whim or fancy may at the moment
direct, like the chaos described by
the poet, where
** CaDida cum frigidb pugnant, humentia siocU,
IfoUia cam duns, tine poodcre habentta pondat.''
But to approach the comparison.
If in the divine idea of the Chris-
tian song there is necessarily con-
tained the notion of a working and
efficient system, the simple truth is,
that there is no such system, either
in the works of modern music them-
selves, pr in the manner of their
use. On the one side is the im^
portant fact, that the modern art
of music leaves the vastly larger
portion of the Ritual without an>^
music at all, embracing positively
not more than its merest fraction ;
on the other, the equally great fact
of a total absence of any thing like
rule to determine their selection.
As a working system, then, full and
complete in all its points, the Ritual
chant stands alone the only realiza-
tion of that part of the divine idea
which contemplates order and sys-
tem in the use of Christian song.
RESPECXrVE MORAL FITNESS : X. AS A SAC-
RIFICIAL soNo; n. AS A song for
THE OFFICES OF THE CHURCH.
I. As a Sacrificial Song,
It has been already remarked
that ecclesiastical song is not every-
thing or anything that is beautiful
in music, nor merely a work of art.
It is, strictly speaking, a sacrificial
chant, the song of those engaged in
offering sacrifice to God, Tibi sacri*
534
Thi Roman Ritual and its C/tant.
ficabo kosiiam laudis. Such a soug
is obviously not any kind of song,
but one that possesses a moral type
and character, rendering it a fit
companion for the holy and blood-
less victim offered on the Christian
altar ; becoming an offering, offered
not to man, but to the ears of the
Most High, and akin to the solemni-
ty of its subject — redemption from
sin and death through the blood
and sufferings of a sinless victim,
the crucified Son of God. The di-
vine idea may then, I think, be said
to contemplate sacred song as pos-
sessing a sacrificial character.
And the reason, if required, will
appear, on considering to how great
an extent music possesses the re-
markable gift of absorbing and be-
coming possessed with an idea.
When song has been successfully
united to language, the ideas con-
tained in the latter are found to
take possession of the music, and
to form the sound or tune into an
image and reflection of themselves,
in a manner almost analogous to
the way in which the mind within
moulds the outward features of the
face, so as to make them an index
and expression of itself. What I
mean by this alleged power of mu-
sic to absorb, and afterwards to ex-
press, ideas, even those the most
opposite to each other, may be ex-
emplified, if an instance be wanted,
by contrasting any popular melody
from the Roman Gradual, as the
Dies Ira^ or the Stabat Matcry with
one of our popular street tunes,
"Cherry ripe," or "Jim Crow'*;
and it will be seen at once, on hum-
ming over these tunes, with what
perfect truth and to how great an
extent music is able to ally itself
to the most opposite ideas, and
how, through the ear, it has the
power, not merely to convey them
to the mind, but to leave them there,
firmly and vividly impress^
then, by virtue of this power
may, on the one hand, beco
channel of the most exquisi
faneness in divine worshi[]
certainly may, on the other,
bute wonderfully to its i
and power of attraction,
since the music of the field
tie, the military march, and
of the drum, has a chara<
shared by other kinds, as t
of the banquet, and of the
of the drunkard over his <
the peasant at his plough
sailor at sea, of the village
at her home, have each tl
stamp and form : so also
song of Christian worship, i
regard it as the song of ixi<
ing sacrifice to himself, as 1
character inherent in its s
the life, sufferings, and ci
him who died to take awa^
of the world — in a word, n.5
ficial chant.
Now that a sacrificial c
in all ages accompanied 1
ing of sacrifice, is a truth
history, if examined, will 1
to bear abundant testim
the sacrifice described by
the iSneid,
" paeri ianuptaeqvae
Sacra caaoat.*'
When, at the command of
as, on the return of tH<
Jews from Babylon, saor
solemnly offered after tht^i
in Jerusalem, the priests,
(2 Machab. i. 30), sang p^^
til the burnt'offering was -zc*
sumed. Nor is it the 'ijvl
to say that this sacrificia.1 i
passed over in its more p>e^
ity to the Christian Cli
even in the Song of Hea.v<
the redeemed, the sacrifi<
acter still continues, a j^j
The Rofptan Rkual and its Chant.
53$
irorthy of the notice of those who
wc so confident that the type of
the modern music is alone that
which is found in heaven. **And
they [the twenty-four ancients] sang
1 new song, saying, Thou art wor-
thy to take the book and open the
leals thereof, for thou wast slain,
ind hast redeemed us to God by
thy blood, out of every kindred,
and tongue, and people, and na-
tion."
If, then, the ideas which suggest
themselves and arise naturally on
reflecting upon what, in the nature
of things, would be the type and
character of the Christian sacrificial
chant; if these ideas find them-
selves absorbed, then expressed,
embodied, and brought out into
life and being in the music of the
ecclesiastical chant ; and if, on the
other hand, they are not to be found
in the variety of modern composi-
tions such as are now in partial
use;* if it be possible to conceive
our Lord's apostles, upon the sup-
position that they could return to
the earth, standing up in any church
of Christendom to sing the song
of the Ritual in honor of the Holy
Sacrifice, and in company with the
celebrant priest ;t and if there be
* It nay not be unwortliy of remark that the com-
pQKn of modern church music have uniforoily
tkeqgfat a diflfereat style of compositioa becoming,
vheaerer occasion required the introduction of a
*^*m praytrr into their operas ; as may be seen in
Monrt*s choras of Egyptian priests in the Zaub«rm
M**% Bad many other similar instances. To real
pnyer, and to the true adorable sacrifice, it is the
operatic effects that are exclusively dedicated, as in
UatuCt No. XII. and Haydn s No. II.
t The fbOovring anecdote is told in the Breviary
iKtkn of S. Felix of Valois, founder of the Congpre-
ptioDof the Most Holy Trinity for the Redemption
cf Captives (hin day occurs the aoth of Vovember) t
** S. Felix received a remarkable favor from the
Bktted Virgin Mother. AU the brethren remain-
iag sdeep, and, by the dispositioo of God, not rising
(or the celebration of Matins, which were to have
Iwea vedtcd at midnight on the Vigil of the Blessed
Mother's Nativity, Felix awoke, as was his custom,
••d catering into the choir before the time, found
*hwt the Blessed Virgin herself, clothed in a habit
■■tWd with the cross of the order, and in company
1^ t number of ai^cls habited in the same man-
ner. PeKx, taking his place amongst them, sang
something obviously unbecoming
in the mere thought of their taking
bass or tenor in such music as that
of Mozart's or Haydn's masses,
neither of which will be denied;
then, I thinH it is not extravagant
to infer that the Plain Chant of the
Ritual is far flie most adequate ful-
filment of that part ot the divine
idea which contemplates Christian
music as a sacrificial song.
II. Fitness for the Offices of the
Church,
With regard to the fitness of the
ecclesiastical chant for the offices
of the church, it must be remarked,
that the ideas of the modern musi-
cian touching the use of music in
the church are very widely remov-
ed from those of the fathers of the
church. In their idea, a church-
singer would somewhat answer to
what would be a ballad-singer in
the world, inasmuch as he has a
great deal to convey to his hearers
in the way of narrative. Almighty
God has been pleased to work many
wonderful works, and the fathers
of the church appointed singers for
the churches, to celebrate these
works in song, in order that the
people who came to worship, or
even the heathens who came as
spectators, might hear and learn
something of the works of the Lord
Jehovah, into whose house they
had come. What can be more rea-
sonable than this } ** My song shall
be of all thy marvellous works,'* says
the Psalmist. But, according to
the notions of a modern musician,
if a Brahmin priest, or the Turkish
ambassador, were to come to Mass,
through and finished the entire Office, the Blessed
Mother herself acting the part of precentor.*'—*
Brroiarinm Romanum.
Thb is but one specimen, among the many others
which are to be found in churdi history, of the
light in which angels and saints regard the chan|
of the RitnaL
53^
Thi Roman Ritual and its Chant
mkI to hear a choral performajHre,
in which the concord of voices
should be most ravish in gly beauti-
ful, but in which not a single one of
the marvellous works of God could
be understood from the concert, he
is still to consider that he has heard
the perfection of Chfistian music,
and ought, according to them, to go
away converted. Out of two so
contradictory notions one must ne*
cessarily be chosen as the one
which best answers to the divine
idea. And if persons are prepared
to say that the ideas of the fathers
are become antiquated, and that
they would have acted differently
had they known better, they are
certainly called upon to make this
good.
But, in the meantime, it will be
both reasonable and pious to acquis
esce in the belief that the fathers
acted in conformity with the divine
idea, and under the direction of
God's Holy Spirit, in appointing a
song for the church, in which the
marvellous and merciful works of
God might be set forth in a charm-
ing, becoming, and perfectly intelli-
gible manner, for the instruction of
the people. A serious person, when
he goes into the house oi God, is
supposed to go there with the in-
tention of learning something re-
specting God, and it is to be sup-
posed that Almighty God desires
to see every church in such a con-
dition as that the people who fre-
quent it may learn all that they
need to know respecting God and
his works. To this use the fathers
employed chant, and considered
that it was, by the will of God, to
be employed to this end. If any
candid and serious person will take
the trouble to examine the language
and sentiments of the Ritual apart
from its musical notation, he will
be struck with it as a complete
manual of popular theology. He
will see that it is full of the woik
of God, the knowledge of whicki
the food of the faithful soul, pa^
ticularly among the poor and tk
unlearned. Next let him cxanuBt
its notation in song, as contained ii
the Gradual and Antiphonary, aii
he will be struck with a solcmnitf^
beauty, and force of melody fitMi
to convey to the people the wodb-
of inspiration, to which melody w«i
annexed in order that they migM
be the better relished, and pa«
current the more easily. And hM*
ly, let him consider them, in botk
these respects, as forming ow
united whole, and he cannot re-
fuse to acknowledge the fitness d
the chant which the fathers select*
ed for the purpose they had it
view« Musicians must be equitabk^
enough to abstain from compiaia*^
ing of a work on the score of ifili
unisonous recitative character, i{
they will not be at the pains to iui«
derstand or to sympathize with tho
end for which it was formed aadl
destined. Have the fathers efO
troubled themselves to critkiw
what was innocent and allovabk
in the world's music ? Then wk|
should musicians go out of the «^
to find imaginary faults with that
of which they seem indisposed to
consider either the use or the ci*
cacy i
The church chant wU
framed generations before they and
their art were known ; and it Hal
helped to train up whole nations it-
the faith, and fulfilled its end to the
unbounded satisfaction of the fr
thers, who adopted, enlarged, aid
consolidated it into the form in
which it has come down to us, aad
may therefore claim a truce to sudi
criticism.
But here, again, the coraparisoi
fails for want of a competitor, and
we are again brought back to tbc
The Roman Rii9tat and Us Chant.
537
K:t thai the works of modern art
lobrace too snwll a fraction of the
rhole Liturgy to be in a condition
Q challenge any comparison. And
onld the comparison be admitted,
\ would still remain to insist on the
qually certain truth of experience
tut the idea of a lengthened and
ontinual recitation of the works of
lod, intended to be popularly in-
elhgible, is one unsutted to the
nployment on any great scale of
Yen the simplest counterpoint
ocal harmonies, and fundament-
lly averse to the prevailing use of
be canon and fiigue of modem
(lusical science.
ssrccnvE fitnbss to pass among the
AS A CONGRKGATIONAL SONG.
Upon this point of the corapari-
on the result, I think, will be tol-
itably obvious, if it be admitted
hit the divine idea contemplates
ihe chant of the church as designed
;o pass to some considerable extent
tpiong the people in the form of
congregational singing. It will
not, however, be out of place to
ibow briefly on what grounds this
issnmption rests.
1. Almighty God has created in
people a strong love for congrega-
tbnal psalmody, and has attached
to it peculiar feelings possessed
of an influence far more powerful
for good than the somewhat isolat-
ed pleasure that the musician feels
on hearing beautiful artificial mu-
lie, inasmuch as congregational
tinging is a common voice of pray-
er and praise ; and being, as Chris-
tians, members one of another, in
congregational psalmody we gain a
foretaste of heaven, where it will
be far more perfect.
2. There are obvious benefits
arising from it. It is an union of
prayer and praise, and as such is
more powerful with God. It kin-
dles in the individual a Isvelief
sense of Christian fellowship. It
is a voice that expresses the union
of the many members in the one
body ; many voices, one sound.
3. The argument from history.
The worship of God has always
been that of congregational psalm-
ody ; and where trained choirs of
singers existed, their song was al-
ways such as to admit of the peo-
ple at times taking part with them.
This is an undeniable fact of his-
tory. " Then sang Moses and ihe
children of Israel this song unto
the Lord" (Exodus xv.) " Then
sai^ Israel this song, Spring up,
O well, sing ye unto it, etc."
(Numbers xxi. 17). The psalm
cxxxv. was composed for the peo-
ple to sing the chorus. The Book
of Psalms is a kind of historical
testimony, in many of its passages,
to the fact of that congregational
song to which it so often exhorts.
Fleury, in his History of the Man-
ners of the Jews and Christians
(page 143), acknowledges congre-
gational song as a fact among both.
He cites the testimony of S.
Basil, that all the people in his time
sang in the churches — men, women,
and children — and he compares
their voices to the waters of the
sea. S. Gregory of Nazianzen
compares them to thunder. But it
is impossible to conceive such to
have been the practice both of
Jews and Christians, without in-
ferring that it was so with the ap-
probation of Almighty God.
4. The apostles and the fathers
of the church have sanctioned it.
" Teaching and admonishing your-
selves in psalms and hymns and
spiritual songs, singing with melody
in your hearts unto the Lord "
(Col. iii. 16).
** Wherefore, since these things
are so, let us with the more confi-
538
The Roman Ritual and Us Chant.
dence give ourselves to the work
of song, considering that we have
obtained a great grace of Almighty
God, to whom it has been given, in
company with so many and so great
saints, the prophets, and the mar-
tyrs, to celebrate the marvellous
works of the eternal God." — An
old author in the first volume of Ger-
hert's Scriptores Musici.
" Quocunque te vertis, arator
stivam tenens Alleluia decantat,
sudans messor Psalmis se evocat,
et curva attollens vitem fake vina-
tor aliquid Davidicum cantat.
Haec sunt in provincia nostra car-
mina, haec ut vulgo dicitur amatoriae
cantationes, hie pastorum sibilus,
haec arma culturae." — "Wherever
you turn, the laborer at his plough
sings an alleluia; the reaper sweating
under his work refreshes h imself with
a psalm : the vinedresser in his vine-
yard will sing a passage from the
Psalmist. These are the songs of
our part of the world. These are,
as people say, our love-songs. This
is the piping of our shepherds, and
these are the arms of our laborers."
— S. Jerome^ Epist, it ad Marcel-
lum,
** Alas !" observes Mgr. Parisis,
upon this passage of S. Jerome,
" where are now the families who
seek to enliven the often dangerous
leisure of long winter's evenings
with the songs of the Catholic Lit-
urgy ; where are the workshops in
which an accent may be heard bor-
rowed from the remembrance of
our divine offices; where are the
country parishes which are edified
and rejoiced by the sweet and pious
sounds which in the times of S.
Jerome echoed through the fields
and vineyards?" *
♦ Mgr. Parisis continues : ** My dear friends and
brethren^ we have ourselves never precisely seen
these sweet days of the faith ; but in our very early
youth we aeem to havt caiv^^ti a* i* were, thoir
S. Augustine : " As fore
tional psalmody, what be
ploy men t can there be fo
gregation of people met
what more beneficial to tin
or more holy and well-pl*
God, I am wholly unabl<
ceive.^" — Letter to Jama
wards the end,
A passage of S. Chrysoi
horting the people to \
will be found elsewhere,
necessary to do more thi
fer to the example of S.
S. Ambrose, encouraging I
pie in the same manner ;
may be added a passage
life of S. Germanus :
** Pootificts momtis, psalKt plebs, den
y^fMmtsm*, 9iU
Lastly, the moral reas<
thing.
This is expressed by S
the words : " O wonderfii
of the teacher ! who hath
til at we should both sin^, 3
with learn that which is g
Now, if it be consid
Providence could not pos
meant that the people
should be formed int<
classes, in order to be ini
the mysteries of minim an<
tenor and bass, and thj
only practical means ol
them to pick up by ear
popular parts of the chu
is by encouraging, as the
the Ritual chant does,
enunciation of language ai
which easily fixes itself
ear, and which the prev
last twilight • we wdl reofember tli
which first caught our ear were the
of the Liturgy, and during that R
when they were banished from the
bless God with all our heart on r
holiday evenings when we were Tvtf\
allowed to sing with the family
mysteries of the Divine Son of Max
in the language of the Church, at a
wcU-knowB tongue of our tcligious r
The Roman RUual and its Chant.
539
Muson singing gives \* it follows at
Mice that the only hope of procur-
es general congregational singing
in the worship of the Catholic
Lhurch lies in the increased use and
Kealous propagation of the unison
^xecution of the Ritual chant. £x-
^rience is clear to the point that
the use of the works of modern art,
vith their rapid movements, elabo-
nte fugues, scientific combinations
»f sounds necessarily tends to stifle
the voices of the people, and this is
certainly not the will of our merci-
ful God.
Now, if this be the case, I do not
jee how we are to avoid the conclu-
ftion, that any extensive use of these
vorks of modern art tends to the
dear frustration and the making
void one great and important popu-
lar end, viz., congregational sing-
yag, which the divine idea contera-
^tes in the song of the church,
Md which, in the song of the Ritual,
fa efficiently realized, as the history
of the progress of the faith abundant-
fy testifies. Might it not, then, be
well that those who advocate the
continued cultivation of these elab-
orate works of art should consider
*Itk a fitthioQ to desfnie unison singing: yet
ihc bifhest aotlierides in the charch have given it
Adr decided preference. The Ponti£Bi John XXI I.
aad Benedict XIV. have recommended unison sing-
lie to the whole church as the fittest ; Abbot Ger-
Wt aftd Cardinal Bona recogniie its superiority ;
Mgr. Farisis says, ** We speak here exclusively of
when singing^ becaHse it is this that best suits
tk* chmrch,''' Conceit and fashion nuy be and
OHMt probably axe at the bottom of such a feeling
«f eonxcrapt ; and of course where the singing is
tm4mt6 to a hmited number, individuals will na-
tszafiy wish for an opportunity of displaying their
mtn ittle talent. ** Omnium hominum/* b Guido
of Arcsa's cxperienca, **fotaissimi cantores." S.
Bemrd says : " That new canticle, which it will
be ^rtn to virgins alpne to sing in the kingdom of
God, these is no one who doubts but that the Queen
of Vifipis heraelf will be the first to sing ; and I
thiflik ttftt, besides that song peculiar to virgins, and
vhich it OMttmon to her with others, she will de-
ifht the dty of God with some still sweeter and
norr bcaotiful song, the exquisite melody of which
ao other virgin will be found worthy to sing, save
her ooly who may boast of having given birth, and
that 10 God " *II. Homily on flfissus est Gabriti),
Nov the SQ^g here spoken of will be in unison*
the full meaning of Mardocheus*
prayer, Ne daudas ora tecaneniium :
" Shut not the mouth of them that
sing thy praise, O Lord '* (Esther
xiii. 17).
RESPFXrriVE MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE
FORMATION OF CHARACTER.
The influence upon the mind of
sounds that habitually surround
the ear is a fact well known to all
moralists. ** Whosoever,** says Pla-
to, in his treatise Dc Republicd^ quot-
ed by Gerbert, " is in the habit of
permitting himself to listen habit-
ually to music, and to allow his
mind to be engaged and soothed
by it, pouring in the sweet sounds
before alluded to through the ears,
as through an orifice, soft, soothing,
luscious, and plaintive, consuming
his life in tunes that fascinate his
soul ; when he does this to an ex-
cess, he then begins to weaken, to
unstring, and to enervate his un-
derstanding, until he loses his
courage, and roots all vigor out of
the mind.'* Cicero observes, " Ni-
hil tarn facile in animos teneros
atque molles influere quam varios
canendi sonos, quorum vix dici
potest quanta sit vis in utramquc
partem ; namque et incitat languen-
tes, et languefacit excitatos, et turn
remittit animos, tum contraliit "
(lib. ii. De Legibus). These re-
marks seem very much to have
their exemplification at this day in
the effeminate tone and temper of
polished society in all the nations
of Europe, who seem to be befooled
with their love for pretty airs and
opera music. Now, if the fathers,
observing this power of music in-
sensibly to mould and form the
character, and acting, as it is more
than pious to believe, under the
guidance of the Holy Spirit, that
his divine intention might be fulfill-
ed, designed the song of the church
S40
Tlu Roman Ritual and its Chant.
to form a chafacter very different
from that of the musical voluptuary
— one who was to be no cowardly
skulker from the good fight of faith,
but the soldier of Jesus Christ, the
disciple patiently taking up his cross
and following his crucified Master
— those who do not participate in
these ideas ought not to wonder
that they find so little in the church
chant with which they can sympa-
thize ; but above all let them at
least have the modesty not to blame
the fathers of the church for adapt-
ing it, after their wisdom, to a pur-
pose the need for which they do
not comprehend. The historian
Fleury has a pertinent remark:
** Je laisse il ceux qui sont savants
en musique k examiner si dans
notre Plain Chant il reste encore
quelque trace de cette antiquity [he
is speaking of the force of charac-
ter of the old chant]; car notre
musique modeme semble en 6tre
fort eloign^e " (Fleury, Mceurs des
Chretiens ^ page xliii.) — ^" I leave to
those who are versed in music to de-
termine whether there remain any
traces of this ancient vigor in our
Plain Chant ; for our modem music
seems very far from it."
Is it a thing to be wondered at
if the Christian Israel's Song of
the Cross should have in it some-
thing a little strange to the ear of
Babylon ? Or are we to content
ourselves with the conclusion that
nothing but what is dainty and
nice, nothing but that which is as
nearly like the world as possible,
will go down with Christian people ?
On the contrary, is it not to be pre-
sumed that the multitudes, with
whom, in the ipain, the Christian
teacher's duty lies, are of tli
ly* degenerate tone of mi
nauseates the strong, pecu
supplicating energy of the
astical chant ?
But on this point the (
son may be drawn in the i
Mgr. Parisis :
"External to the Ritua
that is to say, the Greg
Plain Chant, little else is no
except the works of model
that is to say, a music es
favoring what people hav
to call sensualism. It is thi
exclusively this, which, u
austere title of sacred i
sought to be introduced
sacred offices. Now, wit
siring to enter deeply into
ter, we need but few wordi
out how grievously it is m
" Worldly music agitj
seeks to agitate, because
seeks its pleasure in stir at
The church, on the contr
for melodies that pray ai
to prayer. The churcl
wish for any others, since
ship has no other ob
prayer-
" In vain will it be saic
is the work of one of th
masters, that it is a scien
sublime composition ; it j
this for the world — it is i
all of this for the church,
pecially when this world
by its thrilling cadences
sioned character, leads c
light ideas, sensual sal
and dangerous recollect i
not only a contradictic
house of God, but a for
dal " {Instruction Pctstori^
TO •> CONCLVXIBD NBXT MOlTm.
A Legend of the RMm.
54»
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.
It is now many years since, dur-
ig a summer ramble, I found my-
:if at A ^k, now nothing more
lan a hamlet in population, but
staining traces of having once
ccn a place of very considerable
Dportance, and boasting of very re-
late antiquity. The remains of
to wall are, indeed, locally attri-
uted to the Romans, probably be-
ause they are lofty and very strong,
nd it is the habit of ignorant peo-
le to refer all great works to that
ronderful people. In this instance,
owevcr, tradition is certainly
irong, as the walls bear unmistak-
hie evidence of mediaeval origin,
leiog in parts much enriched with
idthic work.
/fhe little town stands on a pla-
caa enclosed between a bend of
he Rhine and the steep blufif on
rhich the ruins of an old castle stand
^ched, equally watching the little
lorgh below and the counterpart
astle on the opposite side of the
Gthine at its next bend.
The eagles that once lived in
ttid sought their prey from that
ofly nest have long since crumbled
«to dust and have even passed
iT>m the memory of man, leaving
kf sole representatives the choughs
ind the crows, and perhaps a jolly
M. uwl to keep up revelry at night.
The horses that those old knights
rode must have been of a sure-
footed breed, for it is hard to con*
ceivc how any quadruped, save a
goat, could have mounted the path
I scrambled up among the vines;
but it is with the village and the
ullage church that we have to do.
Who built the Rhine churches .^
They all, with a few exceptions,
are strikingly alike ; though varying
in size, number of towers, and many
other particulars, they have mostly
a strict resemblance in general con-
ception and detail. To cite an in-
stance : The cathedral at Coblentz
might stand as the type of twenty
others ; instead of being individual
and standing out alone — an effort
of genius like Cologne, Strasbourg,
Notre Dame, Ely, or Winchester —
they have all the same resemblance
to one another that a little oak has
to a big one.
The church at A k was no ex-
ception. Cathedral it might almost
be called from its great size ; but
there was no bishop there, and it
was only a parish church ! With
its three great towers, vast nave,
long aisles, and noble choir, it
seemed as if it might well hold all
the population for many miles
around, and the extremely small
congregation that were present at
the celebration of the High Moss
that morning appeared ridiculously
out of proportion. It was a high
festival — ^the Annunciation — it is
therefore to be assumed that the
bulk of the population were there,
and the High Mass was at the some-
what early hour of half-past five !
After the Mass was over, and the
last peal of the organ had died away,
and the patter of the last footstep
been lost in the distance, as it still
wanted a considerable time to my
breakfast hour, I strolled round the
great empty church. There seem-
ed to be nothing of value in it. If
54«
A Legend of the Rhine.
it bad ever possessed any of the
treasures of art, they had probably
perished or been carried away dur-
ing the long wars that devastated
the country after the period of the
Reformation, for I found nothing
worthy of notice. I had just conclu-
ded to leave the church when my
eye was arrested by what I took to
be an accident which had happened
to the crucifix on one of the side
altars. At first I supposed that it
had received a blow which had
nearly broken off the right arm
of the figure. On looking more
closely I perceived that it was evi-
dently of great age, and the arm
I supposed to be broken stood out
from the cross at a considerable
angle, and hung about half way
down the side, the nail by which it
had once been attached still re-
maining in the hand.
Whilst I was still wondering as
to the nature of the accident which
had befallen the quaintly-carved
crucifix a quiet and pleasant voice
roused me from my revery.
" I see, sir, that you are examin-
ing our curious old crucifix !*'
Turning round I recognized the
old priest who had sung Mass, and
encouraged by his amiable manner
and address, I stated the matter I
had been pondering over, and ask-
ed for an explanation.
"There has been no accident,"
said he ; " the distortion which you
notice in the right arm has existed
far beyond the memory of man.
** The figure is carved out of some
very hard wood, and all out of a
single block — there being no joining
in any part of it."
Still more astonished, I asked
what could have been the motive
of representing the Saviour in so
strange an attitude ; the more, as the
hole for the nail still remaining in
the hand was still to be seen plain-
ly in the wood, whilst the hand va
in the position in which it wotM
have been had it just struck a bl©»-
" That is a curious story, and is, ii
fact, the only legend I know of
connected with this church.
** The crucifix is held in great ref-
erence, and people come from greuft
distances to pray before it. A» I
see you are a stranger, perhaps jut
will partake of an old man's brofc-
fast, whilst you listen to him as 1«
relates the. traditional story, whidi
being connected with this choit^
where he has grown old, he regafib
as almost peculiarly his own. B^
sides, the story is too long to to
listened to either standing or hs^
ing.
Thanking the good priest for Mil
kind offer, I followed him into tkt
little presbytery almost adjaniili|
the church, where we were foitf
seated on each side of a little tiHk
taking off the edge of our apptlilBr
with eggs, coffee, and rolls.
When we had somewhat appCi^
ed our craving, the good man
menced, saying :
" The tradition of which I
to speak dates back a long way, itl
has at least so much of authentidqp
about it as attaches to the undo<dl^
ed antiquity of the crucifix itsdK
and to the fact that, for many geo^
rations at least, no oth/*r accoHt
has been current
'* My grandfather used to tell it m
me when an infant on his kad^
and said that he had heard it inm
his grandfather in the same way.
" In which of the many wars which
have scourged this nnfortaBite
land since the rebel monk Lutbcf
brought the curse of religious dif-
sension upon it, the circumstances
which I am about to relate occur-
red, I am unable to determine ; for
the traditions, which agree io all
other points, differ on this.
A Legetid of tJa Rkine.
S43
"On the whole I incline to the one
rhich places these events during
he period of Gustavus Adolphus'
nvasion, and attribute them to the
^articular band which was led by
ds lieutenant Oxenstiem, who cer-
wnly did sack the place. This
rould place it at more than two
mndred years ago, and it certainly
I not more recent.
**At that period there lived in
1 k a widow and her daughter.
They were very poor, belonging to
lie peasant class, and supported
lumselves in winter by spinning ;
md when the spring came round,
hey would go off to the steep
Dountain-sides, where they helped
dress the vines or gather the
rtntage, according to the season.
" They never went to distant vine-
fards, because the mother, having in
kr youth met with a severe acci-
iuUy was unable, from its effects, to
v«& fiar. There was also another
reason : for Gretchen, who was the
prettiest girl for many miles around,
WM also the best, and never failed,
winter or summer, to hear Mass
and to spend some time in prayer
before that very crucifix which has
attracted your attention.
"There was, no doubt, some older
tradition about its origin, for it had
a great reputation for sancity even
then; this tradition, whatever it
may have been, seems, however, to
iiave been swallowed up by the over-
whelming interest of the subse-
quent event, which I am about to
relate.
" All accounts agree that when
Gretchen first worshipped there
the crucifix had nothing unusual
about it to distinguish it from any
other, except its artistic merit
"The hand was then nailed to the
cross. There, however, kneeling in
front of it, wrapped in prayer, this
young girl spent all the time she
could spare from the humble duties
of her life.
" She milked the cow, the one val-
uable possession of her mother,
who had the right of common ; she
washed the clothes, cooked and
did the work about her mother's
house, and acted as her crutch
as she climbed the steep paths
of the vineyard — for, in spite of
her lameness, she was a skilful vine-
dresser—in short, she was all in
all to her only parent.
" With all this labor and care Gret-
chen grew in grace and beauty;
and though so devout, she was as
bright and cheerful and winning in
her ways as the most worldly of her
young companions.
" Never, however, could she be
tempted to go to any of the merry-
makings or harvest-homes or vin-
tage feasts that were held at a dis-
tance ; her invariable answer was,
* My mother cannot walk so far.'
" She had many suitors ; and ad-
mirers came from a great distance.
**To all Gretchen was equally
kind and considerate; but to none
did she show any sort of prefer-
ence, so that all the youths for
many miles on both sides of the
Rhine were pulling caps for her.
" Thus things went on till she was
nineteen, when, to the great sur-
prise of all, she was seen to take
up with and give a decided prefer-
ence to the attentions of a young
stranger who had been in the place
only a few weeks.
" The favored youth was a jour-
neyman clockmaker from Nurem-
berg, who was going through his
year of wandering, and was at the
moment settled in the town, work-
ing for the only tradesman in his
line of business in the place.
" A k was then much more
populous, as you may well suppose,
being able to support such a trade.
S44
A Legend of the Rhine.
"This youth, whose name was
Gotliebe Hunning, was handsome
and showy, wearing his hair in long
locks down his back, and spending
much of his earnings in dress. He
<(ung, played the guitar, and was re-
puted wild, though no harm could
be alleged against him.
" The old folks shook their heads,
and deplored that so sweet and
modest a girl as Gretchen should
be seen so much with a roisterer
like Gotliebe.
" Somehow it had been no sin to
sing and be gay like God's unreason-
ing creatures before the sour times
of Calvin, Huss, and Luther; but
though their errors had not pene-
trated here to any great extent,
something of their acid had been
imparted to the leaven of life.
" So things were, however, and all
the time that Gretchen gave to
pleasure — which was little enough,
poor child, for they were very poor
and her mother was very helpless-
she spent with this handsome, clever
youth ; not that she abandoned her
devotion, or was less frequently
prostrated before the crucifix; for
indeed, if possible, she was found
there more than ever. Still, the
gossips shook their heads and re-
marked upon it.
"One would say, *Ah! I never
trusted that meek manner of hers.
I always knew she would surprise
us some day, and here it is ! It is
always so with the very good ones !*
*Ay, ay,* her neighbor would say,
*.cat Will after cream ! And Eve
has left her mark upon the best of
them ! The girl is a girl like other
young things; but I did hope bet-
ter things of Gretchen, so well
brought up as she has been !* — ^thus
they ran on.
" Soon, however, it began to be said
that Gotliebe was sobering down ;
he frequented the tavern less, never
danced except with Gfetch<
less and worked more.
" He was admitted to bei
of his craft, and when it
known that he was engage
his leisure hours in making
clock — the very one the ch
which you were admiring-
church, there was less he
ing, and more talk aboi
chen's luck in making so
catch. Still he made no ci
his showy dress, and indeei
that genius, at least in a
shows itself in that way, aj
tion testifies that he was
proficient in the art he \
of which indeed we still hs
every hour.
** Then it began to be
that Gotliebe was frequeni
church with Gretchen, an<
come a regular attendant
Still, things went on in
way and no betrothal W5
of, until, after the war 1
broken out and seemed t^
ing this way, it sudden 1
known that Gretchen ha<
ed to be married to Got]
out loss of time, and thai
take a house and her n
to movfe into it.
" In this remote place, fa
of the great avenues of
vessels usually passed
great roads branching ofl
there being no steam boj
ed — news came doubtful
dom, and war was at the
at a moment when on
rumors had reached A —
"However, to return \i
and Gotliebe: You mi
that what goes on nov
then, and that all the
were agog as to what tb
live upon ; how she was i
ed, and who were to be
maids ; but as the world a
A Legend of the Rhine.
545
n spite of the flies that bu2Z about
it, so they went their way regard-
less of all that was said about
them.
"In the meantime, the rumors
jrew more- frequent and more par-
ticular concerning the cloud of war
rhich was every day drifting nearer
md nearer, until the dark mass
seemed ready at any moment to
burst upon the unfortunate village
itself.
'* Indeed, news came from neigh*
boring towns and villages that they
bad been taken and burned by the
heretic Swedes, and tales, no doubt
often exaggerated, of the violent
aad dissolute conduct of Oxen-
stiem's troopers, kept every one in
terror.
** Affairs were in this threatening
Cf(»ditton when the wedding-morn-
lag came ; and, as the story was,
tiiough Gretchen had little to spend
dress, no ar^ and no expense
have produced a lovelier
biide than stood before the altar of
the Crucifix that morning. She
wore nothing but a simple dress of
wbiie, and a wreath of apple-blos-
soms, for the trees were just then
in flower.
** The wedding-bells were ringing,
and the humble bridal-party had
just reached the house which Got-
liebe had taken, when cannon were
beard, and a band of fierce Swedish
sokliers rushed into the village.
"The firing proceeded from an
attack upon the castle, which still
stands at about a mile from this
place, and the invaders of the vil-
lage were army followers and a few
of the more dissolute of Oxen-
stiera's soldiery, who, encountering
the bridal-party, at once interrupted
its progress, treating the bride-
niaids rudely; and one of them,
who threw his arms around Gretch-
en, was immediately struck down by
VOL. XXL— 35
Gotliebe, who, as before said, was a
spirited youth.
" One of the invaders, without a
moment's hesitation, struck him
lifeless, and attempted to seize the
bride, who, with a shriek, fled and
took refuge in the church.
" Thither Gretchen was pursued
by the band ; and when after many
hours the troops were withdrawn,
and the priest, with a few of the
boldest of his fiock, ventured into
the sacred edifice, they found the
high altar desecrated, the sacred
vessels gone, and other sacrileges
committed, which filled them with
horror ; but on turning to the altar
of the Crucifix, they found the bride
prostrate before it, either in a trance
or ecstasy, with the soldier who had
pursued her lying with his skull
broken, and his iron head-piece
smashed in as though a sledge-
hammer had struck it, and the arm
of the crucifix distorted as you see
it now.
" On being questioned, the young
widow could only say : * God has
protected me !*
" The poor mother only lingered
a day or two afterwards, and was
borne to the grave at the same time
as the unfortunate Gotliebe.
" Gretchen never knew, or would
not say, more than I have repeated
of what had occurred at the altar
of the Crucifix. It was unplunder-
ed!
"The people, however, all said
that God, who had borne the insults
and profanation directed 'against
himself at the high altar, had in-
terposed when the virtue of a pure
virgin was threatened, and had
himself, by the hand of his image,
smitten the would-be violator dead,
leaving the distorted arm as an ad-
monition for ever."
We were both silent after this re-
cital, and for some moments toyed
546
A Legend of the Rkine.
with the fragments of our break-
fast.
At length, raising my head, I
asked : ** And you, father — do you
believe this tale ?'*
A sweet, soft smile novered about
his lips, as he replied : *' Nothing
in which the goodness of God is
instanced is hard for me to be-
lieve! He is less ready to show
his anger, so that, though we live in
the midst of his wonders, we have
got so used to them that it is said
that there are those who deny his
existence.**
This was sa:d as if to himself.
Then, speaking more collectedly,
he continued :
"You English would rather be-
lieve in ghosts and devils than in
the good God. Whence do you
suppose they derive their existence
and their power ?**
I assured him that I was of the
same faith as himself, and only ask-
ed because I wished to have the
opinion of a cultivated man on the
subject of this particular legend,
which had greatly interested me,
and of which there remained so
singular an evidence.
After a moment's pause, he said :
" Think of the facts yourself, sir.
This tradition, which is certainly
very old, is either true in its main
features or it was made to fit the
crucifix. Assume this last to be the
case, how did so singular an image
come into existence } Made to
hang the tradition upon ? Scarce-
ly in so small a community, where
all must have known each other.
Besides, it is a work of art, and .1
have been told that as such it is of
rare merit. Such a work could
hardly have been produced for an
unworthy object, and would have
been difficult to substitute for one
of inferior workmanship. If I call-
ed it a legend, it is because it has an
air of romance about it Bat God
is good, and does what be pleascsf
I had nothing more to say; so I
asked what had become of Gretdh
en, and was told that she had beci
taken as a lay sister in the smai
convent at the head of the ralley;
whence she had continued, to tfae
very day of her death, to come and
pray at the foot of the cnicifii^
where in fact she was at last foaod
dead, in her eighty-seventh yeai;
and that during the whole time sbc
had been regarded as a saint.
"The altar,** he resumed, "it
uni^rsally regarded with great
reverence, and is always spoke»
of as the Altar of Succor to t
very considerable distance up ani
down the Rhine, and the unusual
number of models in wax or wood
which you see hanging before it
indicate how special favors afS
reputed to have been granted
there.**
"I noticed them,*' I replied,
"when first I entered Belgiunii
where I saw many. I was mudi
struck with wliat I thought the
singular idea of offering a leg
in wax to obtain the cure of lamC'
ness, an eye for blindness, and so
on.**
" I perceive, sir/* said the good
priest, "that you have fallen into
the error of mistaking cause for
effect. These models and tokens
are in no case hung before thealtai
until after the cure prayed for bs
been effected, when it is the piow
custom of the people to conimemo-
rate the blessing they have receiv-
ed — much as one out of the ten
lepers cured by our Lord did— bf
showing gratitude, that all may see
what he has done for them.
" Some of these emblems," con-
tinued he, " have curious histories
attached to them, whose events
have occurred under my own ey&
A Legend of t/ie Rhine.
547
**I will give you one instance
)nly, not to be tedious.
" Did you notice a small bottle
unongst the objects we speak
I acknowledged that I had not
lone so, having paid little attention
^ them.
**Wen, there is one there at all
nrcnts, which I myself attached to
the bunch, under the following cir-
mmstances :
" Some years ago, two brothers,
[>oth young men, were leaving a
irharf some miles up the river, at
twilight. The steamer having land-
ed its passengers, was on the point
af starling, when the elder of the
two remonstrated with his brother
upon the condition in which he
found him ; in fact, the youth was
addicted to drinking, and gave
much trouble to his elder brother,
vho was a remarkably steady young
man. I will not mention their
Dames, as both are living ; but for
convenience will call the elder Fritz
and the younger Carl.
"Carl was given to be quarrel-
some in his'cups, and on this occa«
sion was more so than usual, and
began to struggle with his brother,
who wanted to get him on board,
as the boat was in the act of start-
ing ; in doing so, however, he lost
his balance, and they fell into the
water together.
"Carl, with the luck which is
proverbially attributed to drunk-
ards, was almost immediately pulled
out by those who had seen the ac-
cident. Fritz, however, appeared
to have been carried away by the
current, all search proving in vain.
*' Carl, now completely sobered,
was terribly afflicted, as he was
deeply attached to his brother, and
remembering the traditional sanc-
tity of the Altar of Succor, he
started off and walked all night,
and, wet as he was, threw himself
at the foot of the altar. There he
remained for some hours; whilst
prostrate there, another man came
in and knelt beside him.
" It is always rather dark at that
side altar, which, being situated in
the north aisle, was darker still at
that hour of the morning.
"I had observed the prostrate
roan soon after the church had
been opened in the morning. When
next I passed I saw him prostrate
still, with another kneeling beside
him.
"Thinking there might be some-
thing wrong, I went up, and stoop-
ing, laid my hand upon his shoul-
der; he was wet, and a shiver ran
through him at my touch. To my
surprise I saw that there was a pool
of water round the kneeling man.
"At my touch the man raised
himself, exclaiming, as he did s«,
* Yes, I did it ; but I did not mean
it ! Take me if you will !*
" Before I could explain, the oth-
er rose to his feet, exclaiming, in
a voice of great emotion, * Carl !*
In an instant the brothers were in
each other's arras, and explanations
were made. It appears that Fritz
went down at once, and, being un-
able to swim, was borne down for
some distance under water. On
coming to the surface his head
came in contact with some sub-
stance which he instinctively grasp-
ed; it was wood, and was large
enough to enable him to keep his
head above water. He drifted down
the current till, almost dead with
cold, he found himself cast ashore
at a bend of the river.
" He was glad to find a cottage
door open, where he was welcomed
to warm himself and to share the
peasants* humble meal. There also
he learned that he was not far from
A— — k and the wonderful Altar of
54* »%y Natt
Succor, and at once resolved to there granted to him over tbe evil
come here, moved by gratitude for habit which must, otherwise, have
his escape, and anxiety for his bro- rendered his life a curse.
ther, of whose fate he was of course "He also left a sum of money
ignorant. for the poor, and told me that bk
" A year passed, and one mom- brother and himself were both mar-
ing Carl called upon me, and I then ried, and living as prosperous mtf-
fiilly learned the particulars I have chants at a considerable town kfer
just related. down the Rhine.
"At his request I attached the "Go thou and do likewise!"
small bottle to the other tokens, in added the good priest, laughing u
gratitude, as he said, for the victory we shook hands at parting.
WHY NOT?
I KNELT before the altar-rail
One holy festal morning,
As to and fro the sexton moved,
The holy place adorning.
Now vases, bright with ruby hues,
He places on the altar,
And now the flowers ! O gorgeous sight !
" Good sexton," I did falter,
" But for one instant let me smell
Those odors which, like vapor
From censer, rising, lift — " " Smell! marm —
They're only made o* paper ! "
And now the golden candlesticks,
With candles like to rockets.
Lighting afar, quoth he : " Tin, marm :
The candles are in the sockets ! "
Yet there I see a hundred more
With blessed tapers burning.
O happy bees ! Lo ! here he comes,
From sacristy returning,
With basket filled with precious load
Of many more for decking
The candelabra round the " throne.**
Said I, his pathway checking :
On the Way to LourdiS. 549
*' Oh ! lift for me the basket-lid;
III only humbly peer in
And see the blessed wax ! " ^ Sakes ! marm-
Not wax, but only stearine ! "
Oh ! sparkle brightly, olive star,
In lamp inscribed with Latin :
" Sweet oil ! whose unction — " " Guess not, marm :
The gas is turned on that 'un !"
** Devotion dims my pious view,
And speech within me throttles.
To see those sacred relics — " " Them ?
Them's 'polhecary bottles I "
" Now don't you go a-pokin* round
Your nose to find 'abuses * ;
Well let you know we has these things
Because — ^because we chooses ! "
ON THE WAY TO LOURDfiS.
C01ICL(n>BD.
Leaving Lectoure, the railway ed as if Apollo had claimed it for
keeps along the valley of the Gers, his own again,
a branch of the Garonne several Auch now comes in sight, built
shades yellower than the Tiber, on a height, and crowned with the
The sides of the road are covered towers of its noble cathedral. The
with genity or broom, loaded with sides of the hill are covered with
yellow blossoms — the emblem of houses, whose arched galleries are
the Plantagenets, to whom this part open to the sun and pure moun-
of France was once subject. It is tain air, and gay with vines and
not long before we come to Mount flowers. The terraces before them
St. Cricq at the left, where, in the look like hanging gardens, which
IVth century, the glorious S. Oren, give a charming freshness to the
the apostle of the country, demol- picturesque old city. The Gers
ished a temple of ApoUo-Belen, flows along at the foot of the hill
and set up an altar to the only true as quietly as when Fortunatus sang
and uncreated Light under the in- of its sluggishness centuries ago.
vocation of S. Quiricus (S. Cyr) We cross it, and gain access to the
and S. Julitta. The church is now city by one of the long, narrow,
gone. A windmill stands near its steep, sunless staircases of stone,
site, the only prominent object on called pousterleSy which remind us
the hilly which is as bald and parch- of Naples and Perugia. The place.
5SO
On the Way to LourdiS.
in fact, is quite Italian in its whole
aspect. As we ascend one of these
flights we see, away up at the top, a
large iron cross with all the em-
blems of the Passion in the centre
of the landing-place, and we feel
as if we were ascending some Col-
vaire* There is a broad modern
staircase, much more grand and
elegant, but not so interesting, dig-
nified by the imposing term of es-
caiiermonununiaij which takes one
up a more gradual and less weary
way of two hundred and thirty-two
steps — something rather formida-
ble, however, for the fat and scant
o* breath !
These old cities, built on heights
for greater security, were powerful
holds in the Middle Ages, and all
have their history. Their towers
are all scarred over with fearful
tragedies, relieved here and there
by some flower of sweet romance
or saintly legend.
Auch was in ancient times called
Climberris, the stronghold of the
Ausa\ who dwelt here before the
Roman conquest — descendants of
the Iberians from the Caucasian re-
gions, who left their country and
settled in Spain and this side of the
Pyrenees. The chief city of the
most civilized people of the coun-
try, a Roman settlement under the
Caesars, the most important place
in Novempopulania, the capital of
the Counts of Fezensac and Armag-
nac in the Middle Ages, and a
wealthy influential see, whose arch-
bishops took part in all the great
movements of the day, Auch was
from early times a place of no small
importance, however insignificant
now.
When Caesar's lieutenant, Pub-
lius Crassus, took possession of
the country, he established a Ro-
man colony on the banks of the
Algersius, and the Ausci, descend-
ing from their heights, it bei
so flourishing that it receive
imperial name of Augusta A
rum, and was one of the few
of the land to which the R
emperors accorded the Latin
— that is, tlie power of gove
itself. In the year 211, Car
allowed it the privilege of li
a forum, gymnasium, theatre,
etc., and it became the seal
senate, the head of which
Roman officer called comes,
man domination was at first si
ted to reluctantly, but it proi
advantage to the city. Lite
and the arts were cultivate<
success, the people enrich
new sources of industry, si
ous villas were built in the en
and roads opened to Toulon
various parts of Noverapof t
The pre-eminence of the a
here is evident from the poet
nius, tutor of the Eniperor C
who spent part of his yo
Auch, pursuing his studies
Staphylius and Arborius, b<
whom he eulogizes for theii
ing. Arborius, the brother
sonius* mother, was the sor
astrologer, from a distant \
Gaul, who married a lady <
in this country and settles
He taught rhetoric, not <
Auch, but at Toulouse, wh
became the confidential fri<
Constantine's brothers, the
kind of exile. This led
fortune. The emperor af
called him to Constantinople
he was loaded with rich
honors.
Ausonius' friend, Eutro
celebrated Latin author wl
offices under Julian the A]
had a seat in the vicinity ol
The women, too, of this <
were inspired with a taste f
tal cultivation, as is shown
On the Way to Lourdes.
551
ia, sister of the illustrious Rufinus
f Elusa, one of the best-versed
romen of her d^y in Greek litera-
jre, and who rivalled the noble
Ionian matrons of the time of S.
eronie in her knowledge of sacred
cience. Sylvia died at Brescia,
rhere her name is still honored,
rhile her native land has nearly
orgotten her memory.
The prosperity of Auch was put
m end to in the Vth century by the
nvasion of the Goths and Vandals,
md the city was only saved from
lestruction by the mediation of S.
Dren, its bishop. In the Vlllth
rcntury the. country was overrun
by the Moors, who destroyed the
whole city, with the exception of a
Caubourg still known, after more
than a thousand years, as the Place
de la M»ure.
Two centuries after, the Counts
of Armagnac built a castle on the
summit of the hill where stood the
ancient Climberris, and gathered
their vassals around them. Here
ihey held a brilliant court which
attracted gallant knights and the
gayest troubadours of the south.
We read that one of the counts,
whose stout heart yielded for a time
to the softening influences of the
poetic muse, went to Toulouse to
breathe out his tender lays at the
feet of "a certain fair lady, Lombar-
da, but prudence getting the better
of his gallantry, he abruptly brought
them to an end, and hurried back
to the defence of his castle, sudden-
ly besieged by the enemy.
It was also in the Xth century
Auch became a metropolitan see,
which was so generously endowed
by the barons of the country that it
became one of the wealthiest and
most powerful in the kingdom. Its
archbishops were to the great lords
«f the province- what the popes
then were to the sovereigns of Eu-
rope. They were the lords spirit-
ual, not only of Novempopulania,
but the two Navarres. Kings of
England wrote them to secure their
influence, which was so great that
there was a rivalry among the lead-
ing families desirous of securing the
see for their children. When ;the
Counts of Armagnac transferred
their capital to Lectoure, the arch-
bishops became sole lords of the
city, and in them centred its histo-
ry from that time. They bore the
proudest names in the land, and
maintained all the state to which
their birth and the importance of
their office entitled them. We read
that when they came to take pos-
session of their see, the Baron de
Montaut, at the head of all the
neighboring gentry, met them at the
entrance to the city, and with bared
head and knee took the archbish-
op's mule by the bridle and led him
to the castle. This was in accord-
ance with the customs of feudal
times, when vassals oflered homage
to their liege lords by bending the
bared knee to the ground, an ex-
tension^ we suppose, of the Oriental
practice of baring the feet. We
learn from Andres de Po9a, in his
work, De la Antigua Lenga y Co-
marc€ts de las EspaHas^ that the lords
of Biscay took their oaths of fealty
in the sanctuary in this way — a
custom derived, perhaps, from the
ancient Cantabrians, who, as Strabo
tells us, went to battle with one
foot shod and the other bare, re-
minding one of the touching nur-
sery rhyme of " My son John," or
the French ditty which is more to
tKe point :
** Un pied chatxn^ et Tautre ira,
P«uvre foldat, que feraa-tu ?'*
There were two other bishops in
the south of France who received a
similar mark of honmge at taking
552
On the Way to Lourdes.
possession of their sees. At Lec-
toure, it was the Seigneur de Cas-
telnau, and at Cahors the Baron de
Ceissac, whose duty it was to offer
it. At Auch, the Baron de Mon-
taut afterwards served the arch-
bishop at dinner and received the
silver plate on the table as his per-
quisite. Dom Brugelles, in his
Chronicles of the diocese, gives a
ludicrous account of the disappoint-
ment of a Baron of Montaut at the
arrival of a cardinal-archbishop of
simple habits, whose service was
of glass, though of fine workman-
ship, which so disappointed the
baron that he forgot his loyalty and
smashed all the dishes, to the great
disgust of the cardinal, who left
the city and never returned.
One of the Archbishops of Auch,
Geraud de Labarthe, went with
Richard the Lion-Hearted to the
Holy Land, and had command of
an armament. He knew also, it
seems, how to wield his spiritual
weapons, for on the way he stopped
in Sicily for a theological encoun-
ter with the celebrated abbot Joa-
chim, in which he proved himself
worthy of his descent from the
Lords of the Four Valleys. He
died in the Holy Land in 1191,
leaving a foundation for the repose
of his mother's soul, a touching in-
cident in the life of this valorous
churchman.
Another archbishop established
the Truce of God in his province,
issued indulgences to encourage
his people to go to the aid of the
Spanisli in their crusade against
the Moors, and finally placed him-
self at the head of those who re-
sponded to his appeal and went to
the assistance of Don Alfonso of
Aragon, where he distinguished
himself by his bravery and religious
real.
Other prefates have a simpler
record which it is pleasant to coae
upon in such rude times. Of oat
we read he granted an indulgence
of three days to all who sbooU
bow the head at hearing the Hok
Name of Jesus. This was in 1385,
when S. Bernardin of Sienna, tbc
great propagator of this devotion,
was still a child.
In the XlVth century we fiai
Cardinal Philip d'Alen^on, of the
blood royal of France, among ihe
archbishops of Auch. He died it
Rome in the odor of sanctity, and
was buried in the church of Saati
Maria in Trastevere, where hii
beautiful Gothic tomb — a ch^
(Cctuvre of the XlVth century-
may be seen in the left transept
In the arch is a fresco of the ma^
tyrdom of his patron, S. Philip, wte
was crucified with his heotf dovs*
ward, like S. Peter ; and bcneati
lies the cardinal on his tomb, scnip
tured in marble, with hands foktoi
in eternal prayer. Above are Hi
cardinal's hat and the JUurs-dt4k
of France, and below is the ept
taph :
** Francorum genitus Rq^ia de stirpe PhiEpfM
Alenconiadut Ottic titulatus mb urb«
Ecdn u B cardo, tanu virtota rehunt
Ut tua supplidbus tumulentur mixman. vocik*
This prelate was the nephew aid
godson of Philippe le Bel, the de-
stroyer of the Knights-Templarsand
persecutor of Pope Boniface VIIU
who merited the stigma Dante casts
on him in his Purgatorio :
" Lo ! the flower-de-Iace
Enters Alagna : in his vicar, Christ
Himself a captive, and hb mockery
Acted again. Lo f to his holy Hp
The vinegar and gall once more a^ficd.
And he 'twixt Uvmg robbcn doomed to UmI*
" When, O Lord ! shall I behoW
that vengeance accomplished which,
being already determined in tht
secret judgment, thy retributive
justice even now contemplates
with delight.^" continues the spiiit
t^
On the Way to Lourdes.
$53
net by the Divine Poet in the
jlace of expiation — words that
night be echoed in these days,
rhen
" The new PiUte« of whose cnidtjr
Such TMleaoe cannot fill the measun 19,
With M decree to sanction, pushes 00
Into the umplc his yet eager sails.*'
We are here reminded it was at
Auch all the Knights-Templars of
Bigorre, with their commander,
Bernard de Montagu, were execut-
ed, M. Martin, in his History of
Framcy observes that all the tradi-
tions of this region are favorable to
ihe Templars. There is not one
ihat is not to their credit. The
old saying, " Drink like a Templar,"
has no echo in the mountains of
Bi^rre. Many of their churches
axe still standing, objects of interest
to the aJiBhaeologist, and of devotion
to the pious. There are six or
seven skulls shown at Gavamie,
itid to be of the martyred Tem*
plars, and every year, on the anni-
wersary of the destruction of the
Order, a knight armed from top to
toe, and wearing the great white
mantle of the Order, appears in the
churchyard and cries three times:
"Who will defend the Holy Tem-
pic ? Who will deliver the Sepul-
chre of the Lord?" Then the
leven heads come to life and reply :
•• No one ! no one ! The Temple is
destroyed !" How earnestly these
unfortunate knights begged to be
tried by the Inquisition is well
known. They felt there was some
chance for justice at a tribunal in
which there was a religious ele-
ment.
A Cardinal d'Armagnac was
Archbishop of Auch when the tra-
gedy of Rod^le took place, which
rivaU that of the Torre della Fame
at Pisa in horror. Geraud, brother
of Count Bernard VH. of Armag-
nac, having married his son to
Margaret of Comminges, took up
arms against her for forsaking her
youthful husband and withdrawing
to the castle of Muret. Count Ber-
nard took advantage of this to
make war on Geraud for holding
the county of Pardiac, on which he
himself had claims, and pursued
his brother from one castle to an-
other. Finally taking him captive,
he carried him to the fortress of
Rod^le, and threw him into a deep
pit, where he died of hunger and
cold in four or five days.
Geraud's two sons, John and
Guilhem, alarmed at Lis captivity,
but unaware of his fate, were induc-
ed to come to Auch to implore the
clemency of their ferocious uncle,
and on Good Friday, 1403, the
Count de ITsle Jourdain, kneel-
ing with the poor children at his
feet, besought him to pardon them,
in memory of the Divine Passion
that day celebrated ; but neither
the day nor \the helplessness of
the children, so touchingly alluded
to by their advocate, softened the
inflexible count. He had them im-
prisoned in the castle of Lavardens,
and shortly after, Guilhem, a lad
of barely fifteen, was tied to a horse
and taken to the fortress of Rod^le.
There he was shown the horrible
pit into which his father had been
let down alive to incur so fearful a
death. The poor boy looked into
the fatal pit, fell senseless to the
ground, and was never restored to
life. His brother John, the un-
happy husband of the faithless
Margaret of Comminges, was car-
ried to the castle of Brugens, where
horrid tortures awaited him. He
had only escaped from the hatred
of his wife to fall into the hands of.
Bonne de Berri, Count Bernard's
wife, a woman of insatiable ambi-
tion and relentless purpose. This
new Fr^d^gonde put his eyes out
5S4
Oh the Way to Lowrdes.
by passing a red-hot brazier before
them, and then, remembering the
strength God gave the blind Sam-
son to take vehgeance on his ene-
mies, she had him thrown into a deep
moat, where he died of hunger.
Never was there a family that
reflected more faithfully than the
Armagnacs all the vices and de-
fects as well as the virtues of the
Middle Ages. Its history contains
every element to fix the attention,
with its tragedies, its examples of
brutal power, its prodigies of valor
and heroism, its struggles in the
cause of liberty, and, finally, in its
marvels of faith. Religious influ-
ence sooner or later asserted its
triumph in the heart. Many of the
counts laid aside their armor for
the cowl and scapular, and atoned
for their sins in the cloister. They
were benefactors to the Church,
they founded monasteries, they
fought in the holy wars. We find
them with Godfrey of Bouillon
under the walls of Jerusalem, and
fighting against the Moors with the
Kings of Castile and Aragon.
Among the most renowned members
of the race, we must not forget
Count John I., a native of Auch,
whose valor placed him on a level
with Du Guesclin, the greatest cap-
tain of the age. For a time they
fought on the same side, but they
met as opponents on the plain of
Navarrete, where Count John fought
for Don Pedro and greatly contri-
buted to the victory. Du Guesclin
was taken prisoner. For more than
thirty years Count John was one
of the strongest supporters of the
King of France. After the battle
of Cr^cy, he stopped the tide of
English invasion, and when the
Black Prmce was covering Aqui-
taine with blood and ruins in 1355,
he alone ventured to resist him and
obstruct his victorious march.
After the defeat at Poitiers, ht
veiled the humiliation of the kifl|
with the splendor of his munific^DOCi
He sent the king all kinds of pi*<
visions, as well as silver utensils, Sm
his table. He convoked the Etatr
Gdn^raux to organize forces to
avert calamities that threatened
the country. He fought beside the
Duke of Anjou and Du Gaesdki
in the immortal campaigns of 13%
and 1370. This was the period ia
which the grandeur of the house
of Armagnac culminated. John \
married Reine de Got, niece oC
Pope Clement V., whom DanH
thrusts lower than Simon MagOL
She was buried in the choir of the
Cordeliers at Auch, now, alas! 4
granary. The count's second wife
was Beatrice de Clermont, great
granddaughter of S. Loins 1X«
king of France, and one of hii
daughters married the brother ol'
Charles V., and the other the oldeA
son of Don Pedro of Aragon.
Such were the royal pretension*
of this great house. Descendfll
from the Merovingian race of kiogl
through Sartche Mitarra, the teni*
ble scourge of the Moors, who lia
buried at S. Oren's Priory, founded
by the first Count of Armagnac, ot
the banks of the Gers, the Countt
of Auch, as they were sometiinei
called, bore themselves right royal-
ly. They acknowledged no sum*
rain. They were the first to call
themselves counts by the grace if
God^ a formula then used to expre»
the divine right, but in the sense
of S. Paul and of the Middle Ages,
which was simply acknowledging
that all power comes from God, and
that the right of exercising it has
for its true source not the force
of arms, but in God alone. ^Ve
must come down to the XVih cen-
tury to find the jealous susceptibil-
ity that only interpreted, in ibc
•(?« thi Way to Lourdes.
555
*nse of absolute independence of
U human power, such expressions
s DH f^atid ; per Dei gratiam ;
lei donoy^lc,^ which had been used
riih the sole intention of express-
ig a truth of the Christian faith, a
rofound sentiment of subordina-
ion to divine authority. This in-
cntion is nowhere so explicit as in
lie legend on the ancient money of
t^am, where its rulers used almost
he words of the Apostle : Gratia
miem Dei sumus id quod sumus.
Charles VII. thought it worth
»hile to forbid John IV. of Armag-
lac, in 1442, the use of such forniu-
as. SeM^n years after, he obliged
he Dukes of Burgundy to declare
hey bore no prejudice to the crown
}f France. Louis XI. vainly tried
o prevent the Duke of Brittany
Tom using them. Since that time
t has been claimed as the exclu-
avc right of sovereigns. Bishops,
bflwcver, retain the formula Dei
gratia in their public acts of dioce-
nn administration, with the addi-
tion: etapostolicce sedis, which dates
from the end of the Xlllth century
only. •
It was the independence and
royal pretensions of such great vas-
sals that determined the kings of
France to destroy their power.
Under the sons of Philip le Bel be-
gan the great struggle between the
crown and the feudal aristocracy.
In order to incorporate their pro-
vinces with the royal domains, they
availed themselves of every pretext
to crush them, and such pretexts
were by no means wanting in the
case of the Armagnacs, where they
could claim the necessity of pro-
tecting the eternal laws on which
are based all family and social
rights and the principles of true
religion. History is full of the
cruelty of the last counts, and for-
gets all it could offer by way of
contrast. It forgets to speak of
Count John III., who put an end
to the brigandage of the great bands
in southern France, and ivent to
find a premature death under the
walls of Alessandria, in an expedition
too chivalrous not to be glorious.
It insists on the brutal ferocity and
excessive ambition of Bernard VII.,
the great constable, and passes over
all that could palliate his offences
in so rude an age — his fine qualities,
his zeal for the maintenance of
legitimate authority, and his inter-
est in the welfare of the Church. It
lays bare the criminal passion of
Count John V., and forgets his re-
pentance and reparation, as well
as the holy austerities of Isabella
in the obscure cell of a Spanish
monastery, where she effaced the
scandal she had given the world.
Count John was the last real
lord of Armagnac. He filled up
the cup of wrath, and his humilia-
tions and frightful death, the long,
unjust captivity of his brother
Charles, the scaffold on which per-
ished Jacques de Nemours, and
the abjection into which his chil-
dren were plunged, are fearful ex-
amples of divine retribution.
The spoils of the counts of Ar-
magnac were given as a dowry to
Margaret of Valois when she mar-
ried Henry II. of Navarre, who, as
well as her first husband, the Due
d*Alen9on, descended from the
Armagnacs. Henry and Margaret
made their solemn entry into Auch
in 1527, and the latter, as Countess
of Armagnac, took her seat as hon-
orary canon in the cathedral. Her
arms are still over the first stall at
the left, beneath the lion rampant
of the Armagnacs — 2l stall assigned
^hose lords as lay canons, in the
time of Bernard III., who was the
6rst to pay homage to S, Mary of
Auch.
556
On the Way to L&urtks.
Margaret's grandson, Henry IV.,
nnited the title of Armagnac to
the crown of France, and Louis
XIV., on his way from St. Jean-de-
Luz, where he was married to
Maria Theresa, the Infanta of Spain,
passed through Auch, and, attend-
ing divine service in the cathedral,
took his seat in the choir as Count
of Armagnac.
Napoleon III. accepted the title
of honorary canon of this church.
The cathedral at Auch is remark-
able for the stained glass windows
of the time of the Renaissance,
which Catherine de Medicis wished
to carry off to Paris, and the one
hundred and thirteen stalls of the
choir, the wonderful carvings of
which rival those of Amiens. Na-
poleon I., on his return from Spain,
admired and coveted these beauti-
ful stalls, and wished to remove the
old rood-loft which concealed them
from the public. He endowed the
church with an annual sum, and
expressed his regret so fair a Sposa
should be bereaved of its lord — the
hierarchy not being fully restored
in France at that time.
The canons of the cathedral were
formerly required to be nobilis san-
guine vel litteris — noble of birth or
distinguished in letters. That they
keep up to their standard in learn-
ing seems evident from the reputa-
tion of one of their number, the sa-
vant Abb^ Can^to, one of the most
distinguished archaeologists of the
country, whose works are indispen-
sable to the visitor to Auch and the
surrounding places.
It is quite impressive to see these
venerable canons seated in their
carved stalls, worthy of princes,
singing the divine Office. Their
capes, we noticed, are trimmed with
ermine, probably a mark of their
dignity. To wear furs of any kind
was in the Middle Ages an indica-
tion of rank, or, at least, weakL
The English Parliament madei
statute in 1334 forbidding all pp*
sons wearing furs that had not»
income of one hundred pouiuka
year.
In this church is the altar of Ml*,
tre Dame d'Auch, the oldest shmc
of the Virgin in the province, i
set up at ancient Elusa by S. Satir
ninus, the Apostle of Toulouse«i
brought here by S. Tauria in ihi
IVth century, when that place 1
destroyed by the barbarians.
The similarity of S. Satumioi^
devotion to that of the present dayii
remarkable — devotion toj^arynl
the Chair of Peter. Everywhere te
erected churches in their honoi^ii
at Elusa, now the town of Ymb^
At Auch he dedicated a chuich •
the Prince of the ApostleSt whfll
now stands the little church of ft
Pierre, on the other side of lltf
Gers, once burned down by III
Huguenots.
The paintings of the Statioasrf
the Cross in the cathedral «■
given by a poor servant girl, viuMi
heart at th^ hour of death tuani
towards the sanctuary where Ac
had so often experienced the betth
fit of meditating on the Sacred Fi^
sion that she was desirous of iadh
ing others to so salutary a devotka.
In one of the chapels is a nuM-
ment to the memory of M. d'Eti^fi
whose statue is on the public proM-
nade — the last Intendant of thepil-
vince, who employed a part of kii
immense fortune in building thefiit
roads that lead to the watering^piaos
in the Pyrenees, which have addedso
much to the prosperity of theco*^
try. But he was one of those ^*
bono men who always sacrifice tbe
picturesque and the interestinf oa
some plea of public utility. Hf
destroyed the mediaeval character
of the city, with its narrow streets,
On the Way to Lourdes.
557
mrions overhanging houses — of
irhich a few specimens are left — and
mcient walls with low arched gate-
rays, made when mules alone were
jsed for bringing in merchandise.
kV'hen any sacrifice is to be made,
irhy must it always fall on what ap-
peals to the eye and the imagina-
tion ? Why must some people in-
sist on effacing the venerable rec-
6rds of past ages to make room for
Iheir own utilitarian views ? There
ire too many of such palimpsests.
Is not the world large enough for
bll human tastes to find room to ex-
press themselves ?
We had, however, no reason to
grumble at M. d*Etigny*s fine roads
among the mountains, which saved
Us, in many instances, from being
transported like the ancient mer-
chandise of Auch, and we nearly for-
got his enormities when we found
ourselves at Bagnferes-de-Luchon
imder the shade of the fine trees he
planted in the Cours d'Etigny,
where tourists and invalids love to
gather in the evening.
M. d'Etigny also took an in-
terest in the religious prosperity of
the country. On the corner-stone
of a church at Vic Fezensac is the
inscription : Dominus (TEtigny me
fosuit, 1760. This church was built
by P^re Pascal, a Frahciscan, out
of the ruins of the old castle of
the Counts of Fezensac, which he
obtained permission to use in spite
of the town authorities, by apply-
ing to Mroe. de Pompadour, then
all-powerful at court. Do not sup-
pose the good friar paid the least
homage to wickedness in high
places by so doing. On the con-
trary, he boldly began his petition :
"Madame, redeem your sins by
your alms." Instead of taking of-
fence, the duchess profited by the
counsel. The/^^, returning from
Auch with the royal permission,
met some of his opponents, wholly
unsuspicious of the truth, to whose
pleasantries he replied : " Let me
pass. I am exhausted, for I carry
in my cowl the ruins of the castle
of Vic."
Auch in those days was only
lighted by the lamps that hung be-
fore the niches of the Virgin, and
the only night-watchman up to the
last century was the crier, who went
about the streets at midnight call-
ing aloud on the people to be mind-
ful of their soul's salvation and
pray for the dead. This practice
was called the misereminiy because
the crier sometimes made use of the
words of Job sung in the Mass for
the Dead : Miseremini^ miseremini
fneiy vos saltern amici mei^ quia manus
Domini tetigii me — "Have pity
on me, have pity on me, O ye my
friends ! for the hand of the Lord
hath touched me." It was also call-
ed the Reveille, from the beginning
of the verses he sometimes chant-
ed :
^ R^eille-toi, p«uple Chrtfdai,
R^eille-toi, c'est pour ton bien.
Quitte ton lit, prend tes habits,
Pense k la mort de J^sus Christ.
A la mort, k la mort, U faut tous reair.
Tout doit enfin finir.
Quand de ce monde tu partiras,
Rien qu'un lincettl n'emportetas
Ton corps sera mangtf des vers
£t peut-€tre ton ftme aux enfcn.
A la mort, it la mort, etc
Tu passeras le \o&% d*un bois,
LA tu trouveras une croix,
Sur cette croix il y a un tfcrit
C'est le doux nom de J^us Christ,
A la mort, k la mort, etc"
This crier acted the part of a
policeman, keeping an eye on the
evil-doer, and watching over the
safety of the town. If he discov-
ered a door ajar, he entered and
aroused the inmates. A startling
apparition he must have been to
the offenders of the law. He wore
a death's head and cross-bones em-
broidered before and behind, and
carried a small bell in his hand.
558
On the Way to Lourdes.
which he rang from time to time
as he passed through the narrow
streets with his lugubrious cry. Of
course he was a public functionary
of importance. He figured in full
costume in the great religious pro-
cessions and took a part in all the
public festivities.
On the sunny terraces of Auch
grow the seedless pears which have
been so renowned from time im-
memorial that they have their place
in the annals of the city. We have
fully tested the xjualities of these
unrivalled pears, and can sincerely
echo all that has been said in their
praise. Duchesne, the physician
of Henry IV., an empiric of the
school of Paracelsus, and a famous
person in his day, does not forget
in his Di<zieticon to mention them
among the most famous produc-
tions of his country. He places
them in the first rank, and those of
Tours in the second. According
to him, they originated in the town
of Crustumerium in Italy, and
their name, derived therefrom, was
softened by the Italians into Cris-
tiano, whence that of Bon Chre-
tien, as they are sometimes called,
though not their right name. Oth-
ers call them Pompeienne, because,
as they say, introduced by Pompi-
dian, an ancient bishop of Eauze.
But everybody with a proper sense
of the case will stoutly attribute
them, in accordance with the pop-
ular tradition, to the great S. Oren,
whose blessing gave them their
rare qualities, especially the pe-
culiarity of being seedless when
the trees grow within the limit of
the city, though this is by no
means the case with those that
grow in the environs.
Dom Brugelles, a Benedictine
of last century^ mentions this pe-
culiarity in his Chronicles of the
diocese, and says they were in
such demand in his time as to li
worth sometimes thirty-six francsi
dozen.
P^re Aub^ry, in his Latin po«a
of Augusta Auscorum^ is enthusii^
tic in their praise: "How I love
the aspect of these fair gardens a*
closed among sumptuous dvcft*
ings! What a wealth of floweni
And the trees bear a fruit skU
more worthy of your adrairatiint
The Pompeienne pear, delicioo
as the ambrosia of the gods, w«
reserved for the soil of this ci^
alone. The trees without its wall%
even those that grow close to ill
trenches, do not produce the likt
This most glorious of fruit is m
inappreciable gift of heaven aoA
earth, which is praised throughoil
the kingdom and sold at a gfort
price in distant lands.*
" The pears of the fertile gardeM
of Touraine cannot be compatr«i
to those whose old name of Pomp
p^ienne is now lost in that of Bot
Chretien. The pears at Toun aw
as inferior to those of Auch as
other honey in sweetness to th*
of Hybla. Nay, should the godi
themselves by chance know d
these trees, should they taslc (rf
these Auscitain pears so delicioo
to the palate, they would despise
the dishes served at their celesli^d
banquets — yes, scorn the flowing
nectar and sweet ambrosia that
feed their immortality.
" And as the admirable name o(
Bon Chretien is only given the
pears that grow in the gardens of
the city, and belongs not to those
produced elsewhere ; as it is oniy
within these walls they acquire so
agreeable and appetizing a flavor,
their name is a presage that llic
* The Empress Catherine of Rnsu, as vdl >*
the King of Denmark, was in the habit of setdiiC
every year for a supply of these peaxs. They irci"
less demand now, like many other thiofs tace ^
ued.
On the Way to Lourdes.
559
habitants shall never be infected
f the contagion and venom of
*resy — a scourge that has attack-
1 almost all the towns of Ar-
lagnac — and that the Mother of
hrist, patroness of Auch, by avert-
ig this poison, shall keep them
ithfnl to the rites of their an-
estorsy and fill them with eternal
>ve for the ancient religion."
M. Lafforgue, in his History of
\iuky says these pears are so
rized that they are often pre-
en ted to princes, governors, and
ther distinguished characters.
VTien Elizabeth Farnese, Queen
f Spain, passed through Auch
m her way to join her husband
*hilip v., in Nov., 17 14, the city
consuls offered her, as they had
lone the Dukes of Berry and
krgundy in 1701, some of the
foires ^Auch* Twenty dozen,
»hich cost one hundred and for-
tf-threc livres, were presented her
in straw boxes made by the Ursu-
line nuns.*
When Mr. Laplagne, a native of
this part of the country, and Minis-
ter of Finance under Louis Philippe,
boasted in M. Guizot's presence,
with true Gascon expansiveness, of
the seedless pears that grow on the
terraces of Auch, the latter, with the
distrust of certain great minds, ex-
pressed some incredulity. M. La-
plagne resolved to convince the
President of the Council publicly,
3nd procured at some expense an
enormous pear, ripened on the very
terrace which a century before had
produced the fruit so vaunted by
t)om Brugelles. Fifty guests were
•nvitcd to witness the result. They
assembled around the table, in the
• We were shown some of these curious boxes at
5 Orea's Priory. The straw of difiereot colors is
•^•^ «■ flfures, fiviag the effect of a kind of mo-
***c,nrclMh of gold, according to the quality. The
BUM femerly made candlesticks for the alUr in thb
*»7. which were both unique and beautiful
centre of which was displayed the
wonderful pear from Auch. M.
Guizot could hardly believe his
eyes at such a prodigy, and declar-
ed himself convinced. The dessert
was impatiently awaited. The
Minister of Finance, certain of vic-
tory, insisted on M. Guizot's open-
ing the pear. It was set before him.
He cut it in two with some difficulty
— it contained four large seeds I
In spite of this exceptional case,
ikit poire s (T Auch (their right name,
by the way) that grow within
the limits of the city are general-
ly without seeds. The superabun-
dant pulp seems to stifle them.
They are still the pride of the place,
and it was only a year or two ago a
number were sent to his Holiness
Pius IX.
P^re Aub^ry, whom I have quot-
ed, was connected with the college
at Auch, formerly under the direc-
tion of the Jesuits. S. Francis Re-
gis was also for some time one of
its professors. Among the eminent
men educated here may be mention-
ed Cardinal d'Ossat, who, when
chargS d'affaires at Rome, succeed-
ed in obtaining the absolution of
Henry IV. from the Holy See. He
was a poor country lad, whose con-
dition, exciting the pity of the can-
ons of Trie, they made him a choir^
boy, and sent him to school. He
became successively a charity scho-
lar of the Jesuits at Auch, the pro-
t/gS of Cardinal de Foix and his
secretary of embassy at Rome, and,
^x\dX\yy charg^ d affaires at the Pa-
pal court and Cardinal-bishop of
Bayeux. He died at Rome in 1604,
bequeathing the little he possessed
to the poor and his two secretaries.
This celebrated diplomatist was an
honor to his country and the church
that developed his talents.
The famous Nostradamus was
another pupil of this college.
560
On the Way to Lourdes.
Bernard du Poey, a disciple of
Buchanan, and a poet of some note,
was professor here when the college
was under the direction of laymen.
We give one of his epigrams, writ-
ten while connected with this insti-
tution :
^ Lucis amore simoi foedam protrudiatts omnem
Barbariem: teiKbris nee patet isu domita."
" The love of light makes us cast
away every vestige of barbarism :
this house opens not to dark-
ness."
" Barbarism "— " light "— " dark-
ness " — a jargon often heard in our
day also, and it still finds its dupes.
The would-be metaphysicians and
theologians who use it should
meditate on this sentence of Ber-
keley's : " We first raise a dust, and
then complain we cannot see !**
Once more on the way. It is
not till we approach Rabastens we
see an opening in the outer range
of the Pyrenees, and behold Mt.
Maladetta raising heavenward its
glittering diadem of glaciers. Be-
hind is Spain, religious Spain,
"land of an eternal crusade" and
wondrous saints. Rabastens is one
of the most ancient towns in Bi-
gorre, and celebrated in the relig-
ious wars. It was here Blaise
de Monluc received the frightful
wound in his face which obliged
him to wear a mask the rest of
his life, and gave him the leisure
to write his Commentaries, which
Henry IV. called the Soldier's Bi-
ble. This old warrior, deprived
of nearly all his limbs, coolly re-
lates a thousand incidents of in-
credible bravery in the boasting
manner of a true Gascon, that does
not ill become a book written for
the defenders of Gascony.
Twelve miles or so further on is
Tarbes, the chef-lieu of the Hautes
Pyr^n^es — "gentille Reine."
" Bigourdaine," as Jasmin says,
" splendidement assise au miliii
de la plaine la plus fraiche, la pia
fertile et la plus varide." Tit
water from the Adour, first brou^
here to fill the moat that surround
ed the city, is now used to t
mills and fertilize the meadoi^
which are wonderfully fresh, ifr
fording a charming contrast H
the mountains in the backgroon^
The foundation of Tarbes is UA
in the remoteness of time. Its
cupation by the Romans is endeil
from the camp still pointed outil
the vicinity. Bigorre, of whicb i
was the principal city, was made i
comt^ in the Vlllth century, ai|
its succession of counts was unM
terrupted till Henry IV. ascendi^
the throne of France. Its ftd
count was En^co (or Inigo) AmH
or The Bold, who became King 4
Navarre, and rivalled the Cid %
prowess.
Bigorre was ceded to the En|^
by the treaty of Brittany, bat whci
war again broke out between Eflf
land and France two great baroii
of the province, Menaud de &ib
bazan and the Sire d*AnchtB| H
Froissart relates, seized the cif
and castle of Tarbes, and all Bk
gorre rose to expel the En^ii^
who only continued to hold for I
time the impregnable fortresses tf
Lourdes and Mauvezin. This Lad
of Barbazan was a companion it
arms of Du Guesclin and toA
sides with the Arraagnacs, lA
kinsmen, in their famous conte*
with the house of Foix. His soik
Arnauld Guilhem de BarbaiaBf
was the valiant knight who vorc
so worthily the fair flower of »
blameless life that he received tJic
title, which he was the first to bca;
of the chevalier sans penr et J««
reproche^ conferred on him by his
contemporaries. Monstrelct says
he was a noble knight, prompt ifl
On the Way to Lourdes.
561
iction, fertile in expedients, and
cnowned in arms. He was the
trader in the famous encounter be-
ween seven French and seven
'English knights at Saintonge in
402, when the latter challenged
be French to a trial of arms out
f love for ies dames de leurs pen-
ks. The French knights began
tie day by devoutly hearing Mass
nd receiving the Holy Body of
^e Lord. Jouvenel des Ursins de-
icts the fearful encounter, which
>ok place in presence of a
Ml number of spectators, among
horn was the Count of Arma-
oac Lances were shivered and
trribic blows given with sword
od battle-axe, but it was Barba-
10 who decided the day, and the
loglish were forced to acknowl-
ige themselves defeated. The
Boquerors, clothed in white, were
A in triumph to the King, who
Mdtd them with presents. To
be Chevalier de Barbazan he
ftwa purse of gold and a sword
A one side of which was graven,
(■fffostf/i sans reproche^ in letters
f fold; and on the other, Ut
)^ graviore ruant. This sword
I ittll preserved in the Chiteau
r Faudoas by the descendants
r Barbazan's sister. The chival-
c deeds that won it were com-
coiorited not only in the chroni-
In of the time, but in three bal-
ds of Christine de Pisan.
Barbazan was as noble in heart
t beroic in action. He took sides
itfa Count Bernard VIL of Ar-
■fnac against the Duke of Bur-
mdy, bat, when the latter fell a
icttm to treachery, he indignantly
mdemned the crime, and said he
onld rather have died than had a
Hid in it. He fought side by side
ith Dnnois, Lahire, and La Tri-
louiDe, at Orleans, Auxerre, and
uiny another battle-field. His
vou XXI. — 36
last exploit was to rout eight thou-
sand English and Burgundi an troops
near Chalons, with only three
thousand, a few months after the
atrocious murder of Joan of Arc,
under whose white banner he had
fought.
So valuable were his services
that the king conferred on him the
magnificent title of ** Restaurateur
du royaume et de la couronne de
France," and added the fteurs^de-lis
to his arms. Soldiers received
knighthood from his hands as if he
were a king. When he died, he
was buried at St. Denis among the
kings of France with all the honors
of royalty — a supreme honor, of
which there are only two other in*
stances in French history — Du
Guesclin and Turenne.
The feudal castle of Barbazan is
on a steep hill a few miles southeast
of Tarbes. The Roman inscrip-
tions found there show it to be of
extreme antiquity. On the summit
of the hill is the chapel of Notre
Dame de Pi^tat, built by Anne de
Bourbon, Lord of Barbazan, to re-
ceive a miraculous Madonna that
had long been an object of venera-
tion to the people around. He
founded two weekly Masses here^
one in honor of the holy name of
God, and the other of the Virgin,
and he bequeathed lands for the
support of the chapel, which is still
a pious resort for pilgrims.
The Cathedral of Tarbes is built
on the ruins of the ancient fortress
of Bigorre, which gave its name to
the surrounding province. The
bishops have an important place in
the annals of the country. Under
the Merovingian race of kings they
held the rank of princes, and were
the peers of the proudest barons in
the land. We find several saints
in the list — S. Justin, S. Faustus,
and S. Landeol, whose venerable
SG2
Oh the Way to Laurdes.
forms look down from the windows
of the chancel in the cathedral.
Gregory of Tours mentions S. Jus-
tin, and speaks of a lily on his
tomb that bloomed every year on
the day of his martyrdom.
Bernard II., a bishop of Tarbes
in the year 1009, merits the admi-
ration of posterity for his efforts to
relieve his flock during a terrible
famine of three years, in which peo-
ple devoured one another to such
an extent that a law was made con-
demning those who ate human
flesh to be burned alive. The
holy bishop, like S. Exuperius of
Toulouse, sold all the vessels and
ornaments of the church, and gave
all he possessed, to alleviate the
wants of his people.
His successor stayed a civil war
that broke out, to add to the dis-
tress of the country, by assembling
the chief lords of the land and con-
juring them not to add fire and
pillage to the horrors of famine,
but rather seek to disarm the ven-
geance of heaven by their prayers.
He established the Truce of God
in his diocese, and had the happi-
ness of seeing peace and abundance
restored to the land. These old
bishops seemed to have some cor-
rect notions of their obligations,
though they did live in the darkest
of the Middle Ages !
In the time of a bishop who be-
longed to the house of Foix ap-
peared a comet which alarmed all
Europe. The Pope profited by the
universal terror to recommend a
stricter practice of the Christian
virtues, in order, as he said, if any
•danger were at hand, that the faith-
ful might be saved. The Bishop of
Tarbes instituted public processions
on the occasion. •
It was a Bishop of Tarbes, the
Cardinal Gabriel de Gramont, who
in the XVIth century played so
important a part in the negotiatios^
between Henry VI 11. of En^ari
and the Pope to dissolve the raai-
riage of the former with Catherni
of Aragon. The king pretended It
act from conscientious motives, aoi
said the Bishop of Tarbes confirm-
ed his scruples. We need sonc
thing more than the mere word of
a monarch who violated the- mail
solemn promises and obligatic
to induce us to believe in the co^
plicity of the bishop, though, de-
ceived by the representations of
the king, and alarmed at the comr
quences of a rupture with the Ho^
See, he may have endeavored 19
temporize, that the crisis might ht
delayed.
Tarbes was taken by the Hugut^
nots under the ferocious Count de
Montgomery in the XVIth centQf]«
He devastated the cathedral, adl
burned its fine organ, its aitai^
vestments, choral books, libraf|^
and chapter-house. The bells w
melted down, the bishop's boaar
pillaged and burned, as well as tkt
residences of the canons, the cofr
vents of the Cordeliers, Carmelitai
etc. The bishop was forced A
retreat to the mountains, whci«»
charmed by the picturesque heigfatt
above the valley of Lur, he rc-csti-
blished the springs of S. Saavcur,
and built a little chapel with the
inscription: Vos haurietis ofim
de fontibus SaitHttoris ; whence the
name since given this watering-
place was derived.
It is recorded of a bishop in the
XVIIth century, as something ex-
traordinary, that, contrary to cur
tom, he allowed his flock, in a tine
of famine, to eat meat during Lent
on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thuiv
days. He probably had the libeni
proclivities of Bishop Hubert rt
Agen« already mentioned !
. Finally, it was a Bishop of Taibe>
On the Way to LourcUs.
563
hOy in theee days, restored four
evoat chapels of the Virgin, of
Bcient renown in the country, but
ro£uied at the Revolution^ and left
esolate, and gave them back to
lary with priests to minister at
ieir altars : Notre Dame de Ga-
aison, in a Valley of the Hautes
*yr^n^es ; Notre Dame de Pi^tat,
verloolcing the plain of Tarbes;
fotre Dame de Poueylahun, on a
tcturesque peak that rises from the
alley of Aiun ; and Notre Dame
le H^as, the Madonna of shepherds,
n a hollow of the wild mountains
tear the Spanish frontier — apower-
iil quadrilateral for the defence of
his diocese of Mary. The memo-
y of Bishop Lawrence will likewise
)e for ever associated with the
jiurch of Notre Dame de Lourdes,
or it was he who, by his zeal, pru-
knce, and spiritual insight contri-
ved so greatly to its foundation.
It became the cherished object
ofinterest in his old age. He beg-
ged for it, labored for it, and watch-
ed over the progress oif the work.
His last act before attending the
Grancil of the Vatican was a pil-
grimage to the sacred Grotto, and
while at Rome his heart was con- ,
stantly turning to this new altar in
Mary's honor, and testifying great
joy at the splendor of the solemni-
ties. He died at Rome in January,
1870, and his remains were brought
back to Tarbes for burial.
At Tarbes we changed cars for
Lourdes. Here we received our
first impressions of the great religi-
ous movement in the country, mani-
fested by the immense pilgrimages,
which rival those of the Middle
Ages. We encountered a train of
pilgrims with red crosses on their
breasts and huge rosaries around
their necks. There were gentle-
men and ladies, and priests and
sisters of different religious orders.
Among them was a cardinal, whose
hand people knelt to kiss as he is-
sued from the cars. They all had
radiant faces, as if they had been
on some joyful mission instead of
a penitential pilgrimage. But one
of the fruits of penitence and faith
is joy rn the highest sense of the
word. Spenser wisely makes the
proud Sansfoy the father of Sansjoy.
Leaving them behind, we kept on
in full view of the mountains along
a "fine plateau called Lanne Mau-
rine, or the Land of the Moors.
The Moorish invasion, though mor^
than a thousand years ago, has left
ineffaceable traces all through this
country. The traveller is always
coming across them. In one place
is the Fountain of the Moors; in
another the Castle of the Moors;
and there are many families who
srill bear the names of Maure and
Mouret. The X'^nne Maurine is so
called from a bloody combat which
took place here to dispute the pos-
session of the plain. It was a priest
who roused the people to arms and
led them against the infidel, whom
they smote hip and thigh. A grate-
ful people have erected an eques-
trian statue to his memory at the
entrance of his village church.
We were now ra|)idly approach-
ing Lourdes. Already the Pic du
Gers rose out of the valley sacred
to Mary, and, the heart instinctively
turns from everything else to hail
the nt:w star that has risen in these
favored heavens to diffuse the pure
radiance of the Immaculate Con-
ception !
564 A Little Bird.
A LITTLE BIRD.
In his cage my blitlie canary, swinging.
Trills with merry voice a roundelay ;
From the early sunrise he is singing.
Chirping, flying, flitting all the day.
They who call it cruel thus to hold him
Never saw his joyous, twinkling eyes.
Never heard the something that I told him
Once, beneath delusive April skies :
When my hand drew back the sliding casement.
Bidding him be happy and go free,
Thinking all the while, in self-^abasement.
Never more a jailer stern to be.
So I left him, lingering, fearing, sighing,
Loath to watch him soar and speed away.
Loath to see him from my roof-tree flying.
Sad to miss his songs and pretty play.
Evening fell, and in my chamber lying.
Wondering where the bird had found a nest.
What was that around me feebly flying.
What was that low drooping on my breast ?
Rufiled plumage, tiny pinions weary.
Every flutter seemed a throb of pain ;
Ah ! the prison-house was not so dreary,
Tired Robin had come home again !
They who deem it cruel thus to hold him
Should have seen the wanderer's listless eyes
Greet the loving care so quick to fold him
Safe and warm from show'ry April skies.
Never morning now but sees him flitting
In and out, as happy as can be ;
Never twilight but it finds him sitting
Drowsy-eyed, a willing captive he.
Birdie, warbler, beautiful canary !
Trill the fulness of thy roundelay ;
Of the rippling sweetness never chary,
Sing, my pretty Robin, all the day !
Early Annals of Catholicity in New Jersey.
$65
EARLY ANNALS OF CATHOLICITY IN NEW JERSEY.
The first navigators who are
Icnoivn to liave sailed along tlie
seaboard, and perhaps to have
landed on the soil of tliat part of
America now called New Jersey,
vere Catholics, and in fact made
their voyages before Protestantism
was heard of. These hardy men
were Sebastian Cabot, a Venetian
in the service of King Henry VII.
of England, who sailed from Bristol
in the month of May, 1498, and,
proceeding considerably to the
north, afterwards turned south and
followed the coast-Hne as far as
the Chesapeake ; and John Verazza-
no, a Florentine in the pay of the
King of France, who, taking a
sottlherly course to America in
1524, proceeded along the coast
from Florida to the fiftieth degree
of porth latitude, and is supposed
to have entered the harbor of New
YorL The earliest colony estab-
lished here was about 1620, when
Dutch Calvin ists (emigrants from
Holland) settled the town of Ber-
gen ; and in 1638, a party of Swedes,
who were Lutherans, made several
settlements on the shore of the
Delaware. They were under the
patronage of their celebrated Queen
Christina, who later became a Cath-
olic. In 1664, a grant of the coun-
try between the Connecticut and
the Delaware rivers was made by
King Charles IL of England — the
Swedes having been subjugated by
the Hollanders, and these in their
tarn by the English — to his brother
the Duke of York, who afterwards
was a sincere convert to the Catho-
lic faith, and reigned as James II.
That portion of this territory which
is now New Jersey was sold by ti)e
royal patron to two proprietors, one
of whom was Sir George Carteret ;
and it was in his honor that it re-
ceived its present name, for his
having defended during the Par-
liamentary war against the Rev-
olutionists the island of Jersey^
which is one of the so-called
Channel Isles on the coast of
France, and is full of ancierjt
churches and other memorials of
the Catholic faith, introduced there
by S. Helier in the Vlth century.
But apart from the name there
was nothing that recalled the Cath-
olic religion in New Jersey. The
most intense anti-Catholic senti-
ment was prevalent, and the bitter
fanaticism of the motlier country
was extended even to these parts
with perhaps increased virulence.
Thus, in 1679, ^^ ^^^^ ^^ Novem-
ber was appointed a day of thanks-
giving in the colony for deliverance
from what was called '* that horrid
plot of the Papists to murder the
King (Charles II.) and destroy all
the Protestants!" — which was the
infamous affair of Titus Oates, got-
ten up maliciously against the
Catholics to have still another pre-
text for persecuting them. The
whole province having been divi-
ded into two parts, called respec-
tively East and West New Jersey,
the latter was settled, to mention
only the English-speaking popula-
tion, mostly by members of the
Society of Friends, commonly call-
ed Quakers, from England, but the
iormer by Scotch Presbyterians
S66
Early Annals of Catholicity in New yersey.
and Congregationalists from New
England ; and of this part Robert
Barclay was appointed first gov-
ernor for life, but, having power to
name a deputy, he remained in
Scotland. This miserable man, af-
ter having become a Catholic in
France, where he had an uncle a
priest, who was at the expense of
educating him, relapsed into heresy
shortly after returning to his native
country, where his religion was pro-
scribed, and finally joined the Qua-
kers, for whom he wrote the famous
Apology, A circumstance in the
life of this apostate shows well the
constancy of the royal convert who
lost three kingdoms for his faith,
and must have reminded him of
his own instability upon the same
matter. Barclay was in London in
1688, probably on business con-
nected with his government of East
New Jersey, and solicited an inter-
terview with King James. The
revolution was already breaking,
and his treacherous son-in-law,
afterwards William III., was on his
way to dethrone him ; when, stand-
ing by an open window of the
palace, his Majesty observed to the
governor that the wind was fair for
the Prince of Orange to come over:
whereupon Barclay replied that it
was hard no expedient could be
found to satisfy the people. The
king declared he would do any-
tlung becoming a gentleman ex-
cept ^'parting with liberty of con-
science^ which he never would while
he lived." The king was indeed a
martyr to this principle, and how
much it was despised by his Pro-
testant betrayers may be seen, to
give an example out of these parts,
from the instruction given in 1703
to Lord Cornbury, governor of the
Jerseys (as well as of New York),
" to permit liberty of conscience
to all persons eouept Papists "y and
this barbarous intolerance coidpi-
ued as long as the colonies rem»-
ed united to England. Every no«
and then glaring cases of aati-
Catholic bigotry, calculated only to
perpetuate civil dissensions spnmj^
from religious differences, were
found in the history of the colony;
as, for instance, in 1757^ when the
principal edifice of the College of
New Jersey at Princeton ura*
named by Governor Belcher JV«-
sau Hall — ^" to express," be said«
^' the honor we retain in this re-
mote part of the globe to the im-
mortal memory of the gloiimh
King William III., who was a
branch of the illustrious house of
Nassau, and who, under God, was
the great deliverer of the Brkiih
nation from those two momstrmt$
furiesy Popery and slavery." Abort
this period there were a few Jesuit
priests in Maryland and Penn^ita*
nia ; and the earliest account tlwt «e
have of Catholics in New JoBCf m
in 1744, when we read that Y^aSoer
Theodore Schneider^ a disdu^Hsk-
ed German Jesuit wIm> kad fov
fessed philosophy md theolo§]r \m
Europe, and been rector of a am-
versity, coming to the Ameiicsii
Provinces, ** visited New Jersey
and held church at Iron Furnaces
.there." This good missiooary was
a native of Bavaria. He ibnudcd
the mission at Goshenhoppen, nor
in Berks county, Pennsylvaaia,
about forty-five miles from Phii-
delphia, and ministered to Germaa
Catholics, their descendants, and
others. Having son>e skill in medi-
cine, he used to cure the body as
well as the soul; aad, travcUtc^
about on foot or on horseback \»r
der the name of I>octor Schneider
(leaving to the Smeifun^sts todt^*
cover whether he were of medidoe
or divinity), he had access to plaff>
where he could not otherwise hire
Early Annals of Catholicity in New Jersey.
567
g<Hie without personal danger; but
sometimes his real character was
found out, and he was several times
raced and shot at in New Jersey.
He used to carry about with him
on his missionary excursions into
this province a manuscript copy of
the Roman Missal^ carefully written
out in his own handwriting and
bound by himself. His poverty or
the difficulty of procuring printed
Catholic liturgical books from Eu-
rope, or, we are inclined to think,
the danger of discovery should
such an one with its unmistakable
marks of ** Popery" about it (which
he probably dispensed with in his
manuscript), fall into the hands of
heretics^ must have led him to this
labor of patience and zeal. Father
Schneider, who may be reckoned
the first missionary of New Jersey,
died on the nth of July, 1764.
Another Jesuit used to visit the
province occasionally after 1762,
owing to the growing infirmities of
Father Schneider, and there still ex-
ist records of baptisms performed by
lumhere. This was the Rev. Robert
Harding, a native of England, who
arrived in America in 1732. He
died at Philadelphia on the ist of
September, 1772. But the priest
principally connected with the ear-
If missions in New Jersey is the
Rev. Ferdinand Farmer. He was
bom in South Germany in 1720,
«id, having entered the Society of
Jesus, was sent to Maryland in
1752. His real name was Steen-
meyer, but on coming to this
country he changed it into one
more easily pronounced by En-
glish-speaking people. He was
learned and zealous, and for
maay years performed priestly du-
ties in New Jersey at several places
in the northern part, and seems to
have been the first to visit this col-
ony regularly. In his baptismal
register the following among other
places are named, together with the
dates of his ministrations : a station
called Geiger's, in 1759 ; Charlotten-
burg, in 1769 ; Morris County, Long
Pond, and Mount Hope, in 1776;
Sussex County, Ringwood, and
Hunterdon County, in 1785. The
chief congregation at this period
was at a place called Macoupin
(now in Passaic County), about fif-
teen miles from the present city of
Paterson. It was settled in the
middle of the last century by Ger-
mans, who were brought over to
labor in the iron mines and works
in this part of the province. Two
families from Baden among the
colonists were Catholics; and the
first priest who visited them is said
to have been a Mr. Langrey from
Ireland. Mount Hope, not far
from Macoupin, used to be visited
by Father Farmer twice a year, and
by other priests, as occasion might
require, from Philadelphia. Ex-
cept the Catholics in the northern
parts, there were very few scattered
about New Jersey before the Ameri-
can Revolution. The schoolmaster
at Mount Holly in 1762 was an
Irish Catholic named Thomas
McCurtain, and one of his descend-
ants is the distinguished scholar
and antiquarian, John G. Shea.
The Catholics in these colonies be-
fore American Independence were
subject in spiritual matters to the
Bishop (vicir-apostolic) of London,,
who used to appoint a vicar-gen-
eral (the superior of the Jesuits in
Maryland) to supply his place.
After the suppression of the Society
of Jesus in 1773, the vicar-general.
Father John Lewis, was the late
superior of the order in this coun-
try. The visits of the missionaries
to New Jersey seem to have been
interrupted during the Revolution-
ary War ; but a number of very dis-
568
Early Annals of Catholicity in New Jersey,
tinguished foreign Catholics serv-
ing in our army honored the land
by their presence in such a cause.
Among them we find Lafayette,
Chevalier Massillon, De Kalb, Pu-
laski, Kosciusko, and Mauduit du
Plessis, the engineer officer who for-
tified Fort Mercer, at Red Bank on
the Delaware, with so much skill that
the attacking Hessians were thor-
oughly repulsed. In the months of
August and September, 1781, the
French troops under De Rocham-
beau marched diagonally across the
State from Sufferns (just over the
line) in New York, by way of
Pompton, Whippany, Byram's Tav-
ern, Somerville, Princeton, and
Trenton. An army chaplain, the
Abb6 Robin, published a little book
in 1782, describing this French ex-
pedition from New Port to York-
town ; but, regrettably, he gives his
readers not a word about any Ca-
tholics that he may have met or
heard of in New Jersey.
After the evacuation of New York
by the British in 1783, there was
a prospect of collecting the few
scattered Catholics on Manhattan
Island into a congregation, and the
venerable Father Farmer used to
go twice a year to visit the faithful
there, across the northern part of
this State, stopping on his way to
officiate at Macoupin. On the 22d
of September, 1785, the Rev. John
Carroll, who had been appointed by
the Pope superior of the church in
the United States and empowered
to give Confirmation, set out on a
tour to administer this sacrament
at Philadelphia, New York, and (as
he writes to a friend) " in the upper
counties of the Jerseys and Penn-
sylvania, where our worthy German
brethren had formed congrega-
tions." In this year Rev. Mr. Car-
roll computed the number of Cath-
dHcs under his charge at sixteen
thousand in Maryland, seven t)
sand in Pennsylvania, and
thousand scattered about the o
States. The number of priests
nineteen in Maryland and fiv
Pennsylvania. We learn hows
was the grain of mustard-set<
the church in this part of the ^
less than a hundred years ago, \
we see that there was no resi
priest at that time between Cs
and Pennsylvania; and it ust
be said contemptuously (so
son has it in his Annals) : "
Leary goes once a year to Phi)
phia to get absolution." Thw
thy man therefore, who was ce
ly living in New York in 1774
to leave that city and cros
whole of New Jersey before he
perform his Easter duties,
earlier editions of Catholic 1
printed in the United States
generally gotten up by subscri
and a perusal of the lists of su
bers is interesting, as giving
idea of the number, zeal, ai^d
nal nationality (conjectured
the form of patronymic)
Catholics at the time. Thus,
first Catholic Bible published
United States, at Philadelpl
1790, only six out of the four
dred and twenty-seven subsc
were from New Jersey. The
Joseph Bloom field, Attorney-
ral of the State ; James Crai
R. S. Jones, Burlington;
Holmes, Cape May ; Ale>
Kenney, near (New) Bruns
and Maurice Moynihan, A
but in considering this, the m
teresting to us of any lists c
scribers to early Catholic
we must remember that the
are not all of Catholics ; a
these six from New Jerse
last three only are considen
thodox by Archbishop Bay
his appendix to the HisU
Early Annals of Catholicity in New Jersey,
569
\e Catholic Church in New York
2d ed.)
The massacre of 1793 in the Isl-
nd of Hayti drove a number of
^rench Catholics to the United
States, some of whom settled at
rfount Holly, Elizabethtown, and
tther parts of the State, but we do
lot know that they did anything
or the church. Catholic advance
ras to come from quite another
mmigration. In 1805, or earlier,
he Rev. John Tisserant, one of the
French clergy driven from home
)y the Revolution, was living at
Elizabethtown. He was an ex-
:ellent man, and may be consider-
ed the first resident priest in New
Jersey, although he cannot be said
to have been stationed here by au-
thority. He returned to Europe
in June, 1806. The minister of
the Presbyterian church at Whip-
pany (Morris County) from 1791 to
1795 '^^as Calvin White. " His
ministry, though brief, was useful/*
says the historian. He afterwards
connected himself with the Episco-
palians, and finally became a Ca-
tholic. A conversion of this kind
ttthat period was sufficiently re-
markable, we think, to be mention-
ed in notes on the Catholic Church
in New Jersey.
In the year 1808, the dioceses of
New York and Philadelphia were
erected, with the northern part of
New Jersey within the former and
the southern within the latter dio-
cese. This arrangement continued
until 1853; and while it lasted re-
ligion made some progress here,
but slowly. The Rev. Richard
Bulger, a native of Kilkenny, Ire-
land, having come to the American
Mission, was ordained priest by
Hishop Connolly of New York, in
1820. He was assistant at the
cathedral in New York, and thence
fcgalarly attended Paterson, where
he devoted himself to the Catholics
gathered in that manufacturing
town, and scattered about the up-
per part of the State. The church
at Paterson is mentioned in the Al-
manac of 1822 ; it being then the
only one in New Jersey. The pas-
tor was exposed to inconvenience,
insults, and hardship. One evening,
for instance, a bigoted ruffian threw
a large jagged stone into his lighted
room, the shutters or window-blinds
having been left unclosed, and he #
had a narrow escape from a hole in
his head. On another occasion he
was rudely turned out on to the
muddy road with his Breviary and
bundle from a country cart, the
driver of which had given him a lift
until he discovered that he was a
priest. The account, however, says
that it was the farmer's wife who
"declared that he should not re-
main in the wagon "; and the man
afterwards applied to Father Bul-
ger for instruction, and was receiv-
ed into the church, but we do not
hear of the conversion of the scold —
perhaps because (as an old poet
says)
** Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way "I
— Habingttw,
About 1825, that part of New
Jersey under the jurisdiction of tlie
Bishop of Philadelphia used to be
visited occasionally by clergymen
from beyond the Delaware, and sta-
tions were established at Pleasant
Mills and Trenton, which continued
to be served, but without resident
pastors (we believe), until the dio-
cese of Newark was erected. The
city of Newark had a pastor about
1830 in the person of Rev. Gregory
Pardow, who was in 1834 the only
priest actually residing in New
Jersey. After this period churches
were erected not only in the princi-
pal city, Newark, but also in Jer-
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... — ' _. -:. ..rzBS u«J dbere 6
— > _--*. 1 .ae .-r^- ; , a 'o the Sacrei
::r-— ' •* ^ * •. . -^ -••« s^^ tatiaalc'j
— :T---r-_ r» : lai ^ ac Blessed Sac-
-rnTTis : -c i-.-iT. W« aevd boC itW.
.i-= -i* X :. s'«*.-:ji niniM i be leiigiocs
■— :-=^j- r^. mi -u oc .aitirful got-
1^ - V- :-!** njt -De;' own pcrsotul
-^--r-cT?''!; If tic rcnrrn- ami coasolatxn
t -c icr— iri T-iai -ts ose will stctre
Br.r inrxioL ii w •» dbe praise we karr
.-New Publications.
571
ettowed upon it, and that it will become
s popular her« as it is in Belgium.
'ks Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
B^ L^uis Veuiliot. Translated into
English by the Rev. Anthony Farley.
From the Seventh French Edition.
New York : The Catholic Publication
Society. 1875.
At last we welcome in English a work
^blished eleven years ago. Written in
nsver to Renan, '* It i^ truly/' says the
saotlator, ** what our Holy Father Pius
|X« calls it, *A vindication of the out-
oiyed Godhead of Christ.' " The letter
9( the Holy Fatlier is prefixed to the
KMe of contents.
Wc transcribe what the translator says
in apology for reproducing the work at
this late hour :
** Appearing t» it docs some time after the ezist-
foee df tke origiad work, it might seem that the
^Hl/mtt tike book had ceased to be, had been for-.
Ma« or was of no moment to the public of our day
t of o«r country. But when we remember the
\ prodnced by Renan*s work~«n iro-
d (it wouki seem indeKbty) upon the
Bteraturc and refigious teaching of our
e baTe to admit that a rindication of
CWiiC, tke Gmtl'Mmm^ is as necessary to-day an it
^N» vhca the new Voltaire appeared to shock rel{-
llHi srntjmfnt in France and in the world. * Chris-
twbcri et hodie/ b the war<-cry of the foes, just as
fmA as the trust and comfort of the faithful k>vers
•fdeGod-Man."
Next comes Louis Veuillot*s preface,
yilMk should be read with more atten-
,Am than is generally accorded to pre-
Jhtfl» Indeed, we think few who begin
I to iaid it will hesitate to go through.
Ilie author reminds us that himself was
, «we a sceptic ; and throws a light upon
Ae pnbelleving mind — upon the cause
ttd nature of unbelief — which only such
t tsan with such an experience can
Alov.
His aioa in writing Our Lord's life is to
4lov the overwhelming force of the sim-
pie Gospel story. He contends (and we
'are sure he is right) that, while the " de-
filers and falsifiers of the truth have been
admirably refuted in every objection rais-
ed l^ them,'* yet, "since their supreme
trt jies in feigning and producing i]fM^
f»ft, the essential point should be to
reply especially to what they do not say.
"rtts is what we unavoidably forget " (pp.
17» 18). Then, referring to Renan, he
continues:
'*TW last of those widcad impognen of the divi-
nity cf Christ our Lord who has rendered himself
oddinted has well understood, in a book of fire or
^ haidsed pages, how to speak of Jesus Chrbt
without poiatiiig hin out. Perpetually aroidiag all
that belongs to God, with the same stroke he per*
verts all that befeogs to the mmm. This artifice of
weakness is the only strength of the book. It has
drawn the apologist into the discussion of trifles in
which the Man-God completely disappears. T^e
refutations are excellent, but they leave us ignorant
of what Jesus Christ has done, and for what pur-
pose he came into the worid. Thus it is not Christ
who has the case gained, yet less thC laborious rea«
der of so much oootroveny ; it is this miserable man,
who has proposed to himself to betray God and hb
neighbor.**
And again :
*^ The clement wisdom of Jesus has not been left
to the mercy of sophists, nor to the resources of rea-
•on, nor to lowKness or feebleness of faith. It has
for es e en the weakness of the mind of man, and has
prepared a succor always victorious. It is not ne-
cessary to ransack the hbfaries, to ooDect together
so many dead languages, so much history, so much
physics, so much philosophy, to know with certainty
him who came to save the little ones and the igno-
rant. The bread of life is as easy to find as the
materia] bread, on the same cooditioas. A simple,
fiuthful Christian or member of the Churdi of God,
a man of the world, provided he may have studied
a few books and hemrd some instruction, can render
an account of his faith far better than the ' savants,*
the pretended unbelievers, are in a condition to give
an account of their incredulity. The Goq>d is
sufficient for that.
*'' The Gospel contains modvcs condusive of the
faith in Jesus Christ, true God and true man — mo-
tives, reasons, which the Saviour himself has put
forth. We can paralyse, by the contents of the
Gospel, the sophistry of the infidel, without being
shocked by iu contact. What does it matter that
the sophist should amass notes against the sincerity
of the Evangelists, if we have dear proof that he
of whom the Evangelists speak is God ? On beaded
knees, hefore tke Heai Prtsence^ one is not tempted
to withdraw from its contemi^tion in order to con-
sider or view more closely this vile apparition of
blasphemy. We are by no means bound to extract
finom it open avowals of repentance.*'
Tlien he gives the reason for this suffi-
ciency of the Gospel :
^ There are different degrees in the region of the
mind ; discuadon belongs to the inferior degrees. In
discussing, man is pitted against man ; the reason of
the one seems as good at that of the other. In ex-
pounding, we place God against man
** Thu ejqMsition of the truth must get the pre-
ference when God is absolutely and personally in the
case. From the apex of those k>fty heights the
voice of man properly avoids discussing with noth-
ingness, lest weak human reason might be indined
to believe that nothingness could reply ; that the
beauty of truth might cppear alone in the presenae
of the abeohite deformity of falsehood.**
And again :
** Amooi^ infidcb ignorance of the Gospel b gene-
rally complete ; among a great many Christians it b
hardly less so. They know the Gospel by heart,
and they do not understand it. They have not
read it with care, with order, such as It has been
delivered. They do not know how to explain it or
meditate on it as they ought. Whosoever sees In
the Gospel only the letter, does cot understand eveiv
the letter ; and whosoever seeks for morality only in
its pages, does not find the morality they coataia.'*
572
New Publications.
Lastly, he dismisses Renan's Life in
the following masterly words :
** As to a certain malicious book which unhappily
signalizes the age in which we five, we have been
obliged to refer to it two or three times. We could
have wished not to touch on it. The first senti-
ments of Catholics on this deplorable book have be-
come much modified since they have been enabled
to perceive more exactly the malicious industry of
the author. While we see him assume the task of
ignoring, we are convinced he is yet far from hav-
ing lost the faith. He dare not look upon the cru-
cifix face to face — ^he would fear lo see the blood
trickling down. In his conscience he declares him*
f«lf a traitor. This is the confession which we read
in his book, turned resdutely away from the light
of day. We blame this miserable man, and we de-
test and abhor his crime ; but he is to be pitied, and
every Christian will be happy to say to him what
Ananias said to Saul : * My lm>ther Saul, the Lord
Jesus, who a^^eared to you on the road whence
you are cominj^^ has sent me to meet you, so that
you may receive your sight.* "
A Discourse Commemorative of Hon.
Samuel Williston. By W. S. Tyler,
Williston Professor of Greek in Am-
herst College. Springfield, Mass.:
Clark VV. Bryan & Co. 1874.
The venerable gentleman commemo-
rated in this discourse died on the i8th
of July, 1874, at an advanced age, after a
life which is in many respects remarkable
and worthy of lasting remembrance. His
history is interesting, as presenting the
roost distinctive and admirable traits of
the ^nuine old-fashioned New England
type of character. It is remarkable on
account of the great works which he per-
formed during his lifetime. It is honora-
ble and worthy of remembrance on ac-
count of tlie great example it presents to
wealthy men, of a man who realized the
proper position which men of large for-
tunes ought to take in the community, as
public benefactors, as founders, as stew-
ards of wealth for the common good.
Mr. Williston was the son of a poor
country clergyman whose salary was $300
a vear. Disappointed in his early efforts
to obtain a liberal education by an affec-
tion of the eyes which debarred him from
the pleasure of reading all his lifetime,
he set himself to the task of making a
fortune that he might have the means of
promoting education and in other ways
benefiting his fellow-men, especially
those of his own neighborhood and com-
monwealth. He was successful in this
undertaking, and, besides the large for-
tune which he left at death to his heirs,
. he is siiid to have bestowed a million of
dollars in public beneficent works dur-
ing his lifetin»e, and to have bequeathed
more than half that sum bjr tesiaisct
similar purposes. He was the s<
founder of Amherst College, the foi
of the Williston Seminary at Easii
ton, and of the beautiful town c^
name, which Prof. Tyler says " be I
a mere hamlet, and left one of the r
and most beautiful towns in Ham]
County, a great educational and 1
facturing centre, with beautiful
houses (villas they might almo
called) and several model village^
tered about elegant churches, )
model seminary of learning." Ml
liston gained during life, and lei
him, the reputation of a man of int
probity, and high moral principle
religious belief, which was that
old'fashioned Congregationalists a
sachusctts, w:is his guiding and d<j
ing idea, and he followed it up ii
tice consistently and conscient
The portrait prefixed to Prof,
discourse is one very pleasant \
upon, and shows the face of an
sensible, good man, surmounted
expansive, intellectual forehead, 3
firmly upon a manly bust. One e^
feature in Mr. WiUiston's cbaraci
his adherence to the principle th^
education and healthy civilizatioi
rest on a religious and Clirisiiai
In this respect, he contrasts favou^
a large and increasing class of Proii
who are taking sides openly with
in the accursed work of seculari^i
cation, and crying up merely mat
intellectual progress. His pan
Prof. Tyler, writes admirably up
theme. This discourse, apart >r
interest given to it by the tru'|
life which it describes, is in it
markably full of fine thoughts, i
the effect of the deep study of the
to which the learned author has 1
his life. We are pleased to not
calm and just manner in which he
incidentally upon some topics co\
with the Catholic Church. Spca
the honor which is due to those n
are founders of institutions u!j
mankind, in a truly philosophical
and with illustrations drawn fr«:
pagan and Christi.m histoT}% hcri
to say : *' There are no names ni
lowed in the Catholic Church t
founders of those monasteries
with all their sins, have the merit
ing religion and learning alivt*
the darkness and confusion of thti
Ntw Publications:
573-
^es. The fbanders, too, of those rt;U>
loas orders whose influence has been felt
» the remotest bounds of Christendom,
^l veneration is felt for them by all
Dod Catholics, from age to age ! The
unes of S. Benedict, S. Dominic, S.
rands, and Ignatius Loyola have been
iiioaised and embalmed in the religious
Kietles which they established." The
Ktthat these words were pronounced in
bpslpit of the chapel of Amherst Col-
ife gives them a peculiar significance.
6 do not consider them as denoting any
jybolic tendencies in Prof. Tyler or his
Mclatcs, but merely a diminution of
lower in the old Protestant and Puritan
adition, and the existence of a more
ikilosophical and eclectic spirit. The
ttlonalizing movement which is disin-
egnting Protestant societies carries
kwaj a great deal of prejudice and error
» its tide. It threatens also t6 sweep
uny the remnants and fragments of
trailu Amherst, seated on the remote
liMt of Hampshire, has been safer from
te ftood, hitherto, than Cambridge and
Mfnr Haven. Nevertheless, it must be
lomded by the rising waters in its turn.
ttee Is nothing but the Catholic Church
Vitdl can stand, when knowledge and
IWm take the place of the ignorance
ttid eredulity necessary to a blind fol-
toiHfig of the Reformation. The remnant
of or^odox Protestants must therefore
feBMr the inexorable logic of Luther's
principle into its consequences of sheer
TSfioiilisro, or make their way back to
GidloUc faith. Individuals may remain
ttKSoDtry, but the mass has to move,
and even the works of men who are both
Ileal and good rest on a sandy founda-
tion, which will be undermined in a short
lime aoless they are built on the rock of
Catholic stability. Mr. Williston, we
have no doubt, did his best, not only to
create temporal well-being and prosperi-
ty* but also that which is higher, more
luting, and directed toward the eternal
Cood, which is the chief end of man.
Numbers of generous and noble hearts,
like hiiQielf, have endeavored and
«re Aow striving toward the same ob-
jects, from the tame motives. They are
tHe pillars of the commonwealth, the
real peers of the realm, the chief bulwark
of our political and social state amid the
horde of base, corrupt intriguers and de-
'"^g^gues, mammon worshippers and
•peodlhrifts, crowding our legislative
^Is and marts of business, and Ifttunting
in vulgar show through our streets. It
is impossible, however, that the work
which they strive singly to accomplish,
whether for education, philanthropy, po-
litical reform and progress, or the promo-
tion of the Christian religion, should be
successfully performed except through
Catholic unity and organization in the
communion of the one true Church. If
all the enlightened and virtuous men and
women in the United States who believe
that Jesus Christ is the Saviour, and
Christianity the salvation of mankind
were united in faith and directed by one
authority, there is nothing which they
could not accomplish on this vast field
which God has given us, and which at
present is to a great extent mere wild
land. In conclusion, we express our
thanks to Mrs. Emily G. Williston and
the other executors of the Hon. Mr.
Williston for their courtesy in sending
us a copy of this discourse, which is
printed in a most beautiful and tasteful
manner.
The Child. By Mgr. Dupanloup, Bi-
shop of Orleans. Translated, with the
author's permission, by Kate Anderson.
Boston : Patrick Donahoe. 1875.
Mgr. Dupanloup is one of the most
eloquent orators and writers of France.
The theme of the present book, which
might have been handled in an able and
complete and yet dull manner by an-
other, is* treated in a spirited, glowing,
ascinating style by the illustrious Bishop
of Orleans. It is a charming, attractive,
and most important theme, handled by
one who was a most enthusiastic and
successfuV teacher of boys and youths
before he became a bishop. Every pa-
rent, and especially every mother, should
read this book ; so also should those
who have the charge of children and
young people in schools or elsewhere.
It is more specifically and precisely suit-
able to the case and condition of boys,
as is natural, considering that the author
has been more immediately engaged in
the care of colleges than of convents.
Yet, in general, its principles and in-
structions are appropriate for girls also,
children being very nearly alike in most
respects, whether they are boys or girls.
In respect to the moral training of boys,
there are some instructions very plainly
and yet delicately given in the fourteenth
and fifteenth chapters, which are speci.nl-
ly necessary for a very large class at the
S74
New Publications.
present day and in our very corrupt
state of society. In the wealthy and
fashionable circle of American society,
the children are very generally spoiled.
Who is not familiar with the fast boy of
fourteen, whose outward and visible sign
is a blue ribbon on his straw hat, and
with his sister of twelve, in short clothes,
sparkling with jewel r)% but dim-eyed,
pale-faced, and thin, from keeping late
hours and other precocious dissipations ?
The end of these fast young people is
usually tragical. If not so, they are at
the best wilted and spoiled, like bouquets
of flowers which have remained for a
whole day among lighted candles.
We regret to say that many of our
wealthy Catholics, especially those who
have suddenly acquired riches, strive to
emulate in the race of extravagance and
luxury the most utterly worldly class of
people, who live professedly for mere
earthly enjoyment. Their children are
therefore trained in a way which is mo-
rally the very opposite of the Christian
and Catholic method. In a lesser de-
gree, the same loose, indulgent, soft, and
effeminate style of bringing up children
prevails In families where the spirit of
the parents is less worldly and more reli-
gious. Boys and girls do not remain
children long enough, and are not treated
as children ought to be treated. They
are too precociously developed into
young ladies and gentlemen. So far as
our observation extends, the education
at home and at school which our Catho-
lic boys of the more affluent class are re-
ceiving is much more defective in respect-
to religion and morality than that of the
girls. They are more spoiled at home,
and are less amenable to wholesome dis-
cipline and intellectual training at school
than their sisters. They are also exposed
to much greater danger of becoming es-
sentially irreligious and vicious, and go-
ing utterly to ruin, before or soon after
they attain their majority, and therefore
^reat errors in their early training are
more deplorable. All parents, and es-
pecially mothers, who are not wholly
careless and frivolous, must perceive
clearly and feel deeply the vital import-
ance of this subject of the early training
of boys. Let them read carefully and
frequently this choice book of Bishop
Dupanloup, and they will understand
better how to reverence that wonderful
and beautiful being— a regenerate child ;
how to train the child for the duty and
the solid happiness of its aitlily lif<
to educate it for heaven.
Spain and the Spaniards. By ]
Thi6blin. Boston : Lee & She
New York : Lee. Shepird & Dl
ham. 1875.
The corps of professional vrit<
the great newspapers of Europi
America is remarkable in many \n
talent, enterprise, courage, sagac.t
skill in that style of composition wl
the most effective for the purposes
secular press. Its tspHt de nrps
very high as regards truth, the \
principles of right and devotion I
and noble causes. It is to a great
niercenar)', unscrupulous, time h
skeptical, and superficial. locid
it often serves the cause of rigl
truth with great efficacy, and no
wages a very successful war on
evils and abuses in favor of certa
poral interests, diffuses a vast i
of information, and contributes i
quantity of force to the wheels ih.i
the worid spin round with an <
creasing velocity. Certain of in
bers have made themselves truly
in this present age by their explci
and their chronicles of wars ol
great contemporary events, that
rival Livy and Caesar. It is only
sary to mention the names of RiifS
Stanley as illustrations of this sta
Mr. Thi6blin has won a higl
among these brilliant writers I
press, by his extraordinary coura
enterprise in following up, first tl
tary movements of the Franco-P
war, and more recently those of 1
list campaigns, and his very gren
in describing what he has seen am
ed with so much perseverance an<
He is a good specimen of the c
which he belongs. Apparently
free-thinker in respect to all the
order of truth, solicitous only to j
narrate what Is transpiring on ih
an intellectual knight-errant ai
lance, without any kind of aHegi
any power higher than the Pa
GautU or the Nf^ York Her.yh
brave, good-humored, witty, and \
a keen observer, a charming 1
with a great deal of justice and
ality, and evidently telling the iru
those things which can be app^
through the senses, and which \
is capatfle of understanding. T
New PublkatioHS.
575
I few offiensive remarks about Catholic
oatters, a few jeering allusions to things
►eyond his rather limited sphere of
4sion, and a moderate quantity of the
isual newspaper political wisdom, upon
rfaich we place, of course, a ver)' low
tstimaie. The real substance of the
look, however, which is the testimony
vf the writer respecting what he learned
IT personal observation respectinj^ the
ntny of Don Carlos and the state of
iiings in Spain, is of the highest value
ind interest. We have not read a book
vith so much pleasure for a long time.
Fbe author takes us right into the Carlist
camp and the romantic VascoNavarrese
ooaotry where Don Carlos is king, into
dbe company of bis generals and soldiers,
into the houses of the parish priests, and
UBong the loyal, religious peasantry.
He has no sympathy with the religion of
tibe Spaniards or the cause of Don Carlos,
aod his fovorable testimony to the piety,
totality, bravery, and good discipline of
the faithful soldiers and subjects of the
pilant prince are beyond cavil. The
Ustory of the eccentric and famous Cur6
of Santa Cruz is most curious. The
tillbcntic narrative of facts concerning
te Carlist movement makes it evident
tft our mind that the prospects of ultimate
lod eomplete success in the effort of
Doa Carlos to gain possession of the
kiagdom are very encouraging. Mr.
Thi^blin does not confine himself to an
Jccouot of his experience in the Carlist
camps. He gives a great deal of in-
fonaaiion gathered from the visits he
ttadc to the quarters of the Republicans,
personal observation of the state of things
in Madrid and other places, and conver-
utioos with prominent personages. He
can appreciate what is admirable in
Spain and the Spaniards much better
than most non-Catholics ; and being
wholly free from Protestant sympathies,
perceives clearly and ridicules freely the
»haro of Evangelical missions with their
invariable concomitant of boastful and
Qlumnious lying. As a very good sort
of heathen, and an extremely clever man,
wiih a fine taste for what is beautiful, and
in eclectic habit of mind, he gives just
'od charming descriptions of many
thinjjsin that Catholic country and peo-
ple— in short, understanding the princi-
ples and causes which have produced
"»t which he partially approves, but c:in-
»ot estimate at its full worth, as he would
do If he Were a thorough and intelligent
Catholic, in respect to the state of
Catholic religion and piety in Spain, his
account of the lapse from ancient faith is
partly correct, but one-sided and imper-
fect, as that of a foreign and anti-Catholic
observer must be. In respect to morality
and general well-being and happiness,
he is a competent witness, and his testi-
mony shows how much better, happier,
and more refined, in the true sense, the
Spanish people, even in their present
disorganized state are, than the mass of
the population in England or the United
States. In regard to Spanish politics, he
sympathizes, of course, most perfectly
with Castelar and the orderly, moderate
Republicans, and next to these with the
party of Don Alfonso. He makes an
elaborate argument in favor of the claim
of this young prince to be the inheritor
of all the rights of Ferdinand VII. In
our opinion, Don Carlos has the most
valid title to this inheritance. But at we
have no time to prove this, we must
waive the question of legitimacy.
There is another right which has prece-
dence of any right to inherit the throne :
This is the right of the Church and na-
tion to have restored and preserved the
ancient heritage of the Spanish nation,
those laws and institutions, and that
government which are necessaiy to the
religious and political well being of the
whole people. The regime of the Christi-
nos was destructive to both, and almost
the whole nation acquiesced in the ex-
pulsion of Isabella. We do not think
that the majority of even that portion of
the Spaniards who are at present subject
to Don Alfonso really consent to his
rule, or that there is any guarantee that
it will be better than that of the late
queen. He has been taken up by the
Liberals as a /ix aZ/fr, and is only tole-
rated by the greater part of those who
are loyal to the religion and constitution
of the Spanish monarchy. Don Carlos,
as his own published statements, particu-
larly his recent letter to Louis Veuillot,
prove, is the champion of religious and
political regeneration. It is, therefore,
desirable that his claim to the crown
should be lawfully ratified, and receive
whatever may be requisite to make it a
perfect right in actual possession, by the
Act of the Spanish nation. We may say
the same of the Comte de Chambord in
respect to the throne of France. This is
a sufficient reason why Catholics, even
American Catholics, who are faithful to
576
New Publications.
the Republic here, because it is an estab-
lished and legitimate order, should be
hostile to the Republican party in Spain
and France, and to any kind of patched-
up liberalistic monarchy in either coun-
try, and wish for the success of Don
Carlos and Henri de Bourbon. There
are some very good Catholics who think
differently, even such staunch champions
of the Catholic cause as our illustrious
friend the Bishop of Salford, the editor
of tlje London Tablet, and Dr. Ward.
They seem to us to be mistaken and in-
consistent, and we agree personally with
the Civilth Cattolica and the Univers that
the cause of Charles VII. and Henry V.
is the same with that of Pius IX. con-
sidered as a temporal sovereign, and
closely connected with the triumph of
his rights as Sovereign Pontiff*. We have,
moreover, the confident hope that the
one will yet reign over regenerated
Spain and the other over regenerated
France, after the infamous Prussian tyr-
anny shall have been trampled in the
dust, and the usurper of the Quirinal
shall have met the fate of all foregoing
oppressors of the Holy See.
Dios, Patria, y Rey is the true watch-
word of beautiful, Catholic, unhappy
Spain.
A Pilgrimage to 'ihe Land op the
CiD. Translated from the French of
Frederic Ozanam. By P. S. New
York : The Catholic Publication Soci-
ct>'. 1875.
This little volume, by the eminent
writer and lecturer Prof. Ozanam, sup-
plies much that was wanting in the one
just noticed, in its appreciative sketches
of Catholic objects and traditions. The
book was the result of a tour made a
year before the author's death. It would
be a good travelling companion in the
country described, or elsewhere.
A Full Catechism of the Catholic
Religion (preceded by a Short History
of Religion), from the Creation of the
World to the Present Time. With
Questions for Examination. Trans-
lated from the German of the Rev. Jo-
seph Deharbe, S.J., by the Rev. John
Fander. First American Edition. Pet-
tnissit Supfriontm, New York : The
Catholic Publication Society. 1875.
**This is the most celebrated catechism
of the century, has been most extensively
approved and brought into use, and
be of great service to those who are e«»
ployed in teaching young people Oi
Christian doctrine, as well as for the i^
struetion of converts."
We can add nothing to the above ofr*
tice of the London edition of this C9l^
chism, which heretofore appeared IftAii
magazine, except to say that the Aavi-
can edition has been revised and cv-
rected. and adopted into the Young Cft*
tholic*s School Series.
The Victims of the Mamertine. Bf
Rev. A. J. O'Reilly, li.li. New York:
D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1875.
The Martyrs of ike Cohseum will hate-
prepared the reader for another treat ia
this later work of the same author. \h,
O'Reilly is one of the roost diligeat
workers of the rich mine of ChrUtiM
traditions so successfully explored faf.
Cardinal Wiseman, in the preparatiM
oi Fabiola, The author properly daiac'
great authenticity for the records fll^
this prison, the high position of its vte*
tims rendering the task of identtficatisft
one of comparative ease. While At
world is being filled with the exploits of
" the heroes of paganism, who were it
best but tyrants and murderers,** «•
should not ignore the deeds of
truer heroes — the persecuted champi
of the early Christian Church.
The Spirit of Faith ; or. What I \
do to Believe. By Bishop Hetftefs
O.S.B. New York : The Catholic ft*-
lication Society. 1875.
This brochure is made up of a series
of lectures delivered in St. Peter's, Cai^
diff, by its right reverend author. The
reader will not have proceeded far to be
convinced of the opportuneness of iJis
subjects discussed, and the competenct
of the writer, who may also be recogohei
as a former contributor to these pages.
Sermons for Every Sinday in* the I
Year, and for the Lfjvping Hou- \
DAYS OF Obligation. By Rev. WiUiasi '
Gnhan. With a Preface by the Rigfct
Rev. Dr. Walsh. Edited by Rev. J.
O'Leary. D.D. New York: D. A J.
Sadlier & Co. 1875.
The reverend clergy will be content
with the announcement of a new editios
of these standard discourses. Theii
quality was long ago determined
ITERARY
ULLETIN.
PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT,
SPECIAL NOTICE.
This department was specially opened to keep the readers of The Cathouc
^ORLD acquainted from month to month with all the new Catholic books published
I ibis country and in England, a list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin,
y consulting this list every month, much time and trouble will be saved by our
adcrs and the publisher; for it will save the former the trouble of writing about the
rice of certain books, and the latter the time lost in answering such letters. It i6
le publisher's intention to make the list as correct as possible.
''The XUnatrated Oathollo Family
^^BWiiao for ld76 '* U now In press. Those
1*>UBirto adverUse in It should send in their
Ivtrtisements dnring Jnly and Angnst. To di-
Ktorsof colleges and academies, no better me-
^un can be foond in which to make known their
MUtoUons.
The Catholic Ts^tf^ropA notices Father Farley^s
rtn^laUon of Vealllot*s •« Life of Christ " as
ollowi:
'^Tbc annonneement of a Life of Our Lord Jesns
ifi't bj a Catholic writer, lay or cleric, grates,
't own, npon our cars. There have bc«i one or
^ Liret of thrUt pnblished of late years. The
'M*etof the liret, or, if we remember rightly, the
^rt tvo of them, was to destroy the testimony
i ibe font Oospele—to degrade our Lord God to
^ Ictel of an heroic mortal. Another, not of
*i» tefldcncy, has In part been published, the
nthor of which has acquired, during the last
"* »oi»ti»i, an unenviable notoriety In a Brook-
^ eoQrt of law. The rery idea of a biography
of the humble, pure, and holy Saviour proceedkig
from such a pen makes one shudder. What
boundless presumption most possess such a one
to dream of attempting a work of that nature !
*' We wish Mons. Veulllot had chosen another
title for his work. We need scarcely say that it
is not what its title indicates. It is not even de-
votional, as might Vo meditations on the Life of
Christ. It is controversial, and is a powerful
exposition of the testimony of the four Qospels
against the prevaricating- quibblings of Benan
and the rest.
'* The author of the work is the celebrated pub-
licist and fearless champion of the Church,
Louis Veulllot. In a country par eate^lmce ef
brilliant and powerful writers, Venillot is, in
spite of some glaring faults, acknowledged to
hold the foremost place. A work of this kind,
from such a pen, cannot fail of being as instrus-
tivo as attractive. The utmost charms of style,
riper ess of theological learning, zeal for the
honor of our Lord, and great controversial skill,
adorn the work.
'* We earnestly recommend this work to our
readers, and we wish we could say that the trans-
lation were as brilUant ts the French originhl.
Literary Bulletin.
Bnt, be it remembered, there i» only one Vcnillot
in the world, and thert^fote it would be impOMi-
ble to pat bis epigrammatic French phrases into
equivalent English. Still, Father Farley boa
done his woik well, and has retained much of
the strergtb of the original, if he has not always
been so happy in Iceeping pace with its elegance.
" We may add that its anthor, M. Veuillot, re-
ceirod a special letter from his Holiness the Pope
for writirg this book, which was written to re-
fate M. Kenan's bad book. The book makes a
handsome appearance, and abonld b« extenaiYely
drcalated."
The same paper also notices anothernew book,
'^Adhemar de Beloastel; or. Be Hot
Hasty in Judflrinff " :
''The anthers of such tales as this, and the
publishers who bring them out, deserve the gra-
titude, not only of the whole Catholic public,
but of all who have any love for virtue and re-
finement. Ah I what a contrast does '* Be Not
Kasty in Judging *' afford to the grovelling trash
with which the yonthfal mind is stuffed in the
cheap Btory-papers ! What is more worthy etill
of observatioo, is that its author is a French-
man ; the works of fiction of whose country, al-
though of an altogether higher order of intellec-
tUAl merit, are of a more foul and polluting ten-
dency than the schoolboyish tales of this.
** It \s with no indiscriininating praise we ear-
nestly recommend this work to our readers, mere-
ly because of its high-toned tendency. If its
literary qualifications wc^ low, we should frank-
ly say so. But we can honestly pronounce it a
tale of the deepest interest, in spite of the sim-
plicity of its plot.
*',We may add that the ' get-up ' of the book
ifl beautiiul indeed. In fact, in this regard the
books of the Catholic Publication Society stand
pre-eminently forth as samples an^^ models for
other Catholic pub isbers^models, we are sorry
to Bay, they do not avail themselves of as often as
they ought."
And the Notre Dame SehoUuiic says of the
book:
" The story is simply and charmingly told by
the author, and the translation has been well
rendered by P. 8. A. It is a matter of importance
that good books be furnished our young people
to read, and books of this nature answer the need.
Qood moral tales are as necessary for young men
aa works of any other nature. If Catholic tales
are not given to them, they will read novels
which will in no wise aid in improving their
morality. We can recommend teachers giving
prominmt to students to parchase AiiAemar <U
Bdeastd. It will make an excellent pnai, vif '
know that every young p<*rK>n recelvifef aceff^
will be more than delighted with ihii itiisil^.
story."
To which the Pittebarg Bibemiau adds :
*' This is a most readable book. HaTiag i
it in the vernacular, we arc prepaied to :
nonnce the translation before as compkle, i
the idioms all preserved, and yet the
classical. The young lady graduate of K
seph's who made the translation need not 4
fine her identity to initials. She has
large mark for herself in the world of
The publishers, too, have done their share,
done it well."
And the Pittsburg Catholie says that
"This is an admirably written story of
tender affections. It shows how ha.«ty jodcnMM
are frequently in error. The translalfai b
well rendered, and showa that the transktorfe
quite familiar with the language from which
translation is made. We recommend the roisaft
to all such aa admire reading of a light and ti
cent nature. The volome is neatly got np,
contains 314 pages."
The New Orleans Star notices <^ Xaiy, Staff
of the Sea,'* as follows :
*'Thl8 is one of the devotional storiei of 0^
tholic life and practice which is not t«dloM
nninterestiog. Written in honor of the
late Vii;gin, it ia redolent with her parity aad
praise, and may inspire many a heart, vh
would not seek in higher books of derotioa iriAf
a sincere love and desire of imitation in refsrtf M
her who, as Star of the Sea, ia truly oor gnlir
across lifers waters to the port of heavenly fsat*^
. And the Catholic Standard pronouncei it
'^ An admirable work. As a atory it is fiaStf
interest, the incidents being draraaticaOf fe*
picted, and at the same time replete witli rt»
most excellent religious eoggcstions. B^t Bi
merits go far beyond this. It is whit it« tjUe
purports to be — * A Garland of Living Fiowe^
culled ftora the Divine Scriptures, and woven tv
the Honor of the Holy Mother of God.'' Thevsir
from which this * Garland ' is woven coiw»t«rf
titles ascribed to Mary in the ^ Li tany of Lore'JB' ;
the materials for filling up the garland in f»
thered from the typea of the Ever B ci?«d Vlflrf"
which the Old Testament Scripture* farsA
Every one who desires to honor Mary and ta»»
his heart filled with devotion kbuold
copy of this admirable book."
Literary Bulletin.
r •* Tbo' Youn^ Catholic's Illustrated
Kftti Reader and Sixth Header" are no-
hlc«d by the Chicago V^Jloi as IbUoUs :
**Ttiese bt)oks have been carefblly prepared.
If e have examined the varlons Readers which
ire ofed in thUconntrjr, and the Tonng Catholic's
Berfca is the be* t we have seen. We are confident
JkaK they are destined to become the standard
Readers of the Catholic schools of the United
lutes. Tbey are more than reading books: they
■c eol'ections of choice specimens of English
ikn'ore, in prose and poetry, so arranged as to
^neeat every variety of style, that opportunity
laay be given to cultivate lall the diilerent forms
tf vocal expression.
! **In tne Fifth Reader the attention of the
yrang Catholic is cailed to the history of the
Church in the United States hy the attractive
biographical notices cf tome of the most dlstin-
laifthed bishops and archbishops In the country;
lian introduction to the Sixth, we have a brief
bnt ezhtnsiive treatise on elocution.
, ^ We are sure that their merits will open for
^em a way into Catholic schools tliroughout the
Ind."
**TlieTrae and False InfiBOHbilityof the
^ispes: A Controversial Reply to Dr. Schulte/*
b Botlced as follows by the Pittsburgh CcUhdiC'
: "This work has run through three editions in
AuCila, and is now brought out in the English
lugiisse for the first time. It was submitted to
fsa Holy Father when it first came from the pen
If thsUmented author, who had it translated into
nUn, and appointed a commission of learned
MalflClahs, of different nationalities, to examine
1^ tad nport upon it . Both of these commands
were put into execution without delay. The
Pope made himself thornughly acquainted with
the contents of Bishop Fe^sier's w<)rk, and as
h's own judgment of it fully corresponded with
'the Jndgroent of the commission, he wrote a letter
with his own hand to the Bishop of St. Polten,
praising him for his highly valuable work, and
begging him to persevere In the laborious task he
had undertaken of correcting the erroneous opin-
ions which had been spread abroad in various di-
rections.
"Bishop Fessler wrote the work in refutation
of one Dr. Schulte, Prof e!>sor of Canon and Ger-
man Law in the University of Prague, had inge-
niously compiled for the purpose of throwing
odium upon Papal Bulls and Papal Acts from the
time of Gregory VII. Bishop Fessler has an-
swered all t>e misstatements and mlsconstrne-
tions, one by one, and in a manner so thoroughly
as to cnmp'etely silence Dr. Schulte.
** Bishop Feesler^s work may be looked on |as
one of authority, f ince it has been pronounced
on by the Holy Father himself, as well as the
critical commission to which the Sovereign Pon-
tiff had submitted it. The Bishop in the lata
Vatican Council occupied the distinguished posi-
tion of Secretary-General, which in itself would
be a sufficieut guarantee of the reliable character
of his work, to say nothing of theendori^ement of
the Pope himself. This volume is complete in
168 pages, bound in paper covers, and Is for sale
at 50 cents.**
f Mrs. Craven*s last story, Zs Mot de r^niffms,
which is published In this country by the Ca-
tholic Publication ^cicty as "The V^il
Withdrawn,"' lias appeared in a new transla-
tion In England, as Th€ Story of a Soul. Miss
Emily Bowles is the translator.
BOOKS OF THE MONTH,
Ormr this head we intend to give a list of all
the atw Catholic Books published in thlscouotry
Hcfc Boath, aa well as all those published in Bng-
^ aad for sale here. Publishers will pleaae
send a special copy to the publisher for the pur-
pose of having its tide inserted here. All the
books mentioned below can be ordered of Ths
Cathouc Pubucation Socxsrr.
. NEIV AMERICAN BOOKS.
From May lo to June zo.
PUBLISHED BY THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, NEW YORK
*J*»'^"MACR TO THB LaND OF THE CiD.
rtomihc French of Ozaaam $100
The Swm or Faith ; or, What Must T Do
toBtUeVe? By Bishop Hedley, O.S.B. 60
A Full Catbchism of thb Catholic Rb-
ucioN. By Deharbe f^ 75
Illyrrlui Ztake; or, Into ihe Light of
Catholicity. By Minnie Mary Lee. i vol.
t6ino, 1 00
Constance Sherwood: Am. Antohio-
praphv of the Sixteenth Century. Bv Lady
Georgiana Fullerton. M'iih !ou» illustra-
tions. I vol. 8vo, extra cloth, . . 2 00
aoth, gilt, . . . • . . . 3 00
The Betrothed. From the lulian of Man-
zoni. I vol. lamo, .... 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
French fiffgv in an fingliah Basket.
Translated by Emily Bowles, z vol. lamo,
1 50
Two Thonsand BKles onBonehack.
A Summer Tour to the Plains, the Rocky
Mountains, and New Mexico. By James F.
Meline. x vol. xamo. ... 1 50
Mary Qneen of Scoti and Her Lat-
est l£nii1ish Historian. A Narrative of the
Principal Events in the Life »f Mary Stuart.
With some Remarks on Mr. Froude's His-
tory of England. By James F. Meline. x
vol. lamo, 1 75
The Lift and Times of Siztns tiie
Fifth. Translated from the French by Tames
F. Meline. x vol. x6mo, ... 1 00
AlKBallow Eto} or The Test of
Futurity, and Other Stories. 1 vol. 8vn,
2 00
Cloth, gilt 8 00
Impressions of Spain. By Lady Herbert.
X vol. lamo, fifteen Illustrations, cloth extra,
2 00
Cradle Lands. Egypt, Syria, Palestine,
Jerusalem, etc. By Lady Herbert. Illus-
trated by eight full-page Illustrations, x vol
xamo, vellum cloth 2 00
Cloth, full gilt, 2 50
Half-calf, 4 00
Lift of J. Theophane Venard^ Martyr in
Tonqiil'i. Translated from the French bv
Ladv Herbert, x vol. x6roo, X 00
Three Phases of Christian Love.
The Mother, the Maiden, and the Religious.
By Lady Herbert One vol. xamo, . 1 50
Gilt, extra, 2 00
The Lift of Henry Dorioy Martvr. Trans-
htrd from the French by Lady Herbert, i
vol., x6mo 75 cts.
A Sister's Story. By Madame Augustus
Craven. Translated from the French by
Emily Bowles. One vol. crown 8vo. pp.
598. cloth, extra, 2 50
Cloth, gilt 3 00
Anne Severin. By the Author of '' A Sis-
ter's Story." x vol. xzmo, cloth, . 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
Plenrange. By Madume Augustus Craven.
X vol. 8vo, 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
l^sits to the Blessed Sacrament and
to the Blessed Virein, for every day in the
Month. Bv 8t. Alphonsus Liguori. 24mo,
cloth, new edition, .... CO cts.
Way of Salvation, in Meditations
for Everv D«v in the Year. Translated from
the Italian of St. Alphonsus Liguori bv Rev.
James Jones. a4mo, cloth, . 75 cts.
Hours of the Paasioai
Reflections on the Sufferings and
our Blessed Redeemer. By St.
New edition. Translated by Kight
Walsh, Bishop of Halifax, with a l_
the Lite of ^t. Alphonsus Liguori
cloth,
Love of Onr Lord Jesos Chiiit 1
duced to Practice. By St. Alphoa
gaori. Translated bv the Right R«r«
Walsh. Bishop of Halifax. New < '* '
x8mo. cloth, ....
Short Treatise on P ra y er.
alt Classes nf Christians. By St. Ai
Liguori. The holy author of this
savs : " Were it in my iwwer. I wo«M
lish as many copieK of this work a.^
Christians on earth, and would give
copy, that each might be convinced
absolute necessity of prayer.** New ^
a4mo, cloth, ..... <
Spirit of St Alphonsos de
A Selec ion from tiis Sh<^rter Spirita
tises. Translated from the Italian t
Rev. J. Jones. With a Memoir of the ■
94mo, cloth, ....
The Glories of BSary.
from the Italian of St Alphonsus Mc
Liguori. Second edition. Revised by J
Robert A. Coffin, C.SS.R. x toL
Life and Letters of Madame
chine. Translated from the French 1
Count Falloux. One vol. xamo, . ;
The Writing of Madame I
Edited by Count de Falloux. x voL ]
Oakeley on Catholic Worship t A'
nual of Popular Instruction on the '^"^
niei and Devotions of the Churck.
derick Canon Oakeley, M.A., M
Rector of St. John's, I^iogtoo. x voi.^
Oakeley on the Mass. The
Ceremonial of the most Holv and A
Sacrilice of the Mass explained in aS
between a Priest and a Catechumen
an Appendix on Solemn Ma.5Sj Vi
Compline, and the Benediction of the
Holv Sacrament. By Canon Fi
Oakeley. x vol. i8mo, . 69 1
Manresai or, The Spiritual
of St. Ignatius. For General i
Edition, x vol. xamo.
Dr. Newman's Answer to Dr.
Eirenicon. Paper, 75 <*
Am. Essay in Aid of a Graaunv ^
Assent. By John Henry Newman, 0S>>^
the Oratory, x vol. xamo. cloth, . 8 81
Apologia Pro Vita Sua : Belay a B^
plv to a Pamphlet entitled •* H'bat, llMi
Does Dr. Newman Mean ? " By J ohn Bmtf
Newman, D h. New edition, x vol. is«%
Catechism of Cooncil q€ TMt
PaDlished by command of Pope Pn»* t*
Translated by Kev. J. Donovan, Profaa*
Royal College, Mavnooth. 8vo, . 809
Letters of Bngeoie de GMfia
Edited by G. S. Ti^butien. i vol. isM.
cloth, aoi
•r the Doctrine of the
r«tkoUc Church in Matters oi Cont:ove««v.
Ht tbe Riebt Rev. J. B. Hossuet. A new
tdttfoo, with copious notes, by Rev. J.
ncteber, D.D. i8mo, 60 cts.
Mattl oT Boirenio do ChieriiL
X4Hed by G. S. Tr6butiea. i vol. lamo.,
2 00
Mtimte a Protestant Friend on the
Hdv Scriptures. By Rev. D. A. Gallitzin.
^enoi. clotk 60 cts.
bbttnnl IMroetor Of Devest and Ro-
Hgiotta Souls. By St. Frsocis de Sales,
I 50 cts.
Mrodnctien to a Devest Lift. From
mt French of St. Francis of Sales, Bishop and
rrtncc oi' Geneva. To which is prefixed ar
Abvtrmct of his Life. z8mo, cloth, 75 cts
^kink Wea Qnt| or, Bofloctioni on
the Great Truths of the Christian Religion,
r every day in the Month. By Right Rev.
CiMiloner. jamo, cloth, 30 cts.
MkoBe Cliristian Instmcted in the
ints. Sacrifices, Ceremonies, and Ob-
of the Church* by way of question
answer. By the Right Rev. Dr. Chal-
a4mo, cloth, flexible, 25 cts.
hclhefic Ckrietian Instmcted. »mo
«ditioiL Cloth. .... 50 cts.
fcilt and the Chnrch. Lectures deli-
Tered In St, Ann*s Church, New York, dur-
IBK Advent, t869. By Rey. Thos. S. Pres-
ton. 1 vol. tamo, .... 1 50
bason and Revelation, i^ectures De-
Bvtred io St. Ana's Church, New York,dur-
mg Advent, 1867, by Rev. T. S. Preston.
, iJftt vol. lamo, 1 50
Ume Treatise on the Uttle Virtaes.
W^itttea ori^nally in Italian by Father Ro-
lanK of the Society of Jesus To which are
■ddti, A Letter on Fervor by Father Vallois,
%4n vid Maxims from an unpublished
•aovooript ot Father Segneri, S.J. ; also, De-
— • - to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, jamo,
. .-45 cts.
bmftin noimens From the luliaa of
^TOBrsSSSTST. V0I.L xamo, 1 50
.Vol U. 1 50
ft Vvm and Enlarged Edition, with Maps, etc.
te niMtmted Bistory of Ireland,
horn the Earliest Period to tbe Present
Tfan*; with several first-class full-page en-
craviags of Historical Scenes desired by
' neory Doyle, and engraved by George Han-
In and George Pearson ; together with up-
ward of One Hundred Woodcuts, by eminent
Artiito. illuAtrating Antiquities, Scenery, and
Sttet 01 Remarkable Events ; and three large
Mip»->one of Ireland, and the others of
Faorily Hornet, Statistics, etc. i vol. 8vo,
•early 700 p«KM« extra cloth, . 5 00
Hatf.m'jr., : 7 00
The Lift of St Patrick, Apostle of ire-
hnd. By M. F. Cusack, author of *' The II-
taatrated History of Ireland,'* etc. Illus-
rated, one vol., 5 00
The Works of the Most Reverend
Jobs Hughes, first Archbishop of New York,
containing Biography, Sermons. Lectures,
SpcedieH, etc. Carefully compiled from the
Rett Sources, and ednted by Lawrence
Kehoe.a vols. 8vo, cloth, 8 00
» tela, half-calf, ext^^ . 12 00
Poor Man's Oatechismi or. The
Christian Doctrine Explained, with Short
Admonitions. By John Mannock, O.S.B.
84mo, cloth, .... 50 cts.
Poor Man's Oontroversy. Ry j. Man-
nock, author of ** Poor Man's Catechism."
i8mo, cloth, 50 cts.
Oatiiolic Tracts. Fifty Catholic I'racts ol
"The Catholic Publication Society," on
various subjects, i vol. xamo, cloth extra,
125
Irish. Odes, and Other Poems. By Au-
brey de Vcre. z voL xamo, toned paper.
2 00
Cloth, gnt, . . ... 2 50
May Carols, and Hymns and Poems.
By Aubrey de Vcre. Blue and Kold, 1 25
The Liqnefiu^tion of the Blood of St.
Januarius. Cloth 1 00
Bistory of the Old and New Testa>
ments. By J. Reeve. 8vo, half-bound, em-
bossed roan. 1 00
Compendions Abstract of the Bistory
of the Church of Christ. By Rev. Wm.
Gahan,O.S.A. With continuation down to the
present time, by John G. Shea, LL.D. xamo,
1 25
The Lift of Mother Jnlia, Fonndress
of the Sisters of Noire Dame, i vol. xamo,
cloth, extra, with Portrait of Mother Juli^
Cloth, gilt.
50
2 00
of finsrland, for the Use of
Schoofs. By W. F. Mylius. Continued
down to tbe present time by John G. Shea
LL.D. xamo, .... 1 25
Lift of Mother Margaret Mary Bal-
lahan, founder of the English ConRregation
of Sl Catherine of Siena, of the Third ()rder
of St. Dominick. By her Religious Children
With a Preface by the Right Rev. Bishop
Ullathome. x vol. 8vo, . . .4 00
Barly mstory of the Catholic Chnrch
in the Island of New York. By the Right
Rev. J. R Bayley. D.D. With fouriSteel
Plates of the four first Bishops and a wood-
cut of old Sl Peter's, x vol. xamo, cloth,
150
Kstory of the Society of Josns.
Daurignac. a vols., .... 3 00
The Lift of Father Bavignan, SJ.
By Father Ponlevoy, S.J. Translated from
the French, x vol. crown 8vo, toned paper,
4 00
Lift of St Vincent de PanL jamo,
cloth, 45 cts.
Lift of Blessed Margaret Mary
Alacoque. With some Account of the Devo-
tion to the Sacred Heart By the Rev. Georg*
Tickell,S.J. x voLSvo, . . . 2M
Onr Lady of Litanies. By Rev. X. D.
McLeod, 1 00
The Sacramentals of the Bohr Cath-
olic Church. By the Rev. W. J. Barrv,
100
Lenten Monitor, or Moral Beflec-
tions and Devout Aspirations on the Gospel
for each dav, from Ash« Wednesday till Easter
Sunday. By Rev. P. Baker, O.S.F. a4mo,
cIc'Ji, new edition, . . 60 eta.
Illyrrlui Lake; w, Into tiie Light of
Catholicity. By Minnie Mary Lee. i vol.
x6ino, 1 00
Constance Sherwood: Ab. Antohio-
praphv of the Sixteenth Century. Hv Lady
Georg;iana Fullerton. M'ith fou» illustra-
tions. I vol. 8vo, extra cloth, . . 2 00
Cloth, Kilt, . . . • . . . 3 00
The Betrothed. From the lulian of Man-
zoni. z vol. tamo, .... 1 50
Cloth, Kilt, 2 00
French Bgg« in an finglish Basket.
Translated by Emily Bowles, z vol. tamo,
1 50
Two Thonsand BKles onBorsehack.
A Summer Tour to the Plains, the Rocky
Mountains, and New Mexico. By James F.
Meline. x vol. tamo. ... 1 50
Mary Qneen of Scots and Her Lat-
est l£nglish Historian. A Narrative of the
Principal Events in the Life •f Mary Stuart.
With some Remarks on Mr. Froude's His-
torv of England. By James F. Meline. x
vol. tamo, 1 75
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Mftrif's oj the Laki, Lakt Gcot'ge^, X 11
Vr<r 0f THE CATiiULU r
ftaiH iiuih, pii4
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXL, No. 12$.— AUGUST, 1875.
THE PERSECUTION IN SWITZERLAND
FBOM THB XSVUS CSNBRALB.
For seven months have we kept
silence on the religious persecution
m Switzerland. Not that during
ikat interval the rage of the perse-
cutors has become appeased ; very
bx from it. But the spectacle they
aferd is so repulsive to the con-
tcicQce that the pen falls from the
iuuKl in disgust whilst narrating
iheir exploits* Nevertheless, we
foppose it may be of service to give
« complete although succinct his-
toiy of the violence and hypocrisy
of Swiss liberalism. And for that
veason we renew our recital.
Up to the present time, the per-
secution has only raged in two dio-
ceses, the smallest, Geneva, and the
largest, Basel. But elsewhere the
fire smoulders beneath the ashes,
tnd everything goes to prove that,
if the liberals should succeed in
overthrowing the church in the
cant 3ns where they have inaugurat-
ed t:heir barbarous and intolerant
rule, they will continue their efforts
creii into the heart of the country.
Aire dy, indeed, here and there.
outside of the two just-named dio*
ceses, they reveal their intentions
by isolated measures.
Thus at St. Gall, the cantonal
council, the majority of which con-
sists of Protestants and free-think-
ers, has forbidden the Catholic
clergy to teach the Syllabus and
the dogma of Papal Infallibility ;
and, as the clergy have refused to-
obey such an order, the Council of
Public Instruction has withdrawn*
from them the teaching the cate-
chism during Lent, and has placed
the duty in the hands of school-
masters in absolute dependence on
the state. This example betrays
the intention of liberalism, in the
name of liberty, no longer to toler-
ate any religion but such as is fash-
ioned by its owii hand. This inten-
tion is now betraying itself openly
in the two dioceses of Geneva and
Basel. It is useless to speak of
the rights of Catholics consecrated
by treaties, to invoke the respect
due to their conscience ; useless is
it to adduce in their behalf the re-
lat«f
ftcoording to Act of Cooffress, b tho year 1875. by Rer. I. T. HscmB, ia the Ofltoe of th«
librmxian of Coogreai, at Washingtoa, D. C
578
The Persecution tn Switzerland.
ligious equality which they scru-
pulously maintain in the cantons,
such as Lucerne and Freyburg,
where they have the superiority ;
useless to insist on their patriotism,
and on their loyal submission to
laws which do not encroach on the
domain of religion. No, there are no
rights for Catholics, there is no jus-
tice for them ; and when it is a
question of attacking them, the end
justifies the means.
This is no invention of ours. We
will cite a few examples in support
of our assertion.
M. Teuscher in the canton of
Bern, and M. Carteret at Geneva,
have founded churches to which
they have assigned the name of
Catholic, which they support with
unusual zeal. Now, in the journal
of these churches, the Dhnocratie
£aiholique^ which is published at
Bern, of the date of January 2, is
the following statement : " Ultra-
montanes are malefactors, and there
is no liberty for malefactors.*! It
may be objected, that these words
are merely the expression of an in-
dividual opinion. Let us listen
then to M. Carteret, speaking, about
the same time, before the Grand
Council of Geneva : " Ultramon-
tanism is dangerous; it is necessary
to combat it, to make on it a war of
extennination and without mercy;
it is affectation to dream of being
just and equitable with such an
adversary." A little later on, in the
same assembly, a credit was voted
for the maintenance of candidates
for Catholic cures, whose rightful
possessors had been arbitrarily
ejected ; and when M. Vogt ex-
pressed his astonishment that the
canton should keep a tavern for
liberal abbhy a deputy exclaimed,
"We shall act as we please."
It would seem impossible for
cynicism to go beyond this. But
no ; the brutality of despolisit
was able to surpass even it. At th«
moment when, in the canton of
Soleure, the people were summoned
to vote the suppression of the secu-
lar foundations, of which we shall
speak presently, one of their jour-
nals published the following: "If
we should be conquered, and the
blacks should defeat the measure,
we shall handle the knifed It
sounds like a sinister echo of
1793.
What can be the object of the
persecutors ? Is it the substitution
of Protestantism for Catholicity?
Scarcely. Protestants who really
believe in their religion disapprove
of these iniquities. The object is
akin, rather, we may be sure, to the
sentiment lately given utterance to
by the Pastor Lang of Zurich:
"We are slowly but surely a|>-
proaching the* end towards wbicii
the development of our spiritual
life is urging us, to wit, the suppres-
sion and disappearance of all chunk-
es." The same sentiment had been
expressed during the debates on
the federal revision by M. Welti.
" He who would wish to be Tree
must not belong to any church.
No church gives liberty. The
state alone gives that." In other
words, the ideal to be aimed at Is
the reign of the state over soul
as well as body. After this, can
we wonder at the cry of abrra
issuing from a quarter not at least
to be suspected of Catholic bias?
It is a Protestant journal — F Union
jurassienne — which exclaims, "The
star of liberty pales, the shadows
of spiritual despotism are gather-
ing around us." But the cry i?
lost in the desert. Desporism
throws those who exercise it into a
kind of intoxication ; every one of
the excesses to which it commits
itself becomes the source of fresh
'ine Persecution in Switzerland.
579
)nc8. Itb last word is proscrip-
ioD, when it is not the scaffold. . .
. . In the diocese of Basel the
rrimes of liberalism have been per-
;)etrated principally at Soleure, in
he Jura, and at Bern. We will re-
new them successively.
At ^leure, the Benedictine mon-
astery of Maria-Stein, the collegiate
church of Schoenwerth, and that
of S. Urs and S. Victor have been
overthrown at one stroke.
The monastery of Maria- Stein
was founded in 1085, and had
cleared and cultivated the coun-
Uy. But the. church can no more
reckon upon the gratitude of its
enemies than upon their justice.
They determined to seize the prop-
erty of the convent, to convert the
building into a madhouse, and to
mock justice with the bestowal of
a trifling alms on the religious thus
iniquitously dispossessed. At the
first news of this project, the ex-
Father Hyacinthe again gave ex-
pression to the indignation he had
exhibited before on similar provo-
cation, and sent to the abbot of the
monastery a protest against "this
attack on property and religion."
The foundation of the collegiate
church of Schoenwerth, situated
near Olten, dates from the Xth
century. It had only ^st canons,
who served four parishes, and gave
instruction in the schools. That
of S. Urs and S. Victor from the
Vlllih. It was erected into a
cathedral in 1828; when the resi-
dence of the Bishop of Basel was
transferred to Soleure. Its chapter
has kept perpetual watch for nearly
a thousand years at the tombs of
the Theban martyrs. These vene-
rable memories arrested not the
arms of the spoilers. What was
wanted was to punish the canons
of Schoenwerth and of Soleure for
their loyally to their bishop, and at
the same time to get possession of
the endowments they administered.
Consequently, the suppression of
the two collegiate churches, as
well as of the monastery of Maria-
Stein, was submitted to the popular
vote. It was adopted by 8,356
votes against 5,896. But when it
is remembered that the majority
included about 3,000 Protestants,
besides the manufacturing popula-
tion of Olten, who are in complete
subjection to the tyranny of their
Freemason employers; that more
than 3,000 tiniid Catholics abstain-
ed from voting, and that the wo-
men and children were not con-
sulted, there can remain no doubt
that once again a Catholic majority
has been sacrificed to a coalition
of Protestants and free-thinkers.
However it may be, this vote re-
markably facilitated the object the
liberals have had in view for some
time, namely, of abolishing the
chapter of Basel. This chapter
consisted of canons from seven
states of the diocese — Bern, Basel,
Thurgau, Aargau, Soleure, Zug,
Lucerne. The state of Soleure
having suppressed its own, and
the states of Aargau and Bern
being urged to do the same to
theirs, the conference of the dio-
cesan states, on the 21st Decem-
ber, decreed the suppression of the
chapter itself and the sale of its
effects. The support of fi\^ of
these states had been procured.
No heed was taken of the opposi-
tion of Lucerne and Zug.
And it is asserted that it is in
the name of religious liberty that
Swiss liberalism has deprived the
diocese of Basel of its bishop and
its chapter! But what cares lib-
eralism for the rights of Catholic
consciences ? However, in thus
decapitating the diocese it was car-
rying out a purpose on which it
58o
The Persecution in Switzerlmid.
was inexorably bent. It had
long resolved to create a national
church calling itself Catholic, and
it hugged the illusion that the sup-
pression of the Catholic bishoprics
would contribute to the success of
this design. It is in pursuance of
the same object that it opened in
Bern, in the month of October, a
faculty of Old Catholic theology.
These facts display a complete
change of tactics on the part of un-
belief. In the last century, Vol-
taire and his satellites tried -to bat-
ter down the church, \[ithout dream-
ing of putting anything in her
place. They failed. Their succes-
.sors of to-day adopt another plan.
It is to create anti-Catholic
churches, calling themselves Ca-
tliolic, to which they do not be-
long, whose dogmas they abjure,
and whose priests they despise.
They trust thus to satisfy the peo-
])le, whilst retaining for themselves
the benefits of unbelief.
Next, in the month of October,
the government of Bern opened, in
the federal capital, a faculty- of
theology, which it called "faculty
of Catholic theology," and it invited
chiefly foreigners to occupy its
chairs. It nominated dean of the
faculty a German, that unfortunate
Dr. Friedrich of Munich, who was
amongst the first to follow Bollin-
ger in his perversity, and they ap-
pointed as his subordinates a few
apostates picked up wherever they
could find them. Eight students,
almost all from the canton of So-
leure, the real focus of Swiss lib-
eralism, were enrolled. AVith such
a contingent, the dream of a na-
tional church does not appear cer-
tain to be realized. But the gov-
ernment of Bern flatters itself that
in time the number of students will
increase, and that it will thus have
at its disposal submissive agents
ready to assist it in its detestable
undertaking, the perversion of the
Jura.
The Jura ! It is impossible to
cast a glance around that unfortu-
nate country without being filled
with gratitude to God for thp reli-
gious heroism it perseveres in dis-
pLiying in the presence of a power-
ful and treacherous enemy who b
striving to crush it utterly.
It is notorious that the ninety-seven
parishes of the Jura have been ar-
bitrarily reconstructed by the gor-
emment of Bern ; and that, after
having reduced them to the num-
ber of twenty-five, it finally increas-
ed them to forty-twa Nothing
has been left undone to place at
the head of every one of these an
apostate priest. But in spite of all
its efforts it has only been able to
muster seventeen. Besides, what
trouble do the recruits swept up
from all the by-ways of Europe
cause them ! Some have already
sent in their resignation.
Thus it was with Giaut, curate
of Bonfol, who, in a public letter
announced his abandonment oi the
mission he had assumed, " because
he saw no immediate prospect of the
realization, in the Jura, of his as-
pirations and ideas." Of Ihc same
kind was the course pursued by
d'Omer Camerle, who, on his with-
drawal, declared that the new cler-
gy, " utterly despised by the liberals
and execrated by the ultraraontanes,
were attempting a work which was
entirely useless if not contemptible,"
Others have been obliged to escape,
or had to evade justice.
We have before narrated therois-
fortunes of Rupplin. His rival
Naudot, arrested for abduction ^i
a minor, was condemned to six
months' imprisonment. In his de-
fence, made by himself, he demand-
ed, " Am I more guilty than Giaut,
The Persecution in Switzerland.
581
curi of Bonfol, who calls himself
Guiot ; than Choisel, curi of Cour-
gcnay, whose real name is Chastel ;
than D^ramey, who calls himself
Pipy?" We must, however, state
to his credit that he abjured his
errors and returned into the bosom
of the church.
At Bienne, the intruder, St. Ange
Li^vre, threw off the mask, and
married a Protestant named Tsan-
tre-Boll. The union was blessed
by M. Saintes, a Protestant minis-
ter, after an address by M. Hur-
uult, from Geneva, who compli-
mented his colleague " for having
had the courage to throw off the
yoke of bondage imposed upon him
by the Roman papacy.*' This was
overshooting the mark. The intru-
ders may commit all imaginable esca-
pades without provoking attention.
But they must not marry. It re-
veals prematurely the programme
of the free-thinkers of Bern, who,
in order to conciliate the popula-
tion of the Jura, declare that they
have no intention to meddle with
the dogmas of the church. Ac-
cordingly, the " Provisionary Catho-
lic Synodal Commission," in a letter
addressed to " MM. the curates of
the Jura," " severely rebuked the
deplorable example given by M. St.
Ange Li^vre, and promised to de-
mand from the authorities a rem-
edy, which could not be refused if
another member of the clergy should
venture to violate the venerable
laws of the church." Ludicrous
imbecility! They will try to hin-
der for the future a renewal of these
wanton freaks, but they respect
what has been already perpetrated.
And so M. Lifevre and his Protes-
tant wife remain at the head of the
parish of Bienne !
But do any of the intruded meet
with success in their propaganda?
No ! At Alle, Salis rings die bell
for Masses which he does not say.
At Bienne, only twenty or thirty
persons attend the service of St.
Ange Li^vre. At Del^mont, the
chief place of the district, enjoying
a radical priest, a radical president
of the tribunal, radical function-
aries, so empty is the church usurped
by Portaz-Grassis that, on the 7th
of January, the council of the par-
ish gave vent to the following cry
of distress in a circular addressed
to " Liberal Catholics " : " The re-
ligious quesftion in the Jura being
intimately associated with the po-
litical one, it is important, now that
our national church is constituted
on solid and legal foundations, that
all liberals should support this
church and sustain the majority of
the Bernese people in the steps that
have been taken. [It must be re-
membered that the majority of the
Bernese people is Protestant.]
" Yet is our worship little fre-
quented, and our enemies proclaim
everywhere that our church is de-
serted.
" In presence of this carelessness
— we may say, even of this culpa-
ble indifference — we make a last
appeal to the patriotic sentiments
of the liberal Catholics of Del^mont,
beseeching them to assist more
regularly at the Sunday Mass, and
above all to induce their wives and
children to be present at it. If
Catholics [!] will not show more
zeal in supporting the liberal curate
and the council of the parish, the
latter will resign in globo the charge
entrusted to it."
Nothing, however, discourages
the government of Bern, and in con-
formity with the law of worship,
voted some months ago, it has oblig-
ed the new parishes of the Jura to
proceed to the formation of paro-
chial councils, and to the nomina-
tion, or rather confirmation, of the
582
The Persecution in Switzerland,
intruding curates. But here, also,
what deception ! Out of 12,000
electors, only the tenth part voted.
In 28 communes, not a single elec-
tor presented himself at the ballot.
In the others, the number was
laughably small. At St. Imier, for
instance, out of 1,933 electors, only
eight answered the summons. At
Moustier, out of 1,429, only 24.
No less significant are the numbers
of votes polled for the elected cu-
rates :
Fontenais : M. d'Abbadie (French-
man) had 77 votes out of 1,651
electors.
Courtemaiche : M. Coffignal
(Frenchman) had 15 votes out of
1,683 electors.
Undervelier: M. Salis (Italian)
had 13 votes out of 1,046 electors.
Courroux : M. Maestrelli (Ital-
ian) had 60 votes out of 1,557 elec-
tors.
Roggenburg : M. Oser (German)
had 40 votes out of 465 electors.
Bislach : M. Schoenberger (Ger-
man) had ^2i votes out of 669 elec-
tors.
Dittengen : M. Fuchs (Austrian)
had 33 votes out of 667 electors.
Bienne: M. St. Ange Li^vre
(Frenchman) had 50 votes out of
1,040 electors.
Imagine the Bernese government
being eager to confirm nominations
made under such circumstances !
As to the Catholics, they con-
tinue to assemble in barns and cart-
sheds, and there to lift with faith
their hands towards heaven, and to
rest firm in their fidelity. This at-
titude only aggravates the rage of
their persecutors. We have already
spoken of the suppression of the
Ursulines of Porrentruy. The last
remaining religious congregation in
that town could not long escape the
same fate. It was that of the Sis-
ters of Charity of Ste. Ursanne, who
had for twenty years ministered in
the hospital for the poor of the
chief town of the Bernese Jura.
They began with seizing their chai)-
el and handing it over to schism
Then, without any pretext, ihey
cast into prison the Superior and
two of the Sisters, where they re-
mained four days. At length, one
fine morning, they were infonnd
that they must leave the place with-
in four hours ; at the expiration of
which period, if they had not left,
** they would be forcibly expelled"
The execution soon followed the
sentence; and these religious la-
dies, whose presence had only bees
known by good works, were, in
their turn, compelled to tread the
path of exile !
In spite of the implacable intole-
rance of their enemies, the Juras-
sians do not cease petitioning the
federal authorities; and to the
number of 9,000 they have de-
manded the restitution of their
churches and of their ecclesiastical
property, the re-establishment of the
Catholic worship, and the recall of
the 97 priests unjustly expelled.
The restitution of the churches,
and the re-establishment of the Ca-
tholic as a public worship, ha^'c
been flatly refused, on the plea
that there cannot exist in the can-
ton any other public Catholic wor-
ship than that established by the
law of January, 1874 ! But the fed-
eral council, notwithstanding its
notorious hostility, shrunk from an
open and avowed approbation of
the ostracism of the faithful priests;
and it requested of the Bernese
government an explanation of the
reasons which, in its opinion, justi-
fied the continuance of that rigorous
measure ; reserving to itself to give
a subsequent decision on the ap-
peal which had been made to it.
Opinions are divided as to Ae
The Persecution in Switzerlani.
583
real intentions of the federal coun-
cij, and at the moment when we
write the definitive decision has
not been announced. But Vhat-
ever may be the fate of the appeal,
the situation of the church in the
Jura will remain no less lamenta-
ble-
Whilst the Jurassian population
give, thus, an example of fidelity
worthy of the first ages of the
Christian era, the tempest has burst
upon the Catholic parish of the
tovn of Bern.
This parish possesses a church
built by the late Mgr. Baud, prede-
cessor of the present curate, M.
Perroulaz, and paid for by the alms
of the Catholics of the entire country.
The schismatics cast longing eyes
upon it ; but their designs were for
a while impeded by the fear of dis-
pleasing the ambassadors. This
fear was unfounded. For since
the overthrow of governments caus-
ed by the detestable policy of
Napoleon III., there is no longer an
Europe ; and everywhere violence
and injustice, having nothing to
fear from the once protective influ-
ence of the great powers, commit
themselves to every license. It is
thus, then, they set about to com-
pass their end.
First, an assembly of the parish
was convoked to elect a parochial
council. But as such an assembly
owes its existence to the late law
of worship, and as the faithful Ca-
tholics could not consequently take
any part in it, the council was
chosen by one hundred out of three
hundred and sixty electors. Scarce-
ly was it installed when it received
a request from the professors of the
Old Catholic faculty of Bern, that
the church might be placed at their
disposition, for their Masses, wor-
ship, and preachings. It eagerly
acceded to this request, and desir-
ed M. Perroulaz to open the gates
of the church to the schismatic
priests of the university. He refus-
ed. They ordered him to give up
the keys. He did nothing of the
kind. They went to his house and
took them from him ; and on Sun-
day, 28th February, Dr. Friedrich
and his accomplices took possession
of the sanctuary. M. Perroulaz, to
avoid scandal, assembled his par-
ishioners for the celebration of their
worship in tlie great hall of the
Museum. Thither they flocked in
crowds. Foremost amongst the
worshippers were the ambassadors
of France, Austria, Italy, Spain,
Portugal, Brazil, etc. Thirty years
ago, such a demonstration of the
diplomatic body would not have
remained without results. But in
the year of grace 1875, " might
makes right," and the petty tyrants
of Bern, supported by certain for-
eign cabinets, satiate with impunity
their hatred of the church.
But even this did not content
them. It was not sufficient for
them to have deprived Catholics of
their church. They wanted, fur-
ther, to compel M. Perroulaz to
say Mass in it together with the
apostates. The Council of State
designed, in this way, to place him
in a position in which they might
be able, in due form of law, to re-
lieve him of his functions. On his
refusal it decided to institute a
process of revocation ; and, pend-
ing the trial, it suspended him!
Then he was driven out of the
presbytery, and a Bavarian impos-
tor was installed in his place.
What ! After having despoiled the
faithful of the sanctuary built by
their own hands and with their own
money, they command them, be-
sides, to make common cause with
renegades, and make it a crime in
their pastor to assemble them else-
584
The Persecution in Switzerland.
where to adore God according to
their conscience. At Rome, under
the pagan emperors, the Christians
had the freedom of the Catacombs ;
at Bern, in 1875, even such freedom
would be grudged by the ingrates
whose cradle was enlightened by
the rays of divine truth !
At Geneva affairs are as gloomy
as in the canton of Bern. Last
August, at the moment when we were
relating the high-handed proceed-
ings of the government, M. Loyson
had just distinguished himself by
breaking his connection with the lay
chiefs of the schism. "I will not
engage," he said, " in useless dis-
cussions with men who confound
liberalism with radicalism, Catholi-
cism with the Profession of Faith
of the Savoyard vicar." The poor
apostate would, we suspect, have
been but too glad to return to the
venerable church which received
his first oaths. But how dispose
of Mme. Loyson and the little Em-
manuel? He continued therefore
schismatic, and he announced that
he should remain at Geneva ** until
the election of a bishop, who, with
his synod, was the only authority,"
he added, " which he could recog-
nize in the religious order." In
pursuance of this secession, he
founded a free worship, which has a
small number of sectaries as its
following.
As to the official church, its mis-
fortunes are beyond calculation.
The town of Geneva itself was
favored with three curates, each
receiving from four to five thousand
francs a year, and a few vi'-^rs.
After the retirement of M. Loyson,
the second of the three curates —
M. Hurtault — left, in order to oc-
cupy one of the chairs of the Old
Catholic faculty at Bern. It was,
no doubt, to console the new church
in these bereavements, that one of
the vicars, M. Vergoin, in imitation
of his accomplices, took to himsdt
a wife in the person of a Frcyburg
damsM.
However, the law of the organizi-
tion of religious worship enjoined
on all the curates and vicars of the
canton the oath of obedience totbe
laws. The Council of State shnmk
for a long time from the application
of this provision in the rural com-
munes. At length, yielding to the^
impatience of the "Catholic Supc- 1
rior Council," it decreed that the
oath should be taken on the 4th
September by the seventeen curates
and the two vicars officiating in the
country. I
On the appointed day, a large
crowd assembled around the en- I
trance of the town-hall. Not a
priest summoned presented himself. 1
They, too, were proud to wear the
device of Mgr. Lachat : Potiusmri
quant fasdari 1 — " Death rather than
shame !"
Immediately afterwards, the Coun-
cil of State pronounced the afore-
said curds vacant, and suppressed
the pay of their occupiers from
October 31. This measure was
communicated to the "Catholic
Superior Council," with the view
of its filling the vacancies.
Great was the embarrassment of
the latter. As a commencement,
it demanded of the Council of State
the power of disposing of the coun
try churches from the 31st October.
The reply was that it had only to
apply to the municipal authorities.
It then devised the plan of pnb-
lishing in the journals, amongst the
advertisements, a notice to the effect
that " the registry was open at the
office of the superior council for
the offices of curate and vicar in
twenty-two parishes of the canton,
which had become vacant in cons^
quence of death, dismissal, and rev*
The Persecution in Switzerland.
585
>cation." When at length it had
bund a candidate, it resolved to
present him to the parish of Grand-
Saconnex, one of the nearest to
jeneva, and which on that account
ippeared to it to be ripe for schism.
But only thirty-three electors out
5f one hundred and sixty-six re-
sponded to the call. It was less
than a third, and the election was
abortive in consequence.
Such a check was suggestive.
The measure decreed on the 4th
September was not put in force,
except that the salaries of the faith-
ful curates remained suppressed.
But they revenged themselves by
annoying the Catholics in every
possible way.
We will cite two instances.
An Old Catholic interment hav-
ing taken place at Hermance, after
several provocations, the popula-
tion threw some stones on the
coffin of the defunct. The blame
was immediately laid on the curate,
and he was expelled from the can-
ton on the pretext that "he trou-
bled the public peace," said the de-
cree, " by his preachings, and ex-
cited hatred of one another among
the citizens." No accusation could
be more serious than this. For,
indeed, had he been guilty of it, it
was before the courts he should
have been brought. But all that
was wanted then was to punish the
parishioners for having, a few days
before, given an ill reception to
two intruders who had attempted
to pervert the village.
The second is a yet sadder inci-
dent. One fine day, an Old Catho-
lic inhabitant of Geneva, named
Maurice, who lived close to the
Old Catholic church, look it into
His head to have his infant child
baptized by the intruding priest,
Marchal, in the Catholic Church
of Conipesi^resi used for two com-
munes, Bardonnex and Plan-les-
Ouates. On the arrival of the cor-
tege, the mayors of these communes,
habited in their scarfs of office, and
surrounded by their subordinates,
opposed its entry into the church,
and forced it to beat a retreat. At
the news of this there was great
consternation at Geneva.
The whim of M. Maurice was
not only a violation of the liberty
of religion ; it was a wanton pro-
vocation, since he belonged to the
commune of Geneva, and could
have had his child baptized in the
church of S. Germain, of which the
schism had taken possession. No
matter. The Council of State took
advantage of the incident, and or-
dered the mayors of Compesi^res
to keep the parish church open for
baptism of the little Maurice. At
the same time it ordered thither
some squadrons of gendarmes and
of carabineers, and, thanks to this
display of the public force, a lock-
smith was able to force open the
doors of the sacred edifice. They
had it sealed with the borough-seal,
and a huge placard was stuck on it,
bearing the following inscription :
"Property is inviolable." Before
the profanation, a delegate from the
communal authorities of Bardonnex
and of Plan-les-Ouates had commu-
nicated to the invaders a final pro-
test.
Any commentary would be super-
fluous. We limit ourselves to
quoting the following words of the
Journal de Geneve: "What has
passed at Compesi^res has but too
quickly justified the mournful fore-
bodings inspired by the violent
policy which is growing from bad
to worse in official quarters. We
persist in demanding that a stop be
put to tl)is sowing the wind at the
risk of reaping the whirlwind."
But the object had been achieved.
586
The Persecutiofi in Switzerland
The Catholics had been outraged,
and a pretext had been made for
dismissing M. de Mpntfalcon, mayor
of Plan-les-Ouates and president
of " rUnion des Campagnes."
It appears, however, that this was
not enough. In the bosom of the
" Catholic Superior Council," M.
H^ridier exclaimed : " We must fol-
low the course of the Bernese gov-
ernment." Such bitter hatred can
only be accounted for by the nega-
tive results of the country enter-
prise. The firmness of the Catho-
lics, in fact, increases, instead of
growing fainter, and they are unani-
mous in adopting the sentiments
of a speaker of the " Union des Cam-
pagnes," who exclaimed lately :
'* Whatever happens we will not be
found wanting. If they despoil us
of our churches, they can only take
the walls ; they cannot take our
souls. We will follow our stripped
and proscribed altars even into the
poverty of a barn or the darkness
of a cavern. If they hunt our
priests from their presbyteries, we
will offer them an asylum under
our modest and friendly roofs. If
they rob them of their salaries, we
will share with them the wages of
our labor and the bread of our
tables."
A special cause of irritation to
the liberals and free-thinkers was
the circumstance that scarcely had
the Catholics been despoiled of the
church of S. Germain before they
bought, to replace it, the Temple
Unique, formerly occupied by the
Freemasons, and which they dedi-
cated to the Sacred Heart. Ac-
cordingly, no sooner had the elec-
tions for the renewal of the Grand
Council given a majority to M.
Carteret, before that gentleman set
to work to inflict a fresh blow upon
the Catholics, by robbing them of
the Church of Notre Dame, This
magnificent church was baill in
1857 by means of subscription
collected throughout the Chris-
tian world by Mgr. Mermillod,
and M. Dunoyer, the dismissed
curate of Geneva. The subscrip-
tions had been given, wc ncdi
scarcely say, on the faith of the
Catholic worship, and that alone,
being celebrated in the church j
and for seventeen years no other
had been celebrated there.
For a long while M. Carter^
and the free-thinking liberals had
been casting longing looks on this
prey. They had been impeded hi
their designs by energetic resist-
ance, and, amongst others, by that
of the ex-Father Hyacinthe. Bol
at last they lost patience, and at
their instigation, backed by the
pressure of a populace whose worst
passions they had inflamed, the
Grand Council, at the beginoing
of January, adopted an order of
the day requiring the prompt ex«t-
cution of the law of 2d November
1850.
This law, which had bestowed
upon Catholics the land on which
the sacred edifice is built, enact-
ed that the administration of the
church should be entnisted to
a commission of fiwt members
chosen by the Catholics of the
parish of Geneva. By demanding
the putting in force of this clau^c.
they hoped to form a commission
of Old Catholics who would hand
over the church to the radicals con-
cealed under a schismatic masL
We do not intend to discuss here
the question of right ; although it
appears clear to us that they could
not justly turn against Catholics a
stipulation which had been made
expressly in their favor. The mere
equity of the case should have suf-
ficed to prevent, under existing cir-
cumstances, the application of the
The PersecfUion in Switzerland.
587
clause. This was the view taken
by two distinguished Protestants
who had not abandoned all regard
for justice — M. Naville and M. de
la Rive. The latter, in a remark-
uble production, observed : " There
is not, I think, an impartial mind,
which, looking at the matter from
the point of view of simple equity,
will not decide in favor of that
one of the two churches which has
borne the whole of the large outlay
by which the value of the original
grant has been increased more than
tenfold. The spot on which now
stands one of the most splendid
monuments of our city would be
still a waste space but for the sums
collected and furnished precisely
by those persons whose possession
of it is now disputed. Notre
Darae is exclusively the work
of the priests and faithful of the
Catholic Church. That is a no-
torious, undisputed fact."
There could be no reply to lan-
guage so true and striking. More-
over, one of those who had collect-
ed the subscriptions, in a published
letter, stated that " the principal
part of the sums employed in the
erection of the building had been
subscribed by Roman Catholics
throughout the world, and that he
could assert and prove that those
who are separated from the Catho-
lic Churcii had nothing whatsoever
lo do with its construction."
But these protests were useless.
Had, however, the sectaries the
pretence that they were in a ma-
jority in Geneva, and that they had
need of Notre Dame } By no
means. And the Chromque radical
remarked it, demanding : ** What
Hrjll you do with the church of No-
ire Dame } Can you fill it V" In-
deed, no I They will never be able
10 fill it. But the object was to
wrest it from the faithful — ^from those
who flocked to it in crowds, whose
registry records, in 1874, 260 Bap-
tisms, 170 Burials, 60 Marriages,
174 'First Communions, and 30,000
Communions of adults ; and for
whom five Masses were celebrated
every Sunday. Here, once more
the end justifies the means.
The Council of State, movea
thus to put in force the law of 1850,
convoked the electoral body, de-
ciding, as a preliminary, that the citi-
zens of Geneva alone should take
part in the election. To under-
stand the importance of this quali-
fication it will suffice to observe
that there are in the canton of Ge-
neva 25,000 Catholic foreigners,*
and that, by depriving them of the
right of voting, the Catholic strength
would be seriously weakened.
In spite of this subterfuge, there
was every prospect of victory for
the faithful, when, on the very eve
of the elections, the 6th February,
during the afternoon, the number
of electors which, in the morning,
stood at 1,500 only, was raised to
1,924. Whence these recruits at
the last moment had been procured
may be easily conjectured. The
Courrier de Genhfe asserted that it
saw come to the poll " a band of
unknown individuals who appeared
to be formed in brigades."
Thanks to this reinforcement, the
free-thinking list obtained a majori-
ty of 187 votes.
The commission thus elected im-
mediately entered upon its duties,
and instead of taking their church
away from the Catholics, it hurried-
ly decided that " the inhabitants of
the right bank of the Rhone and
of the Lake, who belong to the
religion recognized by the state.
* There are in the caaton 47«868 Catholics, of
whom 25,000 are foreignen ; and 43,639 Protestant*,
of whom only 9,000 are foreigners. So that the
Proustant eleclon numbered lovBooagainst i6,on>
588
The Persecution in Switzerland.
should be at liberty to perform in
the temple the ceremonies of Bap-
tism, Marriage, and Burial," and
that it reserved for itself to' take
what steps it might deem advisable
to take against ecclesiastics who
should give occasion to just com-
plaints, specially in aught that con-
cerns the public peace, obedience
to the laws, and the respect due to
magistrates.
These resolutions were on the
point of being executed when
Mgr. Mermillod, M. Dunoyer, as
representatives of the subscribers,
and M. Lany, rector of Notre
Dame, claimed, before the courts,
the ownership of the edifice.
Do judges still exist at Geneva?
It remains to be seen.
But this was not all. On the 6th
April, at five o'clock in the morning,
the recently-elected commission
had the doors of the church
broken open by a locksmith, pro-
tected by a squad of gendarmes
and police-agents ; after which
seals were placed on the doors,
and further worship interdicted !
The situation becomes thus
more and more critical. M. Car-
teret envies M. Bismarck his lau-
rels, and, supported by all that is
evil in Geneva, we must expect to
see him rush headlong to the ut-
most extremities. Far distant, in-
deed, is the time when one could
talk of Swiss liberty. The vio-
lence of every description which
has gone on increasing in the old
Helvetic land demonstrates that
despotism can run riot as savagely
under a republican form of govern-
ment as under any. other; and that
they who cry out the most lustily
against the tyranny of kings are
themselves tyrants of the worst
kind when they have power in
their hands.
It is clear that in the course they
are pursuing the Swiss radicals
will not suffer themselves lo be
distanced by any one. They have
formed a vast association, called
the Volkszferein, at one of whose
meetings, held at Olten last au-
tumn, a programme was voted con-
taining the following clause: **The
moment has arrived for the appli-
cation of the principles which art
the foundation of the new federal
party. In order to crush for ever
the influence of Ultramontanism
it is not enough to emancipate
from the church the individual as
such, it is necessary that churches
themselves should be governed de-
mocratically and nationally and
that every hierarchical institution
be suppressed, as -dangerous to the
state and to liberty ; and that, by
virtue of Art. 50 of the new consti-
tution, the existing bishoprics be
suppressed by the federal assem-
bly." The hypocrites ! They dare
to take the name of liberty npon
their lips! True, the "National
Convention," and the Paris "Com-
mune," they too scribbled the word
everywhere !
The demonstrations, the principal
of which we have indicated, must
end in the definitive constitution of
the projected national church, b^
fore which all will be -expected to
bow the knee, as the pagans d^
manded of the primitive church to
adore their false gods. Active »^
gotiations for this object are being
carried on between five states of
the ancient diocese of Basel, the
cantons of Zurich, Schaifhausen,
Ticino, Geneva, etc. It has been
decided to have a bishop. All will
be required to submit to this bish-
op. But he will have a superior in
the form of a synod composed of
sectaries of all creeds or of nt>
creed, and these will enjoy, in his
regard, the right of deposition. It
Coffin Flowers. 580
|i asserted that M. Reinkens will Without belief of any kind, their
jconsecrate the new bishop. The one aim is the overthrow of all re-
consecration of an apostate does ligion. Let them, then, seize our
Bot share in the promise of inde- churches — let them decree the for*
fectibility. mation of an ecclesiastical hier-
Anyhow, the Old Catholics will archy ! The profaned churches
not succeed in erecting a serious will be deserted, their priests will
edifice. To found a church there be despised, and again- they will be
are needed faith, zeal, devotedness, taught the lesson that the Living
religious conviction. Radicals and God does not preside over schis-
free-thinkers have none of these, matics and heretics !
COFFIN FLOWERS.
And doth Saint Peter ope the gates
Of heaven to such a toll ?
Or do you think this show of flowers
Will deck my naked soul .^
Perhaps you wish the folks to know
How much you can afford ;
And prove upon my coffin-lid
You don't ** let out," nor board.
Oh ! cast an humble flower or two
Upon my funeral bier ;
And drop upon my lifeless form
One true, love-speaking tear.
But take away these shop-made things,
They mock my sighs and groans ;
And soon, like me, will rot, and show
Their framework, like my bones.
God only asks if my poor soul
A wedding garment wears. .
A bridal wreath } Yes, make it up
Of flowers. God's flowers are prayers !
590
Are You My Wifet
ARE YOU MY WIFE ?
r THB AOTHOK OF " PAMS BKPOSB THE WA*," ** HUXBXR THWTKKK,*' ** WlJS VI.," BIC
CHAPTER VII.
THE SEARCH RENEWED.
Everybody was late next day at
the Court ; everybody except Glide
de Winton, whose waking dreams
being brighter than any that his
pillow could suggest, had deserted
it at a comparatively early hour,
and had been for a stroll in the park
before breakfast. He re-entered
the house whistling an air from
Don Giaz'anniy and went into the
library, where he expected to find
Sir Simon. The baronet generally
came in there to read his letters
when there were people staying in
the house. The library was a noble
room with its six high pointed win-
dows set in deep mullions, and its
walls wainscoted with books on the
east and west — rich-clad volumes
of crimson and brown, with the gold
letters of their names relieving the
sombre hues like thin streaks oflight,
while at intervals great old floren-
tines in folios "garmented in white "
made a break in the general solem-
nity. The end opposite the win-
dows was left clear for a group of
family portraits ; and beneath these,
as Glide burst into the room, there
stood a living group, conversing
together in low tones, and with
anxious, harassed faces. Mrs. de
Winton, contrary to her custom,
had on a gray cashmere dressing-
gown, whose soft, clinging drapery
gave her tall figure some resem-
blance to a classical statue ; she
was leaning her arm on the high
mantel-piece, with an open letter in
her hand, which she was apparently
discussing with deep annoyance,
and with a cloud of incredulity on
her handsome, cold features; the
admiral was striking the marble
with his clenched hand, and looking
steadily at the bronze clock, as if
vehemently remonstrating with '\i
for marking ten minutes to eleven;
Sir Simon was standing with his
hands in his pockets, his back
against the base of Cicero's bust,
ver}' nearly as white as the Roman
orator himself. .
The three figures started when
Glide opened the door. He felt in-
stantaneously that sometliing was
amiss, but there was a momentary
pause before he said :
** Has anything happened V*
Mrs. de Winton, seeing that no
one else spoke, came forward : " No-
thing that we are certain of; but
your uncle has received a letter
that has shocked and startled us a
good deal, although it seems on the
face of it quite impossible that the
thing can be true. But you will be
brave. Glide, and meet it as becomes
a Christian.'* She spoke calmly, bat
her voice trembled a little.
** For heaven's sake what is it ?"
said Glide, a horrible thought dart-
ing through him like a sting. Whv
did his uncle keep looking away
from him } " Uncle, what is it?"
" It is a letter from Ralph Crom-
er — you remember your uncle's old
valet? — he is in London now; he
was at Glanworth on that dreadful
night. . . . My dear boy," laying
Are You My Wifet
591
her hand kindly on his arm, " it may
be a mere fancy of his ; in fact, it
seems impossible for a moment to
admit of its being anything else ; but
Cromer says he has seen her. ..."
"Seen whom? My dead wife . . .
Isabel ! The man is mad !"
" It must be a delusion ; we are
certain it is ; but still it has given
us a shock," said his stepmother.
" What does the man say .> Show
me his letter !'
She handed it to him.
** Honored Master : I am
hard set to believe it ; but if it an't
her, it's her ghost as I seen this
mornin' comin* out of a house in
Wimpole Street, and though I ran
after her as hard as my bad leg 'ud
let me, she jumped into a cab and
was off before I could get another
look of her. It was the young
missis, Master Glide's wife, as you
buried eight year ago, Sir, as I'm a
live man ; unless I went blind of a
sudden and saw wrong, which an't
likely, as you know to the last my
eyes was strong and far-seein'. I
went back to the house, but the man
could tell me nothin' except as all
sorts of people keep comin* and
goin'with the toothache, in and out,
his employer bein' a dentist, and
too busy to be disturbed with ques-
tions as didn't pay. I lose no time
in acquaintin' you of, honored mas-
ter, and remain yours dutifully to
command, Ralph Cromer."
There was a dead silence in the
room while. Clide read the letter.
Every one of the six eyes was fixed
on him eagerly. He crushed the
paper in his hand, and sat down
without uttering a word.
" Don't let yourself be scared too
quickly, De Winton," said Sir Si-
mon ; ** it is perfectly clear to my
tnind that the thing is a mere im-
agination of Cromer's ; he's nearly
in his dotage ; he sees somebody
who bears a strong likeness to a
person he knew nearly eight years
ago, and he jumps at the conclusion
that it is that person."
Clide made no answer to this,
but turned round and faced his un-
cle, who still stood with his hand
clenched stolidly on the mantel-
piece.
" Uncle, what do you think of
it ?" he said hoarsely.
The admiral walked deliberately
towards the sofa and sat down be-
side his nephew. Before he spoke
he held out his horny palm, and
grasped Clide's hand tightly. The
action was too significant not to
convey to Clide all it was meant
— perhaps unconsciously — to ex-
press.
The admiral did not believe the
story to be the phantom of dotage ;
he believed Cromer had see Isabel.
" My boy," he said, speaking in a
harsh, abrupt tone, as if the words
were being dragged out of him, ** I
can say nothing until we have in-
vestigated the matter. An hour
ago I would have sworn it was
absurd, impossible. I would have
said, with an oath, it cannot be
true. I saw her laid in her coffin
and buried at St. Val^ry. But I
might have sworn falsely. Several
days had elapsed between the death
and the burial ; the features were
swollen, scarcely recognizable. \
took it perhaps too readily for
granted that they were hers; I
ought to have looked closer and
longer ; but I shrank from looking
at all ; I only glanced ; they show-
ed me the hair ; it was the same
length and apparently the same
color, deep jet black ; the height too
corresponded. This, as well as all
the collateral evidence, satisfied me
at once as to the identity, ft may
be that I was too rash, too anxious
to be convinced."
592
Are You My Wife?
Glide was silent for a few mo-
ments. Then he said :
" Where did the dentist live that
gave us the clew before ?"
" In Wimpole Street."
Glide drew away his hand quick-
ly from his uncle's with a visible
shudder. The coincidence had
done its work with the others be-
fore he came in. An inarticulate
exclamation, full of passionate emo-
tion of some sort, broke from him.
"Gome, come," said Sir Simon,
striding towards the window, " it*s
sheer nonsense to take for granted
that the house is burnt down be-
cause there's a smell of fire. The
coincidences are strange, very sin-
gular certainly; but such things
happen every day. I stick to my
first impression that it*s nothing but
a delusion of Gromer's in the first
instance, to which the chance simi-
larity of the dentist's address gives
a color of reality too faint to be
worth more than it actually is.
You must go up to town at once,
and clear away the mistake ; it's
too monstrous to be anything else."
He spoke in a very determined
manner, as if he were too thorough-
ly convinced himself to doubt of
convincing others. Glide made a
resolute effort to be convinced.
" Yes, you say truly ; it's un-
reasonable to accept the story with-
out further evidence. I will go in
search of it without an hour's de-
lay. Uncle, you will come with
^e?"
** Yes, my boy, yes ; we will go
together; we must start in about
an hour from this " — pulling out
his watch — " meantime, come in and
have your breakfast ; it wont help
matters to travel on an empty
stomach."
Mrs.-de Vinton left the room hur-
riedly ; the others were following ;
but Glide had weightier things on
iosel
his mind than breakfast ; he do
the door after his uncle and tum^
ed round, facing Sir Simon.
The latter was the first to speald
'' Has anything definite passed
between you and Franceline ?"
It was precisely to speak aboi
this that he had detained Sir SI
mon, yet when the baronet broacH
ed the subject in this frank, strai^
to-the-point way, he answered hn
almost savagely : " What's the oa
of reminding me of her now ! A)
if the thought were not alread
driving me mad !"
" I must speak of it. WTiaten
misery may be in store for the res
of us, I am responsible for her shar
in it. I insist upon knowing boi
far things have gone between yot
Have you distinctly committei
yourself?"
" If following a woman like he
shadow, and hanging on ever
word she says, and telling her b
every look and tone that he woi
ships the ground she walks on — i
you call that distinctly comraittic
myself, I shouldn't think you nee;
ed to ask."
" Have you asked her to be voc
wife?"
" Not in so many words.*'
" Does she care for you ? I
Winton, be honest with roe. Th
is no time for squeamishnes
Speak out to me as man to man.
feel towards this young girl as
she were my own child. I ha^
known all along how it was wi
you. But how about her ? Have
guessed right — does she love you
" God help me ! God help i
both !" And with this passions
cry Glide turned away and, hidi;
his face in his bands, let himse
fall into a chair.
" God help you, my (>oor la<
And God forgive me I" mutten
Sir Simon.
Are You My Wife?
593
The accent of self-reproach in
which the prayer was uttered smote
Glide to the heart; it stirred all
that was noble and unselfish within
him, and in the midst of his over-
whelming anguish bade him forget
himself to comfort his friend.
" You have nothing to reproach
yourself with ; you acted like a
true friend, like a father to me.
You meant to make me the happiest
of men, to give me a treasure that
1 never could be worthy of God
bless you for it !** He held out his
hand, and grasped Sir Simon's.
** No, nobody is to blame ; it is
my own destiny that pursues me.
I thought I had lived it down ; but
1 was mistaken. I am never to
live it down. I could bear it if it
fell upon myself alone. I had
grown used to it. But that it
should fall upon her! What has
she done to deserve it .^ . . . What
do I not deserve for bringing this
curse upon her V^ He rose up with
flashing eye, his whole frame quiver-
ing with passion — he struck out
against the air with both arms, as
if striving to burst some invisible,
unendurable bond.
Sir Simon started bacl^ affright-
ed. Kind-hearted, easy-going Sir
Simon had never experienced the
overmastering force of passion,
whether of anger or grief, love or
joy ; his was one of those natures
that when the storm comes lie
down and let it sweep over them.
He was brought now for the first
lime in his life in contact with the
s[)cctacle of one who did not bend
under the tempest, but rose up in
frantic defiance, breasting and re-
sisting it. He quailed before the
sight; he could not make a sign
or find a word to say. But the
transient paroxysm of madness
spent itself, and after a few minutes
elide said, h\)pelessly yet fiercely :
VOL, XXI. — 38
" Speak to me, why don't you,
Harness.^" Emotion swept away
his habitual tone of respect towards
the man who might have been his
father. " Help me to help her !
What can I do to stand between
her and this misery.^ I must see
her before I go, and what in Heav-
en's name shall I say to her?"
"You shall not see her," said
Sir Simon ; " you would not think
of such a thing if you were ia
your right mind ; but you are mad,.
De Winton. Say to her, indeed L
That you find you are a married
man — I don't believe it, mind — but
what else could you say if you
were to see her.^ While there is
the shadow of a doubt on this
head you must not see her, must
not directly or indirectly liold any
communication with her."
" And I am to sneak off without
a word of explanation, and leave
her to think of me as a heartless,,
dishonorable scoundrel!"
" A bitter alternative ; but it is^
better to seem a scoundrel than
to be one," answered Sir Simon.
" What could you say to her if you
saw her .^"
** I would tell her the truth and
ask her to forgive me," said the
young man, his face kindling with
tenderness and passion of a softer
kind than that which had just con-
vulsed its fine lineaments. " I
would bless her for what the mem-
ory of her love must be to me
while I live. Harness, if it is only
to say * God bless you and forgive
me !* I must see her."
"ril shoot you first!" said the
baronet, clutching his arm and
arresting his steps toward the
door. "You call that love.> I
call it the basest selfishness. You
would see the woman who loves
you for the sole purpose of plant-
ing yourself so firmly in the ruins
594
Are You My Wife?
of her broken heart that nothing
could ever uproot it ; but then she
would worship you as a victim — a
victim of her own making, and this
would be compensation to you for
a great deal. I thought better of
you, De Winton, than to suppose
you capable of such heartless fop-
pery."
It was Glide's turn to quail. But
he answered quickly :
"You are right. It would be
selfish and cruel. I was mad to
think of it."
"Of course you were. I knew
you would see it in a moment."
" But there is no reason why I
should not see her father," said
Glide ; " it is only fit that I should
speak to him. Shall I go there, or
will you bring him up here V*
" You shall not see him, here or
anywhere else," was the peremptory
reply. " Have you spoken to him
already ?"
" No. I went down this morning
for the purpose, but he was not up."
" That was providential. And
about Franceline, am I to under-
stand there is a distinct engage-
ment between you?"
" As distinct as need be for a
man of honor."
" Since when."
"Last night."
Sir Simon winced. This at any
rate was his doing. He had taken
every pains to precipitate what now
he would have given almost any-
. thing he possessed to undo.
" ril tell you what it is, you must
leave the matter in my hands. 1
will see the count as soon as you
are gone. I will tell him that your
uncle has been called off suddenly
on important business that required
your presence, and that you have
gone with him. For the present it
is not necessary to say more; it
irould be cruel to do so."
" I will abide by your advice,'*
said Glide submissively ; " hot af-
terwards — what if this terrible news
turns out to be true V*
" It has yet to be proved."
" If it is proved it will kill her!"
exclaimed Glide, speaking rather to
himself than to his companion.
" Pooh ! nonsense ! All fancy
that. Lovers' dead are easily bur-
ied," said Sir Simon, affecting a
cheerfulness he was very far from
feeling. He knew better than Gide
how ill-fitted Franceline was, both
by the sensitive delicacy of her own
nature and the inherited delicacy
of a consumptive mother, to bear
up against such a blow as thai
which threatened her; but he
would not lacerate the poor fellow's
heart by letting him share these
gloomy forebodings that were based
on surer ground than the sentimen-
tal fears of a lover. Perhaps the
expression of his undisciplined fea-
tures — the brow that could frown
but knew not how to dissemble ; the
lip that could smile so kindly, or
curl in contempt, but knew not how
to lie ; the eye that was the faith-
ful, even when the unconscious, in-
terpreter of the mind — ^may have
said more to Glide than was intend-
ed.
" I trust you to watch over her,"
he said ; and then added in a tone
that went to Sir Simon's very heart.
" don't spare me if it can help yoti
to spare her. Tell her I am a
blackguard — it's true by compari-
son ; compared to her snow-white
purity and angelic innocence of
heart, I am no better than a false
and selfish brute. Blacken mc as
much as you like — make her hatr
me — anything rather than that she
should suffer, or guess what I am
suffering. God knows I wotiKi
bear it and ten times ^orsc to shield
her from one pang !"
Are You My IVi/ef
595
**That is spoken like yourself,"
said the baronet. " I recognize
your father's son now."
They grasped each other's hands
in silence. Glide was opening the
door when suddenly he turned
round and said with a smile of
touching pathos :
''^ You will not begin the blacken-
ing process at once ? You will
wait till we know if it is neces-
sary?"
"All right — you may trust me,"
was the rejoinder, and they went
together into the breakfast-room.
They had the carriage to them-
selves. Glide was glad of it. It
was a strange fatality that drew
these two men, alike only in name,
so closely together in the most try-
ing crises of the younger man's life.
He spoke of it gratefully, but bit-
terly.
** Yes, your support is the one
drop of comfort granted me in this
trouble, as it was in the other," he
said, as the train carried them
through the green fields and past
many a spot made dear and beauti-
ful by memory ; " it is abominably
selfish of me to use it as I do, but
where should I be without it ! I
should have been in a mad-house
before this if it were not for you,
uncle, hunted as I am like a mad-
dog. What have I done so much
worse than other men to be cursed
like this !"
The admiral had hitherto been
as gentle towards his nephew as a
fond but awkward nurse handling
a sick child ; but he turned on him
now with a severe countenance.
"What right have you to turn
round on your Maker and upbraid
him for the consequences of your
own folly .^ You talk of being
cursed; we. make our own curses.
We commit follies and sins, and
we have to pay for it, and tnen we
call it destiny! It is your own
misdoing that is hunting you.
You thought to make life into a
holiday; to shirk every duty,
everything that was the least irk-
spme or distasteful ; you flew in the
face of common-sense, and family
dignity, and all the responsibilities
of life in your marriage ; you rush-
ed into the most solemn act of a
man's life with about as much de-
cency and reverence as a masquer-
ader at a fancy ball. Instead of
act'ng openly in the matter and
taking counsel with your relatives,
you fall in love with a pretty face
and marry it without even as much
prudence as a man exercises in
hiring a groom. You pay the pen-
alty of this, and then, forsooth, you
turn round on Providence and
complain of being cursed ! I don't
want to be hard on you, and I'm
not fond of playing Job's comfor-
ter ; but I can't sit here and listen
to you blaspheming without pro-
testing against it."
When the admiral had finished
this harangue, the longest he ever
made in his life, he took out his
snuff-box and gave it a sharp tap
preparatory to taking a pinch.
"You are quite right, sir; you
are perfectly right," said Glide ; " I
have no one to blame but myself
for that misfortune.
" Well, if you see it and own it
like a man that's a great point,"
said the admiral, mollified at once.
" The first step towards getting on
the right tack is to see that we
have been going on the wrong
one."
** I was very young too," pleaded
Glide ; " barely of age. That ought
to count for something in my fa-
vor."
" So it does ; of course it does, my
boy," assented his uncle warmly.
59^
Are You My Wifef
" I came to see the folly and the
sinfulness of it ail — of shirking my
duties, as yiu say — and I was re-
solved to turn over a new leaf and
make up for what I had left un-
done too long. M. de la Bourbo-
nais said to me, * We most of us are
asleep until the sting of sorrow
wakes us* up.* It had taken a long
time to do it, but it did wake me
up at last; and just as I was thor-
oughly stung into activity, into a
desire to be of use to somebody,
to make my life what it ought to
be, there comes down this thunder-
clap upon me, and dashes it all to
pieces again. That is what I com-
plain of. That is what is hard.
This has beeiv no doing of mine."
" Whose doing is it } It is the
old mistake sticking to you still.
It is the day of reckoning that
comes sooner or later after every
man's guilt or folly. We bury it
out of sight, but it rises up like a
day of judgment on us when we
least expect it."
" I was not kept long waiting for
the day of reckoijing to my first
folly — call it sin, if you like — ** said
Glide bitterly. "I should have
thought it was expiated by this.
Eight of the best years of my life
wasted in wretchedness."
" You wasted them because you
liked it; because it was pleasanter
to you to go mooning about the
world than to come back to your
post at liome, and do your duty to
God and yourself and your fellow-
men," retorted the admiral gruff-
ly. ** If we swallow poison, are its
gripings to be reckoned merit to
us } You spent eight years eating
the fruit of your own act, and you*
expect the bitterness to count as
an atonement. My boy, I have no
right to preach to you, or to any
one ; I have too many holes in my
own coat ; but I have this advan-
tage over you — that I see where the
holes are and what made them.
We need never expect things fo go
right with us unless we do the right
thing; and if we do right and
thing! seem to go wrong, they arc
sure to be right all the same,
though we can*t see it. It is not aU
over here ; the real reckoning is on
the other side. But we have not
come to that yet," he added, in an
encouraging tone ; " this threat
may turn out to be a vain one.
and if so you will be none the
worse for it — probably all the bet-
ter. We want to be reminded
every now and then that we don't
command either waves or wind;
that wlien we are brought throogh
smooth seas safe into port, a Hand
mightier than ours has been guid-
ing the helm for us. We are not
quite such independent, fine fellows
as we like to think. But come
what may, fine weather or foul,
you will meet it like a Christian,
you will bow your head and sub-
mit."
The admiral tapped his snuff-
box again at this climax, took an-
other pinch, and then fell back on
the cushions and opened his paper
Glide was glad to be left to him-
self, although his thoughts were not
cheerful.
Sir Simon had said truly, lie was
or ought to have been a Catholic.
At almost the very outset of his
acquaintance with Francclinc, he
had intimated this fact to her, and
though she did not inform her fa-
ther of it, the knowledge undoubt-
edly went far in attracting her to-
wards the young man and iuM»ir
ing the confidence that she yielded
to him so quickly and unquesiion-
ingly.
Mrs. de Winton, Glide's mother,
had been a sincere Catholic, al-
though her heart had beguiled her
Are You My Wifef
597
into the treacherous error of marry-
ing a man who was not of her faith.
She had stipulated unconditionally
that her children should be brought
up Catholics ; and on her death-
bed demanded a renewal of the
promise — then, as formerly, freely
given — that Glide, their only child,
should be carefully educated in his
mother's religion. But these things
can never safely be entrusted to
the good- will of any human being.
The mother compromised — if she
did not betray — her solemn trust,
and her child paid the penalty.
Mr. de Winton kept his promise as
far as he could. He had no preju-
dices against the old^ religion — he
was too indifferent to religion in
the main for that — the antiquity
and noble traditions of the Catho-
lic Church claimed his intellectual
sympathies, while its spirit and teach-
ing, as exemplified in the life of her
whom he revered as the model of
all the virtues, inclined him to look
on the doctrines of Catholicity with
an indulgence leaning to reverence,
even where he felt them most anta-
gonistic.
Glide had a Catholic nurse to
wash and scold him in his infantine
days, and when, too soon after his
father's second marriage, the boy
became an orphan and was left to
the care of a stepmother, that cold
but conscientious lady carried out
her husband's dying injunctions by
engaging a Catholic governess to
teach him his letters. Conscience,
however, gave other promptings
which Mrs. de Winton found it hard
lo reconcile with the faithful dis-
charge of her late husband's wishes.
She maintained the Catholic influ-
ence at home, but she would not
prolong the evil day an hour more
thau was absolutely necessary. She
felt justified, therefore, in precipi-
tating Clide's entrance at Eton at an
age when many children were still
in the nursery. The Catholic cate-
chism was not on the list of Eton-
ian school-books, and he would be
otherwise safe from the corroding
influence which as yet could scarce-
ly have penetrated below the surface
of his mind. It was reasonably to
be hoped that in course of time the
false tenets he had imbibed would
fade out of his mind altogether, and
that when he was of an age to
choose for himself the boy would
elect the more respectable and ra-
tional creed of the De Wintohs.
His stepmother carried her con-
scientious scruples so far in this re-
spect, however, as to inform the
dame who was charged with the
care of Clide's linen, and the tutor
who was to train his mind, that the
boy was a Catholic and that his re-
ligion was to be fespected. This
injunction was, after a certain fash-
ion, strictly obeyed. The subject
of religion was carefully avoided,
never mentioned to Clide directly
or indirectly; and he was left to
grow up with about as much spirit-
ual culture as the laborer bestows
on the flowers of the field. The
seeds sown by his mother's hand
were quickly carried away by the
winds that blow from the four
points of the compass in those
early, youthful days. If some
sunk deeper and remained, they
had not sun or dew enough to blos-
som forth and fructify. Perhaps,
nevertheless, they did their work,
and acted as an antidote in the
virgin, untilled soil, and i)reserved
the young infidel from the vicious
vapors that tainted the air around
him. It is certain that Clide left
the immoral atmosphere of the
great public school quite uncor-
rupted, guileless and upright, and
still calling himself a Catholic, al-
though he had practically broken
598
Are You My Wifef
off from all communion with the
church of his childhood. He was
more to be pitied than blamed.
He was thinking so now as he lay
back in the railway carriage, while
the admiral sat beside him grunt-
ing complacently over the leading
article, and mentally prognosticat-
ing that the country was going to
the dogs, thanks to those blunder-
ing, unpatriotic Whigs. Yes, Glide
pitied himself as he surveyed the
past, and saw how his young life
had been wasted and shipwrecked.
If he felt that he had been too se-
verely punished for follies that he
had never been warned against,
you must make allowance for him.
His face wore a very sad, subdued
look as he gazed out vacantly at
the quiet fields and villages and
steeples flying past. Why does he
suddenly make that almost imper-
ceptible movement, starting as if a
voice had sounded close to his
side ? Was it fancy, or did he
really hear a voice, low and soft,
Hke faint, distant music that stirred
his soul, making it vibrate to some
dimly remembered melody ? Could
it be his mother's voice echoing
through the far-off years when he
was a "Httle child and knelt with his
small hands clasped upon her knee,
and lisped out some forgotten
words that she dictated ? Was it a
trick of his imagination, or did
some one stand at his side, gen-
tly touching his right hand and
constraining him to lift it to his
forehead, while his tongue me-
chanically accompanied the move-
ment with some once familiar,
long disused formula ? There
was in truth a presence near him,
and a voice sounding from afar,
murmuring those notes of memory
which are the mother-tongue of the
soul, subtle, persuasive, irresistible ;
accents that live when we have for-
gotten languages acquired with ma-
ture choice and arduous study; a
presence that clings to us through
life, and reveals itself when we have
the will and the gift to see and to
recognize it. That power is mostly
the purchase of a great pain ; tlie
answer to our soul's cry in the hour
of its deepest need.
It flashed suddenly upon Cli<k.
as that sweet and solemn influenrt-
pervaded and uplifted him, tfN.it
here lay the unexpected solution
of the problem — the missing key o:
life. He had fancied for a moiiwnt
that he had found it in M. de la
Bourbonais* serene theories and pra(-
tical philosojihy. These had done
much for him, it is true; but they
had fallen away; they failed like a
broken sword in the hour of trial;
they did well enough for peaceful
times, but they could not help and
rescue him when all the forces of
the enemy were let loose. Yet they
seemed to have sufficed for Ray-
mond.
Glide did not know that the calm
philosophy was grafted on a root
of faith in the French gentleman's
mind ; his faith was not dead ; far
from it, and its vital heat had fed
the strength which philosophy alone
could never have supplied. Poor
Glide ! If any one had been at
hand to interpret to him the mes-
sage of that voice from his child-
hood, the whole aspect of life misht
there and then have changed lor
him. But no spiritual guide, m*
gentle monitor was there to tell him
what it meant. The music 6kd
away; the presence was clouded
over and ceased to be felt. Wlien
the train entered the station the
passing emotion had disappeared,
drowned without by the roar of the
great city ; within, by the agitation
of the present which other thoughts
had for a moment luHed to sleep.
Are You My Wifef
599
The travellers drove straight from
the railway station to Wirapole
Street. Mr. Peckett, the dentist,
was at home. They were admitted
at once, and a few minutes* conver-
sation sufficed to confirm their
worst forebodings. There could be
no doubt but that the person whom
Cromer had recognized in that trans-
itory glimpse the day before was
the beautiful and mysterious crea-
ture, Glide's wife.
The dentist had very little defi-
nite information to give concerning
her. He could only certify that
she was the same who had come to
him nearly ten years ago to have a
silver tooth made. It^was a fantas-
tic idea of her own, and in spite of
all his remonstrances she insisted
on having it carried out; it had
seriously injured the neighboring
tooth — nearly eaten it away. This
was what Mr. Peckett had foretold.
He was launching out into a rather
excited denunciation of the thing,
an absurdity against all the laws of
dentistry, when the admiral called
him back to the point. Did this
tooth still exist? Yes; and if it
was of no other use, it would serve
to identify the wearer. She had
been to have it arranged about four
years ago, and again within the last
few days. Mr. Peckett said she
was very little changed in appear-
ance ; as beautiful as ever, and con-
siderably developed in figure ; but
in manner she was greatly altered.
Her former childlike gayety was
quite gone ; she sat demure and
silent, and when she spoke it was
with a sort of frightened restraint ;
if a door opened, or if he asked a
question abruptly, she started as if
in terror. It was not the ordinary
blurting of a nervous person ; there
was something in tlie expression of
ihe face, in the quivering of the
liiouth and the wavering glance of
the eyes, that had on one occasion
especially suggested to him the idea
of a person whose mental faculties
had suffered some derangement.
She gave him the impression, in fact,
of one who either had been or
might on slight provocation become
mad. She never gave any name or
address, but had always been ac-
companied by either the man whom
she called "uncle," or an elderly
woman with the manner of a well-
to-do shopkeeper ; and she seemed
in great awe of both of them. Yes-
terday was the first time she had
ever come by herself, and Mr. Peck-
ett thought that very likely either
of these persons was waiting for
her in the cab into which she had
jumped so quickly when Cromer
was trying to come up with her.
She had left no clew as to her resi-
dence or projected movements ; only
once, in reply to some question
about a recipe which her uncle
wanted the dentist to see, she said
that it had been forgotten in St.
Petersburg. His answer seemed to
imply that they meant to return
there. Mr. Peckett was quite sure
she sang in public, but whether on
the stage or only in concerts he
could not say.
This was all he had to tell about
his mysterious patient. He was
very frank, and appeared anxious
to give any assistance in his power,
and promised to let Admiral de
Winton know if she came to him
again. But he thought this was not
likely for some time, at any rate.
He had finished with her on the
last visit, and there was no reason
that he foresaw for her comi Ji;
back at present.
There was not a shadow of
doubt on Glide's mind but that the
person in question was his lost Isa-
bel. The admiral, however, stout-
ly continued to pooh-pooh the idea
6oo
Are You My Wife?
as absurd and impossible. He was
determined, at any rate, not to give
in to it until he had been to St.
Val^ry, and investigated the ques-
tion of the dead Isabel whom he
had seen buried there. So he left
Glide to open communications once
more with Scotland Yard, and set
the police in motion amongst the
managers of theatres and other
agents of the musical world, while
he went on board the steamer to
Dieppe. He was not long search-
ing for the link he dreaded to find.
The young woman whom he had so
hastily concluded to be his nephew's
missing wife had been proved to
be the daughter of a Spanish mer-
chant, whose ship had foundered
on the Normandy coast in the gales
that had done so much damage
during that eventful week. He
himself had been saved almost
miraculously, and after many weeks
of agonized suspense as to the fate
of his child, he heard of a body
having been washed ashore at St.
Val^ry, and buried after waiting
several days for recognition. He
hastened to the spot, and, in spite
of the swift ravages of death, recog-
nized it beyond a doubt as that of
his child. The English milord who
had paid for all the expenses of the
little grave, and manifested such
emotion on beholding the body,
turning away without another
glance when he saw the long hair
sweeping over it like a veil, had left
no address, so the authorities had
no means of communicating with
him.
This was the intelligence which
Glide received two days after his
interview with the dentist. It only
confirmed his previous conviction.
He was as satisfied that his wife was
alive as if he had seen and spoken
to her. About an hour after his
uncle's return there came a note
from Mr. Peckett saying that " the
person in question " was on her wav
to Berlin, if she had not already
arrived there. The landlady of tht
house where she had been lodging,
under the name of Mme. Villar,
had called at Wimpole Street for a
pocket-book which her late tenant
believed she must have dropped
there. While she was inquirins
about it of the servant, Mr. Peckett
came out ; he inquired after his
patient ; the landlady was glad to
say she was well, and sorry to say
she was gone ; she had left the day
before for Berlin, going via Paris.
" Now, uncle, we must part,'
said Glide; *W can't drag you about
on this miserable business any
more. I must do what remains to
be done myself. I will start at
once for Berlin, and once there, i
la grace de Dieu ! you will hear
from me when I have anything to
say."
" I shall hear from you as soon
as you arrive ; you must write to
me without waiting for news," said
the admiral. " You will take Stan-
ton with you V*
'*I suppose I had better; he
knows everything, so there is no
need to shirk him, and he's a dis-
creet fellow, as well as intelligent
and good-natured. He may be of
use to me."
" Then God be with you botb,
my boy. Bear up, and keep a
stout heart whatever comes," said
the admiral, wringing his hand.
" You will write to Harness for
me," said Glide; "tell him I cant
write myself; and say I trust to his
doing whatever is best for me. . . ."
He turned away abruotly ; and so
they parted.
No incident broke the monotony
of the road until Glide retched
Cologne. There, as he was cross-
ing the platform, a lady passed
Are You My Wife?
6oi
him ; she looked at him, and start-
ed, or he fancied she did, and in-
stead of getting into the carriage
that they were both evidently mak-
ing for, she hurried on to the one
higher up. He drew his hand
across his forehead, and stood for a
moraent'trying to remember where
he had seen the face, but his mem-
ory failed him. His curiosity was
roused, however, and he was in
that frame of mind when every in-
significant trifle comes to us preg-
nant with unlooked-for possibili-
ties. He went on to. the carriage
the lady had entered. There was
only another occupant beside her-
self, an elderly German, with a
beery countenance and brick-red
whiskers. Glide got in and seated
himself opposite the lady, who was
at the other end of the compart-
ment, and steadily looking out of
the window. He felt sure she had
seen him come up to the door, but
she did not turn round when he
opened it and closed it again with
a bang. They had ^vt minutes to
wait before the train started. Glide
employed them in getting out a
book and making himself comfort-
able for the long ride in prospect.
The lady was still absorbed in the
landscape. The German made his
preparations by taking a clay pipe
from his pocket, filling it as full
as it would hold with tobacco,
and then striking a light. Glide had
started bolt upright, and was watch-
ing in amazement. The lady was
in front of him. Did the brute
mean to puff his disgusting weed
into her face .^ He was making a
chimney of his hand to let the
match light thoroughly. Perhaps
Glide's vehement look of indigna-
tion touched him mesmerically, for
before applying it to the pipe he
looked round at him and said in
very intelligible English :
" I hope you don t object to
smoking V*
** I can't say I much relish to-
bacco, but I sha'n't interfere with
you if this lady does not object."
Mein herr asked her if she did.
She was compelled to turn round
at the question.
" I am sorry to say I do, sir ; the
smell of tobacco makes me quite
sick."
Hem ! She is not a lady, at any
rate, thought Glide.
** Oh ! I am sorry for that," said
the German; "for you'll have the
trouble of getting out."
Before Glide could recover suffi-
cient presence of mind to collar
the man and pitch him headfore-
most out of the window, the lady
had grasped her bag, rug, and um-
brella, and was standing on the
platform. The impending eject-
ment was clearly a most welcome
release; nothing but the utmost
goodwill could have enabled her
to effect such a rapid exit. Glide
was so struck by it that he forgot
to collar the German, who had be-
gun with equal alacrity to puff
away at his pipe, and the train
moved on.
The first thing Glide saw on
alighting at the next station was
his recent vis-d-vis marshalling an
array of luggage that struck even
his inexperienced eye as somewhat
out of keeping with a person who
said "sir" and travelled without a
servant. What could one lone wo-
man want with such a lot of boxes,
and such big ones 1 She waylaid a
porter, who proceeded to pile them
on a truck while she stood mount-
ing guard over them.
" Follov.' that man and see where
he is taking that luggage to," Glide
whispered to Stanton, and the
latter, leaving his master to look
after their respective portman-
6o2
Are You My Wifef
teaux, hurried on in the direction
indicated.
" They are going to the Hotel of
the Great Frederick, sir," he said,
returning in a few minutes.
•' Then call a cab and let us drive
tliere.**
The Hotel of the Great Frede-
rick was not one of the fashionable
caravansaries of the place ; it was a
large, old-fashioned kind of hostel-
ry, chiefly frequented by business
people, travelling clerks, dress-ma-
kers, etc.; and its customers were
numerous enough to make it often
difficult to secure accommodation
there on short notice. This was a
busy season; everybody was flit-
ting to and from the watering-
places, where the invalids and
gamblers of Europe were ruin-
ing or repairing their fortunes and
their constitutions, so that Mr. de
Winton was obliged to content
himself with two small rooms in
the third story for the night; to-
morrow many travellers would be
moving on, and he could have more
convenient quarters.
"Stanton, keep a lookout after
that person. I am in a mood for
suspecting everything and every-
body; but I don't think it's all
fancy in this case. I believe the
woman is trying to avoid me ; and
if so, she must have a motive for it.
Ask for the visitors* book, and
bring it to me at once."
Stanton brought the book, and
while his master was running his
eye searchingly over the roll of
names, hoping and dreading to see
Mme. Villar among the number, he
set off" to look after the woman
with the multitude of boxes. She
was lodging on the first floor, and
had been expected by a lady and
gentleman who had taken rooms in
the house the day before. This
much Stanton learned from a Kell-
ner^ whom he met coming oat of
the said rooms with a tray in his
hands.
" I think I know her," said Stan-
ton. " What is her name ?"
But before the Kellrur could an-
swer the door opened, and the ladr
herself stood face to face with Mr.
de Winton's valet. Their eyes met
with a sudden flash of recognition ; i
Stanton turned away with an almc»: I
inaudible whistle, and was vaultmg
up to the third story in the twink-
ling of an eye.
" IVe seen her, sir, and I can idl
you who she is. She is the dress-
maker that made Mrs. de Wintoo'^
gowns befo^ you brought her to
Glanworth. I remembered Iier tbc
moment I saw her without a bonnet
I had been twice to her place in
Brook Street, with messages and a
band-box from Mrs. de Winton."
Glide had started up with an ex-
clamation of anger and triumph.
Here, then, was a clew. Evidently
the woman held communication or
was in some way connected with
Isabel, else why should she liare
shrunk from meeting him? It was
clear as daylight now that she did
shrink.
"Tell the landlord I wish to
speak to him," said Glide.
He was walking up and down the
room, his hands in his pockets, and
his head tossed back like an imf^*
tient horse, when the owner of ihc
Great Frederick came in.
" I want to have a word of con-
versation with you ; sit down, piayr
said Glide; but he continued walk-
ing, as we are apt to do when agi-
tation is too vehement to bear im-
mobility, and must have an outlet
in motion. The landlord had tak-
en a chair as desired, but rose agaiit
on seeing that his guest did not sit
•Waiter
Are You My Wifef
603
down ; the hotel-keeper was a well-
niannered man. There was a lapse
of two or three moments while Glide
considered what he should say. It
was impossible to acknowledge the
real motive of his curiosity about
the occupants of the first-floor
rooms, and how otherwise could he
justify any inquiries about them
and their movements ? He recoil-
ed from the odious necessity that
drove him to pry into people's af-
fairs, to ask questions and set watch-
es like a police agent ; but this was
the mere husk of the bitter kernel
lie had to eat. It may have been
the extraordinary agitation visible
in the young man's face and gait
and manner that aroused the hotel-
keeper s suspicions and put him on
the defensive, or it may have been
that some one had been beforehand
with Glide, and cut the ground from
under his feet by warning the land-
lord not to give any information ;
but at any rate the latter acted with
a circumspection that was remarka-
ble in a person so unskilled in the
science of diplomacy. These first-
floor people were good customers ;
this was the third time they had
stopped at the Great Frederick,
and it was not likely to be the last,
UDless, indeed, the house should be .
made objectionable to them in some
«vay ; and no landlord who knew
1)18 duty to his customers could be
1 party to such a proceeding.
*' Mme. Brack is a most excellent
customer, but no dressmaker — that
1 can assure milord of; she has
many boxes because she goes to
'^pend many months at Vienna;
that is her custom, as also that of
the friends she travels with — M.
RoQcemar and his daughter, people
of quality like milord, and large
fortune. Unfortunately they do not
tarry long at the Great Frederick,
only remaining three days to rest
themselves; their rooms are al-
ready bespoke from Friday morn-
ing, when they start by the mid«
day train. But why should not
milord go himself and ask of M.
Roncemar any information he de-
sires.^ M. Roncemar is a most
polite gentleman, and would no
doubt be happy to see a compa-
triot-"
This was all that Glide could ex-
tract from the wily master of the
Great Frederick. If he had been
more outspoken, he might have
been more successful ; but he could
not bring himself to this; he spoke so
vaguely that his motives might have
borne the most opposite construc-
tions. The landlord's private opin-
ion was that there was a money-
claim in the way, and that he was
on the track of some fugitive, per-
haps fraudulent, debtor ; it was no
part of a landlord's business to pry
into matters of this sort, or bring a
customer into trouble.
" Well, sir ?" said Stanton, com-
ing in when he saw the landlord
qome out.
" I did not make much out of
him ; the fellow either knows more
than he cares to tell, or we are on
the wrong scent. You must lose
no time in finding out from the
waiters whether these names are the
real ones ; whether, at least, they are
the same the people have borne here
before, and also if it is true that the
rooms are taken till Friday next ;
if so, it gives me time to go to the
consul and take proper legal steps
for their arrest. But it may be a
dodge of his ; if the woman recog-
nized us both, as I am strongly in«
dined to believe, they have put the
landlord up to telling me this, just
to prevent my entrapping them,
and so as to give them time to es-
cape. The people whom he calls
Roncemar have been here at any
6a4
Are You My Wife t
rate before the alarm came, and it
will be known most likely whether
they are on their way to Vienna or
not. Be cautious, Stanton ; don't
rouse suspicion by asking too point-
ed questions, because you see it
may be that as yet there is no sus-
picion, it may be my fancy about
the man's throwing mc off the scent.
He urged me to go and sec M.
Roncemar myself, which was either
a proof that he suspects nothing,
or that he is the cleverest knave
who ever outwitted another. Be
off and see what you can learn. I
will dine at the table (ThSte,**
The few details that Stanton
gleaned from the kelliur attached
to the first floor corroborated all
that the landlord had said : the
party were to remain until Friday —
in fact they were not quite decided
about going so soon ; the younger
lady was in delicate health, and
greatly fatigued by the journey ; it
was possible they might remain un-
til the Monday. " So if you are
counting on the rooms you may be
disappointed," he added, winking
at Stanton as he whipped up a tray
and darted up the stairs like a mon-
key, three steps at a time.
So far, then, Glide was sure of his
course. He walked about after
dinner — supper, as it was called
there — and called at the consu-
late; but the consul had been,
out of town for the last week, and
was not expected home until the
next day.
"And he is sure to be here to-
morrow.'" inquired the visitor.
**Yes, sir; he has an appoint-
ment of great importance at one
o'clock. We expect him home at
twelve."
•* Then I will call at two. You will
not neglect to give him this card.>"
He wrote a line in pencil on it an-
nouncing his visit at two next day,
and returned to the hotel. As be
was crossing the hall he heard the
heavy tramp of hobnailed shoes
on the stairs, and* a noise as of
men toiling under a weight, it
was a piano. Glide walked sk)wly
up after the carriers, saw them halt
at the rooms on the first floor, saw
the doors thrown open and the in-
strument carried in ; there was no
mistake about it ; the occupaou
meant to remain there for sorae
few days at least.
He sat down and wrote a long
letter to the admiral, lit a cigar,
and killed time as best he conld
with the newspapers until, physi-
cally worn out, he lay down in
hopes of catching a few hoars*
sleep. Stanton, satisfied with the
information he already possessed,
felt it might be unwise to ask fur-
ther questions, and contented him-
self with hanging about the corri-
dors in the neighborhood of Mrs
Brack's rooms, in hopes of seeing
her coming in or out, and catching
a glimpse, perhaps, of anotherinmate
who interested him more closely.
It may seem irrational in him, and
especially in his master, to have
jumped at a positive conclusion as to
the identity of that inmate on such
a flimsy tissue of evidence; but
when our minds are entirely possess-
ed by an idea, we magnify trifles
into important facts, and see all
things colored by the mediam of
our prepossessions, and go on hook-
ing link after link in the chain of
witnesses till we have completed it,
and made our internal evidence do
the work of substantial testimony.
It was a glorious day, and when
Glide had breakfasted he was glad
to go out and reconnoitre the town
instead of sitting in his dingy
room, or lounging about the read-
ing-room. He was a trained walk-
er, thanks to his years of tnvel
Are You My Wifef
605
and once set going he would go
on for hours, oblivious of time, and
quite unconscious of fatigue as
long as the landscape offered him
beauty or novelty enough to inter-
est him. It was about half-past
ten when he left the house, and
he tramped on far beyond the town,
and walked for nearly two hours,
when the chimeS of a village An-
gelus bell reminded him that time
was marching too, and that he had
better be retracing his steps. It
was close upon two o'clock when
lie appeared at the consul's door.
On entering the hall, the first per-
son he saw was Stanton.
'* Sir, I've been waiting here these
two hours for you. You'd better
please let me have a word with
you before you go in " ; and Glide
turned into the dining-room, which
the servant of the house civilly
opened for him. " We've been
sold. They were off this morn-
ing at six. The three started to-
gether. They are gone to Berlin —
at least so one of the kellners let
out to me ; the one I spoke to yes-
terday was coached-up by the land-
lord and the people themselves, I
suppose, for he told me it was Vi-
cnna.they were gone to ; he had a
trumped-up story about the frau-
leins mothtfr being taken sudden-
ly ill and telegraphing for them.
They are a cunning lot. That pi-
ano was a dodge to put us to
sleep, sir."
** VVhat proof have you that they
are gone to Berlin? That other
man may be mistaken, or lying to
order like the rest? I must see
the consul and take advice with
hira. This scoundrel of a landlord
shall pay for his lies," said Glide,
beating his foot with a quick, nerv-
ous movement on the ground ; "he
must be forced to speak, and to
speak the truth."
" No need, sir; I've found it out
without him. I've been to the
railway. I made believe I was the
^rvant following with luggage that
was forgotten, and they told me the
train they started by and the hour
it arrives, and described them all
three as true as life," said Stanton.
" And it is J^^/"
" Not a doubt of it, sir. As cer-
tain as I'm Stanton." Glide felt
nevertheless that it would be well
to see the consul ; the case was so
delicate, so fraught with difficulties
on all sides, that it was desirable at
any cost of personal feeling to
furnish himself with all the informa-
tion be could get as to how he
should now proceed, so as not to
entangle things still further.
On hearing his visitor's strange
tale, the consul's advice was that
he . should see with his own eyes
the person whom he took for grant-
ed was his wife, before venturing on
any active steps. " The fact is
quite clear to you," he remarked,
" and from what you say it is equal-
ly clear to me; but the evidence
on which we build this assumption
would not hold water for one min-
ute before a magistrate. Suppose,
after all, it turns out to be a case
of mistaken identity ; what a posi-
tion you would be in !"
"That is impossible," affirmed
Glide.
" No, not impossible ; highly im-
probable, I grant you ; but such im-
probable things occur every day.
You must have more substantial
ground than second-hand evidence
and corroborating circumstances to
go upon before you stir in the mat-
ter, and then you must do nothing
without proper legal advice."
Glide recognized the common-
sense and justice of this, and deter-
mined to be advised. He started
for Berlin, and on arriving there
6o6
Are You My Wifet
went straight from the railway to
the British Embassy, where he ob-
tained a letter from the ambassa*
dor to the Minister of Police, re-
questing that functionary to give
tlic young Englishman every assis-
tance and facility. The minister
was going to bed; it was near
twelve o'clock ; the ambassador's
letter, however, secured the untime-
ly visitor immediate admission, and
a civil and attentive hearing. He
took some notes down from Glide's
dictation, and promised that all the
resources of the body which he
controlled should be enlisted in the
matter, and as soon as they had
discovered where the party they
were in pursuit of had alighted, he
would communicate with Mr. de
Winton.
The latter then went to the hotel,
where Stanton had preceded him,
and was waiting impatiently for his
arrival. The moment he entered
the room, Stanton was struck by his
pale, haggard look ; he had not
noticed it on the journey ; when
the train stopped, they saw each
other in the shade or in the dark,
and after exchanging a hasty word
passed each to his separate buffets
and carriages. It was indeed no
wonder his master should be worn
out after the terrible emotions of
the last few days, added to the con-
tinued travelling and scarcely .any
sleep or food, but it did not look
like ordinary fatigue.
* You had better go to bed, sir;
you'll be used up if you take on like
this ; and that won't mend much,"
he said, when Glide, after lighting a
cigar, flung himself into a chair and
bade Stanton bring him the papers.
" I'll go to bed presently ; bring
me the papers," repeated Glide, and
the man left the room.
When he returned he found his
master standing up and holding on
by the back of his chair as if to
steady himself.
"I feel queerish, Stanton; fct
roe some brandy and water; make
haste," he said, speaking faintly.
Instead of obeying him, Stantoo
forced him gently into the chair,
and proceeded to undress him
Glide resigning himself passively to
it, as if he were in a stupor ; he kt
himself be put to bed in the same
way, like a child too sleepy to
know what was being done to it.
" I don't like the looks of hira at
all," thought Stanton, as he stole
softly out of the room ; "if he's not
all right to-morrow, I send for the
admiral."
Glide was not all right in isit
morning; he was feverish and ex-
hausted, and complained in a qoero*
lous way, quite unlike his usual self,
of a burning, hammering pain in
his head. Stanton sent for ancdi-
cal man without consulting inoL
When he said he had done so, Q&^
gave no sign of displeasure; he
did not seem quite to take it in.
" I've got fifty thousand tooth-
aches in my skull, Stanton; what
the deuce is it, eh .^" he cried, toss-
ing from side to side on his pillow.
Then suddenly he raised himself:
"Stanton!"
"Yes, sir!"
" You think I'm going to be ill
Don't deny it ; I see it in your fiace.
Perhaps I am ; I feel uncoratnonly
odd here " — passing his hand o?ei
his forehead — " but I want to say
one thing while I think of it: you
don't write a word to any one in
England until the doctor says Ti^i
a dead man. Do you hear mc
speaking to you ?"
" Yes, sir ; but don't yoH think
if the admiral ..."
"If you attempt to write ic
him, I'll dismiss you that very in-
stant !" And his eyes flashed angii-
Are You My Wifet
607
ly. " You mind what I say, Stan-
ton !"
" All right, sir; you know best
what you like about it."
The excitement seemed to have
exhausted his remaining strength ;
he grew rapidly worse ; and when
ihe doctor canie, he declared his pa-
tient was in for a brain fever that
might turn to worse unless the cir^
cumstances were specially propi-
tious.
Why should we linger by his bed-
side ? It would be only a repeti-
tion of the old story ; delirium fol-
lowing on days of pain and restless-
ness ; a long period of anxiety while
youlh battled with the enemy, now
seemingly about to be worsted in
the fight, then rising above the dis-
ease with unexpected starts, show-
ing how rich and strong the resour-
ces of the young frame were. The
medical man was not communica-
tive with the valet ; he kept his al-
ternations of hope and fear to him-
self; it was only by scrutinizing
the expression of his face as he felt
the patient's pulse that Stanton
could make a guess at his opinion.
To his eager inquiries on accom-
panying the oracle to the door, he
received the uniform reply that this
was a case in which the disease
roust run its course, when no one
could say what a day might bring
forth, when much depended on the
quality of the patient's constitution ;
the one drop of comfort Stanton
extracted from him was the empha-
tic assurance that in this instance
the patient had a constitution of
Rold. The crisis came, and then
Stanton, convinced in his inexpe-
rienced mind that no mortal consti-
tution could pass this strait, boldly
asked the doctor if it was not time
to write to the family.
"These things must run their
coune ; in twenty-four hours it will
be decided,*' was the sententious
reply.
Stanton was fain to be content
with it, and wait. The day passed,
and the night dragged on slowly as
a passing bell, until at last the de-
cisive hour came and was passed ;
then the medical man spoke again.
" He is saved. The worst is now
over ; he is entering on the period
of convalescence."
The period was long — ^longer than
he had anticipated ; for the golden
constitution had been fiercely tried
and shaken ; it was more than two
months from the day of Glide's ar-
rival in Berlin until he was able to
leave the hotel. In the meantime,
what had become of Isabel, or Mme.
Villar, as we shall call her for the
present.^ All that Stanton could
ascertain was that she had left Ber-
lin about a week after his master
had been struck down, and had
gone — so it was said at the hotel
where she and her party put up — for
a tour in the neighboring spas,
after which she was to proceed to
St. Petersburg to fulfil an engage-
ment for the season. This was the
last link the police had got hold of ;
but as nobody had taken it up at
the time, it was impossible to say
how many others had intervened
in the two months that had gone
by.
It was now late in September.
Glide was very weak still, and unfit
for a long railway journey, and
besides, it was unlikely Mme. Villar
would be yet in St. Petersburg,
assuming that the story of her go-
ing there at all was true. He yield-
ed therefore to the doctor's advice,
and went to recruit himself at the
nearest watering-place, after having
again seen the authorities at Berlin,
and urged them not to let the affair
sleep, but to keep a sharp lookout
in every direction.
6o8
Are You My Wife f
lv\ the first week of October he
arrived in St. Petersburg. The
city of the Czars looked dreary
and desolate enough in these keen
autumn days ; there was not much
movement in its immense market-
])laces — its bald, spacious squares,
and high, broad houses standing
unsocial and mistrustful, far apart
in the wide, noiseless streets ; but
people werer dropping in quickly
from day to day from their country-
houses, getting out their furs, and
settling down for the winter cam-
paign that was at hand ; for the foe
was marching steadily on them,
girt with sullen skies of lead, and
tawny mists, and trumpeted by the
shrill blast of the north wind, a few
strong puffs from whose ice-breath-
ing nostrils would soon paralyze the
rivers and lay them to sleep under
twenty feet of ice. Glide was wea-
ry after his long ride, and was in a
mood to be exasperated when, on
stepping out of the train, and seeking
for their two portmanteaus amongst
the heaps of luggage, the porters
said they were missing. It was no
small inconvenience, for the said
portmanteaus contained all their
clothes, and nearly all their money.
The officials were very civil,
however, and assured the travellers
that their luggage would be forth-
coming nex^ day. There was no-
thing for it but to console them-
selves with this promise, and^o on
to the hotel. Glide then gave his
purse to Stanton and bade him go
out and purchase such things as
were indispensable for the night.
The valet accordingly set off, accom-
panied by an English waiter who
volunteered to interpret for him,
and Glide sallied forth for a stroll
along the Neva, that still flowed
high and free between its broad
(luays. He walked on and on, for-
getting time, as was his habit, until
lassitude recalled him to his senses,
and he looked around him and be-
gan to wonder where he had stray-
ed to. He had drifted far beyond
his intention, and now found him-
self on an island where handsome
villas amidst groves and long ave-
nues were to be seen on every side.
Happily a drosky passed empty at
the moment ; he hailed it, gave the
name of his h6tel, and drove home.
Stanton had not yet returned.
This was odd, for his iaterprettr
had come back an hour since, and
said that the valet, after doing oil
his commissions, had lingered be-
hind merely to see the quays, sayiiif
he would follow in ten minutes, h
was impossible he could have lost
his way, for the hotel was in siglit.
The fact was, Stanton had had an
adventure. He happened to be
crossing the bridge when he notic-
ed a man bestriding the parapet At
the other end, swinging from «de
to side, and apostrophizing the
lamp-post with great earnestness*
Stanton watched him as he walked
on, mentally wondering how long
this social position would prove
tenable, when the man gave a sud-
den lunge, and was prccipiuted
with a shriek into the water. There
were several foot-passengers close
to the spot; they rushed towards
the parapet, and began screaming
to each other in Russian and ges-
ticulating with great animation,
hailing everybody and cver)'thing
within sight, but no one gave any
sign of doing the only thing that
could be of avail, namely, jumping
in after the drowning man. The
unfortunate wretch was struggling
frantically, and gasping out cries
for help whenever he got his head
above the water. There was a stair
running down from the quay, where
boats were moored to rings in the
wall. Stanton saw this ; he was a
Are You My Wifef
609
capital swimmer ; so, without stop-
ping to reflect, he pulled off his
coat, flew down the steps, and
plunged in. A loud cheer rang all
along the parapet, then a breathless
silence followed ; the two men in
the water were wrestling in a des-
perate embrace; Stanton had the
Russian by the collar, and the lat-
ter with the suicidal impulse of a
drowning man, was clutching him
wildly, and dragging him down with
all his might. Happily, he was no
match for the Englishman's sin-
ewy arms ; Stanton shook himself
free with a vigorous eflbrt, swam
out a few yards, then he turned and
swam back, caught the drowning
nnn by the hair, and drew him on
with him to the steps. A thunder-
ing salvo greeted his achievement ;
the group had now swelled to a
crowd, and a score of spectators
came tumbling down the steps
gabbling their congratulations, and,
what was more to the purpose,
liclping the hero to lift the rescued
man on to the steps, and then haul
him up to the landing-place. Stan-
ton broke through the press to
snatch up his coat, and was elbow-
ing his way out, when two individ-
uals, whom he rightly took for
policemen, came up to him, and
began to hold forth volubly in the
same unintelligible jargon. Stanton
only understood, by their pointing
to some place and clutching him by
the shoulder, that they wanted him
loaccompany them. VVith native in-
stinct, Stanton suspected they were
proposing *a tribute of adpiiration
to him in the shape of a bumper at
ihc tavern ; but he was more in-
tent on his wet clothes, and, thank-
ing them by signs, indicated that
lie must go in the opposite direc-
tion, shouting meanwhile, at the
very top of his lungs, " Hdtel Peter-
"ofl Tm going to Peterhof!"
VOL. XXI. — 39
But the policemen shook their
heads, and still pointed and tugged,
until, finding further expostulation
useless, one of them took a stout
grip of Stanton *s collar and pro-
ceeded to drag him on, nolens voiens.
The British lion rose up in Stanton
" and roared a roar." He levelled
his clenched fist at the aggressor's
chest, struck him a vigorous blow,
and in language more forcible than
genteel bade him stand off*. But
the Russian held on like grim death,,
gabbling away harder than ever,
and pointing with his left thumb to-
the spit on his own breast, and then«
touching the corresponding spot on
Stanton's wet shirt ; but Stanton-
would not see it. He doubled up-
his fist for another blow, when the
other policeman suddenly caught
him by both arms, and pinned his.
elbows as in a vise behind his back.
The crowd had gone on swelling,
and now numbered several hundred
persons ; they crushed round the in-
furiated Englishman, who stood
there the picture of impotent rage,
dripping and foaming and appeal-
ing to everybody to help him. At
this juncture a carriage drove up ;
the coachman stopped to know
what was going on ; and great was.
Stanton's joy when he heard a voice-
cry out to him in English : " You
must go with them ; they won't
hurt; they are^going to give you a.
decoration for saving a man's life."*
" Confound their decoration V.
What the devil do I want with*
their decoration } Tell them Vrtk
not a Russian !"
" They know that, but it don't
matter; the law is the same for-
natives and foreigners," explained,
the coachman.
"Hang it, I'm not a foreigner;:
what do you take me for ? I'm an-
Englishman!" protested Stanton.
"Don't matter; you must be-
6io
Arr You My Wifef
decorated ; you may as well do it,
and be done with it."
" But look at my clothes, man !
Till as wet as a drowned rat I"
** Served you right ! What busi-
ness had you jumping into the
water after a fool that wanted to
drown himself?'*
" I wish I'd let him," said Stan-
ton devoutly ; ** but just you tell
these chaps to let me go or else
they'll 'ear of it ; tell them my
master will go to the ambassador
and get them flogged all round ;
tell them that, and see what comes
of it."
" No good. The law is the law.
Good morning to you; take a
friend's advice, and keep your
skin dry next time"; and, nodding
to Stanton, he touched his horses
and was off at a pace.
There was nothing for it but to
resign himself to his fate. Stanton
ceased all resistance, and let him-
self be led to the altar where glory
awaited him in the form of a yellow
spit. He was marched on to a
large, barrack-like building; two
sentries were mounting guard over
its ponderous iron gate. He pass-
-ed through them and was marched
from bureau to bureau, addressed
by several officials in every tongue
.under the sun, it seemed to him,
till they came to the right one, re-
•quested to record his name, age,
-and state of life in several ominous-
iooking books, and on each occa-
sion was embraced and shaken
.hands with by the presiding genius
'Of. the bureau ; at last he was
brought into the presence of a
;gold-laced and highly decorated
individual, who handed him a writ-
ten document, very stiff and very
Hong, and with this a knot of rib-
'bon. Stanton without more ado
•was stuffing both into the pocket
of 'his 5Soaked pantaloons, when
the gold-laced gentleman exclaim-
ed witii friendly warmth, " Oh ! yoa
must permit me to place the sfU
upon your breast !" Upon which
the Englishman recoiled three
steps with a scowl of disgust, and
bade him do it if he dared. The
official, apparently surprised to see
his polite offer met so ungraciously,
forbore to press it, and demanded
the fee. " The fee !— what fee? ""
He explained that a fee was always
paid on receipt of a decoration.
Stanton declined paying it, for the
substantial reason that he had no
money ; his luggage had been lost
on the railway ; so had his mas-
ter's. The polite gentleman was
very sorry to hear of their misad-
venture, but the law was inexora-
ble — every man who performed that
noble feat of saving a Russian's
life should hfi decorated, and the
decoration involved a fee.
" Then what in the name of 4hc
furies do you want me to do?"
cried the exasperated Stanton ; ** I
can't coin any, can I .>"
No; this was not a practical al-
ternative, but very likely his master
could devise one; he would have
no difficulty in getting credit for
the amount ; any one in St. Peters-
burg would be happy to accommo-
date a milord with so small a sum,
or indeed any sum.
Stanton had nothing for it htti to
write a line to the Peterhol ex-
plaining his pitiable position, and
entreating his master to come to
the rescue without delay.
It was late in the evening when
this missive was handed to Oldc.
The landlord, with the utmost alac-
rity, placed the coffers of the Pcte^
hof at his disposal, and sent for a
carriage to convey him to the scene
of his valet's distress.
" If ever any one catches we
saving a Russian fellow's life
Are You My Wiftf
6lT
again may I be drowned myself!"
was Stanton's ejaculation as he
shut his master into the cab, and
drove home with the spit in his
pocket.
This little incident gave Glide
some food for reflection, and
aroused in him a prudent desire to
make some acquaintance with the
ways and customs of Muscovy be-
fore he went further. A little
knowledge of the code which in-
cluded such a very peculiar law
as the aforementioned might prove
not only desirable but essential, be-
fore he entangled himself in its
treacherous meshes. A paternal
government might have its advan-
tages, but clearly it had its draw-
backs. Russia was almost the only
spot in the so-called civilized world
that he had not explored in the
course of his wandeiings, so the
people and their laws were as un-
known to him practically as the
people and the laws of the Feejee
Islands. He had gone once as far
as Warsaw with the intention of
pushing on to Russia, but what
he saw in the Polish city of her
spirit and national character sick-
ened and horrified him ; he turned
his back on the scene of her cruel-
ty and demoralizing rule, and went
down to Turkey. There at least
barbarism reigned with a compara-
tively gentle sceptre, and wore no
hypocrite's mask. He had not fur-
nished himself with a single letter
of introduction to St. Petersburg.
It never entered into his imagina-
tion when leaving London that he
should want any; he did not dream
that the will-o'-the-wisp he was
chasing would have led him so far.
But he was here now, and he must
6nd some one to steer him safe
through quicksands and sunken
rocks.
There was no doubt an English
lawyer in the city to whom he could
safely apply. The landlord of the
Peterhof gave him the address of
one. It was a Russian name, but he
assured Glide that it was that of
the English lawyer of St. Peters-
burg, who managed all the law af^
fairs of English residents. Glide
went to this gentleman's office, and
found a small, urbane little man,
who spoke English with a very
pure accent and fluently, but with
Muscovite written on every line of
his face. It was of no con.se-
quence, however, as he showed his
client in the first few questions he
put that he was in the habit of
'dealing with English people and
transacting confidential and intri-
cate cases for them. The present
one he frankly admitted was with-
out precedent in his legal experi-
ence, and his advice to Glide was
pretty much the same as the con-
sul's, reinforced, however, by a
rather startling argument.
** You must first prove beyond a
doubt that it is not a case of mis-
taken identity, and, even when this
is done, you have to consider wheth-
er it is expedient to run the risks
that must attend any active pro-
ceedings against the persons in ques-
tion. Let us consider the facts as
they stand, setting aside possible
antecedents. The lady is engaged
here for the season. I can guaran-
tee that much. I heard her repeat-
edly last year, and the announce-
ment, on the night of her last ap-
pearance, that she was to return
next season, was received with an
enthusiasm that I cannot describe.
She is, therefore, an established fa-
vorite with the public. This in it-
self is a fact fraught with danger to
any one seeking to molest her — I
use the word from the point of view
of the public — any person interfer-
ing with so important a branch of
6X2
Are You My Wifif
their pleasure as the opera would
expose himself to disagreeable con-
sequences. The government is pa-
ternally anxious that the people
should be amused. It is not wise
to thwart a paternal government.
. . . Tne Czar, moreover, has shown
decided appreciation of this prima
donna. He condescended to re-
ceive her into the imperial box and
himself clasp a costly diamond
bracelet on her arm. He and the
rest of the royal family are to be
present at her first reappearance.
No one, be they ever so guilty, can
be attacked with impunity while
under the favor of the imperial
smile. A paternal government is
not trammelled by the conventional-
isms and routine that check the ac-
tion of other forms of government ;
it acts promptly, decisively. If you
meddle in this matter rashly, you
may find yourself in very unplea-
sant circumstances.**
*' I should agree with all you say
if I were a subject of the Russian
government," said Glide, ** but I
am an Englishman ; surely that
makes a difference V*
The lawyer smiled grimly.
** I would not advise you to count
upon it for security. I have known
.some Englishmen whose nationali-
ty did not prove such a talisman as
they expected."
" You mean that they have been
imprisoned without offence or trial,
treated like Russian subjects?"
Glide's lip curled under his mous-
tache as he emitted the monstrous
proposition.
" I mean to give you the best ad-
vice in my power," returned the
urbane lawyer with unruffled cool-
ness. ** You have come to me for
counsel. You are free to follow it
or not as you sec good."
" So far, you have given me only
negative advice. You tell me what
I most not do ; can you tell me no-
thing that I can and ought to do?"
said Glide.
" For the present, I can only urge
you to be prudent. One rash act
may precipitate you into a still
worse dilemma than the present
See this lady for yourself, and see
the man who accompanies her. 1
do not advise you to speak to them,
nor even to let them know of your
presence here, still less of your in-
tentions. The man, from what you
already know of him, is likely to be
an unscrupulous fellow, a dangerous
enemy to cope with. He — on ac-
count of his pupil or niece — has pa-
trons in high place. If he got wind
of your designs, he might fnistnac
them in a manner . . . that . . .
that you don't foresee . . ." The law-
yer paused, and bent his sharp
green eyes onjClide with a meaning
that was not to be misunderstood
" You mean that the governmeci
would connive at or assist him in
some personal violence to me?"
" I mean to advise you honestly.
I might put you off with a sham, or
lay a trap for you ; I should be well
paid for it. But I traffic as liule as
possible in tliat sort of thing, and
fuver with an English client." li
was impossible to doubt the genuioe
frankness in this assurance, coupled
as it was with the implied admis-
sion that the lawyer was less incor-
ruptible to native clients. Glide
was convinced the man was del-
ing fairly by him.
"And when 1 have seen them
both, and thus put a seal on cer-
tainty — what next V
"Wait until the season is over;
then follow them to their next des-
tination, out of Russia, and take
counsel with a shrewd legal man ot
the place. My own opinion is that
your wisest course would be to do
nothing until you can attack the
Are You My Wife?
613
affair in England : the mere fact of
being a foreigner puts barriers in
the way of the law for helping you
anywhere ; but, as you value your
liberty, don't interfere with a prima
donna who is in favor with the
Court of St. Petersburg — it were
safer for you to play with fire."
Glide laid a large fee on the law-
yer's green table, and wished him
good morning.
He hesitated as he was stepping
into his fly. Should he go to the
British Embassy, and lay the whole
story before Lord X , and so
place one strong barrier between
him and the monstrous possibilities
with which the lawyer had threa-
tened him? He stood for a mo-
ment with his hand on the door,
which Stanton was holding open
for him ; his forehead had that hard
line straight down between the ho-
rizontal bars over his eyes that had
once so scared Franceline. " To
the hotel !** he said, slamming the
door, and Stanton jumped up be-
side the coachman.
They had gone about a hundred
yards when the window was pulled
down in front, and Glide called out :
"To the British Embassy !"
The horse's head was turned that
way. AVhile they were rattling
over the stones. Glide was arguing
his change of resolution, and trying
to justify it. " I will burn my ship
ind tik« the consequences. What
balderdash he talked about the
danger of letting the man know of
my intentions ! How the deuce
could they harm me.' If I were a
Russian, no doubt ; but the govern-
ment would hardly run their neck
into such a noose as assault or im-
prisonment of a British subject for
the sake of a popular prima donna !
Pshaw ] I was an idiot to mind
him.-
The coachman pulled up before
the British Embassy. Two private
carriages stopped at the same mo-
ment, gentlemen alighted from them
and ran up the steps. Stanton
held the door open for his master,
but Glide did not move ; he sat with
his head bent forward, examining
his boots, to all appearance uncon-
scious of his valet's presence.
" Here we are, sir ; this is the
Embassy," said Stanton . But Glide
sat dumb, as if he were glued to the
seat. At last, starting from his rev-
ery, he said ** Home !" and flung
himself back in the carriage.
" That fever has leift him a bit
queer," thought Stanton, as he
closed the door on his capricious
master.
" What a fool's errand it would
be!" muttered Glide*' to himself;
" and what have I to say to Lord
X ? If it should turn out to be
a case of mistaken identity. . . .
The lawyer's advice is after all the
safest and the most rational."
TO BB COmDCVB^
614
Space.
SPACE-
II.
It is of the utmost importance
in the philosophical investigation in
which we have engaged to bear in
mind that the power by which we
attain to the knowledge of the in-
trinsic nature of things is not our
imagination, but our intellect. The
office of imagination is to form
sensible representations of what lies
at the surface of the things appre-
hended ; the intellect alone is com-
petent to reach what lies under that
surface, that is, the essential princi-
ples of the thing, and their ontologi-
cal relations. This remark is so
obvious that it may seem superflu-
ous ; but our imagination has such
a power in fiishioning our thoughts,
and such an obtrusive manner of
mterfering with our mental process-
es, that we need to be reminded,
in season and out of season, of our
liability to mistake its suggestions
for intellectual conceptions. What
we have said about absolute space
in our past article shows that even
renowned philosophers are liable to
such mistakes; for nothing but
imagination could have led Balmes,
Descartes, and many others, to con-
found absolute space with the ma-
terial extension of bodies. As to
relative space, the danger of con-
founding its intellectual notion with
our sensible representation of it, is,
perhaps, less serious, when we have
understood the nature of absolute
space ; yet, here too we are oblig-
ed to guard against the incursions
of the imaginative faculty, which
will not cease to obtrude itself, in
the shape of an auxiliary, upon our
intellectual ground.
Absolute space cannot becorse
relative unless it be extrinsically
terminated, or occupied, by distinn
terms. Hence, in passing from the
consideration of absolute space to
that of relative space, the first ques-
tion by which we are met blhe fol
lowing :
Is absolute space intrinsically
modified or affected by being occq-
pied } or. Docs the creation of a
material point in space entail an in-
trinsic modification of absolute space f
The answer to this question can-
not be doubtful. Absolute space
is not and cannot be intrinsically
affected or modified by the presence
of a material point, or of any num-
ber of material points. We have
shown that absolute space ib no-
thing else than the virtuality of
God's immensity ; and since no in-
trinsic change can be conceived as
possible in God's attributes or \n
the range of their comprehension, it
is evident that absolute space can-
not be intrinsically modified by any
work of creation. On the other
hand, nothing can be intrinsically
modified unless it receives in itself,
as in a subject, the modifying act;
for all intrinsic modifications result
from corresponding impressions
made on the subject which is modi-
fied. Thus the modifications of
the eye, of the ear, and of other
senses, result from impressions
made on them, and received in
thSm as in so many subjects, Bui
the creation of a material point in
space is not the position of a thin;'
in it as in a subject ; for, if absolute
space received the material i)oini
space.
6is
in itself a!^ in a subject, this point
would be a mere accident ; as no-
thing but accidents exist in a sub-
ject, and since it is manifest that
luatertal elements are not accidents,
it is plain that they are not receiv-
ed in space as in a subject.
Hence the creation of any hum-
ber of material points in space im-
plies nothing but the extrinsic ter-
mination of absolute space, which
accordingly remains altogether un-
affected and unmodified. Just as a
body created at the surface of the
earth immediately acquires weight,
without causing the least intrinsic
change in the attractive power
which is the source of all weights
on earth, so docs a material element,
created in absolute space, acquire
its ubication without causing the
least intrinsic change in absolute
space which is the source of all
possible ubications. A material
clement has its formal ubication in-
asmuch as it occupies a point in
space. This point, as contained in
absolute space, is virtual; but, as
occupied by the element, or marked
out by a point of matter, it is for-
mal. Thus the formality of the
ubication consists in the actual ter-
mination and real occupation of a
virtual point by an extrinsic term
corresponding to it.
The formal ubication of an ele-
ment is a mere relativity, or a re-
speciuu The formal reason, or
foundation, of this relativity is the
reality through which the term
ubicated communicates with abso-
lute space, viz., the real point
which is common to both, though
not in the same manner, as it is
nrinal in space, and formal in the
extrinsic term. A material ele-
ment in space is therefore nothing
but a term related by its ubication
to divine immensity as existing in a
more perfect manner in the same
ubication. But since the formality
of the contingent ubication exclu-
sively belongs to the contingent
being itself, absolute space receives
nothing from it except a relative
extrinsic denomination.
Some will say : To have a capac-
ity of containing something, and to
contain it actually, are things in-
trinsically different. But absolute
space, when void, has a mere ca-
pacity of containing bodies, whilst,
when occupied, it actually contains
them. Therefore absolute space is
intrinsically modified by occupa-
tion.
To this we answer, that the word
"capacity," on which the objection
is built up, is a mischievous one,
no less indeed than the word " po-
tency," which, when used indeter-
minately, is liable to opposite in-
terpretations, and leads to contra-
dictory conclusions.
The capacity of containing bodies
which is commonly predicated of
absolute space, is not a passive po-
tency destined to be actuated by
contingent occupation ; it is, on the
contrary, the formal reason of* all
contingent ubications, since it con-
tains already in an infinitely better
manner all the ubications of the
bodies by which it may be occupied.
To be occupied, and not to be oc-
cupied, are not, of course, the same
thing; but it does not follow from
this that space unoccupied is in-
trinsically different from space oc-
cupied; it follows only, that, when
space is occupied, a contingent be-
ing corresponds to it as an extrin-
sic term, and gives it an extrinsic
denomination. In other terms,
everything which occupies space,
occupies it by ubication. Now
every ubication is the participation
in the contingent being of a reality
which absolute space already con*
tains in a better manner. Conse*
6i6
Space.
qnently, the capacity of containing
bodies, which is predicated of space,
already contains actually llie same
ubications, which, when bodies are
created, are formally attributed to
the bodies themselves.
This answer is, we think, philoso-
phically evident. But, as our im-
agination, too, must be helped to
rise to the level of intellectual con-
ceptions, we will illustrate our an-
swer by an example. Man has fea-
tures which can be reflected in any
number of mirrors, so as to form in
them an image of him. This ** ca-
pacity *' of having images of self is
called ** exemplarity," and consists
in the possession of that of which
an image can be produced. Hence,
man's exemplarity actually, though
only virtually, contains in itself all
the images that it can form in any
mirror ; and when the image is
formed, man's exemplarity gives
existence to it, but receives nothing
from it, except a relative denomin-
ation drawn from the extrinsic term
in which it is portrayed. In a like
manner, God's omnipotence, and
his other attributes, are mirrored in
every created thing, and their ** ca-
pacity "of being imitated in a finite
degree arises from the fact that
God's attributes contain already in
an eminent manner the whole real-
ity which can be made to exist for-
mally in the contingent things.
Hence, when these contingent things
are created, God gives existence to
them, but receives nothing from
xhem, except a relative denomina-
tion drawn from the extrinsic terms
in which his perfections are mirror-
ed. In the same manner, too,
when a material element is created,
it receives its being, and its mode
of being in space, that is, its ubica-
tion, which is a finite image or imi-
tation of God's infinite ubication ;
but it gives nothing to the divine
ubication, except the extrinric de-
nomination; just as the image io
the mirror gives nothing to the
body of which it is the image, boi
simply borrows its existence from it.
From this it follows that material
elements are in space twt by inkt-
sioft^ but by correlatum^ each point
which is formally marked out by an
element corresponding to a virtaal
point of space, to which it gives an
extrinsic denomination. The said
correlation consists in this, that the
contingent term, by its formal mode
of existing in the point it marb
out, really imitates the cmineni
mode of being of divine immensitv
in the same point ; and from this it
follows again, that whatever new
reality results from the existence oi
a material element in space, beloigs
entirely to the element itself, and
constitutes its mode of being.
The relation between the contin-
gent being as existing formally in
its ubication, and divine immensity
as existing eminently in the same
ubication, is called " presence."
We must notice, before we go
further, that the virtuality of God's
immensity, when considered in re-
lation to the distinct terms by
which it is extrinsically terminated,
assumes distinct relative denomina-
tions, and therefore, though it is one
entitatively, it becomes manifold
terminatively. In this latter sense
it is true to say that the virtuality
of divine immensity which is ter-
minated by a certain term A^ isdis-
tinct from the virtuality which is
terminated by a certain other term
B ; and when a material point
moves in space, we may say that
its ubication ceases to correspond
to one virtuality of immensity, uk)
begins to correspond to another.
Such virtualities, as we have jost
remarked, are not entitatively dir
tinct, for immensity has but 9M
space.
617
infinite virtuality. Yet this one vir-
tuality, owing to the possibility of
infinite distinct terminations, is ca-
pable of being related to any num-
ber of distinct extrinsic terms, and
of receiving from their distinct
mode of existing in it any number
of distinct relative denominations.
When, therefore, we speak of dis-
tinct virtualities of divine iifimen-
siiy, we simply refer to the distinct
extrinsic terminations of one and
the same infinite virtuality, in the
same manner as, when we speak
of distinct creations, we do not
mean that God's creative act is
manifold in itself, but only that its
extrinsic termination to one being,
V. gr. the sun, is not its termination
to other beings, v. gr. the stars.
And in a similiar manner, when a
word is heard by many persons, its
sound in their ears is distinct on
account of distinct terminations,
though the word is not distinct from
itself.
We have explained the origin
and nature of formal ubication;
we have yet to point out its di-
vision. Ubication may be consid-
ered either objectively or subjectively.
Objectively considered, it is noth-
ing else than a point in space mark-
td out by a simple point of matter.
We say, by a simple point of matter,
because distinct material points
in space have distinct ubications.
Hence, we cannot approve those
philosophers who confound the ubi
with the locuSy that is, the ubication
with the place occupied by a body.
It is true that those philosophers
held the continuity of matter ; but
they should have seen all the same
that all dimensions involved dis-
tinct ubications, and that every
tenn designable in such dimen-
sions has an ubication of its own
independent of the ubications of
every other designable term ; which
proves that the locus of a body im-
plies a great number of ubications,
and therefore cannot be considered
as the synonym of ubi.
If the ubication is considered
subjectively, that is, as an appurte-
nance of the subject of which it is
predicated, it may be defined as the
mode of being of a simple element in
space. This mode consists of a
mere relativity ; for it results from
the extrinsic termination of abso-
lute space, as already explained.
Hence, the ubication is not re-
ceiifed in the subject of which it
is predicated, and does not inhere
in it, but, like all other relativities
and connotations, simply connects
it with its correlative, and lies, so
to say, between the two.*
But, although it consists of a
mere relativity, the ubication still
admits of being divided into abso-
lute and relative, according as it is
conceived absolutely as it is in it-
self, or compared with other ubica-
tions. Nor is this strange; for
relative entities can be considered
both as to what they are in them-
selves, and as to what they are to
one another. Likeness, for in-
stance, is a relation ; and yet when
we know the likeness of Peter to
Paul, and the likeness of Peter to
John, we can still compare the one
likeness with the other, and pro-
nounce that the one is greater than
the other.
When the ubication is consider-
ed simply as a termination of ab-
solute space without regard for
anything else, then we call it abso-
lute, and we define it as the mode
of being of an element in absolute
space, by which the element is
constituted in the divine pres-
ence. This absolute ubication is
an essential mode of the material
•On the relatire modes see Tas Cathouc
WoxLD for May, 1874, p. 179.
6i»
Space.
element no less than its depend-
ence from the first cause, and is al-
together immutable so long as the
element exists; for, on the one
iiand, the element cannot exist but
within the domain of divine im-
mensity, and, on the other, it can-
not have different modes of being
with regard to it, as absolute space
is the same all throughout, and the
element, however much we may try
to imagine different positions for it,
must always be in the centre, so
to say, of that infinite expanse.
Hence, absolute ubication is al-
together unchangeable.
When the ubication ol one ele-
ment is compared with that of an-
other element in order to ascertain
their mutual relation in space, then
the ubication is called relative, and,
as such, it may be defined as the
modi: of terminating a relation in
space. This ubication is change-
able, not in its intrinsic entity, but
in its relative formality ; and it is
only under this formality that the
ubication can be ranked among
the predicamental accidents; for
this changeable formality is the
only thing in it winch bears the
stamp of an accidental entify.
The consideration of relative
ubications leads us directly to
the consideration of the relation
existing between two points dis-
tinctly ubicated in space. Such a
relation is called distance. Dis-
tance is commonly considered as a
quantity; yet it is not primarily
a quantity, but simply the rela-
tion existing between two ubica-
tions with room for movement
from the one to the other. Never-
theless, this very possibility of
movement from one point to an-
other gives us a sufficient foundation
for considering the relation of dis-
tance as a virtual dimensive quan-
tity. For the movement which is
possible between two distant
may be greater or less, accoidiBg
to the different manners in which
these points are related. Now,
more and less imply quantity.
The quantity of distance isesscn*
tially continuous. For it is by
continuous movement that thf*
length of the distance is measored*
The point which by its moveroest
measures the distance, describes 4
straight line by the shifting of ill
ubication from one term of the dis*
tance to the other. The disunce^
as a relation, is the object of tbi
intellect, but, as a virtual quantiht
it is the object of imagination also,
We cannot conceive distances as rc*j
lations without at the same timi
apprehending them as quantities.
For, as we cannot estimate distan
ces except by the extent of iht
movement required in order to pas
from one of its terms to the other,
we always conceive distances ai
relative quantities oi length; aoJ
yet distances, objectively, arc onljf
relations, by which such quaniiiie*
of length are determined. The ini«
quantity of length is the line which
is drawn, or can be drawn, by ihtf
movement of a point from term to
term. In fact, a line which reached
from term to term exhibits in itscii
the extent of the movement by
which it is generated, and it may
rightly be looked upon as a truck
of it, inasmuch as tlie point, whici
describes it, formally marks by its
gliding ubication all the intennr
diate space. The maiking is. d
course, a transient act ; but tran-
sient though it is, it gives to tbe
intermediate space a pernuDcot
connotation ; for a fact once passed,
remains a fact for ever. Thus the
gliding ubication leaves a perma-
nent, intelligible, though invisible,
mark of its passage ; and tiiis ve
call a geometric line. The hne is
space.
619
therefore, formally, a quantity of
length, whereas the distance is only
virtually a quantity, inasmuch as it
determines tlie length of the move-
ment by which the line can be de-
scribed. Nevertheless, since we
cannot, as already remarked, con-
ceive distances without referring
the one of its terms to the other
through space, and, therefore, with-
out drawing, at least mentally, a
line from the one to the other, all
distances, as known to us, are al-
ready measured in some manner,
andconsequentlylhey exhibit them-
selves as formal quantities. Dis-
tance is the base of all dimensions
in space, and its extension is meas-
ured by movement. It is there-
fore manifest that no extension in
space is conceivable without move-
ment, and all quantity of extension
is measured by movement.
We have said that distance is a
relation between two terms as ex-
isting in distinct ubications ; and
we have now to inquire what is the
foundation of such a relation. This
question is of high philosophical
importance, as on its solution de-
jiends whether some of our argu-
ments against Pantheism are or are
not conclusive. Common people,
and a great number of philosophers
loo, confound relations with their
foundation, and do not reflect that
when they talk of distances as rela-
th'e spaces^ they do not speak with
sufficient distinctness.
We are going to show that rela-
tive space must be distinguished
from distances, as well as from geo-
metric surfaces and volumes, al-
though these quantities are also
called " relative spaces " by an im-
proper application of words. Rela-
tive space is not an intrinsic con-
stituent, but only an extrinsic foun-
dation, of these relative quantities ;
hence these quantities cannot be
styled " relative spaces ** without
attributing to the formal results
what strictly belongs to their for-
mal reason.
What is relative space.' Who-
ever understands the meaning of
the words will say that relative
space is that through which the
movement from a point to another
point is possible. Now, the possi-
Itility of movement can be viewed
under three different aspects. First,
as a possibility dependent on the
active powder of a mover ; for move-
ment is impossible without a mover.
Secondly, as a possibility depen-
dent on the passivity of the mova-
ble term ; for no movement can be
imparted to a term which does not
receive the momentum. Thirdly,
as a possibility dependent on the
perviousness of space which allows
a free passage to the moving point ;
for this is absolutely necessary for
the possibility of movement.
In the present question, it is evi-
dent that the possibility of movement
cannot be understood either in the
first or in the second of these three
manners ; for our question does not
regard the relation of the agent to
the patient, or of the patient to the
agent, but merely the relation of
one ubication to another, and the
freedom for movement between
them. If the possibility of move-
ment were taken here as originat-
ing in a motive power, such a pos-
sibility would be greater or less ac-
cording to the greater or less pow-
er ; and thus the relativity of two
given ubications would be changed
without altering their relation in
space ; which is absurd. And if
the possibility of movement were
taken as resulting from the passivi-
ty of the term moved, then, since
this passivity is a mere indifference
to receive the motion, and since in-
difference has no degrees, it would
620
Space.
follow that the possibility of move-
ment would be always the same ;
and therefore the relativity of the
ubications would remain the same,
even though the ubications were
relatively changed ; which is an-
other absurdity. Accordingly, the
possibility of movement which is
involved in the conception of rela-
tive space is that which arises from
space itself, whose virtual extension
virtually contains all possible lines
of movement, and allows any such
lines to be formally drawn through
it by actual movement.
From this it follows that relative
space is nothing else than absolute
space as extrinsually terminated by
distinct terms i and affxfrdin^ room for
movement betiveen them. It follows,
further, that this space is relative,
not because it is itself related, but
because it is that through which the
extrinsic terms are related. It is
actively, not passively, relative ; it
is the ratio y not the rationaium^ the
foundation, not the result, of the
relativities. It follows, also, that
the foundation of the relation of
distance is nothing else than space
as terminated by two extrinsic
terms, and affording room for move-
ment from the one to the other.
This space is at the same time abso-
lute and relative ; absolute as to its
entity, relative as to the extrinsic
denomination derived from the rela-
tion of which it is the formal rea-
son.
The distinction between absolute
and relative space is therefore to be
taken, not from space itself, but
from its comparison with absolute
or with relative ubications. Space,
as absolute, exhibits the possibility
of all absolute ubications ; as rela-
tive, it exhibits the possibility of
all ubicational changes. Absolute
space may therefore be styled
simply " the region of ubications,"
whilst relative space may be defind
as " the region of movement"
This notion of relative space wir
not fail to be opposed by those who
think that all real space rcsalts
from the dimensions of bodies.
Their objections, however, need
not detain us here, as we have
already shown that the grounds of
their argumentation are inadmissi-
ble. The same notion will be op-
posed with greater plausibility \rf
those who confound the formal rea-
son of local relations with the re*
lations themselves, under the com*
mon name of relative space. Theiif
objections are based on the popobif
language, as used, even by philoso*
phers, in connection with rel^
space. We will reduce these objcc*
tions to two .heads, and answcl
them, together with two others
drawn from other sources, that oal
reader may thus form a clcarei
judgment of the doctrine we hav^
developed.
First dijfficuity. The entity of \
relation is the entity of its founder
tion. If, then, the foundation ol
the relation of distance is absolot
space, or the virtual ity of God's
immensity, it follows that the entity
of distance is an uncreated entity.
But this cannot be admit ted, exccp:
by Pantheists. Therefore the rela-
tion of distance is not founded on
the virtuality of God's immensity.
This difficulty arises from a false
supposition. The entity of the re-
lation is not the entity of its foundr
tion, but it is the entity of the con-
notation {respectus) which arises
from the existence of the terms un-
der such a foundation. Likeness,
for instance, is a relation resulting
between two bodies, say, white, on
account of their common property,
say, whiteness. Whiteness is there-
fore the foundation of their likc-
aess ; but whiteness it not likenesL
space.
631
)o the contrary, the whiteness
^hich founds this relation is still
oropetent to found innumerable
ther relations ; a thing which
rould be impossible if the entity
f the foundation were not infinitely
upcrior to the entity of the relation
rhich results from it.
This is even more evident in our
asc; for the foundation of the re-
ition between two ubications is an
ntity altogether extrinsic to the
bications themselves, as we have
Ircady shown. Evidently, such an
ntity cannot be the relativity of
lose ubications. The relation of
•stance is neither absolute nor re-
itive space, but only the mode of
eing of one terra in space witli re-
pect to another term \x\ space.
»ow, surely no one who has any
[lowiedge of things will maintain
liat space, either absolute or rela-
ive, is araode of being. The moon
> ilistani fjom the earth ; and there*
>ie there is space, and possibility
i movement, between the moon
nci the earth. But is this space
h< relation of distance.^ No. Ic
• the ground of the relation. The
.lation itself consists in the mode
t being of the moon with respect
» the earth ; and, evidently, this
oiie is not space.
Ihe assumption that the entity
t the relation is the entity of its
•undation may be admitted in the
.*sc of transcendental relations,
asmuch as the actuality of beings,
hich results from the conspiration
f their essential principles, identi-
c4 itself f/f concreto with the beings
jcmsclves. But the sam^ cannot
^ said of prcdicamental relations.
would be absurd to say that the
cfkrndence of the world on its
r.Mior is the creative act ; nor
ould it be less absurd to say that
ic relativity of a son to his father
the au:t of generation, or that the
fraternity of James and John is the
same thing as the identity of
Zebedee, their father, with himself.
And yet these absurdities, and
many others, must be admitted, if
we admit the assumption that the
entity of prcdicamental relations
is the entity of their foundation.
Hence the assumption must be dis-
carded as false ; and the objection,
which rested entirely on this as-
sumption, needs no further discus-
sion.
We must, however, take this op-
portunity to again warn the student
of the necessity of not confounding
under one and the same name the
relative space with the relations of
things existing in space. This con-
fusion is very frequent, as we often
hear of distances, surfaces, and vol-
umes of bodies spoken of as ** rela-
tive spaces," which, properly speak-
ing, they are not.- We ourselves
are now and then obliged to use
this inaccurate language, owing to
the difficulty of conveying our
thoughts to common readers with-
out employing common phrasjs.
But we would suggest that, to avoid
all misconstruction of such phrases,
the relative space, of which we
have determined the notion, might
be called *'*' fundamental relative
space,** whilst the relations of things
as existing in space might receive
the name of "''resultant relative
spaces.** At any rate, without
some epithets of this sort, we can-
not turn to good account tlie popu-
lar phraseology on the subject.
Such a phraseolog}' expresses things
as they are represented in our im-
agination, not as they are defined
by our reason. Distances are in-
tervals between certain points in
space, surfaces are intervals between
certain lines in space, volumes are
intervals between certain surfaces
in spaces; but these intervals are
622
Sipace.
Tio parts of space, though they are
very frequently so called, but only
relations in space. Space is one,
not many ; it has no parts, and,
whether you call it absolute or rel-
ative, it cannot be cut to pieces.
What is called an interval of space
should rather be called an interval
in space ; for it is not a portion of
space, but a relation of things in
space ; it is not a length of space,
but the length of the movement
possible between the extrinsic terms
of space ; it is not a divisible exten-
sion, but the ground on which
movement can extend with its di-
visible extension. In the smallest
conceivable interval oi space there
is God, with all his immensity. To
affirm that intervals of space are
distinct spaces would be to cut
God's immensity into pieces, by
giving it a distinct being in really
distinct intervals. It is therefore
necessary to concede that, whilst
the intervals are distinct, the space
on which they have their founda-
tion is one and the same.
Pantheists have taken advantage
of the confusion of fundamental
space with the resulting relations in
space, to spread their absurd the-
ories. If we grant them that dis-
tofice is spacey how can we refute
their assertion that distance is a
form under which divine substance,
or the Absolute, makes an appari-
tion } For, if distance is space, and
space is no creature, distance con-
sists of something uncreated (and
therefore divine) under a contin-
gent form. This is not the place
for us to refute Pantheism ; what
we aim at is simply to point out
the need we have of expressing our
thoughts on space with philosophi-
cal accuracy, les: the Pantheists
may si i d themselves with our
own loose phraseology,
God is everywhere, and touches.
so to say, every contingent v&skct
tion by his presence to every ub>-
cated thing. But the contiogent
ubications are not spaces, nor any-
thing intrinsic to space; they arc
merely extrinsic terras, correspond-
ing to space, as we have explained ;
and therefore such ubications are
not apparitions of the divine sab-
stance, but apparitions of contin-
gent things ; they are not points of
divine immensity, but points con-
tingently projected on the virtuality
of God*s immensity. It is as vain
to pretend that contingent ubica-
tions are points of space, as it is
vain to pretend that contingent csr
sences are the divine substaow.
Pantheists, indeed, have said thai,
because the essences of things ait
contained in God, the substance of
all things must be God's substance;
but their paralogism is n\anife«i.
For the essences of things are m
God, not fonnally with the entiiv
which they have in created things,
but eminently and virtually, thai
is, in an infinitely better manner.
The formal essences of things arc
oniy in the things themselves, and
they are extrinsic terms of creation,
imperfect images of what exists
perfect in God. In the same man-
ner the ubications of things are not
in God formally, but eminently ami
virtually. They fonnally belong to
the things that are ubicated. So
also the intervals of space arc in
God eminently, not formally; thev
formally arise from extrinsic ter
minations, and therefore are roert
correlations of creatures, Thi<
suffices to. show that distances an<^
other relations in space involve no-
thing divine in their entity, altho»fl»
they are grounded on the exisiem^
and imiversal presence of God. i"
whom "we live, and move, a»*^
have our being."
Second difficulty. — If the foonda
Space.
6^3
rci of local relations is uncreated,
is always the same; and there-
re it will cause all such relations
be always the same. Hence, all
stances would be equal ; which is
anifcstly false.
Til is difficulty arises from con-
bunding the absolute entity of the
ling which is the foundation of
»e relation, with the formal man-
er of founding the relation. The
ime absolute entity may found dif-
rrent relations by giving to the
zTvcis a different relativity; for the
arae absolute entity founds differ-
nt relations whenever it connects
l»e terms of the relation in a dif-
trrent manner. Thus, when the
niity of the foundation is a ge-
leric or a universal notion, it can
;ive rise to relations of a very dif-
erent degree. Taking animality^
or instance, as the foundation of
he relation, we may compare one
liound with another, one wolf with
inother, one bird with another, or
we may compare the hound with
il»e wolf, the wolf with the bird,
the bird with the lion, etc.; and
we shall fmd as many different
relations, all grounded on the same
foundation — that is, on animality.
In fact, there will be as many
different relations of likeness as
there are different animals com-
pared. Now, if one general ratio
suffices to do this, on account of
its universality, which extends in-
finitely in its application to con-
crete things, it is plain that as
much and more can be done by
llic infinite virtuality of God's im-
mensity, which can be terminated
by an infinite variety of extrinsic
terminations. It is the proper at-
tribute of an infinite virtuality to
contain in itself the reason of the
being of infinite terms, and of
their becoming connected with
one another in infinite manners.
This is what the infinite virtuality
of divine immensity can do with
respect to ubicated terms. Such
an infinite virtuality is whole,
though not wholly, in every point
and interval of sp.ice; it is as
entire between the two nearest
molecules as between the two
remotest stars. Hence its abso-
lute entity, though unchangeable
itself, can have different extrinsic
terminations; and, since it founds
the relations in question inasmuch
as it has such different termina-
tions, consequently it can found as
many different local relations as it
can have different extrinsic termi-
nations. A hound and a wolf, as
we have said, inasmuch as they are
animals, are alike; and the wolf
and the bird, also, inasmuch as
they are animals, are alike; but
the likeness in the second case is
not the same as in the first, be-
cause the animality, which is one
in the abstract, is different in the
concrete terms to which it is ap-
plied. Hence the difference, or
entitative distance, so to say, be-
tween the wolf and the hound is
less than the entitative distance be-
tween the wolf and the bird, al-
tluiugh the ground of the com*
parison is one and the same. In
a like manner, the distance from
a molecule to a neighboring mole-
cule is less than the distance from
a star to another star, although the
ground of the relation be one and
the same ; with this difference, how-
ever, that in the case of the ani-
mals above mentioned the relation
has an intrinsic foundation, be-
cause " animality" is intrinsic to
the terms compared ; whilst in the
case of local distances the rela-
tion has an extrinsic foundation ;
for the ubications compared are
nothing but extrinsic terms of
space.
624
Space.
Third difficulty. — Distances evi-
dently intercept portions of space,
and differ from one another ac-
cording as they intercept more or
less of it. But, if space is the vir-
tuality of divine immensity, such
l)ortions cannot be admitted ; for
the virtuality of divine immensity
cannot be divided into parts dis-
tinct from one another.
I'his difficulty arises from the
confusion of that which belongs
to space intrinsically, with that
which belongs to it by extrinsic
denomination only. Space in it-
self has no parts; and therefore
distance cannot intercept a por-
tion of the entity of space. Nev-
ertheless, parts are attributed to
space by extrinsic denomination,
that is, inasmuch as the move-
ments, which space makes possi-
ble between given terms, do not
extend beyond those terms, while
other movements are possible out-
side of the given terms. Hence,
since space is infinite and affords
room for an infinite length of
movement in all directions, the
space which corresponds to a
limited movement has been call-
ed an interval of space and a por-
tion of space. But this denomina-
tion is extrinsic, and does not im-
ply that space has portions, or that
the entity of space is divisible.
That such a denomination is ex-
trinsic, there can be no doiibt, for
it is taken from the consideration
of the limited movement possible
between the terms of the distance,
as all distances are known and esti-
mated by movement. Indeed, we
are wont to say that ** movement
measures space," which expression
seems to justify the conclusion that
the space measured is a finite por-
tion of infinite space; but, though
the expression is much used (from
want of a better one), it must not
be interpreted in a material scnic
Its real meaning is simply that
movement " measures the length
of the distance" in space, or that
movement " measures its own ci-
tent" in space — that is, the length
or the extent, not of space, but
of what space causes to be extrin-
sically possible between two ex-
trinsic terms.
This will be still more manifest
by referring to the evident truth
already established, that all ubica-
tions as compared with the entity
of space are unchangeable, because
the thing ubicated cannot have two
modes of being in the infinite ex-
panse of space, but, wherever it be,
is always, so to say, in the centre
of it. This proves that the move-
ment of a point between the tennt
of a given distance measures no-
thing else than its own length in
space ; for, had it to measure sfacc
itself^ it would have to take succes-
sively different positions with re-
gard to it, which we know to be
impossible. We must therefore
conclude that distance does not
properly intercept space, though it
determines the relative length of a
line which can be drawn by a point
moving through space ; for this line
is not a line of space, but a line of
movement. In other words, dis-
tance is not the limit of the space
said to be intercepted, but of tbe
movement possible between the dis-
tant terms.
As this answer may not satBf)^
our imagination as much as it does
our intellect, and as our habit o)
expressing things as they are repre-
sented in our imagination makes it
difficult to speak correctly of what
transcends tlie reach of this lower
faculty, we will make use of a com-
parison which, in our opinion, by
putting the intelligible in contact
with the sensible, will not fail to
Space.
625
help us fully to realize the truth of
what has been hitherto said.
Let God create a man, a horse»
and a tree. The difference, or, as we
will call it, the entitative distance,
between the man and the horse is
less than between the man and the
tree, as is evident. Yet the man,
the horse, and the tree are extrin-
sic terms of the satne divine omni-
potence, which neither is divisible
nor admits of more or less. Now,
can we say that, because the man
is entitatively more distant from the
tree than from the horse, there
roust be tnore of divine omnipoietue
between the man and the tree than
l>etween the man and the horse?
ft would be folly to say so. The
only consequence which can be de-
duced from the greater entitative
distance of the man and of the tree,
is that a greater multitude of crea-
tures (extrinsic terms of divine om-
nipotence) is possible between the
man and the tree, than between the
man and the horse. The reader
will readily see how the compari-
son applies to our subject ; for the
two cases are quite similar. \Can
we say, then, that, because two
points in space are more distant
than two other points, there must
be m^re of divine immensity^ or of its
virtuality, between the former than
between the latter ? By no means.
The only consequence which can
he deduced from the greater dis-
tance of the two former points is,
that a greater multitudeof ubications
(extrinsic terms of immensity) is
possible between them, than between
the two others. This greater mul-
titude of possible ubications con-
stitutes the possibility of a greater
icngth of movement; and shows
the truth of what we have main-
tained, vi«., that distance endues the
aspect of quantity through the con-
sideration of the greater or less ex-
VOL. XXI.— 40
tent of the movement possible be-
tween its terms, and not through a
greater or less " portion " of space
intercepted.*
The difficulty is thus fully answer-
ed. Nevertheless, as to the phrases,
" a portion of space," " an interval
of space," " space measured by
movement," and a few others of a
like nature, we readily admit that
their use, having become so com-
mon in the popular language, we
cannot avoid them without expos-
ing purselves to the charge of affec-
tation, nay, we must use them, as
we frequently do, in order to be
better understood. But we should
remember that the common lan-
guage has a kernel as well as a
shell, and that, when we have to
determine the essential notions and
the intelligible relations of things,
we must break the shell that we
may reach the kernel.
Fourth, difficulty, — The notions of
space and of ubication above given
imply a sort of vicious circle. For
space is explained by the possibility
of ubications, whilst ubications are
said to be modes of being in space.
Therefore neither space nor ubica-
tion is sufficiently defined.
We answer, that then only is a
sort of vicious circle committed in
defining or explaining things, when
an unknown entity is defined or ex-
plained by means of another equally
unknown. When, on the contrary,
we explain the common notions of
such things as are immediately
known and understood before any
definition or explanation of them is.
given, there is no danger of a vi-
cious circle. In such a case, things
are sufficiently explained if our
definitioa or description of them,
agrees with the notion we have ac-
* This same subject has been derelopcd under an-
other fonn in Trb Catholic Woklo for Jaanaryv
»B75, ?. 495 ^ «^*
626
Space.
quired of them by immediate ap-
prehension. We say that Being is
that which is^ and we explain the
extension of time by referring to
movement, while we also explain
movement by referring to time and
velocity, and again we explain velo-
city by referring to the extension of
time and movement. This is no
vicious circle ; for every one knows
these entities before hearing their
formal definition. Now, the same
is true with respect to space and
ubication ; for the notion of space
is intuitive, and before we hear its
philosophical definition, we kiiow
already that it is the region of all
possible ubications and movements.
Moreover, such things as have a
mutual connection, or as connote
one another, can be explained and
defined by one another without a
vicious circle. Thus we say that a
father is one who has a son^ and a
son is one who has d^ father. In the
^ame manner we define the matter
as the essential term of a form, and
the form as the essential act of the
!matter. Accordingly, since ubica-
>tions are extrinsic terms of absolute
space, and space is the formal rea-
son of their extrinsic possibility, it
is plain that we can, without any
fear of a vicious circle, define and
explain the former by the latter, and
vice versa.
Finally, no philosopher has ever
defined space or explained it other-
wise than by reference to possible
or actual ubications, nor was ubica-
tion ever described otherwise than
ns a mode of being in absolute or
i in relative space. This shows that
it is in the very nature of things
that the one should be explained
by reference to the other. Hence
it is that even our own definition
of absolute space, which does not
explicitly refer to contingent ubica-
tions, refers to them implicitly.
For when we say that ** absolate
space is the virtual ity, or extrinsic
terminability, of divine immensity,"
we implicitly affirm the possibility
of extrinsic terms, viz., of ubica-
tions.
And here we will end our discus-
sion on the entity of relative space:
for we do not think that there are
other difficulties worthy of a special
solution. We have seen that rela-
tive space is entitatively identical
with absolute space, since it docs
not differ from it by any intrinsic
reality, but only by an extrinsic de-
nomination. We have shown that
space is relative in an active, no:
in a passive sense, that is, as the
formal reason, not as a result of
extrinsic relations. Wc have also
seen that these extrinsic relations
are usually called " relative spaces,"
and that this phrase should not be
used in philosophy without some
restrictive epithet, as it is calculated
to mislead.
Let us conclude with a remark
on the known division of space
into recU and imaginary. This di-
vision cannot regard the entity of
space, which is unquestionably
real. It regards the reality or un-
reality of the extrinsic terms con-
ceived as having a relation in space.
The true notion of real, as contrast-
ed with imaginary space, is the
following : Space is called real,
when it is really relative, viz.. when
it is extrinsically terminated by real
terms, between which it founds a
real relation ; on the contrar)', it is
called imaginary^ when the extrinsic
terms do not exist in nature, bat
only in our imagination ; for, in
such a case, space is not really ter-
minated, and does not found real
relations, but both the terminations
and the relations are simply a fic-
tion of our imagination. Thus it
appears that void space, as co&-
space.
627
aining none but imaginary rela-
ions, may justly be called *Mmag-
nary/' though in an absolute sense
tis intrinsically real.
Hence we infer that the indefinite
jpnce, which we imagine, when we
;irry our thoughts beyond the
limits of the material world, and
ivliich philosophers have called
'imaginary,*' is not absolute, but
relative space, and is not imaginary
in itself, but only as to its denomina-
tion of relative, because where real
terms do not exist there are only
imaginary relations, notwithstand-
ing the reality of the entity through
wfiich we refer the imaginary terms
to one another.
That absolute space, considered
in itself, cannot be called " imagin-
ary" is evident, because absQlute
space is not an object of imagina-
tion. Imagination cannot conceive
space except in connection with
imaginary terms so related as to
offer the image of sensible dimen-
sions. It is, therefore, a blunder
to confound imaginary and indefi-
nite space with absolute and infinite
space. Indeed, our intellectual
conception of absolute and infinite
space is always accompanied in our
minds by a representation of indefi-
nite space ; but this depends on the
well-known connection of our imag-
inative and intellectual operations :
Proprium est hominis intelligere cum
phaniasmate ; and we must be care-
ful not to attribute to the object
what has the reason of its being in
the natural condition of the sub-
ject. It was by this confusion of
the objective notion of space with
our subjective manner of imagining
it, that Kant formed his false theo-
ry of subjective space. He mistook,
as we have already remarked, with
Balmes, the product of imagination
for a conception of the intellect,
and confounded his phantasma of
the indefinite with the objectivity
of the infinite. It was owing to
this same confusion that other phil-
osophers made the reality of space
dependent on real occupation, and
denied the reality of vacuum. In
vacuum, of course, they could find
no real terms and no real relations,
but they could imagine terms and
relations. Hence they concluded
that; since vacuum supplied nor-
thing but imaginary relations, void
space was an imaginary, not a real,
entity. This was a paralogism;
for the reason why those relations
are imaginary is not the lack of
real entity in absolute space, but
the absence of the real terms»to
which absolute space has to im-
part relativity that the relation
may ensue. It was not superflu-
ous, then, to warn our readers, as
we did in our introduction to this
article, against the incursions of
imagination upon our intellectual
field.
6i»
Spact.
element no less than its depend-
ence from the first cause, and is al-
together immutable so long as the
element exists ; for, on the one
hand, the element cannot exist but
within the domain of divine im-
mensity, and, on the other, it can-
not have different modes of being
with regard to it, as absolute space
is the same all throughout, and the
element, however much we may try
to imagine different positions for it,
must always be in the centre, so
to say, of that infinite expanse.
Hence, absolute ubication is al-
together unchangeable.
When the ubication oi one ele-
ment is comj)ared with that of an-
other element in order to ascertain
their mutual relation in space, then
the ubication is called rdativty and,
as such, it may be defined as the
modi' of terminating a relation in
space. This ubication is change-
able, not in its intrinsic entity, bul
in its relative formality ; and it is
only under this formality that the
ubication can be ranked among
the predicamental accidents; for
this changeable formality is the
only thing in it wliich bears the
stamp of an accidental entify.
The consideration of relative
ubications leads us directly to
the consideration of the relation
existing between two points dis-
tinctly ubicated in space. Such a
relation is called distance. Dis-
tance is commonly considered as a
quantity; yet it is not primarily
a quantity, but simply the rela-
tion existing between two ubica-
tions with room for movement
from the one to the other. Never-
theless, this very possibility of
movement from one point to an-
other gives U8 a sufficient foundation
for considering the relation of dis-
tance as a virtual dimensive quan-
tity. For the movement which is
possible between two dbtant poiats
may be greater or less, accordiig
to the different manners in wkidi
these points are related. Nov,
more and less imply quantity.
The quantity of distance is essen-
tially continuous. For it is br
continuous movement that the
length of the distance is measured.
The point which by its movement
measures the distance, describes a
straight line by the shifting of its
ubication from one term of the dis-
tance to the other. The distance,
as a relation, is the object of the
intellect, but, as a virtual quantit).
it is the object of imagination also.
We cannot conceive distances as re-
lations without at the same time
apprehending them as quantities.
For, as we cannot estimate distan-
ces except by the extent of the
movement required in order to pass
from one of its terms to the othei,
we always conceive distances as
relative quantities of length ; and
yet distances, objectively, are only
relations, by which such quantities
of length are determined. The true
quantity of length is the line which
is drawn, or can be drawn, by the
movement of a point from tcnn to
term. In fact, a line which ^cache^
from term to term exhibits in itscli
the extent of the movement 17
which it is generated, and it loi?
rightly be looked upon as a track
of it, inasmuch as the point, wbic.i
describes it, formally marks by its
gliding ubication all tlie interme-
diate space. The maiking is ot
course, a transient act ; but trar-
sient though it is, it gives lo the
intermediate space a permancci
connotation ; for a fact once passed,
remains a fact for ever. Thus the
gliding ubication leaves a perma-
nent, intelligible, though invisible,
mark of its passage; and this we
call a geometric line. The line i^
A FragmcnU
629
from whence he came. Then he
called out, saying : " Lord, my mas-
ter saith, Trouble not thyself, for I
am not worthy that thou shouldst
enter under my roof; say but the
word, and my servant shall be
healed.*' Jesus lifted his head, and
I saw his face for the first time ;
nay, but that part which extends
from the top of the forehead be-
neath the eyes. But what eyes —
how full of life, and holiness, and
truth! And methought they fixed
their piercing glance full upon me
as he cried aloud : " I say unto
you, I have not found so great faith
in Israel."
But the crowd pressed about him
and 1 saw him no more, for he re-
traced his steps, followed by the
multitude, while I pursued my
way, filled with curiosity as to
the result. As I neared the house
of Marcus I heard sounds of
thanksgiving, and what was my
surprise to hear, and in a mo-
ment after see, the man who had
been ill, perfectly restored, and fair-
ly dancing andf laughing* with joy.
Marcus is a man of probity and
considerable influence, as«you well
know, and his faith in the power
of Jesus is very great, which can
liardly be counted singuTar.
Having transacted my business, I
went on my way, marvelling and
reflecting much, albeit I am not
given to running after strange
prophets, nor to walk in new
paths. But once lighted upon, it
seemed this untrodden way was to
open out fresh scenes to my view.
The next day I betook ray steps
early to Main, where my brother-
in-law, Jonah, lies sick of the fe-
ver, which is now making fearful
ravages in that city. Returning
in the cool of the evening, I sud-
denly encountered a funeral pro-
cession. A woman deeply veiled
followed the corpse, piercing the
air with heartrending cries. At
the same moment a group of tra-
vel-stained men entered the gate
of the town. In their leader I rec-
ognized Jesus of Nazareth, and at
his approach an indefinable feeling
possessed me. I cannot describe
it save in saying that I would* fain
have fallen at his feet, as* though
in the presence of some* superior
being.
" Whom do you carry ?" in-
quired one of the travellers
"The only son of* his mother,
and she is a widow," was the sad
response.
Jesus touched the bier, and the
bearers paused. Turning with* a
look of ineffable compassioi> to the
heartbroken mother, he said,' in
tones gentle as those of a woman,
"Weep not." Then, in a louder
voice, " Young man, I say to thee.
Arise."
My breath came thick and fast,
the cold dews gathered on my fore-
head, for, miracle of miracles ^ the
dead arose, cast aside his grave-
clothes, and fell sobbing upon his
joyful mother's breast. This I
beheld with my eyes — I heard him
speak, I saw his happy tears. But
Jesus calmly gathered up his robe
and pursued his journey, and once
again I fancied — or did I fancy }
— that he singled me out from the
crowd, and fixed his eyes on mine
with an expression that was almost
an appeal. My eager gaze follow-
ed him till I could no longer catch
the outline of his garments ; after
which, I slowly returned to Jerusa-
lem,
There is much talk in the city
concerning this last great miracle,
and I have been at pains to learn
more of Jesus, of whom it is even said
that he calls himself the Messiah.
It is argued against him that he
630
A Fragment.
consorts with publicans and sin-
ifers, and that his most intimate
friends and disciples are illiterate
fishermen.
However, he preaches that he
came not to call the just, but sin-
ners, to repentance ; it is therefore
but natural and consistent that he
should seek out such, if his mission
lies among them ; and, with regard
to his near friends being illiterate,
lie is himself only a carpenter's
son.
Again, his enemies say that he
casts out devils and works prodigies
through Beelzebub. But he preach-
es charity, good-will, hatred of
hypocrisy and double-dealing, and
surely these are not the weapons
of the prince of darkness.
Many of the Pharisees, far wiser
than I, are disturbed and thought-
ful because of these marvels that
are daily occurring, so be not
alarmed, nor fear that your David
is losing •ii is wits.
Three days ago, on my way from
the synagogue, I was joined by Si-
mon, to whom Jesus is well known,
and in the conversation which en-
sued between us, our friend hospita-
bly invited me to dine with him at
his house this evening, saying that
Jesus would be of the company.
Of course I assented, and am all
in) patience for the hour to arrive.
Simon's recognition of Jesus speaks
well for both, the former being a
shrewd and careful man, a quick
observer, and not slow to detect
imposture ; and if the qualities of
the latter were not sound and com-
mendable, Simon would not thus
honor him with his hospitality.
But already the sun dips low in
the heavens ; till to-morrow, my
Ephraim — farewell.
• • • • • •
I left you last evening aglow with
curiosity to see and hear more of
the prophet of Israel, who is a^tat-
ing all Jerusalem with the fame of
his miracles. I return to you awe-
struck, fascinated, filled with the
spirit of reverence and admiration.
What I have to say may lose much
of its impressiveness by reason of
distance and want of actual partici-
pation in the events which have
taken place. But you cannot fail
to be touched by the strangeness
and sublimity of the soul embodied
in the form of Jesus. Yet yoa have
not seen him, you have not heard
the sublime language that falls from
his lips whenever he opens them
to speak, you have not felt his god-
like eye penetrating yours, nor seen
his rare and wondrous smile.
Therefore, should you scorn my
enthusiasm, I shall not blame you,
but abide the time when Jerusalem
may claim you once more. For
the rest, I do not doubt that in this,
as in all things else, we two shall be
one. But I must hasten to resume
my narrative while the events of the
past few hours are still fresh in mj
memory.
The sun had gone down lehind
a huge bank of crimson clouds,
portending a storm, as is not unusu-
al at this wintry season, when we
seated ourselves^ to the number of
twenty or thereabouts, at the well*
spread table of Simon the Piiarisee.
Jesus was already present when I
arrived, and sat, the honored guest,
at the right hand of the host, while
several of his friends or disciples
surrounded him in the semicircle
formed by the curve of the table.
Was I mistaken, or did his eyes rest
on me, as I entered, with that half-
sad, half-affectionate expression so
like an invitation } Remembering
the interest I had manifested in
our conversation concerning him,
Simon kindly placed me as near
Jesus as could well be^ owing to the
A Fragment.
631
proximity of several older guests, "
but after the first moment of greet-
ing Jesus resumed his discourse,
and I had ample opportunity for
observing him at my leisure. He
wore a single garment of woollen
stuff, which fell in graceful folds to
his feet, being confined at the waist
by a thick cord. The robe was
of soft but coarse material, and,
though considerably worn, appear-
ed quite free from soil or travel-
stain. He sat with hands loosely
folded on his knees, and I noticed
the peculiar whiteness and trans-
parency of the fingers, which were
long and thin. Those hands do
not look as though they belonged
to a carpenter's son. His forehead
is high and broad, and the hair,
tinged with auburn, falls in grace-
ful waves about half-way to the
shoulders. The face is oval, each
feature perfect, the eyebrows deli-
cately pencilled, the nose of a Gre-
cian rather than our native Hebrew
type, the lips not very full, but firm
and red. Beard the color of* his
hair, and slightly cleft, shows the
well-formed chin, and barely sweeps
his breast. But those eyes — those
deep, unfathomable, crystal wells —
how can I speak of their many and
varied expressions, of that change-
ful hue between gray and brown
so beautiful and yet so rare. They
seem to unite in themselves all of
majesty and sweetness I have ever
dreamed looked forth from eyes of
angels — dignity and lowliness, se-
verity and tenderness, sadness and
something higher than joy. But
their prevailing expression is one
of sorrow, as though they had look-
ed out into the world, and, taking
in its untold miseries and sins at
one deep glance, must hold the
mournful picture there for evermore.
Indeed, it is said, I know not how
truly, that Jesus has never been
known to laugh. His voice is low
and soft, but very clear. I fancy it
would be most melodious in our
Hebrew chants. And yet it can
grow strong and loud in reproach,
as you shall presently hear.
The feast had begun, and the
servants were busy attending to
the wants of the guests, when a
slight noise was heard in the ante-
chamber, as though the porter were
remonstrating with some one who
desired to enter. Suddenly a wo-
man appeared on the threshold,
clothed in a fleecy white tunic,
girdled with blue, and bearing an
alabaster box in her hand. A
murmur went round the assem-
bly. Surely oiir eyes did not
deceive us — it was the notorious
courtesan, Mary Magdalen, but di-
vested of the costly robes and or-
naments which* were formerly her
pride, and with her rich, golden
hair loosely coiled at the back of
her head and simply fastened with
a silver comb.
I bethought me of a rumor I
had heard, that Jesus had once
delivered her from the hands of
those who were about to stone
her, and also that since that time
she had renounced her abandon-
ed manner of life. Pale, with
eyes downcast, she stood one
hesitating instant in the door-
way; then, falling on her knees
before Jesus, she wept aloud,
literally bathing his feet with her
tears. He uttered no word of
reproach, but suffered her to un-
bind that beautiful hair whose
golden threads had lured so
many to destruction. Now, as
though seeking to make atone-
ment, she wiped with it his tired
feet. Kissing them humbly, and
still weeping, she drew from the
alabaster box most precious oint-
ment and anointed them profuse
632
A Fragmcf^^
ly. All were sUent, but many
shook their heads with doubt and
suspicion. Simon the Pharisee
folded his arms, but spake not,
till Jesus, as though divining the
thoughts of his heart, said slow-
ly and impressively:
** Simon, I have somewhat to say
unto thee."
And he answered him : ** Master,
•ay on."
Then he said : ** There was a
certain creditor who had two
debtors: the one owed five hun-
dred pence, and the other fifty.
And when they had nothing to
pay, he frankly forgave them both.
Tell me, therefore, which of them
will love him mosf .^"
Simon answered and said : " I
suppose he to whom he forgave
most."
And he said unto him : " Thou
hast rightly judged." And he turn-
ed to the woman, and said un-
to Simon : " Seest thou this wo-
man } I entered into thine house,
thou gavest me no water for my
feet ; but she hath washed my feet
with tears, and wiped them with
the hairs of her head. Thou
gavest me no kiss ; but this woman,
from the time I came in, hath not
ceased* to kiss my feet. My head
with oil thou didst not anoint, but
this woman hath anointed my feet
with ointment. Wherefore, I say
unto thee, her sins, which are many,
are forgiven, for she hath loved
much ; but to whom little is for-
given, the same loveth little."
And he said unto her : " Thy sins
are forgiven."
No one made answer as the wo-
man silently departed, but the in-
cident had strangely disturbed the
spirit of the feast. I marvel ,ho\r
the most critical could have found
fault or misjudged what was un-
doubtedly a spontaneous expression
* of gratitude and contrition in the re*
pentant sinner. Jesus had saved
Mary from death, and humbled her
accusers with these remarkable
words : *' Let he who is without sin
among you throw the first stone."
They slunk away mortified anii
abashed.
Since that time she has seen the
error of her ways, and surely, if the
God of our fathers pardons sinners,
it is but in keeping with hb estab-
lished character for justice and mer-
cy that so perfect a man as Jesus
should not rebuke thera. I am
more and more powerfully drawn
towards this wonderful teacher.
As the guests dispersed last even-
ing, I contrived to obtain speech
with him, and he replied to several
questions of mine with great mild-
ness and suavity. And although,
by reason of my known wealth and
position among the Pharisees, one
might suppose he would make some
note of the voluntary admiration
and respect I did not hesiute to
manifest, he soon turned with grave
dignity to others who surrounded
him, his own friends no doubt, and
seemed to forget my presence. They
say he goes to-morrow into various
towns and villages, for the purpose
of preaching and instructing. He
will be accompanied by the twelve
who always follow him. My inter-
est has been so strongly excited
that I am tempted to defer still
longer my journey to Rome, which
I had intended to begin almost im-
mediately. However, I shall not
postpone it sufiiciently long to de-
prive myself of the pleasure of thy
company in the capital for some
time previous to thy return to Jeru-
salem.
In any event, I shall write thee
soon. Blessings upon thee, dearest
friend ! I await an answer to this
lengthy epistle.
A Fragftunt.
633
The fury of the first persecution
had nearly exhausted itself, and
even Nero, that insatiable butcher
whose thirst for blood had enkin-
dled the fierce flame, seemed to
have well-nigh spent the measure
of his inhuman cruelty.
Hiding like criminals in gloomy
abodes and obscure retreats, those
Christians who had escaped mar-
tyrdom seldom ventured forth save
when the dusk of evening rendered
ihem less liable to scrutiny or in-
terrogation.
But among the exceptions to this
precautionary rule was one> that of
a very old, white-haired man, who
might be seeij at all times in the
most public places, and who was
well-known to be a fearless and de-
voted Christian. Indeed, he seem-
ed rather to court danger than
avoid it, and it was a marvel to the
more timid among his brethren how
he had thus far escaped the lion's
jaws or the caldron of boiling oil.
One raw evening in early March,
three drunken soldiers were tum-
l)Iing along a narrow Roman street,
lined with small, obscure-looking
houses, when a bent figure sudden-
ly issued from one of the low door-
ways and walked hurriedly in the
direction of the Jews* quarter, not
far distant.
" Ho there !" called one of the
three, eager for adventure of any
kind, ** ho there ! Who art thou>
and whither goest thou ?"
The figure paused, and said in re-
ply, •* I am an old man, and I go to
relieve a fellow-man in distress."
** Not so fast, not so fast, friend,"
retorted the soldier. **In these
times, we guardians of the emperor's
peace must be circumspect and vigi-
lant."
"Ho, hoi It is Andrew, that
•dog of a Christian who boasteth, I
am told, that he is not afraid of our
august emperor himself," said an-
other of the three. ** Speak, old
man; art thou not a Christian, and
brave enough to face thy master,
who can, if he so pleases, make a
torch of thee to light belated way-
farers home V
" Ay, thou sayest truly, I am a
Christian," replied the old man,
folding his arms and standing erect,
as he continued : " My name is
Andrew; 1 am well known in the
city, and acknowledge no master in
the odious tyrant who calls him-
self Emperor of Rome."
" Ah ! what is this ?" said the sol-
dier who had not yet spoken, and
who appeared the most sober of the
three. " So — so. A traitor and a
Christian. There is a double re-
ward set upon thy head, old fellow.
Comrades, we would be doing an
injustice to the emperor and the
state in not apprehending this
venomous traitor. Let us away
with him to prison, and before this
time to-morrow he may know what
it is to feel the emperor's avenging
arm." The old man's eye brighten-
ed, and he would have spoken, but
was prevented by him who had first
accosted him.
" Nay, nay, comrades," he said,
" let the poor creature go. He has
been seen in all public places since
the edict, and is well known for a
Christian. Yet his age and infirmi-
ties have thus far saved him from
arrest. Let us to our quarters, and
permit him to go free."
** Not so," replied his companion
gruffly, while the other seized the
old man by the cloak. " It won't
do to make fish of one and fiesh of
another. Besides, there's the booty,
and that's something not to be de-
spised."
" Well, so be it," was the reply ;
634
A Fragment »
*' one against two is but poor odds.
Let us go."
Tlie prisoner made no resistance,
walking on silently between his
captors, but a strange light shone
in his eyes; and when the great
iron door of the cell into which he
was rudely hurried closed behind
him, he fell on his knees exclaim-
ing:
"At last, my God, at last! O
Lord! I thank thee — let not this
great joy pass from me."
Morning dawned, and Nero sat
dispensing death and torture to the
doomed Christians, inventing new
cruelties with each death sentence.
An old man, heavily manacled, was
led in by three guards. His ven-
erable appearance attracted the
emperor's notice, and he cried
out :
** Ho, guards ! bring forward
the patriarch. What offence hath
the old Jew committed ? Has he
been pursuing some unlucky credi-
tor, or hath his last enterprise sav-
ored too strongly of usury } What
is charged against thee, Jew ?"
" He is no Jew, but a bragging
Christian, most noble emperor,"
exclaimed the foremost guard.
" He boasted but last night that he
would not acknowledge thee for
master, and we have brought him
to thy presence that his boast may
wither beneath the light of thy au-
gust countenance."
**Art thou not a Jew?" cried
Nero, as the prisoner lifted his bow-
ed head, and stood erect.
" I am a Jew by birth, but a
Christian by religion," he replied in
a low but audible voice.
" What is thy name .>"
" I was baptized Andrew, and so
1 am called."
Here a murmur ran through the
crowd, and a centurion stepped
forward, saying :
"A most bitter enemy of the
gods, most noble emperor. He is
the same who may be seen at all
the public executions of Christians,
exhorting and praying with them."
" I wonder he has never been
apprehended until now — it speaks
well for the devotion of my adher-
ents," replied the emperor with a
sneer. The centurion drew back
somewhat abashed.
" I have often sought death, but
my gray hairs have spared ine
until now," said the old man.
"Hold thy treacherous tongue,
sirrah," cried one of the guards.
" I'll warrant thee they will not
spare thee now."
" Silence !" cried the emperor.
"Old roan, art thou the same of
whom it is said thou wert a friemi
of the Galilean ere he went to the
gibbet .>"
"What I was it matters not.
What I desire to be is the faithfal
servant of my Lord Jesus Christ."
" Verily, thou art impertinent,
and age hath not taught thee hu-
mility. Mayhap, it would please
thee to have thy old body cut in
slices and thrown to the wild
beasts." .
" It would be the fulfihncnt of
my most ardent prayers — any death
by which I might suffer martyrdom
for Jesus Christ. I have longed
for it these fifty years." Ashe spoke
his face seemed transfigured, while
that of Nero assumed a new and
more malicious expression.
" How old art thou V* he asked.
"I am ninety-two."
" Where is thy birthplace V*
" Jerusalem."
"And thou wouldst die for Jesus
Christ?"
" Thou knowest it, my judge.**
" Such death would be the great-
est boon thy heart desires V*
" My God knowcth it."
A Fragment.
6iS
A mocking smile played around
the emperor's lips as he said :
"Then hear thy sentence. Thou
shalt be taken from hence to the
Appian gate — and there bidden go
thy way in peace. Thou art not
young enough to be toothsome to
the lions, and the sap is so dried
in thy veins thou wouldst make
but a sorry torch by night. There
is so little flesh upon thy bones that
thou wouldst not sink in Tiber,
and we cannot afford to waste
stones in weighting such as thou.
Thy withered carcass would not
whet the executioner's knife; there
is naught for it but to let thee go.
Spend the remainder of thy days
as thou hast wasted those that are
gone, in longings for martyrdom.
Guards ! seize your prisoner, and
execute sentence upon him."
The light that had illumined the
eyes of tlie old man slowly faded
as the emperor spoke, and great
tears rolled down his furrowed
cheeks. Clasping his withered
hands high above his head, he ex-
claimed :
" It is not to be — it is not to be !
My God, I accept the retribution."
**\Vhat sayest thou?" cried
Nero. ** Hast thou committed some
terrible crime that thou talkest of
retribution V
" Ay, a great crime ; but I have
suffered much, and striven to make
atonement. But my Saviour is not
yet satisfied."
"Accuse thyself. We may be
less lenient here than awhile ago."
The old man's eyes kindled once
more and again he stood erect :
**Yes, I will confess," he cried in a
loud voice. " I will let all the world
know that he v.hom his companions
have called just is the meanest sin-
ner of them all; I will strive by
the whiteness of my gray hairs and
the years of sorrow that have pass-
ed since that mad day to awaken
in thy tyrant heart some pity, some
relenting from thy cruel sentence.
" But alas 1 what do I say ? The
hand of God is in it — my Saviour
refuses me the boon I crave, and
thou art but his instrument." He
sighed heavily, wiped the tears
from his eyes, and continued in a
less agitated voice :
"I am a native of Jerusalem — a
descendant of the tribe of Aser;
my father was a ruler of much
wealth and influence — both of
which I inherited. I had luxurious
tastes, and gratified them to a
certain extent, filling my house
with rare and costly furniture and
ornaments. I travelled much, and
indulged my inclinations to the
fullest extent without transgressing
the moral law. I esteemed virtue
and practised it, more from a sense
of pride than a feeling of true reli-
gion. I was unmarried and had
few intimate friends. One, how-
ever, AmriEphraim, was bound to
me by the closest ties of intimacy
and association. He was also
wealthy. Business called him to
Rome about the time our Lord
Jesus began to preach the gospel in
Galilee. We were both somewhat
interested in the new prophet, as he
was then called ; but from my first
meeting with him I was filled with
admiration for his teachings, and
drawn towards him by an attrac-
tion I could not then understand.
Alas ! I have known its meaning
for many sorrowful, repentant
years.
" His influence grew upon me.
I followed him from place to place ;
he took kindly notice of me. His
gentle looks seemed to beckon me
on ; his wondrous miracles became
convincing proofs of his divine
mission; his merciful and consol-
ing teachings entered deep into
636
A Fragment.
my soul, and left it glowing with
awe and veneration. I felt that
he was the Messiah promised by
David; I knew it in my coward
heart. And yet this world — this
glittering, hollow sham — it was that
which held me back and lured me
to my own perdition. Many times
I saw Jesus look upon me with a
gaze that told of. affection mingled
with doubt and sorrow. For days
I would absent myself from his
side, only to return athirst and
filled with new desires.
" One day, as he sat in the shade
of a palm-tree with a few of his
disciples, I threw myself at his
feet and listened to the wisdom
that fell from his lips.
" * Master,' I said at length, ' what
shall a man do to inherit eternal
life.>*
"*Keep the commandments,' he
answered, fixing his eyes upon me
as though he would read my soul.
** * I have kept them from my
youth,' I replied.
"*Then lackest thou yet one
thing,' he said. *Sell all thou
hast, give thy treasure to the poor,
and come, follow me.*
"The words were spoken — they
had appealed to my heart for
many days ; Jesus loved me, he
had singled me from the multi-
tude of whom but little is re-
quired — he would have chosen me
for a familiar disciple. I saw it
in his eye ; I heard it in his
voice. He had called me to fol-
low him ! And I .' . . .
** Before me there swept a vision
of lost delights and despised hon-
ors. I saw myself hungry and
cold, aud iiakcd and scorned ; I
heard the censure of the world,
tljc altered tones of friends, the
jibes and sneers of enemies. If
I had dared once more to lift my
eyes — if 1 had met that benignant
glance, so full of affection and vh
surance — all would have been well,
and the craven heart had never
bled these sixty years for that one
moment's loss. But, alas! I cast
down my eyes and bowed my
head; I arose and went away
sorrowful. That night I lefr
Jerusalem and fled to Rome. I
say fled, for I was like a crimi-
nal fleeing not from a tyrant b«t
a kind and merciful father. Mt
friend, to whom I had written faith-
fully of my interest in Jesus, pass-
ed and missed mc on the way to
Jerusalem. . . ."
Here the old man's voice falter
ed and his frame shook with sobs.
He seemed unconscious of all bat
his own sorrow as he continued:
** He learned to know Jesus — be-
came a faithful disciple; he wit-
nessed his capture and cruel trial;
he followed him to Calvar}*; he
saw the prodigies that occurred at
his death ; he saw him ascend into
heaven. He enjoyed the swcei
privilege of conversing with Mary;
he received the dead body of
Stephen the blessed martyr, and
helped to give it decent burial,
and his body lies to-day at the
bottom of old Tiber — martyred
for the faith of Christ; while 1—
coward that I was — awoke to the
sense of my sin when it was too
late to return and throw myself at
his sacred feet, too late to toucb
the hem of his garment, too late
to follow his bloody footsteps up
the frightful Mount of Calvanr.
One expiation I thought to make
— one atonement for my sin ; for
the poor sacrifice of my wealth
was nothing to me. I sought
martyrdom. In the public places
in the forum, by the side of
dying Christians, at the graves
of murdered saints. But I seem-
ed to bear a charmed life. The\'
Art and Scunct.
637^
passed me by, they did not molest
ine. He is harmless, said one ; he
mi old, said another. And now,
k'hen I thought the goal within
«iy reach, when I lioped that my
expiation had been accepted, it is
again denied me. Be it so, my
God, my outraged and despised
Saviour, be it so ! I rejected thee
— thou rejcctest me. Thou didst
die for me — thou wilt not suffer
mc to die for thee. Thy will be
dooc !'•
The bowed head fell neavily on
the clasped hands, and the old man
sank slowly on his knees. At that
moment a stray sunbeam, the first
ol a murky morning, touched his
white hair as with a crown of
brightness, then faded and the
clouded heavens grew dark. The
guards stooped to lift him. He
was dead.
"What a dramatic talent those
Christians have!" said the emperor
to his friend Apulius, who stood
beside his throne. "Pity they do
not apply it to better purpose.
Guards! let that old man go free
— we pity his gray hairs — ha ! ha!"
" He is dead, most noble em-
peror," replied one of the soldiers,
not without something of softness
in his voice.
" Ah ! so ? Remove the corpse
then; and thou, good Marcellus, be
sure thou hast those fifty Syrian
Christian torches well pitched and
oiled ere night — for it will be dark^
and we must needs be lighted to
Phryma's banquet. Come Apuli-
us — make way, lictors."
So Nero passed beneath the
arched doorway from his tyrant
throne — and at the same moment
some timid Christians near its foot
bore awav the body of a saint for
burial.
ART AND SCIENCE.
A WILD swan and an eagle side by side
I marked, careering o'er the ocean-plain,
Emulous a heaven more heavenly each to gain,
Circling in orbits wider and more wide :
Highest, methought, through tempest scarce desciied.
One time the bird of battle soared; — in vain;
So soon, exhausted 'mid their joy and pride,
Dropped to one sea the vanquished rivals twain.
Then, o'er the mighty waves around them swelling,
That snowy nursling of low lakes her song
Lifted to God, floating serene along ;
While she that in the hills had made her dwelling
Struggled in vain her wings to beat and quiver,
And the deep closed o'er that bright crest for ever.
Aubrey dk Vrre*
638
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT
COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC,
II. — CONCLUDED.
VALUE AS A MEDIUM OR VEHICLE OF DI-
VINE TRUTH AMONG THE PEOPLE.
Popular national songs with
their melodies are not, either in
point of poetry or music, very elab-
orate or classical works of art.
Consummate art is incapable of
passing among a people, and must
ever remain confined to the initiated
and the connoisseur; yet national
songs are not only characteristic of
all people, but fulfil a very imf)ort-
ant function. They not only foster
and preserve the national spirit, of
which they are the expression, but
also keep up, by tradition among
the people, a knowledge of the his-
tory of their race, and of the ex-
ploits and noble deeds of its great
men. In a word, the songs of a
people have an influence over the
growth of their moral character
which it is not easy to overesti-
mate, and which was well known to
that statesman who was heard to
say that they who have the making
of a people's songs will soon have
the making of their laws ; a senti-
ment fully confirmed by the proverb,
" Qui mutat cantus, mutat mores."
The above remarks, much too
brief to put the importance of the
ideas contained in them in their
proper light, seem to issue in the
conclusion that the song of the
Christian kingdom will be neces-
sarily something very different from
an elaborate work of musical gen*
ius.
When our divine Redeemer lifted
up his eyes, and beheld the multi-
tudes going astray as sheep without a
shepherd, he was moved with com-
passion. Surely in his judgment
sacred song will be deemed to fulfil
its mission when it passes current
among the people, is domesticated
in the laboring man's cottage among
his children, and there teaches the
family the knowledge of their Sa-
viour's life and sufferings, of their re-
demption by these from sin, and
the death of th* world to con^
Sacred song will, in his compassion-
ate eyes, fulfil its mission of mercy
when it takes up the words of eter-
nal Wisdom, and puts them in ibe
mouth of the people as a charm
against the maxims of a world de-
clared by the Word of God to be
" fyi^K '^ wickednessy* and as a shield
against the assaults of a tempter,
said in the same Word ^^ to be ertr
going about seeking whom he may de-
vour" It will fulfil its mission
when it enters into the heart and
soul of the people, accompanies the
departed with a requiem as roan
goeth to his long home and the
mourners go about the streets, when
it administers comfort to the sur-
vivors, while it bids them not to
sorrow as they that have no hope,
and, in a word, weeps with them
that weep, and rejoices with them
that do rejoice. Nor let it be said
that this is a romantic notion — the
making out of the earth an ideal
paradise. Surely the actual and
adequate fulfilment of such a mis-
The Rotnan Ritual and its Chant.
639
non of sacred song belongs to the
idea of the mission of the Son of
God, sent by the Father to re-es-
tablish order, piety, and sanctity on
the earth. But what if this idea
was not only familiar to the fathers,
but that they actually saw the pro-
gress of its accomplishment ?
" There is no need here," says S.
Chrysostom, exhorting his people
to take part in the church chant,
" of the artist's skill, which requires
length of time to bring to perfection.
Let there be but a good will and a
ready mind, and the result will soon
be sufficient skill. There is no abso-
lute need even of time or place, for
in every place or time one may
sing with the mind. Though you
be walking in the Forum, or are on
a journey, or are seated with your
friends, the mina may be on the
alert, and find for itself an utter-
ance. It was thus that Moses cried,
and God heard. If you are an ar-
tisan, you may sing Psalms as you
sit laboring in your workshop ; you
may do the same if you are a sol-
dier, or a judge seated on his
bench " (Hom. on Ps. iv.)
A formal acknowledgment on the
part of the church of this prin-
ciple of teaching by means of song,
which at the same time proves its
antiquity, though it can be hardly
necessary to cite it, may be found
in one of the Collects for Holy Sat-
urday: "Deus, celsitudohumilium,
et fortitudo rectorum, qui per sanc-
tum Moysen puerum tuum ita eru-
dire populum tuum sacri carminis
tui decantatione voluisti, ut ilia
legis iteratio fiat etiam, nostra di-
rectio," etc., etc.— "O God! the
loftiness of the humble and the
strength of them that are upright,
who wast pleased, through thy holy
servant Moses, to instruct thy peo-
ple by the singing of a sacred
song,*' etc., etc.
If, then, this be a true and just
view of the mission of the sacred
song among the poor and the un-
learned multitude, as contemplated
in the divine idea ; if it be true, as
I suppose no one will deny, that
the Ritual Chant is not only fitted
to accomplish it, but has realized it
in times past, and does still realize
it in countries that might be nam-
ed ; and if the works of modern art
are, from their very scientific char-
acter as music, incapable of being
the medium in which divine truth
can pass among the people; and,
indeed, if it be their nature to give
so much more of prominence to the
beauty of mere sound than to the
expression of intelligible meaning
or sentiment, which every one
knows is the case, we seem to gain
this obvious result, on drawing the
comparison, that the Ritual chant
is a real viediuni or vehicle for the
circulation of divine truth anionic
the people, fitted with a divine
wis(iom to its end ; while the great
works of art that the musician so
much admires are not, to any prac-
tical extent whatever, such a me-
dium, and indeed, if the truth must
be said, were probably never con-
templated as such, either by those
who composed or those who now
admire them.
COMPARATIVE ** MEDICINAL VIRTCE."
" They that are whole need not
a physician," said our Redeemer
(Mark ii. 17), "but they that are
sick. I came not to call the just,
but sinners to repentance." It
was part of the mission of the Son
of God upon earth, that he should
be the physician of the souls of
men (Isaiae Ixi.): " Spiritus Dom-
ini super me, eo quod unxerit Do-
minus me, ut mederer coniritis corde. "
It will follow, then, that the mu-
sic which the divine Physician of
640
Thi Reman Rowland Us Chani.
»ouls will desire to see employed
in his church will be strongly mark-
ed with the medicinal character.
And this conclusion becomes the
more natural, from observing the
numberless indications which the
literature of different countries af-
fords that music has always been
popularly regarded as a medicipe
for the spirit ; as, for instance, the
(ireek pastoral poet, Bion :
MoAvAv Tol Mot<raA, fiol &ct voMorri &loi<v
BlOND, Bucoiica^ L '
** Song than which no medicine so
sweet.** Among the Romans, the
courtly Ovid :
*•* Hoc e»t cur cantet vioctus quoque compede Umat
Indocili niimero, cum grave mollit opus.
Cantat et iimitens limoss pronus arcnae,
Adverse tardam qui vehit amne ratem ;
Qui refert pariter lentos ad pectora remos,
In nuiccrum pulsi brachia versat aquH.
Cantantis paritcr« pariter data pensa trahentis
FaUitur ancillB, deapiturque labor/*
Ovid, de Tristibu*^ EUg. lib. i.
And, in our own literature, the great
poet of human nature, Shakspeare :
** When griping grief the heart doth wound.
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound
W ith speedy help doth lend redreas."
Shakspsarb's Romeo and JulUt,
With this view of music, as per-
mitted by a merciful Providence to
retain a large share of healing vir-
tue, even apart from religion, and
in the midst of the disorders of
heathenism, expectation will be
naturally much raised on coming
to inquire what have been the
effects of the Christian music
which the divine Physician of
souls has given to his Church.
Nor will there be any disappoint-
ment. S. Basil the Great, the
well-known doctor and bishop of
the East, speaks of the Plain Chant
of his own day in the following
terms :
** Psalmody is the calm of the
soul, the umpire of peace, that sets
at rest the storm and upheaving of
tlie thougiits. Psalroody quiets tk
turbulence of the mind, tempers its
excess, is the bond oi friendship,
the union of the separated, the re-
conciler of those at variance; for
who can count him any longer as
enemy with whom he has but once
lifted up his voice to God ? Psalm-
ody putteth evil spirits to flight,
calleth for the help of angels, is 2
defence from terrors by night, a rest
from troubles by day, is the safety
of children, the glory of young
men, the comfort of the old, the
fairest ornament of women. ....
Psalmody calls forth a tear from a
heart of stone, is the work of an-
gels, the government of Heaven, the
incense of the Spirit."
S. Ambrose, Archbishop of Mi-
lan in the West, in the preface to
his Commentary on the Book of
Psalms, speaks as follows :
" In the Book of Psalms there
is something profitable for all; it is
a sort of universal medicine and
preservative of health. Whoever
will read therein may be sure to
find the proper remedy for the dis-
eased passion he suffers (roo.
Psalmody is the blessing of the
people, a thanksgiving of the mul-
titude, the delight of numbers, and
a language for all. It is the Toicc
of the Church, the sweelly-Ioud
profession of faith, the full-voiced
worship of men in power, the de-
light of the free, the shout of the
joyous, the exultation of the mer-
ry. It is the soother of anger, the
chaser away of sorrow, the com-
forter of grief. It is a defence by
night, an ornament by day, a shield
in danger, a strong tower of sancti-
ty, an image of tranquillity, a pledge
of peace and concord, forming its
unity of song, as the lyre, from
diversity of sound. The rooming
echoes to the sound of psalmody,
and the evening re-echoes. The
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
641
apostle commanded women to be
silent in the church ; yet the song
of psalmody becomes them (S.
Ambrose is speaking of congre-
gational psalmody). Boys and
young men may sing psalms with-
out danger, and even young wo-
men also, without detriment to
their matronly reserve. They are
the food of childhood ; and in-
fancy itself, that will learn nothing
besides, delights in them. Psalm-
ody befits the rank of the king,
may be sung by magistrates, and
chorused by the people, each one
vying with his neighbor in causing
that to be heard which is good for
air* {Prafatio in Comment in Lib,
Psaimorum),
S. Augustine speaks thus of the
Church Chant : " How my heart
burned Avithin me against the
Manicheans, and how I pitied them,
that they neither knew its mystery
nor healing virtue ; and that they
should insanely rage against that
very antidote by which they might
have recovered their saneness (in-
sani essent ad versus antidotum quo
sani esse potuissent) !" {Confess.
lib. ix.) To which should certainly
be added the fact that, in some de-
gree, the church may be said to be
indebted to this very medicinal
|>ower of her psalmody, and to the
tears it drew forth from the young
catechumen Augustine, for one of
the profoundest among her saints
and doctors
And to come to times nearer our
own, the well-known Massillon, In
one of his charges to his clergy, de-
livered at the Conference at which
he presided, earnestly recommends
them to make the study of the Plain
Chant a part of their recreation ;
for, adds he, " le peuple souvent se
calnie au chant du sacerdoce dans
le temple.*' {Conferences^ vol. iii.)
And our own times have witnessed
VOL. XXI. — 4X
a remarkable instance of the same
medicinal power of the church
chant when in the Champs Elys^es
of Paris, during the summer of 1848,
the citizens met in the open air, to
celebrate a Requiem Mass for the
repose of those who had fallen in
the great civil commotion of that
y^r, which had been suppressed
with such loss of life. Here were
to be seen the murderer and the
relations of the murdered, forget-
ting that strongest and deadliest
feud of the human heart — the thirst
for vengeance for the shedding of
kindred blood — ^joining their own
to the thousands of voices that
poured forth the well-known church
chant of the Dies ira. Ten thou-
sand voices supplicating Almighty
God to pardon the past, to grant
rest to the souls of the slain, to
bear in mind that he had come on
earth to save them, and to beg that
he would remember them in mercy
at the day of his judgment, in the
language and song of the church !
Of a truth, then, may the church,
chant say, Unxit me Spiritus Domi-
niy ut mederer contriiis corde.
It is also curious to observe in-
what a marked manner, even in*
the recent Protestant literature of
our own country, this medicinall
character of the church chant is;
still recognized. Mr. Wordsworth,
has the following lines in his Eccle^-
siasticcU Sonnets (xxx.) :
' A pleasant music floats along the Mere,
From monks in Ely chanting service high,
While— as Canute the King is rowing hy—
* My oarsmen/ quoth the mighty king, * draw near,-.
That we the sweet song of the monks may hear;*
He listens (all past conquests and all schemes
Of future vanishing hke empty dreams)
Heart-touch'd, and haply not without a tear.
The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still,
While his free barge skims the smooth flood aloag^
Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme *
O suflcring earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime
And rudest age are subject to the thrill
Of heav'n-descendcd piety and song.**
• Which is tdll extant.
642
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
Henry Kirke White, in the frag-
ment of a ballad entitled the " Fair
Maid of Clifton," bears even the
still more remarkable testimony to
a power over evil spirits. He is
describing the death-bed of a female
who, fearing that the demons would
carry her away, had sent for her
own relations to pray by her side,
and for the "clerk and all the
singers besides."
^And she begged they would sing the penitent
hymn.
And pray wjth all their might ;
For sadly 1 fear the fiend will be here,
And fetch me away this night.
** And now their song it died on their tongue,
For sleep it was seising their sense,
And Margaret screamed and bid them m^ sleep.
Or the fiends would bear her hence."*
South*ys edition^ p. 981.
And now, in drawing the compa-
rison, it is fair to ask, granting the
exception where it may be justly
conceded, in favor of particular
compositions: What on the whole
is the medicinal virtue of our mod-
ern figured music .^ how does it
take effect } who are the persons
whose sorrow it relieves? who are
they who find themselves really
anade better by it, and inclined,
through its influence, to feel in
greater charity with the remainder
of the congregation } To judge
from the kind of remarks that are
•usually made by persons coming
away from a church where one of
* The following is another interesting passage
from a fragment of Kirke White :
' '* Hark, how it falls ! and now it steals along.
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve.
When all is stiU ; and now it grows more strong.
As when the choral train their dirges weave,
McUow and maay-voic'd ; where every close
0*er the old minuter-roof in echoing waves reflows.
** Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind.
Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores.
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind.
Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed ;
Far from its clayey cell it springs."
It is remarkable, also, that Goethe represents
Faust as in the very act of swallowing poison, to
esca|>c from the miseries of life, when the song of
an Barter hymn, sun J in procession, falls upon his
ur, and charms away he t .oj^ht of tuicide.
these figured music Masses has
been executed, one would rertainlr
not say that they could be manjr.
For what are these remarks but
those of connoisseurs, who criticise
the merits of a voice which has
reached a very high or low note, or
of a particular solo, trio, or quar-
tet, to which those who are unin-
itiated in the mysteries of minim
and crotchet pay positively no at-
tention at all ? Now, let us for a
moment suppose a person to say,
with S. Ambrose, in praise of Mo-
zart's famous No. XII., that it was
a " defence by night, an ornament
by day, a shield in danger, a strong
tower of sanctity, an image of tran-
quillity, a pledge of peace"; or
with S. Basil, that " it had the vir-
tue of putting devils to flight":
would any experience more un-
feigned surprise than those stxs
persons who think this Mass the
absolute ideal of church music?
Or again : if, unknown to himself
and to others, there were at thi>
moment a future doctor of the
church among our London club
politicians, how much would it na-
turally occur to us to think thjt
the performance of this same No
XII. would be likely to contribute
towards effecting his conversion ?
RESPECTIVE CAPACrrV FOR DURABLE Kff-
ULARITY.
God, who gave the Ecclesiastic-
Chant as a gift of mercy to ih^
people, must needs contempU't^
it as popular. For except it wcr^
really popular, it would fail to at-
tain its end. This, then, wiil \<
the place to examine what indica-
tions are to be found that the Rit-
ual Chant is really, in this particu-
lar, the fulfilment of the Divine id«
When an invention or an art :■
such that people come to bono*
from it popular expressions* or
The Roman Ritual and its Chant,
643
when it gives birth to new phrases
or metaphors, or a word or words
come to be engrafted from it upon
one or many languages^ this be-
comes an argument for its popu-
larity, such as no one will be in-
clined to dispute. Such phrases as
those of " Go ahead," " Get the
steam up," are quite sufficient to
prove the fact of everybody being
well acquainted with the steam-
engine, from which they are de-
rived. Now, if a similar fact can
be found relative to the Gregorian
chant, its popularity is in a manner
placed beyond the reach of doubt.
When the poet Gray uses a well-
known word in the lines,
*^ The oezC, with dirges due, in sadr array,
Slow through the church-yard path we saw him
borne,"
he bears testimony to such a fact.
The initial word of the first Anti-
])hon of the Matins for the dead,
" Diri^e gressus meos, Domine,"
has given this well-known word to
our language. It can be hardly
necessary to refer to a similar re-
ception of the word " Requiem "
into many different languages, wliich
is the initial word of the Introit in
the Mass for the dead.
The following anecdote, related
by Padre Martini, page 437 of the
third volume of his History of Mu-
sic^ may be here to the point. It is
of Antonio Bernacchi, the most
celel)rated singer of his day (the
beginning of the XVIIIth centu-
ry), and narrated to him by Bernac-
chi himself: that, as he happened
10 be on a journey in Tuscany,
near a monastery of Trappist
monks, he felt a desire to visit it, in
order to become acquainted with
the way of life of these religious.
He entered their church exactly at
the time they were singing Tierce.
Bernacchi was overcome by the ef-
fect of a multitude of voices in such
perfect union that they seemed to
be only one voice. He admired
their precision in the utterance of
every syllable, and in the softening,
swelling, and sustaining of the
voice, that although no more than
men, they seemed to him like an-
gels occupied in praising God ;
whereupon Bernacchi fell into the
following soliloquy : " How deceiv-
ed have I been in myself; I thought
that, after a long and diligent appli-
cation to the art of singing under
such a master as Pestocchi, and
having the natural gift of a good
voice, I might pretend to exercise
my profession without any question.
How have I been deceived, being
obliged to confess tliat the psalm-
ody of these religious has in it a
value and a quality that renders
their song superior to mine !"
Dom Martene relates that, in
his travels to visit the churches of
France, he passed by a church of
Benedictine nuns, who met with a
patron and benefactor in the fol-
lowing manner : The Due de
Bournonville retiring from Paris in
disgrace to "Provins," on his arri-
val inquired for the nearest church ;
and, upon being shown the church
of these nuns, he entered it as they
were singing Vespers. So charmed
was .he by the sweetness of their
song, that he seemed to himself to
be listening to angels, and not to
human creatures. On hearing, in
an interview tliat followed, that the
community were in debt, he gave
the lady abbess an immediate pre-
sent of one thousand ecus, and
ever afterwards continued to be a
benefactor to the convent ( Voy-
age Littiraire^ etc., part i. p. 79).
Baini {Mem, Stor., vol. ii. p. 122)
quotes a letter, which is thus ad-
dressed to some English gentlemen
who had visited Rome: "To Mr.
Edward Grenfield, Fellow of the
644
The Roman Ritual and Us C/tant.
Royal Academy of London, to Mr.
Davis, Mr. Morris, and other learn-
ed Englishmen, whose ears have
not been altered by fashion, and
made obtuse by habit, and who
have been more than once heard to
say, that they felt themselves more
moved by the Gregorian Chant
than by all the noisy performances
of the greater part of our theatres."
Nor is this appreciation for Gre-
gorian music confined merely to
persons from among the multitude.
Tlie following are the sentiments
of two of the most distinguished
musical scholars of the day :
** All is worthy of admiration in
tne primitive Roman Chant. The
tune of the ' Kyrie,' for doubles
and feasts of the first class, runs
out to some length, and is full of
beautiful passages. That of Sun-
days is shorter and more simple, but
not the less full of unction. In
both the one and the other it seems
impossible to change or to suppress
a note without destroying a beauti-
ful idea, where all hangs so perfect-
ly together. With what natural, or
rather inspired genius, has not this
Kyrie, confined as it is to such
narrow limits, been conceived to
form a whole so complete *' (Fetis,
Des Origtms du Plain Chanty ou
Chant Ecclesiastique),
" Musicians may oppose and con-
tradict what I say as they please ;
they have full liberty; but I am
not afraid to assert that the ancient
melodies of the Gregorian Chant
are inimitable. They may be cop-
ied, adapted to other words, heav-
en knows how, but to make new
ones equal to the first, 4hat will
never be done " (Baini, Mcmorie
Storiche di P. Palastrina, vol. ii. p.
8i).
And again, describing Palaestrina
as engaged in the task of revising
the Gradual, he says: " But the Gre-
gorian chant claims a character
wholly its own, has a beauty and a
force proper only to itself. It is
what it is, and does not change.
But to remain ever the same, and to
be susceptible of a change contrary
to its nature, would be impossible.
In a word, it may be said that ktav-
en formed it through the early fa-
thers, and then fractured the mould."
"Palaestrina applied himself with
the zeal of one who had deeply at
heart the majesty of divine worship.
But having completed the first part,
De Tempore^ his pen fell from hi$
hands, and more wearied than Atlas
under the weight of the sky, he
abandoned his attempt ; and no-
thing was found at his death but
the incomplete manuscript. . . .
And thus we may see the greatest
man ever known in the*art and sci-
ence of figured music become less than
a mere baby when he wished to lay
a profane hand on the fathers and
doctors of the Holy Roman Church.
. . . And how wise at last was he,
after having fruitlessly attempted
in so many ways to correct this
divine song according to human
ideas, to abandon the enterprise
for ever, and to conceal up to his
death the useless result of his labor,
which he himself acknowledged to
be unworthy of being made public **
{Mem, Stor. vol. ii. p. 123).
Next, as slightly illustrating its
power of pleasing even a modem
European people, and that in con-
trast with the most elaborate pro-
ducts of modern art; in 1846, at
the centenary Jubilee of the Feast
of Corpus Christi at Liege, Men-
delssohn's Lauda Sion was sung at
one of the offices. Yet the general
opinion of the people who heard it
(and who, by the by, from its con-
stant use in processions, are well
acquainted with the old Gregorian
melody of the same sequence) was
TIu Roman Ritual and its Chant.
64s
that It was not to be compared to
the ritual Lauda Sion. At the Me-
tropolitan Church of Mechlin, on
Easter Day, 1846, the students of
the great and little seminaries unit-
ed together'to sing at the evening
Benediction. The pieces sung were
froTH Italian masters, Baini and a
second, and the third was the Gre-
gorian sequence, Victima Paschali
JLauiies, One of the singers him-
self told me that the people thought
nothing comparable to the old mel-
ody, sung in simple unison.
The Collegiate Church of S. Gu-
dule, in the city of Brussels, may
also be cited as an existing proof
of the power of the old chant. Who-
ever has heard the Req.uiem Mass
and the Te Deum sung in thatchurch
by two hundred voices in unison,
must cease to think of the idea of
its popularity as if it were strange.
In the church of Notre Dame, in
Paris, the simple melody of the 4$^^-
bat Mattr is sometimes sung by a
congregation of four thousand per-
sons, at the conclusion of the an-
nual retreats, with an effect that can
never be forgotten.
Again, as has been already said,
the Requiem Mass, which took
place in the Champs Elys^es after
the terrible days of June (1848), it
was proposed that the Mass should
be sung in music ; but the Repub-
lican authorities, in conjunction with
the bishops, forbade it, and the
Plain Chant was ordered instead.
Tens of thousands joined in singing
the Dies ira, and their voices seem-
ed to rend the heavens.
In Germany, among the melo-
dies that pass by tradition among
the people, are many that are de-
rived from the Ritual Chant of dif-
ferent localities, as may be seen by
merely looking into their numerous
printed collections of these melo-
dies.
Tiie Gregorian modes, again, as
has been said, are far from being
unpopular in their nature. Many
of the Scotch and Irish melodies,
traditional among the people, be
long to neither of the modern
major nor minor modes. The
P>ench in Egypt found many tra-
ditional Arab melodies in the Gre-
gorian modes ; and no doubt the
same would be found to be the
case over the whole world.
The chant of the Vespers is ex-
ceedingly popular among our con- '
gregations in England, though they
are acquainted with it only in a
form of disguise, shorn of its anti-
pl]ons, and encrusted with the de-
posit of a long bandying about
from organist to organist, like
Ulysses, returning home in rags
and tatters after his many years*
wandering. Why should not the
popularity of the whole, when it
shall become knqwn, by the kind
efforts of such as will feel a pleas-
ure in devoting themselves to teach
it to the poor, be believed in, upon
the augury of the known popularity
of a mutilated and tattered part ^
This idea has long since found
a home among English Catholics.
Charles Butler, Esq., in his Me-
moirs of English^ Irishy and Scottish
Catholics^ after reviewing the chief
Catholic composers of modern mu-
sic, says: " But, with great venera-
tion for the composers and per-
formers of these sacred strains, the
writer has no hesitation in express-
ing a decided wish that the ancient
Gregorian Chant was restored to its
pristine honors.** And again :
** There (in the church) let that
music, and that music only, be per-
formed, which is at once simple
and solemn, which all can feel, and
in which most can join; let the
congregation be taught to sing it
in exact unison, and with subdued
646
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
voices ; let the accompaniment be
full and chaste ; in a word, let it be
the Gregorian Chant" (vol. iv. p.
466).
Benedict XIV., after express-
ing his own decided opinion of the
superior fitness of the Plain Chant,
accounts, by means of it, for a/tf<-/,
that tliose who think the Gregorian
Chant an unpopular one, would do
well to study. This, says he, is the
chief cause why the people are so
much more fond of the churches
of the Regulars than the Seculars.
And then he quotes a very remark-
able passage from Jacques E veil-
Ion : *' This titillation of harmon-
ized music is held very cheap by
men of religious minds in compari-
son with the sweetness of the Plain
Chant and simple Psalmody. And
hence it is that the people flock
so eagerly to the churches of the
monks, who, taking piety for their
guide in singing the praises of God
with a saintly moderation, after the
counsel of the Prince of Psalmists,
skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord,
and serve God as God, with the
utmost reverence" {^Encyclical Let-
ter, p. 3).
The same Dom Martene who has
been quoted above, often speaks,
in the narrative of his journey, of
the different churches which he
visited, and in which he was pres-
ent at the celebration of any of
the solemn offices of the Liturgy.
The following passages are speci-
mens of his opinion on the com-
parative merits of the Plain Chant.
Describing the Cathedral of Sens
he says : '* Pour ce qui est de PEg-
lise Cathedrale, elle est grande,"
etc- " La musique en est proscrite,
on nV chante qu*un beau Plain
Cliant, qui est beaucoup plus agre-
able que la musique." — "As re-
gards the cathedral church, it is
large and spacious, and figured
music is banished from it. Noth-
ing but a beautiful Plain Chant is
sung in it, which is far more agree-
able than music" (Part i. p. 60).
Again, speaking of the Cathedral
of Vienne (Dauphinois), he says :
" L'Office s*y fait en tout temps
avec une gravite qui ne peut sVx-
primer. On en bannit eniiereraent
Porgue et la musique; rnais le
Plain Chant est si beau, et se
chamte avec tant de mesure, qu'il
n*y a point de musique qui en ap-
proche." — ** The divine Office is
sung there with a gravity that can-
not be surpassed. The organ and
all figured music are banished from
it ; but the Plain Chant is so beau-
tiful, and is sung with so much
rhythm, that there is no music that
can come near to it" (Part i. p.
256).
Even Rousseau, in his Lemon
Musicum^ article, " Plain Chant,"
says : " It is a name that is given in
the Roman Church at this day to
the Ecclesiastical Chant. There
remains to it enough of its former
charms to be far preferable, even in
the state in which it now is (he is
speaking of the falsified French
edition of it), for the use to uhich
it is destined, than the effeminate
and theatrical, frothy and flat,
pieces of music which are substi-
tuted for it in many churches, de-
void of all gravity, taste, and pro-
priety, without a spark of respect
for the place they dare thus to pro-
fane."
Here it occurs to reply to are-
mark that I Jiave seen made, which
unless it be founded, as is not im-
possible, on some very faulty ver-
sion of the Roman Chant, seems
to betray some little inexperience.
After having admitted a supcrioritv
of the Gregorian melodies for
hymns written in the classical
metre, the writer proceeds to say;
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
^^7
** But, on the other hand, let us
take any one of the hymns of the
church, in which, though the words
are Latin, the classical quantities
are wholly disregarded, while the
verse proceeds in the measured
beat of modem poetry, and the
lines are all in rhyme, and let us
make an effort to sing it to an un-
mutilated Gregorian Chant. What
an absurd effect is the result ! The
car is distracted between two prin-
ciples of rhythm and versification.
The structure of the poetry forces
us, whether we will or no, to mark
the divisions of the song in accord-
ance with its beat and its rhyme ;
wiiile the unmeasured, unmarked
cadences of the music refuse to
yield any willing obedience, and
produce no melodious effect, except
at an entire sacrifice of the princi-
ples on which they were framed.
A wretched, hybrid, unmeaning
series of sounds is the result, nei-
ther recitative nor song, neither
classic nor rhyming, neither Gre-
gorian nor modern, but wholly bar-
%barous."
Now, if the writer of this passage
be here speaking of the adapting
of melodies to words for which they
were not composed, he is himself
to blame for a result of which he is
the sole cause. Dress a city alder-
man in the uniform of an officer of
marines, and send him afloat on
duty, if you will, but do not lay it
to his charge if the result is neither
very civic nor very nautical. But
if the writer in question really
means his words to apply to the
melodies to which these hymns are
set in the Roman Chant - books,
he is confronted by the fact that,
among these, and they are now but
few, chiefly in the Feast of Corpus
Christi, are found the gems of Gre-
gorian melody. Who is there that
has heard the Ave verum and the
AdoroUy and the cfther hymns of S.
'J'homas on the Blessed Sacrament,
sung to their original melodies,
without feeling their exquisite
rhythm and expressiveness } Again,
the Gregorian melody of the Dies
ira^ in the Requiem Mass, has Cha-
teaubriand's express commenda-
tion as among the most masterly
adaptations of music to words. Last-
ly, the touching and most plaintive
melody of the Stabal Mater ^ which
brings tears into the eyes of all who
hear and sing it.
If space permitted, it would be
no very difficult task to multiply
such proofs and examples as these
of an inherent popularity, both in
the general character or effect, and
in the particular parts of the Rit-
ual Chant. But I think enough has
been adduced to indicate that the
popularity is one that is co-exten-
sive with mankind, that it finds an
echo in the human heart of every
age, nation, or state of life. Of
course, God, who gave the ecclesi-
astical song to work a work of mercy
among the people, contemplates it
as capable of popularity ; and I
think we have evidence that this
part of the divine idea is really ful-
filled by the Ritual chant. And,
without prejudging the result, I
would wait to see whether indica-
tions of a similar popularity can be
found for the works of art with
which I have been engaged in com-
paring it. However, I think this is
impossible; and for this reason :
Things come to be popular by being
often repeated ; and suitableness
for perpetual repetition is the test
of popularity. But if I am not
mistaken, the perpetual produc-
tion of novelties, which appear and
then disappear, is a first and in-
deed indispensable principle in the
mode of dealing with these works
of art.
648
The Roman Ritual and its Oiant.
SECURITY XgAINST ABUSE.
All things human are certainly
liable to abuse and degeneracy, yet
all are very far from being on a
par with each other in this respect.
In all human undertakings, order,
discipline, and system are the di-
vinely-appointed securities against
abuse. Now, the Ritual Chant, as
all who are acquainted with it
know, is, like the ceremonial of the
rhurch, a i>erfL(.t system. It has
two lar^e folio volumes of music,
cmbnunag the whole annual range
of canonical offices, and a body of
rilki pfoscribinfT even the minutiae
of t])cir cdcbration. On the other
liand, the iTJoiJem art has no such
system, no such rules. Its use is,
in practice, altogether subject to
the dominion of individual taste.
The choir-master who likes Hay-
dn's music, takes Haydn ; another,
who likes Mozart, takes Mozart ;
another, who takes a trip on the
continent, comes back with the
newest French, German, or Italian
novelties. I am not here insisting
on the singularly small portion of
the liturgy that is set to composi-
tions of modern art, but on the
entire absence of all system in the
use of the pieces themselves, on the
complete subjection of the whole
thing to individual caprice and
taste.
It is quite true that the Bride of
(Christ is encompassed with variety
(circumdata varielate)* But the
church is also the kingdom of the
God of order; and I apprehend
that between, the varieiate charac-
teristic of such a kingdom, and the
variety actually introduced into
Catholic worship by the unrestrain-
ed dominion of individual taste in
music, there is the widest possible
difference.
The obvious exposure of modern
music tq the easiest inroads of
every kind of abuse, in conseqaenc«
of this absence of system, has been
felt by its best-disposed advocates :
and an able writer has maintained
the notion, that the compulsory use
of the organ alone, to the exclusion
of all orchestral instruments, es-
pecially the violin, would bean all-
sufficient.safeguard. But it is not
very easy to see upon what princi-
ple orchestral instruments are to be
excluded, when the whole thing Is
built oft the principle of the supre-
macy of individual taste ; and even
could tjiey be excluded, it would
still remain to be seen whether the
organ itself were really the impec-
cable instrument it is represented.
Let us hear a witness in the Es-
tablished Church, where, according %
to this writer, its dominion has
been so unexceptionable. In the
Ecclesiastic for July, 1846, the follow-
ing remarks occur : " How intoler-
able to such saints -..(Ambrose and
Gregory) would have been the» at-
tempt to give effect, as it is called,
to the Psalms, by the organist's
skilful management of the stopti
What would they have thought of
the mimic roll of the water-floods,
and the crash of the thunder, and
the hail rattling on the ground, the
lions roaring after their prey down
in the bass, and the birds singing
among the branches, represented
by a twittering among the small
pipes? From a heathen poet these
gentry might learn a lesson of rcvct J
rence — Virgil seems to make it a 1
point of natural piety not to coun- j
terfeit the thunder of the Highest—
" Vidi et crudeks dantem Salmonea paaaas«
Dum flammas Jovis et sonitus imitatur Oi)ra^.
Demens qui nimbos et noo imitakale fulmen
^re et cornipedum pubtt simulaLrat equoraa.**
^mtid^ yn. 5I5.
A real thunderstorm interrupting
one of these mimic tempests on
the organ, makes one feel the pro-
faneness of the imitation."
The Roman Ritual and its Chant.
649
Now, it is fair to ask, if the organ
to boiRfe guardian of the sobrie-
r and gravity of modem art, who
to keep the organ in order ?
** Qnis CQstodlet iptom
Costodcm?
There were great abuses in the
se of modern art at the Council of
'rent. Yet the'^thers of the coun-
\\ declined altogether to forbid its
se. They tacitly allowed its con-
inuance, as it had come into exist-
nce, and could not be removed
ithout serious evils. And with re-
ard to the favorable light in which
:s use was viewed by some of the
•ishops of that council, and by some
tther men of authority who have
ince spoken in its commendation,
t should be borne in mind that all
lUch commendation has had annex-
ed to it the condition, /r^/V/^// thai
luh music be grave and decent, that
\he meaning of the divine words be
*tot disguised in it, and that it possess
nothing in common with the theatre
(Benedict XIV., Encyclical Letter).
Of which conditions the subsequent
history of the use of modern music
in the church is, to say the least, a
very inadequate fulfilment, as the
ensuing testimony will show.
Bishop Lindanus, quoted in the
same Encyclical Letter on the sub-
ject of church music, says : ** I know
that I have often been in churches
where I have listened most attentive-
ly to learn what it was that was be-
ing sung, without being able to un-
derstand one single word.'*
Salvator Rosa, the celebrated
painter of the XVlIth century,
gives the following account of the
church music of his day — the mid-
dle of the century :
"An effeminate -and lascivious
music is the only thing that people
at all care for. The race of musi-
cians eats up all before it, and prin-
ces do not scruple to lay burdens
on their subjects to glut them ac-
cording to their desires. The
churches are made to serve as nests
for these owls. The Psalms become
blasphemies in passing through the
mouths of these wretches ; and no
scandal can equal that of the Mass
and Vespers, barked, brayed, and
roared by such fellows. The air is
so filled with their bellowings that
the church resembles Noah's ark.
At onetime it is a Miserere sung to
a chaconne (a sort of polka of that
day) ; at another, some other part
of the Office adapted to music in
the style of a farce." (Quoted in
M. Danjou's Revue de Musique, 3d
year, page 119.)
Again, Abbot Gerbert, in 1750,
complains so deeply of the degrada-
tion of the church music of his day
as to say, in the preface to his learn-
ed work De Musica Sacra, that the
evil had grown to so great a pitch
that, unless God in his mercy ap-
plied the remedy, which he had
daily besought him to do, all was
over {actum est) with ,the decorum
and solemnity of the Catholic wor-
ship.
Yet this result ought really not
to be a matter of surprise ; for how
can it be expected that the majesty
and solemnity of worship should
long survive when its music is left
to the control of individual tastes ?
Musicians, therefore, when they
plead for modern music, must plead
for it as it exists in an ideal form
in the/r own minds; and the advo-
cate for the use of the Ritual
Chant objects to it, not as it might
be if every organist and company
of singers were other Davids and
the sons of Asaph, but for being
what he hears it to be with his own
ears wherever he goes; for being
what he knows it to have been, and
still to be, from the testimony of
writers and travellers; and, lastly,
650
The Rofkan RUual and its Chant.
from what he foresees it will be to
the end of time. The one has before
his mind's eye the harmonies of
heaven and the choirs of angels,
and hopes to attain to these with
the elements of earth, A vision
of glory flits before him, and, for*
getting that the earth is peopled by
sinners, he thinks it may at once
be grasped. The other rememberij
the sad reality of what it is; he
thinks of the churches in wiiich he
has been present, where he has
heard tlie sounds of the theatre —
the fiddle, the horn, jmd the kettle
drum ; where he has heard the
song of dancing-girls rather than
of worshippers, and choruses rath-
er of idolaters than of men believ-
ing in the mysteries at which they
were present.
'Uvr« rep icXayyi) ytftavuv viktu ovpayd9i rpb,
Atr* circt ovv xtiftitva ^vyov cat a6itr^a.rov bfifipov,
KXayyff raiye viroi-rat in' uKtavolo poawv,
'Afipaat Uvy tiaiotai ^6foy koX r^pa ^ipowai.
Iliad^ b. iii.
Or, in the more humble words of
an English poet —
^' As if all kinds of noise had beea
Contracted into one loud din.'*
Uudihras^ canto il. book ii.
And I would ask, considering th'e
endlessly varying caprices of the
human mind, how any thing else
except confusion and disorder is to
be expected from the principle of
the supremacy of individual ta^te ;
and if music in the Christian
Church is to be regarded as call-
ed to fulfil the intention of a God
of order, in what way it is expect-
ed that this end will ever be real-
ized, where the safeguards of a fix-
ed order and system are discarded,
and individual discretion enthroned
in their stead }
LAST POINT OF THE COMPARUON.
Catholicity of the Ecclesiastical So ^ ^ or its
Companionship of the Catliolic Doctriitts
over the whole Globe,
This last point of the compari-
son, tht)Ugh far from the bst
weighty, to those who wU f^irlr
consider it, may happily be mx.;
more shortly stated. The Propfctt
Malachi predicted that, from ih.^
rising of the sun to its setting, God'^
name should be great anwng th-
Gentiles, and a "pure offering"
(niunda ablatio) should be offered 10
him ; a prediction fulfilled by ik
fact of the Christian missionaries
having carried the Holy Sacr.at
of the Mass over the globe. Ii
then, there be a song which has era
been the faithful companion oft-
Holy Sacrifice, wherever it hasber
conveyed ; that has ever heen p^
sent with it when solemnly offtf^:.
which has survived iht pos^n.
away of generations ; has urn. '
gone no change, but is nor «::
it was of old ; is the same to t •
priests of one nation which it is \ <
those of another — if such a kc.
there be, it will hardly be dispi::v.
that such is an accredited and -j
thentic song of the Christian kix-
dom. Yet such is the Ritual Ciu
which, at least in its well-kncr
parts, has literally overspread *' -
whole globe. A Frencli XiSi^t^^'
in Russia, finding there the EccL
siastical Chant, and that the Gr.-
Church had preserved it equ^ '
with the Latin, speaks of it -" ■
part of the " Dogme Caihali^ -
these church traditions of s>"'-
seeming to him as great a bonui-
as the church traditions of t^*
(See a very well written paj>er in t •
EcdesiastU for July, 1846, a nu;i-
zine conducted by clergy of i-
Established Church.)
If, then, the advocate for rwx^-
ern music be unable to poicc tc
any such fact as this for his art—
if he be compelled to acknowled^;
that it is necessarily confined '■'
people either of European orsn
or education; that it is no soss
Dr. Draper.
651
r the Caffre of Africa, the Tartar
Asia, tlie savage of Australia,
le Red Indian of North America,
le Esquimaux, the Paraguay In-
an — nothing but the luxury of
the European ; there can be little
room to doubt that, on this last
particular also, the Ritual Chant is
the only adequate fulfilment of the
divine idea.
DR. DRAPER.
Ix consequence of the eulogy
assed by Prof. Tyndall on Dr.
draper's book, which is entitled a
UUory of the Intellectual Develop-
rnt of Kurope^ we inquired with
>me curiosity for this work, and
ave since examined it. It is
vident that Prof. Tyndall himself
• largely indebted to it, as he
tales ; but a more flimsy and su-
crficial attempt to trace the history
if philosophy we have never met
fith. It seems that this gentleman,
-)r. Draper, is a professor of che-
nistry and physiology at New York.
^is object, as he informs us, in this
:ompilation^ was to arrange the evi-
lence of the intellectual history of
Burope on physiological principles,
riie style is feeble and incorrect,
ind the analysis of the Greek phi-
osophy positively ludicrous. As,
lowever, it might be inferred from
Prof. Tyndall's address that Dr. Dra-
per was, like himself, a disciple and
idmirer of Democritus, we will give
he American philosopher the bene-
fit of citing his own appreciation of
the atomic theory. After stating
that the theory of chemistry, as it
now exists, essentially includes the
views of Democritus (a point on
which we bow to his authority), he
proceeds thus, if we may be per-
mitted slightly to abridge a very
clumsy senterM:e :
"A systeni thus based on secure
mathematical considerations, and
taking as its starting-po^t a vacuum
and atoms — the former actionless
and passionless, which recognizes in
compound bodies specific arrange-
ments of atoms to one another.;
which can rise to the conception
that even a single atom may con-
stitute a world — such a system may
commend itself to our attention for
its results, but surely not to our
approval, when we find it carrying
us to the conclusion that the soul
is only a finely-constituted form
fitted into a grosser frame; that
even to reason itself there is an
impossibility of all certainty ; that
the final result of human inquiry
i§ the absolute demonstration that
man is incapable of knowledge ;
that the \vorld is an illusive phan-
tasm ; and that there is no God."
Such is the sentence passed upon
Democritus and the atomic theory
by Dr. Draper, on whom Prof. Tyn-
dall assures us that he relies impli-
citly as an authority ^n the history
of philosophy. Dr. Draper's ac-
count of the philosophical opinions
and writing? of Cicero is in the
highest degree inaccurate. But
enough ; we have done with him>
and we advise Prof. Tyndall to seek
a better guide. Suppose, for ex-
ample, he were to read the dialogue
of Velleius and Cotta in the first
book of the De Naiura DeorumJT
— Edinburgh Review.
• Vol i. p. 9S0.
652
Daniel O'Connell.
DANIEL O'CONNELL.
Man seeks in nature a hidden
sympathy with himself. The quick-
ened beatings of his heart, the rest-
less currents of his mind, make for
themselves a reflex image* in the
forces of the sea and sky. For
ever, the white crests of the break-
ers rolling in from the western
ocean curl up and lash themselves
against the rocks on the coast of
Kerry. For ever, in the gray dusk,
the waves, advancing and retreat-
ing, moan out a sad and hollow
sound. In sorrow and in gladness
their monotone is the same. Yet
it well might be that the Irish pea-^
sant, in the year 1775, gathering
kelp for his patch of land from the
shallow coves where the sea broke
in over his naked feet, felt, without
thinking too closely about it, that
nature, chill, leaden, and stern, mir-
rored there his own lot. The sud-
den gleams of blue sky through the
drifting clouds reflected a buoyant
humor that no sufferings could
quite subdue.
George III. had reigned fifteen
years. Dull, bigoted, cruel ; striv-
ing in a blmd way to be honest-, but
his blood tainted with the stains
of centuries of intolerance, he was
now the living type of Protestant
fanaticism. In Europe, the old
order of things existed without
break or fissure. In America, the
first heavings of the volcano were
plainly felt. The King, Lords, and
Commons of Ireland existed in
name. The Irish Parliament sat
in College Green to register the
degrees of the English Privy Coun-
cil, But what a Parliament ! Four
millions of Catholics without a re-
presentative. The broken Trcatf
of Limerick might still be spokei(
of among the traditions of thclrisfc
peasantry, but its guaranties hal
sunk more completely out of the
mind of the English and Irish le-
gislatures than the statutes of Gloa*
cester. The Penal Code was a
full legal effect. Burke had de-
scribed it a few years before witb
the calmness of concentrated pas*
sion as " well-digested and wciJ-
disposed in all its parts ; a machine
of wise and elaborate contrivaooBi
and as well fitted for the oppre^
sion, impoverishment, and degrade
tion of a people, and the debase-
ment in them of human nature i^
self, as ever proceeded from the per-
verted ingenuity of man." Yrf
even Burke hardly gave credit
enough to the magnificent qualiiia
of the race which was able to snr-
vive this code. It failed in its ob-
ject. It did not succeed in extir-
pating them. It never could de-
grade them, for they yielded neither
to its blandishments nor its terroa
But though holding fast the faitb
with such power as if God's ana
specially supported them therein
for providential ends, English Pro-
testant domination had broken
down and crushed this once proJd
race to the very earth, in all male-
rial ways. The Israelites s»eat<:d
not more hopelessly in the Egyp-
tian sands. In some respects the
lot of the Irish was worse. Their
task-masters were an intnidingrace;
they were aliens in their own land.
The face of the country in many
Daniel O'Connell.
653
ices still bore mute witness to
era well's pathway of blood and
e. Then the scriptural image had
en reversed, and the Irish had
en hewn down like the Canaan-
s of old. The noonday horrors
Drogheda and Wexford had left
scar in the national memory
lich time has not yet effaced,
urder, lust, and rapine, under the
ise of religious fanaticism, had
ide this people throw up its hands
'spairingly to heaven, as if hell it-
If had been thrown open, and its
mens issued forth to scourge the
nd. The XVIIIth century had
>ened under changed, but it could
irdly be said better auspices. The
ry of destruction had ceased, but
id been succeeded by the inge-
ous devices of legislative hatred
^d tyranny. The sword of Crom-
ell, dripping with the blood of
icn, women, and children, had
iven place to the gibbet of William
r Orange. The lawless murderer
as followed by the judicial torturer
tid jailer. The successors of WiU
am III. trod faithfully in his foot-
tcps. The parliaments of Anne,
f George I., of George II. heaped
cw fetters on the Irish papist,
^'hat v/onder that a lethargy like
trath settled down upon the native
ice ? The national idea was al-
most lost. It wavered and flicker-
d like an expiring flame, yet was
ot quite extinguished. In caves
nd barns, by stealth, and at uncer-
iin times, the Irish priest poured
"t a little oil from his scanty cruse
hich kept alive in the heart of his
ounlrymen the memory of his re-
gion and his national history. The
iron fangs " of the code relaxed a
itlc during the first years of the
ciga of George III. Its victim lay
trctched supine. More truly even
Han on a later occasion the words
f Henry Grattan might have been
applied to the condition ot the
country. Ireland " lay helpless and
motionless as if in the tomb." But
though politically dead, the vitality
of the race was inexhaustible, un-
conquerable. Population increas-
ed. There was little or no emi-
gration except among the Protestant
linen weavers of the north. The
amazing fertility of the soil, spite
of legislative drawbacks, made food
plentiful. An English traveller,
Arthur Young, in 1776, found the
Irish peasantry quiet, apathetic,
content to till their wretched hold-
ings, at the mercy of their landlords,
without complaint so long as they
could keep a shelter over their
heads, and had potatoes enough to
eat. Political ambition or aspira-
tions, the hope or even desire of
shaking ofif their chains and assert-
ing their rights as freemen, did not
seem to exist among them. Thus
far the oppression of centuries had
done its work. Some efforts at
enfranchisement had been made by
the Norman Catholic aristocracy
and the few old families of pure
Irish blood whp still held their
estates, or portions of them, by
sufferance ; but the words of Swift
continued true of the mass of the
native race — not from want of na-
tural capacity or manhood — far
from it ; but from the effect of this
grinding oppression of centuries,
and the systematic uprooting of all
organization among t^em by Eng-
lish policy. They v/ere " altogether
as inconsiderable," said the author
of D rapier* s Letters^ " as the women
and children, . . . without leaders,
without discipline, . . . little bet-
ter than hewers of wood and draw-
ers of water, and out of all ca-
pacity of doing any mischief if they
were ever so well inclined." Swift
went further and declared them
devoid of " natural courage." But
654
Daniel O'ConnelL
this was the libel of the Protestant
Dean, not the belief of the Irish
patriot. The title of the land, with
a few unimportant exceptions, had
passed completely out of the native
race. Under the law none could
be purchased. Education was for-
bidden. Yet such was the ardor
of the inherited .love of learning
which had once distinguished the
island, that Arthur Young found
everywhere schools under the
hedges, or, as he himself says, often
in the ditches.
'i'he breath of liberty was begin-
ning to stir among the Protestants
of the north, and the Volunteer
movement was soon to lead the way
to the short-lived recognition of the
legislative independence of Ireland
which terminated with the Union.
But among the mass of the Catho-
lic Irish peasantry no corresponding
feeling as to their political rights
was manifested, or was even in any
degree possible. Arms were for-
bidden them. Terrible as the ap-
pellation sounds applied to that
chivalrous race which had won a
deserved renown on so many battle-
fields of Europe, at home they
were, in all outward respects, he-
lots. The risings which sometimes
took place were seldom or never po-
litical. They were solely agrarian.
The infamous tithe-proctor roused
a spasmodic, bloody resistance,
which ended with the removal of
the special cause exciting it, never
extending to any effective organiza-
tion against the political slavery
under which they lay torpid. The
Whiteboys and Hearts of Steel were
not the material, nor were their aims
and programmes the policy, out of
which could spring such a revolu-
tion as was contemporaneously tak-
ing place in the American colonies.
The mass of the people looked on
in hopeless indifference at the out-
breaks of those secret societies, -jt
in some instances voluntarily com-
bined against their indiscriminitc
violence. The native Irish hoi*
their misery alone, without friendi
or sympathy except from Franre;
and the interference of this poi^cr,
by means of some feeble and un-
successful landings in Ireland, senr-
ed only to irritate England and
tighten the chains of her captire.
The mighty lever of moral support
which is now wielded by the united
voice of her sons in every quancf
of the globe did not exist. In some
counties, such as Kerry, where tb«
native language was chiefly spoken.
and the Milesian Trish largely pre
dominated, the harsh hand of I'w
law was never stretched out but to
seize upon the substance or the lite
of the people. The memory oni>
erty could scarcely be said to e\ii
in the hearts of this ancient rn-c
That gift which the Greek fabk h.^
declared to have remained at the
bottom of Pandora*s box when I'l
else escaped, seemed to have tak^n
wing from Ireland. Hope had flfd.
In that age, under those sbcs.
Daniel 0*Connell was born.
One hundred years have pasM;tl.
Rises now the Genius of the In.*)
race in America to celebrate the om-
tennial anniversary of that glorioc^
birth, to invoke in tones thaip^J
across the waves — the memory o'
that illustrious and beloved niinc
A majestic, youthful presemc
daughter of Erin, robed in w.i -
and with a garland of green up^n
her brow, comes with her sJstcriJ
lay a wreath upon the tomb of i'^
Liberator of his countr)-. N&fi^^^
fit's moriar^ wrote the Latin poet:
** I shall not whc^ly die. Some poll.
Nor that a4utle, shaQ
Escape the dark Destroyer's dait
And his grim festiTal."
Conquerors and statesmen li^vc
Daniel O'ConnelL
655
rpeated his words. But neither
le glories of war nor the triumphs
f politics have won for any a
irer immortality than 0*Conneirs.
lis fortunes waning at the close,
is blighted hopes, the broken
olumn of his labors, have only
ndeared his memory the more to
is countrymen. Time has termin-
led discussion or softened its as-
tt^rity. Nothing is remembered
fut his love and his labors for Ire-
and. From Montreal to New Or-
eans, from the first shore on which
he Irish exile set his foot, across
he continent to the Pacific Coast,
>ver an expanse of country so vast
hat the parent isle would form but
m oasis in its centraj desert —
nyriad voices repeat his name,
rtroclaiming in various forms of
words, but with one meaning,
Lhis eternal truth, that freedom
lieaten to the earth will rise again.
If in spirit the heroic figure of
:he great Tribune could top once
more the Hill of Tara, what a spec-
tacle would spread out before his
eye unobscured by its earthly
veil ! A mightier multitude would
listen to his strong and mellow
\oice. The descendants of the
men into whose bruised and down-
cast hearts he first breathed the
hope and the ardor of liberty have
built up a greater Ireland in Ameri-
ca. Sharing in the glories and
faithful to the traditions of Ameri-
can freedom — yielding to none in
the duties of citizenship — they
have yet carried with them, and
handed down to their sons, that
love of the mother country which
seems ever to burn with a brighter
flame in man's heart in enforced or
unmerited exile. Irish-American
generals have equalled or eclipsed
the fame of those distinguished
soldiers whose exploits in the ser-
vice of foreign powers are house-
hold words in the military history
of the race.
Citizens and soldiers unite to
commemorate the birth of the man
whose single arm struck off the
fetters that had bound their fathers
for nearly three hundred years.
If we turn to Ireland itself, we
shall find the change which has
been accomplished in those one
hundred years in some respects
more profound and starding than
the corresponding advance in the
fortunes of the Irish in America.
The latter has been the regular
and graduated result of causes
working in ascertained channels;
the former has all the character of a
moral revolution. Ireland has not,
it is true, gained that political in-
dependence with which her sons in
these United States started. But
over the far longer road before her
to reach that goal her stride has
been vast and, if we consider the
growth of nations, rapid. To ap-
preciate the transformation in the
character and position of the Irish
peasant we must recall what he was
in 1775. Catholic emancipation
was a wrench to the religious and
social traditions of the English
nation, and at the same time a
dead-lift to the moral status of the
Irish, to which no parallel will be
found in history. Repeal failed
from causes which we can now
easily discern, but which were hid-
den from O'Connell by his prox-
imity to theUnion. But no Coercion
Bills can conceal the fact that the
strength of Ireland is growing in a
ratio greater than her bonds. The
tendency of modern European
politics, and, willingly or unwillingly,
of English legislation itself, and
the increasing material prosperity
of Ireland, are adverse to them, and
continuously wearing them away.
Her national spirit is indomitable.
656
Daniel aConnell.
The hour may be distant, but it is
inevitable, when they will fall from
around her, and she will step forth
in all the majesty of freedom.
What, then, is the place O'Connell
holds in the national development
of his race during those one hun-
dred years ? What are the achieve-
ments, greater than all defeats,
which demand from his country-
men a recognition. that no centen-
nial celebration of his memory can
too honorably offer.
In any view of modern Irish his-
tory it is essential to a clear under-
standing of its motives that we
should distinguish the character
and position of the three great
races occupying the island. It is
not enough to divide the people
into Saxon and Celt. The native
Irisii race, the blended result of
the successive ancient colonizations
of the island, remained essentially
distinct from the Catholic Norman
Irish even after the Reformation.
The intermarriages and adoption
of Irish customs, which had early
given to the descendants of Strong-
bow's followers the title *' Hiber-
nicis Hiberniores," had still left
them a higher caste. They retain-
ed a not inconsiderable portion of
their great estates through all the
civil wars. The Penal Code never
fell upon them with the rigor and
leaden weight that paralyzed the
native Irish. Their wealth purchas-
ed immunity. Although formally
ostracized from political life, their
influence as landowners secured
them consideration. The observ-
ance of the duties enjoined by their
religion was connived at. In other
cases they were powerful enough to
make it respected.
Far different was the case of the
Milesian Irish. Their history had
been a series of heroic struggles,
ending in what appeared to be ir-
retrievable disaster. Before the
process of consolidation, which was
simultaneously going on all over
Europe, and which would have
welded the various septs and king-
doms into one nation, could be
completed, the Norman invasion
under Strongbow had introduced -
new and more furious element of
strife. The Reformation only
changed their masters, but changed
them for the worse. Hiiherlo tbcy
had been serfs. They now became
helots. The glorious deeds of
arms of the O'Neals and other
chieftains, which more than once
threatened to drive the Englisl-
into the sea, delayed but could not
finally avert the complete triumph
of combined craft and superior re-
sources. Projects for the extirpa-
tion of the native race were frech
mooted. Famine, the sword, and
the gallows at one time seemed al-
most to promise it. The same price
was set on the priest's and the
wolfs head. A non-Catholic writer,
Lecky, gives this summary of th<
Penal Code as it existed whec
O'Connell was born :
'*By this code the Roman CathoJtc«
wore absolutely excluded from the Par-
liament, from the magistracy, from the cor-
porations, from the bench, and from the
bar. They could not vote at parliamen-
tary elections or at vestries. Theyconlv!
not act as constables, or sheriffs, or jori-
mcn, or serve in the army or navr, o:
become solicitors, or even hold the po»i
tionofgameiceepcr or watchman. Schools
were established to bring up their chil-
dren as Protestants ; and if they refused to
avail themselves of these, they were deli-
berately consigned to hopeless ignoraoce.
being excluded from the unirersiiy, and
debarred under crushing penalties from
acting as schoolmasters, as ushers, or as
private tutors, or from sending their chil-
dren abroad to obtain the instruction thrj
were refused at home. They could oo»
marry Protestants; and if such a mar-
riage were celebrated, it was annulled bt
law, and the priest who ofliciated might
Daniel (yConnell.
657
be hong. They could not buy land, or
inherit or receive it as a gift from Pro-
testants, or hold life annuities, or leases
for more than thirty-cne years, or any
lease on such terms that the profit of the
land exceeded one-third of the rent. If
any Catholic leaseholder so increased Ris
profits that they exceeded this propor-
tion, and did not immediately make a
coripcsponding increase in his payments,
any Protestant who gave the information
could enter into possession of his farm.
If any Catholic had secretly purchased
his old forfeited estate, or any other land,
any Protestant who informed against him
might become the proprietor. The few
Catholic landholders who remained were
deprived of the right which all other
classes possessed, of bequeathing their
lands as they pleased. If their sons con*
tinued Catholic, it was divided equally %
between them. If, however, the eldest
son consented to apostatize, the estate
was settled upon him, the father from
that hour becoming only a life-tenant, and
los:ng all power of , selling, mortgaging,
or otherwise disposing of it. If the wife
of a Catholic abandoned the religion of
her husband, she was immediately free
from his control, and the chancellor was
empowered to assign her a certain pro-
ponion of her husband's property. If
any child, however young, professed it-
self a Protestant, it was at once taken
from its father's care, and the chancellor
could oblige the father to declare upon
oath the value of his property, both real
and personal, and could assign for the
present maintenance and future portion
of the converted child such proportion of
that property as the court might decree.
No Catholic could be guardian either to
^is own children or those of any other
person ; sind therefore a Catholic who
died while his children \tere minors, had
the bitterness of reflecting upon his death-
bed that they must pass into the care of
Protesunts. An annuity of from twenty
to forty pounds was provided as a bribe
for every priest who would become a
Protestant. To convert a Protestant to
Catholicism was a capital offence. In
every walk of life the Catholic was pur-
Sued by persecution or restriction. Ex-
cept in the linen trade, he could not have
more than two apprentices. He could
not possess a horse of more than the va-
lue of five pounds, and any Protestant
Qpon giving him five pounds could take
his horse. He was compelled to pay
VOL. XXI. — 42
double to the militia. He was forbidden,
except under particular conditions, to
live in Galway or Limerick. In case of
a war with a Catholic power, the Catho-
lics were obliged to reimburse the dam-
age done by the enemy's privateers. The
legislature, it is true, did not venture
absolutely to suppress their worship, but
it existed only by a doubtful connivance,
stigmatized as if it were a species of li-
censed prostitution, and subject to con-
ditions which, if they had been enforced,
would have rendered its continuance im-
possible. An old law which prohibited
it, and another which enjoined attendance
at the Anglican worship, remained unre-
pealed, and might at any time Be revived ;
and the former was in fact enforced dur-
ing the Scotch rebellion of 1715. The
parish priests, who alone were allowed
to officiate, were compelled to be regis-
tered, and were forbidden to keep cu-
rates, or officiate anywhere except in their
own parishes. The chapels might not
have bells or steeples. No crosses might
be publicly erected. Pilgrimages to the
holy wells were forbidden. Not only all
monks and friars, but also all Catholic
archbishops, bishops, deacons, and other
dignitaries, were ordered by a certain day
to leave the country, and, if after that date
they were found in Ireland, they were
liable to be first imprisoned and then
banished; and if after that banishment
they returned to discharge their duties in
their dioceses, they were liable to the
punishment of death. To facilitate the
discovery of offences against the code,,
two justices of the peace might at any
time compel any Catholic of eighteen
years of age to declare when and where
he last heard Mass, what persons were
present, and who officiated ; and if he re-
fused to give evidence they might im-
prison him for twelve months, or until he
paid a fine of twenty pounds. Any one
who harbored ecclesiastics from beyond
the seas was subject to fines which for
the third offence amounted to the confis-
cation of all his goods. A graduated
scale of rewards was offered for the dis-
covery of Catholic bishops, priests, and
schoolmasters ; and a resolution of the-
House of Commons pronounced the pro-
secuting and informing against papists
* an honorable service to the govern-
ment.'"*
This is a dark picture. Yet it is.
• Umdert p/Puhlic Q^n{»n in Ireimndy^ now
658
Daniel O'Comteli.
drawn by an unwilling hand. In-
stances might be accumulated where
the severity of the law was out-
stripped by the barbarity of its exe-
cution. Important relief bills were
passed in 1777 and 1793. But they
provided only for the removal of
some of the civil and political dis-
abilities of the Catholics. The
badge of religious degradation re-
mained untouched. The heaviest
fetters of that iron code still trailed
after the limbs of the Irish Catho-
lic. It is the glory of O'Connell
tliat he finally snapped them in
twain, and trampled them for ever
in the dust. Englishman, Norman,
and Milesiftn — the British colonist
who clung to a proscribed faith in
every quarter of the globe — shared
in the results of that herculean
labor.
But it is the special claim of
O'Connell to the eternal gratitude
of that native Irish race to which
he belonged, that he, first of all,
after that bondage of centuries,
taught them to lift up their heads
to the level of freemen. Had
his work stopped at Emancipa-
tion, had his claim to fame and a
place in the national memory been
included solely in the noble title
of Liberator, enough had been done
by one man for humanity and his
own renown. But in the course
of that long struggle a greater and
further- reaching consequence was
involved. A transformation took
place in the character of the native
Irish, the full results of which are
not yet visible. In their journey
through the desert, in their march-
ings and counter-marchings, their
victories and transient defeats, as
they neared the borders of the
promised land towards which he
led them, a change wonderful, but
not without parallel, became visi-
^ble in their spirit and their hopes.
Insensibly and by slow degrees the
political torpor of centuries yielded
•to a new and living warmth. A
generation sprang up which had
fiung aside the isolation and siilv
missive hopelessness of 1775, yet
was capable of a greater and more
sustained effort than the freniy of
despair which prompted 'gS. Un-
der the ardor of 0'Conn<flrs burn-
ing words, a full understanding of
the functions of self-govemraent
permeated a race which had h^be^
to seemed to exist by the suflfcraDcc
of its masters. He not only libcnl-
ed his countrymen from religions
bondage, he organized them into a
nation. He gave them the first
impact of self-government since the
Invasion. And that impac^is nefer
again likely to be lost.
Daniel O'Connell did not, like
some other great popular leaders,
spring directly from the midst of
the people whose passions he swayed
and whose actions moved obcdiect
to his will. His family belonged to
the old Irish gentry. He had the
advantages of that collegiate course
in France which was the only wa>
then open to Catholics of the upper
classes to afford their sons a liber?!
education. Yet his family was al-
lied closely enough to the people
to make him share in all their feel-
ings, sympathies, and sufferings
The author whom we have alrc^y
quoted, with that curious blindne^
the result of unconscious prejudict.
which makes most non-Catholic writ-
ers, however otherwise acute, miss
the true threads of Irish history,
and insult the national sensibility
at the very moment they thick
themselves the most liberal, sets
down as a defect in O'Connell what
was in reality the secret of his pow-
er. "With the great qualities,'
he says, " of O'Connell there were
mingled great defects, which 1 have
Daniel O^ConnelL
659
not attempted to conceal, and
which are of a kind peculiarly re-
pulsive to a refined and lofty nature.
His character was essentially that
of a Celtic peasant."
Yes, this was at once his glory
and his strength. O'Connell's per-
sonal traits of character reflected
faithfully, on a heroic scale, the
national features of his race.
Not the coarseness nor scurrility
ascribed to it by the stage buf-
foon or the unsympathetic pub-
licist, but the powerful yet subtle
understanding which has won for
Irishmen in every age the highest
distinction in the field and in the
schools, the large, warm heart, easi-
ly swayed by generous impulses,
the humor closely allied to tears
which is the secret of the most
popular oratory. It is this thor-
ough identification with the na-
tional spirit, with the religion
which the persecution of centu-
ries had made inseparable from
it, that makes O'Connell without
equal or second among the great
men who nobly contended for their
country's freedom at the end of
the last and beginning of the pres-
ent century. He stands. alone, gift-
ed with a power to which neither
the highest intellect nor the most
brilliant oratory could otherwise
obtain. He swayed the force of
the nation he had welded into
shape* It was this tremendous
lever — obedient, one might almost
say without figure of speech, to his
single arm — that enabled him to
wrest Catholic Emancipation from
the combined determined opposi-
tion of the King, Parliament, and
people of England.
For forty years Henry Grattan
labored with chivalrous devotion
in the service of Ireland. His elo-
quence has a charm, a poetical in-
spiration^ a classical finish O'Con-
nell's never equalled. It thrilled
the Irish Parliament like the sound
of a trumpet, and held spell-bound
the hostile English House of Com-
mons. His patriotism was as un-
selfish, his zeal, in a certain sense,
as ardent as O'Connell's. Yet
what did Grattan ultimately ac-
complish ? What was the end of
all these noble gifts and labors ?
Having, as he said, "watched by
the cradle" of the constitutional in-
dependence of the Irish Parliament,
he lived to "follow its hearse";
and when he died in 1820, Catho-
lic Emancipation, the cause of
which had been committed to his
hands, became more hopelessly
distant than ever. His was indi-
vidual genius, individual energy,
of a very high, if not the highest,
type. But it needed something
more to win in such a cause.
Classical eloquence was thrown
away in such a struggle. The
concentrated strength of national
enthusiasm, careless of form, ani-
mated only by a single giant pur-
pose, was demanded. Grattan,
though such a man as Irishmen
of every creed might well be proud
of, was, unfortunately for his suc-
cess in the attainment of great na-
tional aims, neither a Catholic nor
identified with the "Celtic peas-
ant." He lacked the fundamen-
tal force bred of the soil. O'Con-
nell, on the other hand, might truly
be likened to thijt fabled giant of
antiquity, Antjeus, who gained a
tenfold strength each time he was
flung upon his mother earth. Well
might he declare, when reproached
on one occasion for the violence of
his language, " If I did not use
the sledge-hammer, I could never
crush our enemies." It was a war
of extremities. It was an epoch
surcharged with the elements of
moral explosions, when men's pas-
66o
Daniel OXonndl.
sions were roused to the highest
pitch. Those who read now the
measured language of Disraeli in
Parliament will pause in astonish-
ment when they turn back to the
frenzied raving with which he re-
plied on a memorable occasion to
the terrible invective of O'Connell.
In such an era of violence, of an-
archic strife, Grattan's "winged
words" fell harmless, but O'Con-
nell's ** sledge-hammer, " wielded
with the arm of Thor, thundered
its most effective blows.
Another great Irishman had pass-
ed off the stage while the young
Dublin law student, Daniel O'Con-
nell, was still only dreaming of the
liberation of his country. Ed-
mund Burke — revered and illustri-
ous name ! — had rounded off the la-
bors of his long and honorable
life in the cause of oppressed hu-
manity, wherever found, by some
strenuous and well-directed efforts
for the relief of his Catholic fel-
low-countrymen. Yet he too fail-
ed, or at best gained but an indif-
ferent success. The principles he
enunciated are imperishable; his
arguments will be preserved for
ever among the grandest vindica-
tions of religious liberty in the
English tongue. But in that age
they fell upon deaf ears. He too
wanted that element of success
which comes from identity of race,
religion, feelings, opinions, sympa-
thies. To that native Irish race
which must ever determine the
destinies of Ireland he was a
stranger. What a satire upon hu-
manity to expect that men in their
position — ^bondsmen, systematical-
ly, and under legal penalties, de-
prived of all education, of every
means of information — could ap-
preciate the teachings of a politi-
cal philosopher, living in what
they regarded, with good cause, as
a foreign or even hostile coantry.
It was well if they knew of his ex-
istence. He was no leader for
them. Nor did Burke ever affect
to act with them, but rather for
them, upon the convictions of the
higher English and Irish classes.
Hence it is that O'Connell is to
be regarded as the purely^ationiil
type of leader; by means of ac
tix)n exercising a more powerful in-
fluence on human affairs through
the wide-spread Irish race than
Burke by means of thought.
It will thus be seen that we place
O'Connell on a high plane — above,
and different from, that of mere
orators, or statesmen administering
established affairs, however great.
He is to be ranked with the nation-
builders of all ages. This was the
verdict of most contemporary Eu-
ropean observers, of Montalembcn.
of Ventura, and other exponents of
continental public opinion. To
the English mind he was, and pro-
bably will always be, a demagogue,
pure and simple. But so no doubi
was Themistocles to the Persians.
O'Connell stormed too many Eng-
lish prejudices — stormed them with
a violence which to his opponents
seemed extravagant and unendura-
ble, but without which he could
never have gained his end — to be
forgiven. The judgment of his
countrymen, however — the supreme
arbiter for him — is already maturing
to a decision in his favor which
will place him in a niche in the
hall of Irish heroes above til
others, and side by side with thai
old king whose memory recalls the
ancient glories and victories of Ire
land.
But what of his defeats ? — of the
failure of Repeal } This is not i
panegyric on O'Connell, but a sin-
cere examination of his place in
Irish history. In many in!»taQces,
Daniel O'Cottnell,
661
and above all on the qivestion of
Repeal, he miscalculated his forces
and the strength of the forces op-
posed to him. Like the greatest
men of action in every age, his
movements were directed by the
circumstances and exigencies of
the occasion, by experience, by the
shifting currents of events, by his
ability ^o create those currents, or
to turn them to his own purpose.
The cast-iron rules of policy which
political philosophers formulate in
their closets may be singularly inap-
propriate for the uses of popular
leaders. In 1829, under the ban-
ner of Moral Force, with the na-
tion arrayed behind him, he had
wrested Emancipation from the
king and ministry. It was an im-
mense triumph. His temperament
was sanguine — an element of weak-
ness, but also of strength. In
the hopeless state in which he
found Ireland, only a character
of the most enthusiastic kind would
hare ventured on the crusade he
opened. In 1843, he thought he
could repeat his victory on the
question of Repeal. But in 1829
Peel and Wellington yielded, not
to moral force, which, so far as Ire-
land is concerned, is a term un-
known in English politics, but to
the armed figure of rebellion stand-
ing behind it. They were not pre-
pared for the contest. In 1843, the
English ministry were ready to
crush opposition with an over-
whelming military force. If they
did hot invite rebellion, as in '98,
they were equally ready to ride
roughshod over Ireland. The
circumstances of the contest had
also changed. Catholic Emancipa-
tion attacked the religious prejudi-
ces of England ; Repeal threatened
its existence as a nation. It could
grant the one, and still maintain
its hatred of Popery ; it could not
yield the other without setting up
a legislature with rival interests in
politics and trade. The instinct
of self-preservation was evoked. No
argument will ever convince the
average Englishman that in restor-
ing a separate, independent Parlia-
ment to Ireland, he is not laying
the foundation of a hostile state.
The result in 1843 was inevitable.
As soon as a sufficient military
force was concentrated, remon-
strance or negotiation ceased. Eng-
land simply drew her sword and
flung it into the scale. O'Connell
and his associates were thrown into
prison, and the guns of the Pigeon-
House Fort were trained on the
road to Clonitarf.
In the varied history of the hu-
man race few spectacles have ever
been presented of equal moral
grandeur to those immense peace-
ful open-air meetings which gather-
ed to hear the great tribune. No
greater testimony was ever given
of a nation's confidence and love.
Competent judges put down the
number who assembled at the Hill
of Tara at half a million of people.
Yet to the unbiassed obser^'er there
is something almost as pathetic in
the helplessness of this great multi-
tude — hoping to wrest their inde-
pendence from England without
arms — as grand in the mighty surge
of its numbers. It was the con-
federacy of the sheep against the
wolves. O'Conncirs failure shows
vividly how narrow is the plank
upon which the popular leader
walks between an immortal triumph
and a prison cell. It reveals the
tremendous power residing in an
organized government, capable only
of resistance by a people in arms
and inured to the use of arms.
That was a monster meeting of a
different kind held on Bunker Hill
one hundred years ago, and com-
662
\
Daniel O'ConnelL
memorated this year by these Unit-
ed States.
We are neither imf>eaching here
the wisdom of the course pursued
by O'Connell in 1843, nor advising
armed rebellion against England
at the present day. We discuss
simply the historical aspects of the
question in the light of the experi-
ence of other nations. Nothing
can be more hazardous, however,
or often absolutely fallacious, than
broad generalizations from the his-
tory of other countries as capable
of determining a particular line of
policy for any given state. In no-
thing else did O'Connell show a
higher wisdom as a leader of the
Irish people than in rejecting those
specious appeals to the success of
arms in America, made by the more
ardent patriots in 1845-46.
The circumstances of the two
countries were radically different.
The Americans exhausted every
kind of " moral force " at their dis-
posal, and their revolution, when it
finally came to blows, was not ag-
gressive but defensive ; the policy
of England made it incumbent on
Ireland to strike the first blow in a
contest which she would quickly
have found herself unable to sus-
tain. The Americans had a bound-
less territory ; the Irish a narrow
island, capable of being pierced
from sbore to shore by English
troops in three weeks. The Ameri-
cans were trained to arms by a
war of one hundred years with the
French and Indians, in which they
were drilled and fought side by
side with English regiments ; the
Irish — the native Catholic Irish,
the people for whom O'Connell was
responsible before God and man-
kind — could not keep a pike since
the Treaty of Limerick. An Irish re-
bellion, therefore, would have meant
simply a massacre ; and O'Connell,
in choosing the wiser course oC
present submission to superior force
merited as much, although in defeat,
the gratitude of his countrymen as
he did in his triumpth in the caasc
of Emancipation. For it will
have been gathered from what we
have already said that we regard
O'Connell's greatest achievement
in the service of his country — its
political organ ization, the educa-
tion of its sons in the knowledge of
the rights and duties of freemen —
as going on with equal step as well
with the unsuccessful agitation for
Repeal as with the triumphant strug-
gle for Emancipation. His defeats
carried with them the germs of
victory. The most ardent lover of
his country can scarce escape an
uneasy feeling when he reads in the
annals of Ireland that story, re-
iterated with painful monotony,
page after page, of the harrying
the devastations, the ccasclcss^in-
testine wars, which mark its esiiy
history. It would seem somdCisKS
as if the ancient learning of Ireland
which produced those numerous
and minute chronicles, served only
the purpose of a reproach to the
island which fostered it. Other
nations had struggled through this
transition period — common to the
whole of Europe — and finally con-
solidated themselves into peaceful
and harmonious states. But it was
the misfortune of Ireland that this
opportunity of domestic organiza-
tion was snatched from her by a
foreign invasion ending in a domina-
tion of which the cardinal princi-
ple was to " divide and conquer."
English writers satirize the civil
discord of the Irish, race, forgetful
that from the time of Henry II. to
that of George III. it was the
steady, and as it then seemed intel-
ligent, policy of successive English
statesmen to foster wars between
Daniel O'Connell.
663
the rival chieftains and clans, to
employ them against one another,
and in every way to break down
any incipient attempt at union,
which must have been dangerous,
if not fatal, to English power. No
man bad arisen among the Irish
race till O'Connell's time who
neutralized that policy. He show-
ed that they were capable of or-
ganization and self-government in a
patriotic common cause. In those
immense meetings which marked
his progress, where men of every
county united in one vast brother-
hood, he proved, first, that the Irish
people loved domestic peace and
co-operation as much as any other
race; and, secondly, that under
happy auspices they possessed a
wonderful capacity for order and
self control. Even hostile observers
concur in expressing as much
admiration for th^ undisturbed
peacefulness of those assemblages
of from a quarter to half a million
of people, as amazement at their
vastness, unprecedented in history.
They were the foundation of the
political education of Ireland.
In another country, and a more
remote age, another man of kindred,
kingly spirit and organizing power,
with whom O'Connell is not unwor-
thy to be compared, had built up
his vast empire by like national
meetings, not less than by force of
arms. In the great national meet-
ings of the Franks, the Champs de
Mai^ Charlemagne gave the first
impress of government to Europe,
torn to pieces after the fall of the
Roman Empire. O'Connell, an-
other " king of men " — such as the
Homeric legend sings of— emulated
his labors on a less extended scale
in Ireland. But the empire of
Charlemagne fell to pieces with
bis death. Chaos reigned again.
O'Conneirs work was more homo-
geneous, and promises to be more
enduring. We are only entering
upon the dawn of a more hopeful
Irish history.
When we seek a comparison of
individual action, in the history of
England, with O^Connell's, we are
struck at once with the grand but
sorrowful isolation of his position.
Fortunate the country which has
never needed a liberator ! Happy
the kingdom whose greatest revo-
lution meant only a change of dynas-
ty, a stronger leaven of republican-
ism, and surer guarantees against re-
ligious toleration ! The growth of
constitutional government in Eng-
land has been comparatively steady
and uniform. Never — since the
amalgamation of races following the
Norman invasion — subjected to the
terrible consequences of conquest
and occupation by a race alien in
language, religion, and national pre-
judices, her political and religious
struggles have been wrought out to
an issue among her own population.
Whenever her civil liberty or par-
liamentary privileges were threaten-
ed, sturdy champions were not
wanting among her own sons. Her
Pyms, Hampdens, and Eliots find
their counterparts in the Grattans
and Floods of Ireland. But the
deliverer of a crushed and hopeless
people, the inspired guide who led
them out of bondage and defied
their taskmasters, is a figure hap-
pily absent in English history.
The imagination naturally turns
with vivid interest to great deeds
of arms. The pomp and panoply
of war, the heroic daring of the
headlong charge, the valor, disdain-
ful of death, that awaits with con-
stancy an overwhelming foe — these
are incentives to action, in pres-
ence of which the labors and even
triumphs of peaceful agitation ap-
pear tame and slow. And the
664
Daniel ffConnelL
Irish are a people strongly suscep-
tible to those influences. They
are a warlike race. Wherever the
tide of battle turns against great
odds, where the smoke is thickest,
and the carnage deadliest, there
will be found some Irish name up-
holding the traditions of his coun-
try's fame. O'Connell had there-
fore no easy task in restraining
within peaceful limits the immense
agitation he had evoked. And in
estimating his place in history the
same considerations place him at a
disadvantage compared with those
great warriors, the glitter of whose
victories is identified with the war-
like glories of their country. The
"Bridge of Lodi," the "Sun of
Austerlitz ** — these are talismanic
words which then rang in people's
ears with startling sequence } Yet
if we compare O'Connell's labors
and their results with those of the
great soldier whose career had
closed while the former was only
beginning his peaceful struggle
with England, there is no reason
to shrink from the verdict. Eman-
cipation was worth many Marengos.
The rdle of the Liberator may fair-
ly be set off against that of the
Conqueror. The civic crown of
green and gold placed on O'Con-
nell's head on the Rath of Mullagh-
mast, in the presence of 400,000
men, was an emblem of true sover-
eignty greater in many ways than
that iron crown which Napoleon
lifted with his own ambitious hands
from the altar at Milan. One was
rust-eaten, it might be said, with
the blood and tears of unknown
thousands ; the other was invested
with the halo of peace, which the
attainment of religious liberty and
education in the rights of freemen
had introduced into a million hum-
ble homes. The career of both
Napoleon and O'Connell ended in
defeat. But how conflicting the
emotions of each as he gazed for
the last time on the shores of his
country ! One, preoccupied by the
shattering of his gigantic ambition^
and the assertion of petty details
of etiquette in the midst of the
ruin around him; the other, oblivi-
ous of self, weighed down by the
doom of famine impending over
his country — his last words a sol-
emn and pathetic appeal for its
protection. In the hour of adver-
sity, stripped of the adventitions
circumstances of power, O'Connell
stands forth a figure of greater
moral grandeur. Of the victories
of Napoleon nothing remains but
their name, and the terrible retri-
bution that has followed them.
The influence of O'Connell's un-
selfish labors in the cause of relig-
ious freedom has a future practi-
cally endless ; and after a season
of adversity and apparent forget-
fulness, his political roaximi aad
principles are again reviving in Ire-
land in the constitutional agitation
for Home Rule. Not in the de-
mand itself, stopping short as it
does of Repeal, but in the means
by which alone its advocacy may
be made successful.
It is a curious instance of the ebb
and flow of historical movements
that O'Connell was at one time pre-
pared to take up, under the name
of " Federalism," the present de-
mand for "Home Rule." Ulti-
mately, as is well known, he was
forced to abandon it by the muti-
ny of his followers, who would be
satisfied with nothing less than sim-
ple " Repeal." And this reluctance
to adopt a middle course W2is natu-
ral enough at the time. In 1840-
45 the Irish people were still too
close to the Union; the infamous his-
tory of that measure and the burning
eloquence of Grattan and Plunkett
Daniel O'ConntU.
665
I denouncing it were too Strongly im-
ressed upon the national memory,
\ allow any hope of success to a
ader who would promise less than
s total erasure from the statute
ook. Too many were still living
- like O'Connell himself — who
ould remember the brief yet glori-
us history of Irish legislative inde-
endence, to give up the belief that
was yet possible to see an Irish
arltament sitting in College Green.
Experience, and the statesmanship
rhich does not aim at the unat-
ainable, have shown the practical
iiperiority of the lesser demand as
political programme at the present
lay. But this does not impugn the
ifisdom of the Repeal agitation.
The true course of a people in its
idtional ^iffairs is necessarily learn-
ed slowly. There is no ready-made
-hart -in politics ; and were any of-
fered, Burke's satire upon geomet-
rical demonstrations in state affairs
woul(|^l)e conclusive against it.
ExpeiWice, even the experience of
failure, is the only trustworthy
guide; and successive agitations,
though varying in their object, keep
alive the cause in the national
memory.
Tbough the best and truest friends
of Ireland, including that venerable
hierarchy which has steadily sec-
onded every rational movement for
justice and equal rights, have never
hesitated to give their support to
O'Connell's policy of moral force,
there have not been wanting from
the first restless spirits who have
made it their bitterest reproach
against him, that he was unwilling
to fling away the scabbard and
plunge the country into rebellion.
U would be unjust to speak of all
these men as influenced by unwor-
thy motives. Some of them breath-
ed^ and still breathe, the purest as-
pirations of patriotism. But it was
a mistaken patriotism, influenced
by examples which might indeed
make martyrs, but which would
never lift one chain from the neck
of their country. They might
make good soldiers, but were poor
leaders. Ireland was not then, and
is not now, in a position to gain
anything by a policy of violence.
But there are others, inflamed
not with a love of Ireland, but with
a spirit of hostility to all govern-
ments, who would plunge their
country into bloodshed in hope
of themselves floating to the top.
These men are infected with the
spirit of the Commune. They are
revolutionists — not in the sense in
which Washington or Hampden or
O'Connell were revolutionists —
leaders of great movements for the
liberties of peoples — but socialists,
whose single incentive is the envy
and hatred of all superior authority.
Most of all, they desirie to supplant
the Irish priesthood as the guides
of the people. A sorry exchange,
from the well-tried friends, proved
by the exacting ordeal of a thou-
sand years, to men of no responsi-
bility — mere political gamblers —
whose highest motive is ambition,
but a lower and more common one,
the love of easy-gotten money froni
confiding people. These conspi-
rators are the promoters of the se-
cret societies against which O'Con-
nell warned the Irish people. But
unfortunately they too often find
that generc/us-hearted race — embit-
tered by the recollection of centu-
ries of oppression — willing to give
ear to their delusive promises. In-
different to their own future, these
men rejoice in anarchy. Some of
them are no doubt poltroons, who
would fly as soon as they had led
their dupes into danger. But it
would be false to deny them all the
attributes of courage. Others would
666
Daniel O^Connell.
die brarely enough behind a barri-
cade. But their wars are essential-
ly wars of the barricades. If de-
feated they would perish recklessly,
having nothing at stake to make
life valuable — absolutely indifferent
to the slaughter, to the burned
homes, to the widows and orphans
of the unfortunate people who had
submitted to their fatal guidance.
If successful, their next attack would
be upon the Catholic Church. But
success under such leadership is a
delusion wilder than the most ex-
aggerated dream of fiction. They
have no conception of a national
revolution higher than a conspi-
racy. The elevated principles, the
far-sighted calculations of a Wash-
ington, an Adams, or a Franklin,
which almost assured success from
the start, are an unknown language
to them. Blind hatred, even of an
existing tyranny, is a poor basis
upon which to sustain a long and
exhausting war. And no one, with
the history of the American Revo-
lution before him, can doubt what
the character of an armed struggle
with England for the independence
of Ireland would be.
The same spirit of patriotism,
therefore, that urged Washington to
throw his sword into the scale in
the contest with Great Britain, ani-
mated 0*Connell with a contrary
purpose in the case of Ireland.
Yet not less is the latter deserving
of the title of " Father of his Coun-
try." Success has crowned the
American patriot with a more splen-
did fame. But when we weigh the
individual exertions of each in his •
gigantic struggle with the great
empire opposed to him, and consi-
der the incalculable advantages
which a boundless territory and an
intervening ocean afforded to the
American leader, the Irish libera-
tor will not suffer from the compari-
son. Washington was surrouaded
and sustained by a group of great
men who would seem to have beat
providentially raised up at tkM
momentous epoch to lay the fbonda-
tions of the noble structure of
American liberty. O'Connell, stand-
ing alone, an Atlas supporting the
fortunes of six millions of Irish Ca-
tholics on his shoulders, is a figure
unexampled in history. His her-
culean labors recall the fabks o^
antiquity. In the wlu>le parliamen-
tary history of England we read of
no other example of one man ^iof
and trampling over the utmost hos-
tility of that proud and powerfizi
assembly — the English House of
Commons.
Yet though the pre-eminence of
O'Connell makes him appear almost
a solitary figure in the records of
that day, it would be unjust, in t
notice of him, to pass over the as-
sistance he received from thebrft-
liant rhetoric and astute ittrilect
of Richard Lalor Sheil. Voogh
holding a subordinate place to thrt
of the great Agitator, and accused
of lukewarmness, in the endt b)
O'Connell himself, whose ** Sheil
Sheil ! this will never do," has be
come historic, his early cxcrtiott
merit a grateful reniembraDcc.
Nor can any Irishman ever forgf.
the profound learning, the inaster.>
reasoning, the weight of character
which Dr. Doyle, the celebrated
" J. K. L.," brought lO the conies:
in the early days of the Catboltc
Association. Rivalling Swifi m
the keenness of his satire, and
" Junius " in the brilliancy of bis
style, he united to those qualities a
purity of purpose and ireedom from
personal rancor which neither of
those writers possessed. His life »
an imperishable monument of the
patriotism of the Catholic hierarchy
of Ireland.
Daniel O'Connell.
667
It is not the purpose of this arti-
e to speak of O'Connell's position
tiie English House of Commons,
his action on the question of
eform, or the revenues of the Irish
tiurch, on which he anticipated the
rdy measure of Mr. Gladstone;
>T of the truly liberal and tolerant
»int which made him welcome
to the ranks of the Repealers the
iented Protestant youth of Ire-
ndy and oppose every manifesta-
on of religious rancor wherever
e found it. We have sufficiently
ointed out what we believe to be
is enduring claims to immortality
-Catholic Emancipation, and, in
ursuance of that aim and of Re-
eal, the new level of political
bought and action to which he
fted the Irish race. He is the
jandest representative of the pure
>ltic blood of Ireland that the
Lges have produced. His power,
ike that of all other great national
cadeculepended upon that repre-
«ntatfle quality. And he used his
>owcr faithfully. Unlike the great
merman chancellor of the present
lay, who, beginning with the rdle
>f a national liberator and organizer,
las ended in a career of foreign
iomination and domestic persecu-
ion, O'Connell never perverted the
ilrongest and noblest of popular
orces to the uses of tyranny under
my form. Prince Bismarck's plans
lead up to that very regime of hate,
:njelty, and oppression which
0*Connell combated in Ireland,
and \i they l^ecome the settled
policy of the Jimpire, must in time
giv« t)irth to a Qerman Liberator.
It remains only to say a word
upon the future of that Irish people
lo whom Q'Connell devoted his
life. We will not venture upon
hazapdous speculations.- The wis-
dom of his policy was never more
apparent than to-day. The mo-
tives upon which it was founded
repeat themselves anew. There are
too- many interests in Ireland —
Irish and Catholic interests — op-
posed to revolutionary violences, to
make rebellion either desirable or
practicable. It is only those who
want to con5scate and live by
tumult that cry out for it. The
same communists who burned Paris
and murdered its priests and arch-
bishop under the name of liberty,
would like to sack Dublin under
the cry of " Down with the Saxon !"
National ideas are everywhere the
footballs of those radicals, by which
they lead the easily-swayed multi-
tude to follow them in their game
of plunder. But an Irish commu-
nist — that is, one born of a Catho-
lic Irish stock — is a creature of
abnormal growth. He will never
make much headway in Ireland.
The true course of modern Irish
politics points to the assertion of
that principle of federalism which
has been established as the basis of
government in Austro-Hungary, in
Canada and all the great free Brit-
ish Colonies, and in the United
States, and which, under the name of
" Home Rule," is now the matur-
ed policy of the trustworthy ex-
ponents of Irish public opinion*.
We would not be understood to
commit ourselves to any particular
political programme, but before
any of what may be termed sen-
timental considerations, it would
seem that the leaders of public
opinion in Ireland must direct their
energies to build up its material
prosperity, and this can be best ac-
complished by local self-govern-
ment. Unanimity in its pursuit is
therefore demanded even of those
who ultimately look beyond it. A
rich and prosperous community
will not long remain enslaved. It
is only the poor who are trampled
668
Danul aCafoull.
on, among nations as among indivi-
duals. It must be admitted, how-
ever, that nothing could well ap-
pear more hopeless than the present
position of the Home Rulers in the
English House of Commons. The
decisive triumph of the Conservative
reaction has put them out of the
calculations of both parties. But
this state of things is not likely to
exist in the next Parliament, nor
in the one after. Courage and. en-
durance, therefore — the virtues of
O'Connell — are the virtues that are
needed in this temporary Slough of
Despond. The contempt, so loud-
ly and persistently expressed as to
imply some apprehension, the frenzy
of opposition. Home Rule has evok-
ed in the House of Commons, we
do not count for more than it is
worth. It is not more bitter or
uncompromising than the same
feeling prior to Emancipation or
even Reform. The same threats of
eternal opposition were then com-
mon. It took sixty years of active
opposition to gain the former; the
same number at least and enormous
outside agitation to carry the latter.
The success of great national move-
ments is necessarily slow against
existing forces, and must often be
transmitted from generation to
generation. There is no need
therefore of discouragement at a
temporary check. Local self-gov-
ernment — the same that exists in
New York and Massachusetts, and
for the same objects — leaving
foreign and exclusively national
questions for the consideration of
an Imperial Parliament, as for Con-
gress — is a demand that commends
itself to the feeling of justice of all
mankind, a feeling which England
will eventually be unable to resist.
We are not of those who inculcate
an eternal policy of revenge. This
is easy for irresponsible demagogues
to preach, but blows are not girfT!
without being received. The rwii
ty, the dreadful experiences of t».
soon teach moderation where tj-
is felt. " Even were the two stit6
independent, peace with EngUrc
would be the true policy of Ireland
As for the Irish in Amcrio, i«
future lies before them briliJaaL
unclouded. It is bounded only by
their own ability to make ithoaw^
able and useful. Relying phourh
ly, like every other roan in the co*-
munity, upon his own indo5tiy,»^
briety, and energy, the IrishroaB n
the United States or Canada vm
attain to any position he is fitted
for. If in some instances he ba
to encounter native prejii&cei(
these will be best overcome bf
earnest effort on his own part
observe faithfully all the duties fli
citizenship. No one who does i
will ever fail to obtain the respai
and support of his ProtMW(
neighbors. Those who
eign grudges their first
tion must expect to be looked ^
on as strangers. Yet we
face what exists. So long as tk
stream of immigration contioiies i«
pour into this country, so loDg*^
there be a large body of our ceo-
tryraen, receiving continual accer
sions, whose dearest thoughts^
be directed towards Ireland, tfecf
bitterest towards England. Tbs
is inevitable. England reaps ii«
fruit of her past. She is »*
in the position of a jailer t^
would fain take off the handoA
from her prisoner, but daics wC
for fear of retrospective re«P|t
The misgovemraent of agescaaotf
be blotted out from the mcmorr^
the misgoverned in a day— nor »
a hundred years. It is a nati«^
Nemesis ; -and it will be wcH ft*
England if it do not overtake h«
in some dreadful fono. Tbis i<*
DaHul O'CoHtull.
669
g naturally finds its strongest
:pression in the United States,
rmpathy with the mother country
ill never fail. And God forbid
at it should do so. But let that
inpathy take a proper direction, an
licient form. Give the strength
your moral support — of your
irseSf if you will— to the men
bo are carrying on under a dif-
rent form the work of O'Con-.
ell in Ireland — who are now
ravely struggling for Home Rule.
ut turn a stern countenance on
lose adventurers and desperadoes
\\o have nothing wiser to advise
lan wild and criminal incursions
ito a friendly province, where
rishroen possess all the rights they
o here, or conspiracies and se-
ret societies in Ireland — projects
rhich make the honest patriotism
ikI tried courage of Irishmen a
arce for the laughter of mankind.
The Irish in America have many
raps Iwl for their nationality and
heir flkh ; but let them avoid
he snares of revolutionary, infidel
eaders for themselves, and of god-
ess schools for their children, and
he day will eventually dawn when
the weight of their support will
turn the scale in favor of their
country's rights against England.
This is the true way to follow the
example and honor the memory
of O'Connell
In spirit, the Great Liberator still
beckons the way to his countrymen.
The echo of that voice, sonorous,
but clear and sweet as a silver bell,
is heard no more on the hillsides
of Erin. The clover springs up
where the feet of thousands pressed
closer to listen to its magic spell.
But his memory is eternal as the
hills themselves.
** By constancy like his sustained,
Polhix, of yore, and Hercules,
The starry eminences gained. "*
Unwearied by labors, aniinuicd
by a single ptassion — the love of
country — men like him " becoming
the heroes and benefactors of the
human race, attain to the glory o{
immortality." The national his-
torian, in a future age, will date the
rehabilitation of Ireland from the
birth of O'Connell.
♦ Hac arte PoDuz et vagus Hercules
Euisus aices attigit igneas.— //ipr. Carm. iii ^
ULTRAISM.
To be ultra is to go beyond. It
is to attack the sceptre in the name
of the throne, and the mitre in the
name of the altar; it is to maltreat
the thing you support ; it is to kick
in the traces ; it is to cavil at the
slake for undercooking heretics ; it
i^ to reproach the idol with a lack
of idolatry; it is to insult by an ex-
t^ess of respect ; it is to find in the
Pope too little papistry, in the king
too little royalty, and too much light
in the night ; it is to be dissatisfied
with the albatross, with snow, with
the swan, and the lily, in tlie name
of whiteness ; it' is to be the parti-
san of things to the point of be-
coming their enemy ; it is to be so
very pro that you are con. — Victor
Hugo,
670
Maria hnmacolata of Bourbon,
MARIA IMMACOLATA OF BOURBON.*
We still see her, a gentle and
beautiful girl of fourteen, seated
beside her brother, the exiled King
of Naples, in a low carriage which
passes through the Villa Borghese,
in Rome. Her face is of the Bour-
bon mould. A fair, open forehead,
doubly suggestive of the water-lily,
because of its snowy whiteness and
the innocent frankness with which
it seems to turn towards heaven.
Bright hazel eyes, the limpid, lov-
ing depths of which are expressive
of the innocence and purity of the
soul, which gives them life and
light; while the lines of her chaste
mouth and finely- chiselled chin are
ever forming themselves into a sub-
dued smile of love, of peace, and
of quiet resignation. There is a
modesty, and withal an elegance
in her dress and carriage, which
strike the beholder at once. Her
eyes do not wander about, but
are fixed with trusting tenderness
on the face of her brother, or rest
affectionately upon the beautiful
greyhound which crouches at her
feet and looks up at her with an
earnestness almost human. It may
have been a mere fancy of ours,
founded on our knowledge of the
history of that lovely creature ; but
it always seemed to us that the
earnest loyk of the dog at its young
mistress was one of pity as well as
of affect ion— pity because she was
an exiled princess ; affection, be-
cause she was fair to behold and
* We are indebted for the princ^Ml pOTtion of
the events mentioned in thu sketch to the beautiful
narrative lately pvbUshed by the Rev. Giovanni
Spilhnann, S.J.
gentle in demeanor, and the life-
giving spirit of both qualities vast
pure and noble soul, which we have
since learned to regard with a vene-
ration not unlike that which we
bear towards a saint. We do not
purpose to write her biography, nor
even her memoirs. We will merdr
sketch briefly, and in the simplicttf
with which they were narrated to
us, some recollections of that short
life of nineteen years which wrought
a chastening and ennobling ioBo-
ence upon all whose happiness it
was to be near her.
Maria Immacolata Aloysia of
Bourbon was the youngest child boi
one of Ferdinand II., K.ingof Ni*
pies, and Maria Theresa of ^ntha,
his second wife, and was bo^fai the
castle of Caserta, on the 21st of Jan-
uary, 1855. Her father the k\^
died when she was quite young,
and was succeeded on the throoe
by Francis II., the first-bom of bis
marriage with the saintly Maria
Christina of Savoy. After the
death of Ferdinand, the Queen-
Mother, Maria Theresa, devoted
all her energies to the religious and
secular education of her four chil-
dren, the Princess Maria Pia;
Prince Don Pasquale, Count d
Bari; the subject of this sketch,
Princess Maria Immacolata, and
Prince Don Gennarino, Count of
Caltagirone. In doing this she was
actuated by a strong sense" of the
obligations of a Christian mother
towards her children, while she felt
that in discharging these obligations
with fidelity she paid a worthy
tribute to the memory of her dc*
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
671
eased consort. Maria Immaco-
ata, even in childhood, showed
icrself worthy of the sweet name
rhich was given her in baptism,
nd the name of Aloysia was
>eculiarly becoming to her; for as
>. Aloysius was called " the Angel
>f the Court of Mantua," so did her
;weet and angelic disposition win
or her the appellation of " Angel
>f the Court of Naples." Naples,
lowe ver, was not destined to pos-
sess its "angel" long. The sad
liistory of the treacherous expul-
iion of Francis II. by his own first
cousin, Victor Emanuel, is too well
known to need recital here. Enough
to say, that in 1861 the Bourbons
were forced to fly from the fortress
of Gaeta and seek refuge in Rome,
which was still the home of the
exile, the weary, and the world -
worn. As their father Ferdinand
had offered an asylum to Pius IX.
when the revolution of 1848 drove
him from Rome, so now the noble
heart %f the Pontiff sympathized
with the exiles, and he forthwith
ordered the Quirinal Palace to be
prepared for their reception. King
Francis soon after took up his
residence in the Farnese Palace,
and the Queen-Mother retired with
her four children to Palazzo Nipoti.
It is into this sanctuary of piety,
order, and industry that we would
introduce the reader, that he may
admire with us the domestic virtues
of that Christian mother Maria
Theresa. All is order, tranquillity,
and modesty. Each prince has his
own separate apartment and his
own instructors. The hours for
retiring to bed at night, rising in
the morning, for prayers, Mass,
study, meals, and recreation are
regularly established. Besides the
ordinary exercises of piety, there is
a religious instruction given once
a week, and a spiritual retreat once
a year, at which the queen herself
and every member of her household
assist. She is the ruling and guid-
ing spirit of all, and it was but
natural, under the influence of
such a perfect model, that the chil-
dren should soon give evidences of
those rare qualities of mind* and
soul which, in later years, became
the theme of general admiration.
Such was the domestic life of the
exiles. It was here that the charac-
ter of Maria Immacolata began to
develop itself with singular beauty.
Naturally pious, she loved God
tenderly. At the religious instruc-
tions she observed a gravity of
demeanor rarely met with in a
child^f her years, and on retiring
to her room, she used to note down
upon a slip of paper the principal
points in the discourse which she
had just heard. Her temperament
was a lively one, and no one enjoy-
ed the hours of recreation more
heartily than she did. Yet it was
apparent to all as she grew up that
she was struggling hard to obtain a
perfect mastery over herself, and
the success which attended her
efforts was especially manifest in
her affectionate obedience to the
queen, to her elder brothers and
sister. The sweetest little nook in
the Nipoti Palace was the room of
Maria Immacolata. It was so
small, so neat, so orderly, and the
little altar in one corner, surmount-
ed by a statuette of the Immaculate
Conception, and ornamented with
sweet-smelling flowers, told- more .
plainly than words coul4 who was
the occupant. During the month
of May her room became a little
Eden of flowers in honor of the
Virgin Mary. But other flowers
were offered up to Our Lady which
were far more acceptable to her
than the fairest flowers of earth.
On the altar stood a little vase of
6/2
Maria Imntacolata of Bourbon.
porphyry, containing a number
of slips of paper, upon which- was
written the name of some virtue,
some act of ch-arity to be perform-
ed, or little mortification to be
practised. Every morning, she
and her sister, Maria Pia, repaired
together to this urn, and, with joy
depicted in their countenances,
each drew out a slip of paper. Im-
macolata was always wont to say,
when she had* read her slip of
paper, " O mamma ! I need this
virtue so much." It has been said
that love is ingenious ; and if this
be true of that love which creatures,
following a God-given instinct,
bear one towards another, it must
find a proportionately more beauti-
ful application in the love which
a pure creature of the earth cher-
ishes for the Immaculate Queen of
Heaven. Maria Immacolata and
her sister were not content with
practising daily the virtues named
on each slip of paper, but on the
last day of the month they collect-
ed all the slips of paper together,
and, with the addition of some
lilies, they wove them into a chap-
let, with which they crowned the
statue of their Queen. The idea
had a doubly beautiful significance,
being suggestive at once of purity
of heart and the traditional love
of the Bourbons for the lily. The
young princess was scarcely eleven
years of age when she was told* to
her unutterable delight, that she
might prepare to receive her First
Communion. In this event of her
life our admiration is divided be-
tween the solicitous care of her
noble mother in preparing her
daughter for a worthy reception of
the Blessed Eucharist, and the 'holy
readiness and thorough spirit of
appreciation with which the child
performed all that was enjoined
upcn her. In order to remove
every possible occasion of distract-
tion during the spiritual retreii
of* eight days, which she made i*
the palace under the direction of
a Jesuit father, she sent all her toys
to a conservatory of little girls, and
on the day previous to her begins
ning the exercises, she was over-
heard to say to a parrot, of which
she was very fond, ** Bird, you and
I must part for awhile ; a great
Visitor is coming, and I must pit*
pare to receive him." She went so
far as to depy herself the cup of
chicken-broth which she was in
the habit of taking in the momiD|,
because of her delicate constitution.
During the retreat she prayed roost
fervently to S. Aloysius, to whom
she was tenderly devoted, besecc]^
ing him to obtain for her the grace
of overcoming the enemies of her
soul — the world, the passions, and
the demon. After her death, a dip
of paper was found in her pcifcr
book, upon which she had*Mled
down all that she intendedMHtfi^
our Lord for at her First Cominii-
nion. She seems to have been
strongly attached to hepgovcmess,
for she writes : " and I will pray for
Maria Laserre, that she may never
be separated from me ; and I will
also pray,** said the child, "for
Victor Emanuel, that God may en-
lighten him and pardon him all the
harm he has done to us.** The
first prayer received a graciouJ
hearing, and we find Maria Laserre
her constant and cheerful compan-
ion in all the trials and vicissitudes
to which that short and guileless
life was afterward subject. The
other prayer reveals a sensitive
soul, which was penetrated to its
depths with a full and saddeoing
consciousness of the tnonstroes
wrongs which her family had s^ff!:^
ed from their disloyal cousin, and
at the same time a generous, for-
Maria Imtnacolata of Bourbon.
673
>ving spirit, not unlike that which
prompted the touching prayer of
Christ upon the cross, "Father!
orgive them." Many a noble deed
5 recorded of the Bourbons when
hey were in power, when the Jieur^
k-Us was the emblem of a glorious
eality ; but there is a sublimity of
)athos in the forgiving prayer of
he delicate child of eleven, de-
ipoiled of every vestige of royalty
)ut her princely name, which is far
[>eyond our appreciation, and is
;)nly justly estimated by Him who
taught us to forgive the trespasses
af others if we would hope for the
forgiveness of our own. For all
the favors which she asked of S.
Aloysius she promised to give him
a clasp of diamonds, which she
liad received from the king her fa-
ther. Her anxiety, however,, was
great lest her. mother might not
consent to her parting with such a
piecious souvenir, as will appear
in the letters which she wrote to
the Hdkl during the retreat, and
which were found after her death
in a small silver purse which she
carried about with her. They are
written in elegant French. As they
»erc never intended for mortal
eyes, but were addressed in all in-
nocence and simplicity to. a saint in
heaven, we take them up with all
possible delicacy, and reverence
for the chaste heart of which they
were the candid outpouring. While
they bear testimony to her purity
of soul, they are also an evidence
of what religion was to her — not a
hard, galling yoke, which must be
borne from sheer necessity, nor a
heavy burden, to be carried only on
a Silhday or a holyday. No, there
was an every-day warmth in her re-
Hgion; it was something near at
hand, familiar, consoling, and re-
freshmg, and nowhere more per-
fectly embodied than in the short
VOL. XXI. — ^43
definition of the Redeemer : " My
yoke is sweet, and my burden light.*'
Here is one of her letters :
"O great saint! who never lost
your innocence, and who by your
sanctity brought so much glory and
honor upon your mother ; S. Aloy-
sius Gonzaga, patron of the young,
you who were possessed of a great
knowledge of the world and of-
human frailty, I recommend my-
self to you, that, by your interces-
sion with Jesus Christ our Lord,
you obtain for me the grace that
I too may make a good First Com-
munion. S. Aloysius Gonzaga I you
who knew so well how to make a
First Communion, oh! grant that
the First Communion may be for
me the beginning of a new life,
the rule and guide of all my ac-
tions ; and that I too may begin to
battle courageously with the world,
the demon, and my own passions.
Grant me this favor, O great
Saint! Meanwhile, I choose thee
for my protector, and I will recom-
mend myself to thee every day, in
every sorrowful trial, at every sug-
gestion of the enemy, and in every
instance of impatience; and when
temptation assails me, I will say a
Gloria Patri for thee.
* Maria Immacolata of
Bourbon (great sinner).
" Postscript. — Pray for me, O great
Saint! and obtain for me these
graces. Glory be to God the Fa-
ther ! O my S. Aloysius Gonzaga !
pray that mamma will permit me
without hesitation to carry as a gift
to your chapel that little clasp of
diamonds, and give me light to
know how to ask her well for the
favor, and how to reply, if she
makes any objection.
"The Great Sinnep."
Another letter is couched in
these terms :
"O S. Aloysius Gonzaga! you
674
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
see that I recommend myself to
you every day, as I promised you.
Now, obtain this grace for me, that
mamma may look at me with a
good face when I ask her for the
cope for Father N., of your own
society ; but especially when I ask
her for the first favor (permission
to bestow the diamonds upon S.
Aloysius), that she may say yes
without hesitating; and that she
may also allow me to give my pho-
tograph to Don Domenico (an old
domestic in the family). But let
mamma say yes without difficulty.
I ask you earnestly. Glory be to
the Father."
Here is another precious docu-
ment :
" O S. Aloysius ! my protector,
I again recommend myself to thee.
Give me light and obtain for me
the grace that I may make my
First Communion well. O happy
day ! O day that comes but once !
O thrice happy day ! Great Saint !
give me thy faith, give me the faith
of all the saints. Pray that I may
not be ashamed to confess my sins.
Meanwhile, I am thankful to thee
for the favor which thou hast grant-
ed me in the clasp of diamonds,
and for other favors, which I re-
ceived from thee on other occa-
sions. Pray for the. most humble
servant of God.
" M. I. OF B. (great sinner).
^^ Postscript, — I recommend my-
self to thee, my dear protector ; do
me this favor : ask God to pardon
me.
The " thrice happy day" came at
last, and on the 24th of December,
1865, she received Holy Communion
from the hands of Cardinal Riario
Sforza, in the same chapel in which
her "dear Protector," S. Aloysius,
pronounced his vows. This chap-
el is in the Roman College, where
•5. Aloysius lived and died. It was
beautifully ornamented for the oc-
casion, and, besides the king
queen, and queen-mother, with
their suites, a number of distin-
guished persons were present, axni
a score of little girls, dressed in
white, assisted at the Mass, bear-
ing lighted tapers in their hands.
Every eye rested on Maria I»-
macolata, whose recollection edi-
fied all present. The smile whicb
played around her mouth, and the
blush which mantled her cheeks,
were but faint indications of the
happiness in her soul. What pass-
ed in that abode of purity and io-
nocence is known only to herself
and Him whom she loved. Wc
can only narrate what wc sar.
Having obtained |>ermission, she
repaired with her governess, after
thanksgiving, to the room o( S.
Aloysius, and with a face all aglov
with joy, she placed a little casket
on the altar. It was the cla^ of
diamonds. On leaving the tocn
of the saint, she remarked^ her
companion that she was over-
whelmed with gratitude 'towaris
God. " I must make him a pna-
ent;" and before the day wasorer
she had bestowed every coin in her
purse upon his poor. Only one
piece of gold was reserved, and
that she sent on the following da?
to a conservatory, to clothe a littk
orphan girl of her own age, who
was preparing for her First Com-
munion. But of her boundless
charity we will have more to sar
anon.
The summer of 1867 found the
royal exiles at Albano, a charmiog
country resort on the Appian Wit,
about fifteen miles from Rbine.
They had not been there long
when the Asiatic cholera broke
out with a violence unprecedented
in the history of that terrible
plague. The victims daily were
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
67s
Tinmbered by hundreds. Not a
fa^rnily in the city was spared.
The first victim in the Bourbon
ramily was the young Prince Gen-
i\a.rino, a bright little boy of eight
years. At the first symptoms of
tKe malady he asked for his con-
rossor, and. confessed with such
oompunction of heart that the good
priest was moved to tears. He
l>egged earnestly that he might re-
ceive Holy Communion ; " for/'
said the little fellow, " I want to
die like a man." Though he was
so young, his request was granted.
liis First Communion was his
Viaticum, and " like a man " the
young Bourbon passed to another
life. But death had singled out a
more illustrious victim in the per-
son of Maria Theresa, the Queen-
Mother. Her whole life having
been one of preparation, her death
was that of the just. And here we
would willingly stop to admire the
character of that noble Christian
mother, and worthy descendant of
the great Maria Theresa of Austria ;
but we are restrained from doing
so by the reflection that we cannot
pay a more worthy or glowing tri-
bute to her memory, than by sketch-
ing the life and character of her
saintly daughter Maria Immaco-
lata. To a heart so sensitive, so
appreciative and affectionate, as was
that of Immacolata, the death of a
mother was a great blow, and it was
a long time before she could be
comforted. King Francis now
became the natural protector of the
orphans, and took them to his own
residence in the Farnese Palace, in
Rome. The habit of study had
already been formed in the children
by their saintly mother, and so
they applied themselves with renew-
ed vigor to the acquisition of
knowledge. Maria Immacolata was
gifted with talents of the highest
order. Besides speaking her own
language with captivating sweetness
she spoke French and German
fluently, and the facility with which
she could pass from one language
to another was surprising Draw-
ing was her passion, and her
sketches in oil and water colors
gave evidence of no inconsiderable
genius. Wherever she went, she
brought her drawing materials with
her, and amused herself by sketch-
ing landscapes, palaces, villas, and
the like. She was equally skilled
in portraits, and the last production
of her pencil, a beautiful picture of
the Immaculate Heart, has been
very much admired. Literature
was another source of pleasure to
her. Though she had a lofty ap-
preciation of the beauties of the
Italian language, and was passion-
ately fond of reading, she was never
known to indulge in light and pro-
miscuous literature. While apply-
ing herself to the cultivation of her
mind, she did not forget the more
modest accomplishments which be-
come her sex ; and there are several
beggars in Rome this day who will
show, with no small pride, the
coarse stockings which were knit-
ted for them by the tiny hands
of Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
But these and many other accom-
plishments were but as the gold
• which encircles a diamond of rare
value and purity. Her richest
treasure was her humility and
modesty. Her conversation, though
entertaining and lively, was modest ;
her deportment, though easy and
graceful, equally so. The sweets
ness of her disposition was especial-
ly noticeable in her treatment of
domestics
In the October of 1867 the Eter-
nal City was thrown into a state of
excitement and trepidation by the
news that Garibaldi, with his horde
6/6
. Maria hmnacolata of Bourbon.
of desperadoes, was on the march
for Rome. The little army of the
Pope prepared to make a gallant
defence, and a number of chival-
rous Roman youths of the best
families offered themselves to swell
the ranks of the Papal legions.
Francis II. and his two brothers
were among the first to rush to the
defence of the country— -the only
country which was now left them.
Their two orphan sisters, Maria Pia
and Maria Immacolata, were conse-
quently left alone in the Farnese Pa-
lace. They did not remain long un-
protected, for the Holy Father sent
for the two princesses, and had them
brought into the Vatican, where
the magnificent apartment of the
Countess Mathilde had been pre-
I^ared for them. Here they remain-
ed until after the battle of Mentana,
and the Papal troops returned ih
triumph to the city. While the
children were in the Vatican, they
assisted every morning at the Pope's
Mass, and received Holy Commun-
ion daily from his hands. Every
day, when he went to take his usu-
al walk through the galleries and
corridors of the palace, he sent for
the orphans, and by his sweet and
consoling conversation made them
forget the anxiety which tortured
them about their brothers. During
those days — the happiest of her life
— Maria Pia conceived a veneration
and love for the Holy Father which
she cherished ever afterwards, and
which, we may here remark, was
characteristic of her mother, Maria
Theresa. When the storm had
blown over, the orphans returned
to the Farnese Palace, and resumed
their usually quiet and retired life.
It did not last long. This time it
was not the Garibaldian hordes
that marched upon the city, but the
well-disciplined troops of a king
who called himself "the dutiful son
of Pius IX." To be brief, the yeai
1870 was one of woe to th<* Ro-
mans, but to none was it more sor-
rowful than to the poor persecuted
Bourbons. Once more they were
forced to fly, and in their flight the
noble family was obliged to divide
itself. Some of them fled into Ba-
varia, some to France, while Maria
Immacolata went with her sister,
now Duchess of Parma, into the
Tyrol, and afterwards to Cannes,
on the confines of France. She
was accompanied by her governess
Maria Laserre, her faithful friend
and comforter in every trial.
But the cold climate of the moun-
tains was too severe for Immacola-
ta. She was a frail, delicate flower,
and under the rough, inclement
blasts of a northern winter she be-
gan to wilt away. What with htr
weak health and her strong affec-
tion for the Holy Father, she begin
to pine for Rome, her country, as
she called it. All this passed wiA-
in her own bosom. For the rest,
she was patient, resigned, and more
forgiving than ever towards those
who were the cause of her exile,
first from the land of her birth, and
afterwards from Rome, to which
her heart clung most lovingly. A
soul so closely united to God as
was hers, soon found the wherewith-
al to comfort her, and it was with
a smile of heavenly joy in her coun-
tenance that she brightened up and
said to her maid, '* Ah ! well, there
is one consolation left me : the poor
I have always with me." From
her infancy she had been noted for
her charities. What little she pos-
sessed in childhood she gave to the
poor joyfully. When she grew up
and received a monthly allowance
from her mother for ordinary ex-
penses, she gave with such a liberal
hand that her allowance used to be
exhausted long before the end of
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
677
the month came. The Queen-Mo-
ther had become so accustomed to
the charitable prodigalities of her
daughter that she used to say when
she would hear a modest knock at
her door, about the 20th of each
month, " Here comes my little pro-
digal daughter; but, God bless her !
she has not wasted her substance."
When the Queen died, and Maria
Immacolata came into her inheri-
tance, her charity was more a pro-
fusion than a giving ; and it was re-
marked that no one knew anything
of her charities. The gospel di-
rected her to give in secret, and the
Holy Spirit assured her that the
" Father who seeth in secret " would
reward her. It was her chief de-
light, when she went out to take a
walk, to gather the young people
around her, and ask them the cate-
chism, and teach them how to pray;
and in order to stimulate them to
study the catechism thoroughly,
she would give them rosaries, med-
als, and pictures, which she had
sent to her at regular intervals from
Rome. Whenever she met any one
who was on the way to the Eternal
City, she could not restrain her tears,
as she thought of the happiness
which was denied to herself; and,
she would often remark, " It is so
cold' here, that not only the body,
but the soul too shivers for that
warmth which can only be felt near
the Vicar of Christ."
About this time she became ac-
quainted with Henry Bourbon,
Count of Bardi, son of Charles III.
of Parma, and nephew of the Count
ofChambord. Hersister, Maria Pia,
had already been married to Ro-
bert, Duke of Parma, and the nup-
tial blessing was pronounced by the
Holy Father, in the year 1869. As
her sister's marriage was one of
Christian love, not of political or
worldly interest, contracted under
the influence of religion, and not to
keep up the " equilibrium of rela-
tionship," as the saying is in Eu-
rope, so was the marriage of Im-
macolata with the Count of Bardi.
Among other motives in favor of
accepting his hand in marriage she
was wont to adduce rtiis one, that
the fact of his having been educat-
ed in the college of the Jesuits at
Feldkirch was an assurance to her
that her m arriage would be a happy
one. As she had prepared herself
for the reception of her First Com-
munion, so by recollection and
spiritual exercises did she dispose
herself for the Sacrament of Matri-
mony, and on the 27th of Novem-
ber, 1873, she became the Countess
of Bardi. The marriage was a
modest celebration throughout.
The domestics of the family and
the poor of the city were the only
merrymakers. As for the young
spouses, they were destined only to
drink the cup of tribulation. The
lily of Bourbon was fast drooping
the color was fading from her
cheeks, and the unnatural brilliancy
of her eyes told, more clearly than
words could, that Immacolata was
not destined to live much longer.
No one knew this better than her-
self. Still she was resolved to do
her duty, as if she had long years
before her. She^ began by studying
the character of her husband.
Prior to all,- however, she had mark-
ed out for herself a simple line of
conduct, which she couched in the
two words, "affectionate submis-
sion.*' In the heaven-given light
of this resolution, she loved him,
and by its influence and the dis-
charge of all those kind and en-
dearing offices which are the noble
prerogatives of the gentler sex, she
won his confidence, and strengtli-
ened his affection, as with a wall of
granite. Having acquired a thor-
6/8
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
ough knowledge of his character,
she anticipated every desire of his,
and executed his every wish with
such readiness that he was after-
wards known to say that he could
not decide whose wish she accom-
plished, his or her own. In this
way she obtained great influence
over him, but she only exercised it
in the 'things of God. Wherever
she knelt down to pray, there he
knelt at her side. When she was
gone to her rest, he was heard to
say of her, ** She took me by the
band, and led me to God."
On the day after their marriage
tae Toang spouses set out on a
journey to Egypt. The voyage
wds long and ill-suited to her deli-
cate constitution; but she went
ch<«nully, thinking not of herself,
bat only how she might please her
ct?asort. During the forty days
they were sailing up the Nile, she
liy prostrate with a malignant fever,
whicX together with the ravages
of consumption, reduced her almost
t^ i.ie iJist extremity. It was hoped
t*iat slie would rally during their
¥oyd^ in Upper Egypt, but in
vuiEL When they arrived there,
sl><: became weaker and weaker,
u:n:U iajiUy* the most they hoped
i:>z wjai that she might live until
tav^-r return to France. Setting
X.IU fr'.^:u Cain\ they arrived at
Mar^'-llcs in the March of 1874,
\kacix $;ie rallied at the sight of
Iicc >*>:ca Maria Pia, and her be-
'o^>M ^overness^ Maria Laserre,
% 10 ^lad come to meet her. In a
c%»as.LUa:ioa ^i her physicians, it
%a>i r^"^>^od to bring her to Cau-
t.iv.^ a little village in the Upper
INtcacv's and celebrated for its
su vvar bviths. Maria Immacolata
vk .vx vk lighted with the proposal, not
'wausc she hoped for any relief
i:oiu the waters of Cauterets, but
Uxauic in their journey thither
they would pass Lourdes, to whic^
she had long yearned to make i
pilgrimage.
Accordingly, they set out for
Cauterets, stopping at Lourdes od.
the way. The weary invalid's hear*
throbbed with joy as she knelt foi
the first time in the holy groinx
For two whole hours she remained,
absorbed in silent prayer, giving rw*
other sign of life than the long aoii
affectionate gaze which she fixed
upon the image of Our Ladr.
During their stay at Lourdes, she
visited the grotto twice every daT„
and at each visit she prayed long
and fervently. Twice she insisted
on being immersed in the walcr^
notwithstanding it was exceedingly
cold. On being asked what she'.
prayed for, she replied, *" That
God's will be done." The watersr
of Cauterets gave her no relieL
The disease had taken deep root io)
her system, and was rapidly advanc-i
ing to a fatal termination. Anciu--
nent physician was called from the
city of Pau, who gave it as his opinioa-
that it was useless to hope iat her
recovery. She might live for ifteci
days more, and possibly might lin-
ger on for a month. The young
count thought no longer of the
great loss he was about to suffer,
but only how he might mak*e the
remaining days of her short life js
quiet and devoid of pain as possi-
ble. It was resolved to bring her
to Pau, the principal city of the
Lower Pyrenees, where she wouki
receive better attendance, and,
above all, have the consolations of
her religion; As they carried her
on a species of litter from the houi
to the carnage, she said to her hus-
band, " Not long ago I could move
about with ease ; afterwards ther
carried me in an arm-chair; nov
it is a litter ; the next will be a bier.'*
Her sufferings on the road betveen
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
679
Lourdes and Pau were very great,
bat she bore them cheerfully, and
only prayed that they would let her
die in Pau. After their arrival in
that city, she rallied a little, and
her husband tried to raise her hopes
by saying that she would recover.
** Do not be deceived, dear Henry,**
she said; "before another month
]>asses away I shall be gone. Bring
me a confessor." One of the Jesuit
fathers came immediately, and her
first prayer was that they would
erect an altar in her room at which
Mass might be said on the follow-
ing day. Meanwhile, she prepared
to make a general confession of her
whole life, and begged every one in
the house to pray for her. Her
first care was to fulfil a number of
promises which she had made to
the Madonna, and calling her hus-
band to her bedside, she begged
of him to make them good. Her
jewels, wedding-dress, and crown
had already been promised to Our
Lady of Issoudun. After her
death, the Duke of Parma and the
Duchess, her sister, repaired to that
sanctuary and made the offering.
She had also vowed a silver heart
to Our Lady of Einsiedeln, and a
set of vestments to Our Lady of
Lourdes. She had begun to em-
broider the chasuble herself, but
was obliged from sheer weakness to
lay it aside. She begged her sister
to finish it, and carry it in her
name to the holy grotto. In addi-
tion to these, she had also vowed
to have two hundred Masses cele-
brated for the suffering souls in
purgatory. Opening her purse to
fulfil this promise, she found it
empty. Indeed, that was its normal
condition, and it was said of her
that a heavy purse never wore a
hole in her pocket. She asked her
husband, with child-like simplicity,
to give her six hundred francs,
and having received them, ordered
the sum to be distributed among
the churches in the city according
to her intention. On the following
day, the 20th of August, she con-
fessed and received Holy Commun-
ion with edifying fervor. Her only
desire now was to remain quiet,
that she might commune with God
and prepare for her final departure.
On the day mentioned, she was
visited by Margherita, the wife of
Don Carlos. But the dying prin-
cess turned her eyes lovingly on
the visitor and said, " Pardon me,
Margherita, but I must be alone
with God." The Princess Maria
Pia and her governess remained by
her bedside constantly, and prayed
aloud with her. When her confes-
sor entered the room she would
say to him, " Must I live many days
longer? Pray God not to tarry."
Then she would chide herself for a
want of resignation, and say, " As
thou wilt !"
It was no difficult task for one
whose heart was detached from the
things of this world to make a will,
and that of the Princess Immaco-
lata of Bourbon did not give her
much anxiety. Still, she observed
the legal formalities, and showed
such clearness and precision in her
dictation to the notary as sur-
prised all present. With the ex-
ception of that part of the will
which affects her natural heirs, the
rest is but one long series of dona-
tions for religious purposes — foreign
missions, religious houses, orphan-
ages, and the like. She was not
content with making a handsome
provision for each of her domes-
tics, but even made appropriations
for their relatives. The poor are
called in the will "my dearest
heirs," and to these she left the
sum of 20,000 francs in gold, the
distribution of which she entrusted
680
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
to her governess, Maria Laserre,
begging her especially not to for-
get the poor families she knew in
Rome, and elsewhere, during her
wanderings. In short, after dis-
posing of the enormous sum of
107,000 francs in gold, to be be-
stowed- in Christian charity, this
generous soul concludes her will
in these terms : ** I intend, more-
over, that what remains, over and
above, of my capital be all expend-
ed in purchasing sacred vessels
and vestments for poor churches."
This last provision has already
passed into effect, to our person-
al knowledge. Among the many
charitable institutions which Rome
possesses there is one whose mem-
bers devote themselves especially
to making vestments and procur-
ing sacred vessels for poor church-
es. We know of one, composed
of some eminent French ladies,
who make it their duty to provide
for the poor churches of Italy;
only a short time ago, they exhibit-
ed a splendid assortment of vest-
ments and church furniture, mostly
all purchased on the strength of
the donation of Maria Immacolata
of Bourbon.
And now, having removed every
earthly care from her mind, Maria
Immacolata disposed herself to re-
ceive the Sacrament of Extreme
Unction. She begged her confes-
sor to read aloud from some as-
cetic work, that her soul might
be drawn more closely to God.
When he had read for awhile, she
said, " Now I am ready," and in
the presence of her brother the
Count of Bari, her sister the Duch-
ess of Parma, the Princess Mar-
gherita, wife of Don Carlos, and
her beloved governess, she received
the last sacrament. It was then
that her confessor informed her
that the following day, August
23d, was the Feast of the Im-
maculate Heart of Mary, whereat
she besought all present to pray
that she might obtain the singnlar
favor from God of dying on that
day and of receiving the Holy
Eucharist once more ; and with the
holy simplicity and fervor of her
childhood, she recited aloud the
following prayer : " Most Holy
Virgin, I resign myself to suffer
still more for your honor, and the
glory of your divine Son. O my
Mother! you who have permitted
your daughter to bear your own
sweet name of Immacolata, obtainfor
me the grace to receive once more
the most Sacred Body of your di-
vine Son, and to die on the Feast
of your Immaculate Heart." Both
favors were granted. On *the fol-
lowing day. Mass was celebrated in
her room, and she received her
Lord for the last time. Her hus-
band also, her brother Count of
Bari, the Duke and Duchess of
Parma, the Princess Marghcrita,
and all her maids and domestics^
communicated. It was a touch-
ing scene that transpired after
Mass, when the whole house-
hold gathered around the bed of
the dying princess, and asked her
blessing. A smile of angelic^ de-
light mantled her face, and, as she
said herself, her soul seemed to be
inundated with consolation. She
no longer felt the oppression and
pain which had tortured her an
hour previous. Her sister Maria
Pia, desirous of having a precious
remembrance in after-life, held her
own photograph to her lips, tha:
she might imprint a kiss upon it.
When she had kissed it, she asked
for a pen, and wrote upon the card*
in a trembling hand, " Living ot
dead, I shall always be near thee.
Thy own Maria Immacolata" ; and
on the photograph which her got-
Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.
68i
em ess presented to her, she wrote,
" In heaven and on earth I shall
never have but one heart with you.
Vour little Mistress."
Calling every one of her domes-
tics to the bedside, she gave each a
souvenir of herself, accompanied
with a few words of wise counsel.
Turning then to the princes her
brothers, her sister, and her brother-
in-law, she besought them to live to-
gether in harmony, and to love one
another for her sake. She then ask-
ed for her jeiVels, and choosing a
ring, she put it on the finger of
Margherita of Spain ; another pre-
cious ring she put on the finger of
her sister, and a third upon that of
her governess. While doing this, she
asked them to pray that she might
be pardoned for the vanity of wear-
ing those ornaments. She asked
pardon three successive times of
her maid, Maria Grazia, for all the
annoyance she had ever given her,
and taking another ring from her
own finger, she held it out saying,
** This is for your sister Francesca
in Naples, of whom I ask pardon
from afar." But the Duchess of
Parma had still one favor to ask — a
blessing for her four little children
in the Castle of Wartegg, in Swit^ser-
land The dying sister answered,
" Yes, I will pray for them in hea-
ven," and pronouncing the name
of each she kissed the Crucifix and
blessed them. The apostolic Bene-
diction of His Holiness had al-
ready been sent to her, and now a
second arrived, and with it the
plenary indulgence in the hour of
death. This was followed by a de-
spatch from the Comte de Chambord
which said,. "We are in great af-
fliction, and are praying." While
all this was passing, her eyes rested'
upon the form of her husband, who
knelt by her side. But recollecting
herself, she said, " My Madonna
for Mademoiselle " — meaning her
governess. " Now," said she, " I
have naught to give away but my
soul, and that I give to God."
Turning to her young husband,
she said, "Henry! O my Henry!
I leave thee, to go where I am
called by that God who made
us companions for a few short
months on earth; but I leave
thee, in good hands"; and hold-
ing in her right hand the crucifix
and her rosary, and inclining her
head towards a statue of the
Blessed Virgin, as if saluting her,
and recommending to her care
him who knelt there in sorrow, she
died.
682
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
NOTRE DAME DE LOURDES.
* THOU WBL or MBXCY, SINFUL 80ULBS CUXB.''— CHAUCKB.
Lourdes, apart from any reli-
gious interest, is well worth a visit,
for it is an old historic place. *' Bi-
gerronum arx antiqua fuit Luparda,
quae nunc Lourda est," says Julius
Scaliger. It is associated with the
Romans, the Moors, the paladins
of Charlemagne, and the flower of
French and English chivalry, and
is celebrated by Gregory of Tours,
Froissart, Monstrelet, and all the
ancient chroniclers of the land.
Situated at the entrance of the sev-
en valleys of the Lavedan on the
one side, and the rich sunny plains
of B^arn on the other, under a sky
as soft and bright as that of Italy,
it is as attractive to the eye of the
tourist as to the soul of the aschas-
ologist and the pilgrim.
We arrived at Lourdes in less
than an hour after leaving Tarbes.
The station is some distance from
town, and at least a mile from the
world-famous grotto ; but there
are always hacks and omnibuses
eager to take the visitor to one of
the numerous hotels. The depot
is encumbered with luggage and
crowded with pilgrims going and
coming, and on the side tracks are
long trains of empty cars that tell
of the importance of the station —
an importance solely due to the im-
mense number of pilgrims, who
sometimes amount to five hundred
thousand a year.
On leaving the station, one natu-
rally looks around to discover the
renowned sanctuary of Notre Dame
de Lourdes, but not a glimpse of it
is to be seen. Nothing meets the
eye but a gray picturesque town
shut in by the outlying Pyrenees.
Nothing could be lovelier than the
fresh green valley in which it stands,
framed by hills whose sides arc
blackened with debris from the im-
mense quarries of slate. It is onl?
a pleasant walk to the town in good
weather, which gives one an oppor-
tunity of taking in the features of
the charming landscape. Flowers
bloom in the hedge-rows, elnas and
ash-trees dot the grassy meadows,
the hillsides beneath the quarries
are luxuriant with vineyards and
fields of waving grain. The way \s
lively with hurrying pilgrims, tU
intent on their own business and
regardless of you ; some saying
their rosaries, others in a band sing-
ing some pious hymn, and many
solitary ones absorbed in their o«m
reflections.
We soon reach the town. The
houses are of stone with slated
roofs. Nearly every one is a hptcl
or a lodging-house, or a shop for
the sale of religious objects. The
/windows are full of rosaries^ medal-
lions inscribed with the words of
the Virgin to Bernadette, miniature
grottos, photographs — in short,
everything that can recall the
wonderful history of the grotto
of Massabielle. The very silk
kerchiefs in the windows, such as
the peasants wear on their heads,
are stamped with the Virgin in her
niche. The old part of the town
has narrow streets, without any
sidewalks, paved with cobble-stonci
quite in harmony with the penitep*
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
683
tial spirit of a true pilgrim. They
are mere lanes, fearful in muddy
weather when crowded with people
in danger at every step from the
carriages.
The Hotel de la Grotte is the
nearest to the' church of Notre
Dame de Lourdes, and very pleas-
antly situated at a convenient walk-
ing distance from it. At one of
oar visits to the place, we stopped
at the Hotel des Pyr^n^es in the
heart of the town, where we were
made very comfortable; but the
second time, it was in the height
of the season, and there was not a
room to be had in any of the hotels,
and had we not providentially
stumbled on a friend with a vacant
room at his command, we might
have been forced to spend the
night in the church — no great pen-
ance, to be sure, in so heavenly a
place, where Masses begin at mid-
night and do not cease till after-
noon. The only safe way is to se-
cure rooms beforehand, especially
when the place is most frequented.
Lourdes is a small town of about
five thousand inhabitants, mostly
workers in marble, slate, etc., that
is, those who do not keep a hotel,
or a ca/iy or a shop of some kind ;
for the good people seem quite
ready to avail themselves of every
opportunity of benefiting by the
piety that brings so many strangers
among them. They are shrewd,
quick-witted, upright, and kind-
hearted ; attached to their ancient
traditions, and firm in their faith
as their rock-built houses. They
have always been characterized by
their devotion to the Blessed Vir-
gin. Five of the chapels in the
parish church are dedicated to her
honor. The confraternities of the
Scapular and the Rosary are flour-
ishing, and the congregation of the
Enfants de Marie is one of the
oldest in the country. The dark-
eyed women of Lourdes have a
Spanish look, and are quite pictu-
resque in their scarlet capulets or
black capuchins, but the men* have
mostly laid aside the Bigorrais
cloak, once so sought after that
they were exported from the coun-
try, and nientioned by learned men.
Pope Gregory I., in a letter to Eu-
logius, Bishop of Alexandria, thus
alludes to them : " Sex minora
Aquitanica pallia." S. Paulinus
of Nola, in a letter to Ausonius,
says : " Dignaque pelUtis habitas de-
serta Bigerris." "Bigerricam ves-
tem, brevem atque hispidam," says
Sulpicius Severus. And the poet
Fortunatus, in his life of S. Martin,
says : " Induitur sanctus hirsuta
Bigerrica palla."
These Marloites^ as Scaliger calls
them, are now mostly confined to
the mountaineers who cling to the
old ways. The people of the val-
ley, however, have not laid aside
all their old prejudices with their
cloaks. The natives of Lourdes
are said to hold in proud disdain
those who have had the disadvan-
tage of being born elsewhere, in
proof of which it is related that a
prisoner of state, named Souli^
once confined in the castle for some
offence, at last died from the effects
of his captivity. His fellow-pris-
oners, desirous of showing him sui-
table honor, as well as giving pro-
per expression to their own regret,
paid the bell-ringer to toll a bell
of the second class. It appears
there were four bells in use for
funerals; the first for the clergy;
the second, for the grandees of the
place ; the third, for the common
citizen, and the fourth for the
poor. The inhabitants were so
enraged that such an honor as a
bell of the second class should be
rung for a stranger, that they con-
684
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
denined the guilty sexton to prison.
During his long confinement, he
was frequently heard exclaiming
with a groan : " Ah ! detestable
Soulie I Had it only been a savate*
I shotld not be here !"
This is a mere reminiscence of
their ancient glory. It is always
difficult to bring one's self to the
level of fallen fortunes. The title
of stranger is still said to be an
original stain that nothing can ever
efface. Small and unpretending as
Lourdes may now seem, it has its
grand old memories. Its origin is
lost in the obscurity of remote
ages, but where history is at fault,
fable generally comes to the rescue.
The glory of founding Lourdes
IS attributed to an Ethiopian prin-
cess. Tarbis, queen of Ethiopia,
captivated by the valor and per-
sonal attractions of Moses, offer-
ed him her throne and hand.
Wounded and mortified at his re-
fusal, she abandoned her country
to hide her disappointment in the
obscurity of the Pyrenean valleys.
She founded the city of Tarbes,
and her sister Lorda that of
Lourdes.
In the Middle Ages the Counts
of Bigorre were the Seigneurs of
Lourdes, and, like S. Louis under
the oak of Vincennes, they seated
themselves with patriarchal sim-
plicity on a stone bench under an
elm before the church to receive
the homage of their vassals. Notre
Dame de Bigorre! was then the
battle-cry of the people. Then, as
now, Mary was the Sovereign Lady
of the valley. To her its lords ac-
knowledged themselves vassals and
paid tribute, and the arms of the
town commemorate her miraculous
intervention to deliver it from ' the
hands of the Moors. But as this
*The words souiitraa^ saoaU mean *hoi^ wA
legend is connected with the historr
of the castle, we will give a brief
sketch of that once strong hold.
The tourist, on his way to Pau.
Cauter^ts, St. Sauveur, or Bagn^rcs,
as he traverses the plateau which
overlooks the fertile vallej" of the
Gave, sees an ancient fortress 02
the top of an inaccessible clifi^ that
rises straight up from the banks of
the river. This is the old citadel
of Lourdes, the key of the Seven
Valleys, the stronghold of the
Counts of Bigorre in the Middk
Ages. The eye of the traveller
cannot fail to be struck by the
antiquity of its gray battlenncnts,
crenellated towers, and picturesque
situation, and he at once feels it
has a marvellous history.
The castle of Lourdes is more
than two thousand years old.
Here the ancient inhabitants long
held out against the attacks of xht
Romans ; and here, when they were
forced to yield, their conquerors
built the fortifications whose in-
destructible foundation ages hare
passed over without leaving any
trace. Several centuries later, the
castle of Mirambel, as it was
then called, was held by the Moon,
and their leader, Mirat, defend-
ed it for a time against the
hosts of- Charlemagne, and at
length, too haughty to yield to
any earthly power, he surrendered
to the Queen of Heaven, who
wrought such a miracle of grace
on the proud painim's heart that
he and all his followers went with
garlands of hay on their lances to
swear fealty to Notre Dame de
Puy, and resign all right to Miram-
bel. Mirat was baptized by the
name of Lonis- He received the
honors of knighthood, and gave
the name of Lordum to the castle
he now held in the name of the
Virgin.
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
685
AVe are indebted to an English
lonky named Marfin, for this le-
end, and though rejected by many,
; Mras doubtless founded on the
opular traditions of the country,
•hich alone account for the arms
f the town and the annual tribute
i^e Counts of Bigorre paid to No-
re Dame de Puy as long as they
eld possession of the castle.*
lUf ric castel de Lorda having
►een taken possession of by the
Vlbigenses in the Xllth century,
he celebrated Simon de Montfort
)esieged it, but in vain. The
astle remained in their hands till
^e end of the war.
No one of English origin can
ook at the hoary walls of this an-
::ent fortress without the greatest
nterest, for it is associated with
the memory of the Black Prince,
md the time was when the banner
of England floated from its tow-
ers and defied the efforts of the
bravest knights of France to tear it
from its hold.
Lourdes, as well as the whole
province of Bigorre (which lay
between B^arn and Foix), fell into
the hands of the English by the
treaty of Bretagne, and constituted
a part of the Duchy of Aquitaine,
which Edward III. conferred on
his son, the Black Prince, who
left England to take possession of
his domains in 1363. He made
Bordeaux his capital, and there, in
ilie church of S. Andr^, Jehan
* The Mm of Lourdet oonsbt of three golden
lowcn, the central one bearing an eagle with a sil-
ver tnmt in itt mouth, referring to the legend of
the fish brought by an eagle during the siege
and dropped on the highest point of the castle, still
knoHTi as the Pierre de tAigle. Mirat hastened
to (end It CO Charlemagne as a proof his vivter still
furnUhed good fish.
Bernard, Count of Bigorre, with his wife Cl^-
''oce, went on a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Puy
n the year io6a, and there consecrated himself and
^ province to the Virgin, in presence of the chap-
ter and many lords, among whom was Amaud GuiU
lume de Barbaxan. Moreover, he agreed to pay
ber a tribute of sixty sob (umually.
Caubot, consul of Lourdes, and
the representatives of Tarbes and
other towns, presented themselves
at high noon before the most noble
and puissant Lord Edward, Prince
of Wales and Duke of Aquitaine,
and, in the presence of many lords,
knights, and citizens, swore fealty
to the English prince, beseeching
him to confirm the rights and fran-
chises which they had hitherto en-
joyed, which he solemnly promised.
The Count of Armagnac (John
I.) gave so captivating a descrip-
tion of the beauty of Bigorre that
the Black Prince was induced to
visit his mountain province. He
remained for some time at Tarbes,
and while there explored the
neighboring valleys, strengthened
old fortresses and built several new
ones. He was particularly struck
with the castle of Lourdes, and the
advantage of holding such a posi-
tion. " It is the key of many coun-
tries," said he, "by which I can
find my way into Aragon, Catalo-
nia, and Barcelona." He strength-
ened its fortifications, and entrust-
ed the command to Pierre Amaud
of B^arn, a cousin of Gaston Phce-
bus of Foix, saying : " Master Ar-
naud, I constitute and appoint you
captain of Lourdes, and warden of
Bigorre. See that you hold them,
and render a good account of your
trust to me and my father."
Amaud swore fealty to the Prince,
who soon after broke up his court
at Tarbes and returned to Bor-
deaux. He could not have left a
better commander at Lourdes. Ar-
naud was one of those men who
would rather face death a thousand
times than be untrue to their word.
He held the castle long after all the
rest of Bigorre had been wrested
from the English, and the exploits
of the brave knights that took re-
fuge here made it the terror of the
686
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
surrounding country. Froissart's
account of their adventures is
more like that of highwaymen than
of chivalrous knights. They were
continually coming down from their
eyry at the head of a band, to
scour the country and plunder all .
they could lay their hands upon.
Sometimes they extended their rav-
ages to Toulouse, Alby, and Car-
cassone, taking castles, robbing
merchants and attacking kniglits,
and then rushing back to Lourdes
with their booty — cattle, provisions,
prisoners they could ransom, etc.
They only respected the rights of
Gaston Phoebus, their captain's
kinsman.
It is related of Mongat that on
one occasion he put on the habit
of a monk, and with three of his
men similarly attired, he took his
way with devout air and mien to
Montpellier, where he alighted at
the Angel and gave out he was a
lord abbot from Upper Gascony
on his way to Paris on business.
Here he made the acquaintance of
the Sire Berenger, who was like-
wise going to Paris on some affair
of importance, and was delighted
to be thrown into such holy com-
pany. The pretended abbot led
him by devious ways to Lourdes,
where he ransomed him for a large
sum.
In one of his adventures, Mongat
came to his end. He had been to
Toulouse with two other knights
and one hundred and twenty lances,
and on their way back with cattle,
hogs, sheep, and prisoners, they
were attacked by two hundred
knights, with the brave Ernauton
Bissette at their head, in a forest
belonging to the Sire de Barbazan.,
The fury with which they fought
was only equalled by their knightly
courtesy. When exhausted, they
took off their helmets, refreshed
themselves at a stream, and tki
resumed the contest. Mongat a4
Ernauton fought hand tohandlle-
whole day, and at length, uiteilj
exhausted, they both fell dcid at
the field. Hostilities then txxA
Each party bore away its dead,iai
a cross was raised on the ^
where they fell.
Of course the whole coiaftf
around was eager to dislodge fc
English from their fortress. Til
Duke of Anjou, with the celcbolal
Du Guesclin, attacked it at 4r
head of fifteen thousand of thctui
soldiers of France. All the ote
castles of Bigorre had been tataH
Tarbes had been readily given l|
by the captain who had swortil
defend it. Mauvezin had gaHai%
held out for a time, and then
orably surrendered. Lourdes
bade defiance to the enemy,
town, built on a slope at ti»
of the castle, resisted the
army a fortnight. The inbal
finally took refuge in the casd^i
the French took possession
empty houses, with great
For six weeks they laid siege t»
castle, but in vain. The dufce
sought to obtain it by bribing
naud with vast sums of nione^8l|
the incorruptible captain
" The fortress is not miBC. fti
the property of the King of
land, and I cannot sell, alientt^J
give it up, without proving m]
a traitor, which I will not I
remain loyal to ray liege lord
whose hand I swore by my
when he appointed mcgoveniflr'
this castle, to defend it again*
men, and to yield it to no one
he had not authorized to d<
it, and Pierre Arnaud will
his trust till he dies."
Discouraged and mortified*
duke raised the siege and set
to the four quarters of the to*
Noire Dame de Lourdes.
6S7
rhich was wholly consumed, with
all the titles of the ancient /ors and
rights. He now determined to ob-
tain the castle by some other means,
and despatched a messenger to
Gaston Phoebus to convince him it
was for his interest to use his influ-
ence in driving the English from
Lourdes. The count promised to
do so and invited Arnaud to Or-
thez. Somewhat suspicious of his
intentions, Arnaud, before leaving
Lourdes, appointed his brother
John commander of the fortress,
making him swear by hifi faith and
honor as a knight to guard it as
faithfully as he had done himself,
and never to yield it to any one
but him who had entrusted it to
their care.
John solemnly swore as he was
desired, and his brother proceeded
to Orthez, where he was graciously
received by the Count of Foix. It
was not till the third day he was
summoned to give up the castle.
Arnaud at once comprehended the
danger of his situation, but un-
dauntedly replied : " My lord, I
doubtless owe you duty and regard,
for I am a poor knight of your land
and race, but the castle of Lourdes
I cannot surrender. You have sent
for me and can do with me what-
ever you please, but what I hold
from the King of England, I will
surrender to no one but him."
** Ha, traitor ! " cried the count
in a rage, drawing his dagger,
"do you tell me you will not do
it ? By my head, you shall pay for
such a speech"; and he stabbed
him to the heart.
Arnaud cried : " Ah ! my lord,
you act not as beseemeth gentle
knight. You invited me here and
it is thus you put me to death."
This base act did no good. John
was as faithful to his trust as his
brother Arnaud. His appointment
was confirmed by the King of Eng-
land,* and the English flag was not
taken down till the year 1425, when
the citadel of Lourdes surrendered
to John of Foix, the companion in
arms of Dunois the brave, and the
illustrious Barbazan, first to be
styled Sans peur et sans reproche.
Then the war-cry, " S. George for
Lourdes ! " was heard for the last
time in the land, and the red flag
of England taken down for ever.
Lourdes was attacked by the
Huguenots in 1573. The town
was taken by assault, pillaged, and
partly burned, but they made no
impression on the castle. A cry
of alarm, however, resounded all
through the Seven Valleys. The
mountaineers of Lavedan knew thd
importance of the castle, which,
once taken, would expose them to
an invasion it would be impossible
to resist, and they seized their arms
and gathered under the banners of
the lords of Vieuzac and Arras to
defend the entrance to their valleys.
The Huguenots, astonished at their
determined resistance, were obliged
to retreat to B^arn.
The union of Bigorre with the
crown of France by Henry IV. was
favorable to the prosperity and
happiness of Lourdes, but fatal to
the military importance of the cas-
tle. After being for ages the chief
defence of the land, it now became
the most unimportant fortress in
the country.
'In the XVnith century it was
made the Bastile of the Pyrenees —
a prison " created by despotism on
the frontiers of liberty " — and was
called the Royal Prison of Lourdes.
Here, as the Comte de Marcelliis
says:
* In the archives of the Tower of London wc read :
" No. 9 dc concedendo Joanni de Beam armtgero,
outodiam castri de Lourdes et patria de Bigorre,
nee non ofBcium senescalciw de Higorre, teste Regc,
Westminster, 90 Januarii, 1383.*'
688
Notre Dame de Lourdcs.
''Dans d^effiroyables cachots,
Entour^ d'^paisses t^n^bres,
Plus d'un captif, couchd sous des ToQlei fon^brei,
Attendriasait leurs lugubres ^choa
Par ses g^missements, ses pleurs et aes sanglota.
Sous ses sombres donjons, Toeil, d'ablme en ablme,
Voit le Gave rouler et bondir furieux ;
Et les monts htfriss^qui portent jusqu* aux denz
Ds leurs rocs d^ham^ rinaccessible dme,
Redoublent la tristeaae et rhorreur de ces Ueux.**
P^re Lacombe, the spiritual di-
rector, or rather disciple, of the
famous Mme. Guyon, was confined
in the castle of Lourdes in 1687.
The see of Tarbes was vacant at
the tim^, but when a bishop was
appointed, in 1695, he obtained the
deliverance of the poor prisoner,
who did not, however, enjoy his lib-
erty long. His mind became so
affected that he was again confined
at Charenton, where he died.
In the time of Napoleon I., Lord
Elgin, the famous spoliator of the
Parthenon, on his way back from
Constantinople, came for the recov-
ery of his health to the springs of
Barreges, where he was arrested by
the government and brought to the
castle of Lourdes. He character-
istically profited by his confinement
here to strip the fprtress of all the
antiquities he could secure, and
carry them off to his residence in
Fifeshire.
The castle ceased to be a prison
at the restoration of the monarchy.
It is now a military post, and ac-
cessible to the tourist, who enters a
postern gate at the east, and as-
cends the cliff by a winding stone
staircase, at the top of which he
comes out on a court With a clump
of trees and a few flowers, guard-
ed by a sentinel ferocious-looking
enough to strike terror into the
heart of the fearless Barbazan him-
self, but whom we found to be the
mildest of warriors, and the most ac-
commodating of guides around the
old chdfeaU'fort. Unless you look-
ed at him, you would never have
supposed him brought up od the
marrow of lions !
From the battlements there is 1
magnificent view of the valley of
the Gave. Never was fairer picture
framed among majestic mountains.
The river flows directly beneath,
through a meadow of wondeifiil
freshness. On the right bank stands
the spacious monasteries of Mt.
Carmel and S. Benedict, not yrt
completed, and the other side, di-
rectly in front of the castle, rises
the new fortress of Our Lady of
Lourdes — stronghold of the faith
— ^where the whole world comes, like
the ancient Barons of Bigorre, to
pay tribute to Mary. It is high
time to turn our steps thither.
Leaving the town of Lourdes by
a narrow street to the west, we
come out into the open valley in
full view of the Gave — ^a clear, broad
stream, fed by mountain torrents,
which rushes impetuously over a
rocky bed towards the Adour and
the ocean. It comes from tbe
south, but here turns abruptly awaj
from the cliff— that rises straight
up from its banks to the height of
three hundred feet, crowned with
its old historic castle — and flows to
the west. In this sharp bend of
the river is the cliff of MassabicUet
from the side of which rises before
us into the clear blue heavens a tall
spire with a golden cross. It is the
celebrated church of Notre Dame
de Lourdes, a pure white edifice
worthy of the spotless Virgin whose
immaculate purity it commemorates
— the object of so many vows, the
spot to which 50 many hearts are
turned, and so many feet are wend-
ing, from every part of the Chris-
tian world.
The road between the town and
church is bordered by small booths
for the sale of rosaries, medals, and
every conceivable object of dero-
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
689
tioD, including pilgrims* staves and
scallop shells, and stacks of tall
candles to burn before Our Lady
of Lourdes. There are over two
hundred of these little shops, alto-
gether too many for the place,
though there is a pretty brisk trade
during the season of pilgrimages.
At every step you are called upon
to buy, just as at Loretto, the owner
advertising his wares with the volu-
bility and something of the style
of the London apprentices in the
time of Lord Nigel. Crossing the
bridge, we stop to look down into
the clear, green, turbulent waters of
the Gave. The mountaineers say
reproachfully to their troublesome
wives : " Maridat lou Gab^, que
stare " — Marry the Gave, and it will
remain quiet. However refractory
this virgin stream may be, the valley
is peaceful enough to bring the
heart and soul into harmony with
the place we are approaching. All
along the wayside are the blind
and the lame in' every stage of hor-
rible infirmity, appealing to the
charity of the passers-by in the
name of the Sainte Vierge of
Lourdes, which no one can resist
in the very sight of her altar, and
wc stop every now and then to
buy, in this way, " a pennyworth
of paradise," like the prudent M.
Geborand, of w/V<frable memory.
We pick our way along through
the crowds of pilgrims, going and
coming with arms full of tapers and
great wooden rosaries, and a bleed-
ing heart upon their breasts, like a
decoration. We are thrust aside
by a procession hurrying off to the
station, joyously singing some song
of praise, and we turn for a mo-
ment into a soft green meadow on
the banks of the river, with plea-
sant winding paths among umbra-
geous trees, leading to an immense
ring with rustic roof and open
VOL. XXI.— 44
sides, provided with seats and ta-
bles of beautiful Pyrenean marble —
where pilgrims can rest and take
their lunch — the gift of M. Henri
Lasserre, the author of " Our Lady
of Lourdes," so admirably translat-
ed for The Catholic World. At
one end of the meadow is a pretty
chdlet given the Bishop of Tarbes by
some pious individual for his resi-
dence when he comes to Lourdes.
Turning into the road again, we
come to a fork — one path leading
up over the cliff to the church, and
the other along the shore of the
river beneath. Taking the latter,
we frnd a chain stretched across
the way, beyond which no vender
of holy wares can go, or carriage
pass. We keep on beneath the
cliff of Massabielle, crowned with
its fair white church far above our
heads. The few rods that separate
it from the Gave is crowded with
people. We hurry on. A slight
turn brings us suddenly before the
Grotto of the Apparition, towards
which every eye is turned. . . .
" O Light Divine !
Thy Presence and thy power were here.'*
No words can express the emo-
tions of the heart at the very sight
of this place of benediction. You
at once feel it has some mysterioiis^^
connection, with the unseen world.
A thousand memories of its his-
tory, its eighteen apparitions, its-
countless miracles, come over you..
You forget the crowd around you.
Like the rest, you kneel on the pave-
ment to adore and pray. . . .
The grotto has wisely been left
to nature. It stands open, facing
the Gave, tapestried with ivy, and
rosebushes, and pretty ferns that
grow in the clefts of the rocks.
The birds that build their nests
among the vines undisturbed are
flying to and fro, their song^ filling.
69c
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
the air above the hushed crowd.
On one side of the grotto in a
small niche — the very place where
Bernadette beheld the Marvellous
Vision — is a statue of the Virgin of
pure white Carrara marble, stand-
ing with folded hands, palm to
palm, and uplifted eyes. A blue
girdle is tied around the waist, a
crystal rosary hangs from her arm,
and Je suis L'iMMACULtE Concep-
tion, in silver letters, form a glory
around her head.
The grotto is all aflame with an
immense pyramidal stand of ta-
pers. Enormous wax candles, seve-
ral inches in circumference", bum
on the pavement among pots of
lilies. The sides of the cave are
hung with innumerable crutches,
•canes, shoes, models of hands and
arms, etc., etc., in pious commemo-
ration of the wonderful cures
wrought here. The pavement is
strewn with bouquets of beautiful
flowers and more practical offer-
ings in the form of money, volun-
tarily thrown in to aid in the con-
struction of the church. Letters
peep out of the clefts of the rocks,
each with its tale of suffering, its
prayer for aid.
Of course every pilgrim wishes
to enter the grotto, examine it,
touch it with his hands, and kiss it
with profound respect. He wishes
to pluck a branch from the vine
around the niche of the Virgin,
and even appropriate a fragment
of the walls. The necessity will
at once be seen of placing some
bounds to the manifestations of a
piety praiseworthy in its nature,
but serious in its results. To pro-
tect the grotto, therefore, a solid
iron grating bars the entrance, but
allows a clear view of the interior.
It is unlocked from time to time to
admit a knot of pilgrims, so all can
have an opportunity of praying in
so sacred a place. Before the grs:
ing kneel countless pilgrims in iti
open air, on the cold paveuie-
which extends to the very edge <>
the Gave, thrust back from :;
course to give additional spa« .
There are a few benches for tl.s
weary and infirm. The differeii
classes of people gathered he:
the variety of costumes worn -i
peasants from different provinct-
and the clergy and sisters of va'H
ous orders, to say nothing of t!u
fashionable dresses of the upju-
classes, are a study for the anit
who has set up an easel before the
stone bench along the banks of ti.d
river. Beyond is a long avenue o\\
•trees furnished with seats where
pilgrims are gathered in kno;>
around huge lunch-baskets. A:
the left of the grotto are scvera.
faucets over a long stone basin, tfi
by water from the miraculous four-
tain. Over them is the inscrr'
tion : ^^AlUz boire h la fontmm c
vous iaver" Around are crotrdc
' people drinking the healing wate^
or filling their cans and bottles t.-
carry away. Close by is a tqo'M
furnished with cans of all diraen
sions for the accommodation of uc
pilgrim. Beyond are the bathin:
rooms, to so many a pool of Silosm
where the angel is never weiry
of troubling the waters. Aroar.u
these doors of hope is always a s^c
array of the blind, the deaf, t'lc
lame, and the paralytic.
No wonder miracles are wrong-'
here. There is such simple, o'^
bounded faith in the divine mercy
and power, that mountains mW-
be moved. What would be nur-
vellous elsewhere, only seems the
natural order of things here. P'
Dozous, a physician of the place—
who often accompanied Bemadctu
in her visits to the grotto, and lu^
watched with int^re«5t the graduii
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
691
icvelopment of the devotion to
Votre Dame de Lourdes ; and wit-
lessed a great number of miracles
>f all kinds, including the cure of
iiose who had been blind, or deaf
ind dumb, from their birth — says,
n a book he has recently pub-
ished :
** The cures of which I have so
>ften been the ocular witness, and
*-hich I nm about to relate, have
:onvinced me, beyond the possibil-
ity of doubt, of the importance of
Bernadette's visits to the grotto of
Massabielle, and the reality of the
visions she was there favored with.**
M. Artus, an Alsace refugee at
Bordeaux, whose niece had been
miraculously cured of a serious
malady by recourse to Notre Dame
dc Lourdes, has offered ten thou-
sand francs to any one who will
prove the falseness of any of the
statements in M. Lasserre's book,
but, though two years have since
passed, no one has been found
quite ready to take up the offer.
Miracles are so constantly wrought
here, that not half of them are re-
corded. Five occurred the day
before our arrival, one, a deaf-mute
to. wbom the faculty of speech was
instantaneously given. We dared
not hope to witness anything of
the kind, nor did we need it to in-
crease our faith in the power of
Omnipotence, though human na-
ture is always seeking some sign.
But the piety of the multitude
around obtained the grace we
should not have ventured to ask
^or ourselves. We were praying
one morning in the grotto, when
suddenly there was an unusual
movement in the crowd without,
and an increasing wave-like mur-
mur that bi:oke at last into a tu-
multuous shout. A gentleman be-
side us seemed to catch the mean-
ing, for he sprang up and exclaim-
ed at the top of his voice, Vive
Marie! which was answered by
hundreds of voices. The effect
was electrical, and the feeling that
came over us was something new in
our experience. Tears sprang to
the eye. We hurried out of the
grotto, and the movement of the
crowd brought us close to a young
girl raised above the excited multi-
tude, pale, smiling with Joy, and
waving a hand covered with the
marks of ineffectual human reme-
dies, and that had been utterly
paralyzed an hour before. Every
one crowded around her to see, ex-
amine, test the use of her arm, and
assure themselves of the truth of
the case. She had been fourteen
months in a hospital at Marseilles,
and had come with a large number
of pilgrims from that place who
were ready to testify to her pre-
vious helplessness. The whole
scene was thrilling. Bands of pil-
grims with blue badges of the Vir-
gin sang hymns of joy. A wave
of excitement every now and then
passed over the crowd and found
vent in repeated vivas. The girl
was finally released from the ex-
amination and admitted into the
grotto, when the Magnificat was
intoned.
The cliff of Massabielle has been
cut down and levelled off to serve
as the foundation of the church,
which stands on the top at a dis-
tance of seventy or eighty feet direct-
ly above the grotto. The title of
minor basilica was conferred on it
by His Holiness Pius IX., in
March, 1874. A path leads up to
it from the shore, its windings along
the edge of the cliff forming the
monogram of Mary, among hedges
of roses and arbor-vitae, glistening
with dew, and overhung with aca-
cias and evergreens — a charming
ascent, each step of which leads to
692
Notre Datne de Lourdes.
a rarer atmosphere, a lovelier and
more extended view, and nearer
the altar of Mary.
There are two churches, one
above the other; the lower one,
dim and solemn with penitential
gloom ; the upper, radiant with the
light and purity that ought to sur-
round
^ Oar tainted nature's soUtary boast."
•
Let us first enter the crypt. In
the vestibule is a statue of S. Ger-
maine of Pibrac with her crook
and legendary apron of roses, and
a lamb at her feet — the gift of a
band of pilgrims from Toulouse.
An arched passage leads each side
of the crypt with banners hung over
the confessionals in the recesses.
Passing through one of these, we
found ourselves in a low, gloomy
nave crowded with columns to sup-
port the upper church. It is chiefly
lighted by the numerous lamps hang-
ing on every side, and the large
stands of candles that bum before
the Virgin, who is over the altar
embowered among roses. The pave-
ment is covered with kneeling forms
— ladies, soldiers, peasants. You
hear the whispered prayer, you
catch glimpses of devout faces,
quivering lips, and upturned eyes.
Everything here is solemn and mys-
terious, and inclines one to serious
reflection. On the pillars hang the
different scenes of the great Passion
in which we all had so sad a part.
They strike new terror into the
soul in this sepulchral church that
seems hewn out of the living rock.
"Low liit,
In sonow, penitence-stricken, and deep woe,
•Mid shades of death, thine arrow drinks my blood ;
For I thine innocent side have pierced deep.
I dare not look upon thy bleeding brow,
For I have circled it with thorny crown,
Thou Holy Onei and here I sit and weep,
Bowed with the o'erwhelming burden down to
earth."
The carved confessionals at the
end suggest comforting thoogbli
There
" The great Absolver with refid'
Stands by the door, and bears the key
O'er Penitence oa bended kxtee.^
There are five chapels — a mysti
number associated with ^\t. so3
rowful mysteries — each with tr<
small windows pierced through tJi
thick walls, looking like the loop
holes of a fort. Their sides an
covered with votive pictures art
small marble tablets with inscrip-
tions, some of which we copy :
** Reconnaissance ^temeBe \ U loote pobsart:
Notre Dame de Lourdes pour la grace qu*cQe =1
obtenu:. Paris, ao/niUet, rS?*.
^ Amour et reconnaissance 4 Notre Dane <b
Loardes. Deux coeurs gu^ris et console"
^^ A Notre Dame de Louidcs, CekMid L. S.
"6 Aout, rfiTOt"
*^ Reconnaissance ^temelle i NoCze Dwae <k
Loardes qui a j;uiri nocre fillc.*'
There is a countless number of
similar inscriptions, which are 50
many leaves torn from domestif
histories, extremely touching acd
suggestive to read. They are eter-
nal expressions of gratitude, which
are doubtless* pleasing to the Di-
vine Benefactor, who is not rtgard-
less of one who returns to givs
thanks.
Our last visit to the crypt v/^'
never be forgotten. We had ar-
rived at Lourdes the evening be-
fore, in a pouring rain, which st:"
continued when we went at h^'-
past four in the morning to attend
the Mass of a clerical friend. 1^
was Nvith difficulty we made cur
way into the nave, crammed ^-t^
pilgrims from Bretagne and LaVec-
dee. The five chapels were fiOed
with priests waiting for their t^jni
to say Mass. Our friend had beeft
there since two o'clock, and it v2S
nearly seven before he foundava-i
cancy at the altar. Masses lite*
I
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
693
rise had been continually succeed-
ng each other since midnight in
he fifteen chapels of the church
ibove. The place, it will be seen,
s one of perpetual prayer.
Our devotions over at a late
iGur, we ascended a flight of
wenty-six steps, which brought us
a broad terrace before the upper
:hurch commanding a lovely view
of the valley, with the picturesque
}ld castle directly in front. The
sun had come out after the rain,
and nothing could be more fresh
and enchanting. On the terrace
stood the four bells given by the
Prince of Viana, and not yet hung.
Thfey were baptized August 11, by
Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux, in
presence of a numerous crowd, in-
cluding Don Sebastian de Bourbon,
Infante of Spain, the Due de Ne-
mours, and the Prince of B^arn and
Viana.
Before entering the church, we
pause in front of the Gothic portal
to look up at the representation of
our Saviour over the central arch.
His face is turned towards Lourdes,
a cruciform nimbus surrounds his
head, the Alpha and Omega are at
the side, and his right hand is rais-
ed to bless the pilgrim beneath.
At each side are the winged em-
blems of the Evangelists. And
lower down is the Virgin Mother,
her hands crossed on her breast,
her face,
• ^ The most resembUng CbrUt,'*
sweet and thoughtful. She seems
to be awaiting all who seek through
her the Divine Redeemer, who by
ber has been given to mankind.
Ftlix cdli porta, we say as we pass
beneath.
Entering the church, we are at
once struck with its immaculate
purity. It is in the style of the
Xlllih century. The height is
about double the width, which
makes the arches seem loftier than
they really are. The spotless white
walls are relieved by the beautiful
banners hanging on every side.
There are about four hundred of
these banners, richly embroidered
with religious symbols and devices,
and the arms of different cities
and provinces. Conspicuous among
them are the banners of Alsace
and Lorraine bordered with crape.
They were wrought in s&ret, and
brought over the frontier in the
night to escape the vigilance of the
Prussian police. They were pre-
sented by faithful Christians, one
of whom was a valiant officer whose
breast was covered with decorations,
and received by the Archbishop of
Auch (to whose province Lourdes
belongs), who wept as he pressed
them to his lips, affecting the vast
crowd to tears.
Around the nave of the church
is an unique frieze of votive golden
hearts, so arranged as to form in-
scriptions in immense letters, taken
from the words of the Virgin to
Bernadette : " Vous prjerez pour
LA CONVERSION DES P^CHEURS. ,
AlLEZ BOIRE a la FONTAINE ET
VOUS V LAVER. — AlLEZ DIRE AUX
PR^TRES QU'lL DOIT SE bAtIR ICI
UNE CHAPELLE, ET Qu'ON DOIT V
VENIR EN PROCESSION."
The main altar in the centre of
the choir is dedicated to the mys-
tery of the Immaculate Conception.
It is of pure white marble, and on
the front are five compartments on
which are sculptured the Annun-
ciation, Visitation, Assumption, Co-
ronation, and the Apparition of
the Blessed Virgin in the grotto.
The altar is adorned with while
lilies. Over it in a golden niche is a
statue of Mary Most Pure, "above
all women glorified," the very em-
bodiment of purity and love. Above
694
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
her, like a crown, is a constellation
of beautiful lamps of filigree and
enamel. Rich votive offerings are
fastened to the walls — crosses of
the Legion of Honor, epaulettes,
swords crossed above flags, a minia-
ture ship, the mitre of Mgr. Law-
rence, etc On the keystone of
the arch are sculptured the arms
of Pope Pius IX.
The main altar with its Madonna
is the c^tral object in the church,
and the focus of its splendor.
Around it, like so many rays around
the Immaculate Conception, • are
five apsidal chapels. Directly be-
hind it is the chapel of the Sacred
Heart, where of course the Blessed
Sacrament is kept. At the left is
Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, in
honor of the last apparition to Ber-
nadette, which took place on the
festival of that name. Next is the
chapel of Notre Dame des Victoires,
in commemoration of the celebrat-
ed archconfraternity at Paris, which
has effected so many conversions,
wrought so many miracles, and pre-
pared the way, as it were, for the
triumph of the Immaculate Con-
' ception.
At the right of the chapel of the
Sacred Heart is that of Notre Dame
du Rosaire, recalling the rosary the
Virgin held on her arm in all her
apparitions to Bernadette. Then,
Notre Dame de la Sallette, remind-
ing us that the tears the Mother of
Sorrows once shed over the woes
of France in the mountains of Dau-
phine, have been succeeded by the
smiles of Marie Immaculee in the
grotto of the Pyrenees.
Each of these five chapels recall
the Holy Trinity by the number
of their windows,, as the rose win-
dow in the facade is typical of the
Divine Unity. These windows are
of stained glass — the gift of the
Prince of Viana. The main altar
and the statue of the Immaculit
Conception are from an anonymo::
benefactor, and many of the othc
altars are the gifts of private ice
viduals.
Ten lateral chapels open out of
the nave, and communicate vnxi
each other for convenience, liit
four nearest the choir bring around
Mary the principal members of he:
family; S. Anne, S. Joachim, ?,
Joseph, and S. John the Baptist
Then come the chapel of S. Peter,
still living in our " Pope of the Ira-
maculate Conception,** who so glo-
rified Mary on the 8th of Decccr
ber, 1854; S. John, the belovfd
disciple, who was appointed *rtr
son on Mt. Calvary ; S. Francis of
Assisi, the patriarch of the Seraphic
Order that has always been the ad-
vocate of the Immaculate Concep-
tion ; S. Francis Xavier, patron oi
the Society for the Propagation of
the Faith, one of the glories of this
age of Mary ; S. Bertrand, the il-
lustrious bishop of Comminesand
the patron saint of Mgr. Lawrence,
whose name will ever be associated
with the church of Notre Dame de
Lourdes ; and S. Germaine, the
humble shepherdess of Pibrac, so
like the little ber^gre of Lourdes.
Thus four of the great religious
orders of the church are represent-
ed before the Virgin's throne— tbe
Carmelite, Dominican, Franciscan,
and Jesuit. Each chapel, sacred
to some holy mystery, has its beau-
tiful altar, its carved oaken con-
fessional, its- circular golden chan-
delier, its station of the cross, its
banners, and its statues.
The carved oak pulpit on the
left side of the nave was given by
the Bishop of Marseilles.
The windows of the side chapck
that await a donor, will depict tke
history of Notre Dame de Lourdes,
beginning with the first appahtkn
Notre Dame de Lourdes*
69S
and ending with the consecration
of the church. And the clerestory
windows will represent the history
of the devotion to the Immaculate
Conception. The decoration of
the church is by no means com-
plete. It is to be in harmony with
the architecture, so pure in outline
and light in form. In the seventy-
six arcatures of the triforium the
saints most devoted to the Im-
maculate Conception are to be rep-
resented on a gilt ground.
To see this beautiful church
crowded with devout pilgrims,
priests at every altar of the fifteen
chapels, a grand service going on
in the choir with all the solemn
pomp displayed in great cathe-
drals, the numerous clergy in the
richest vestments, artd to hear the
grand music of Palestrina exe-
,cuted with perfect harmony and
exquisite taste — the whole congre-
gation heartily joining in the chants,
and the peal of the trumpets con-
trasting admirably with their ear-
nest voices — is to the ravished soul
like a vision of the heavenly Jeru-
salem. The lofty arches seem to
sway with the undulations of the
music, sometimes soft as the mur-
mur of a rivulet, and again as deep
as a mountain torrent falling over
rocks. The eye is never weary of
gazing at this fair temple with its
pure outlines, so harmonious in all
its parts, the soft light coming in
floods through the lofty windows
and mingling with the brilliancy of
the lights and flowers; the im-
mense oriflammes hanging from the
arches to give testimony to the
glory of the Immaculate Concep-
tion and the Pontiff who crowned
that glory; the mysterious words
on the wall that fell from the smil-
ing lips of the Virgin in the grotto ;
and the Most Pure herself, unveil-
ed to all eyes, standing in the midst
of all this splendor above the altar,
in a golden atmosphere, raising
heavenward her look of inspira-
tion, her hands joined in prayer,
her heart swelling with love — ador-
ing love for Him who dwells in the
tabernacle; and maternal love for
her children gathered around the
fountain opened for the salvation
of the world. O Immaculate One !
we here feel thy sweet presence,
and the creative power of thy
word : " Go, tell the priests I wish
a chapel to be built on this spot."
Never was greater miracle wrought
by humbler instrumentality — never
was the Divine Hand more mani-
fest than in the upspringing of
this mountain chapel — the lily of
the Immaculate Conception, sweet-
est flower of this age of Mary.
Human intelligence is confounded
at what has been effected by the
mouth of a poor peasant girl of
this obscure valley. It grasps at
the assurance of faith in Mary who
has wrought it. Before her the
Gave that beat against the cliff* has
fallen back — image of the torrent
that approached, Mary at the mo-
ment of her creation, and, just as
she was about to receive the fatal
stain, the wave of corruption, that
bears all of us poor children of
Eve on its impure waters, fell back
before the ark of the new cove-
nant, Foederis Area.
The very cliffs have bowed down
at her presence, and these stones,
these walls, these columns, these
arched, and the fountain of indis-
putable potency that has sprung
out of the bowels of the earth, bear
witness to her wonderful appari-
tions and power.
One of the most imposing spec-
tacles at Lourdes is a procession
of pilgrims, especially when seen, as
we saw one, from the mount above
coming from the town — a very for-
696
Notre Dame de Lourdes.
est of crosses, banners, and lan-
terns, borne by thousands of peo-
ple with that slow, measured, solemn,
harmonious step that is in itself a
prayer. We thought of good Mo-
ther Hallahan and her delight in
nine miles of prayer. Here were
whole leagues of praise.
** On the ear
SweOs tofUy forth some virgin hymn ;
The white procession windeth near,
With fliminering lights in sunshine dim.
Mother of Purity and Peace I
They sing tlie Saviour's name and thine :
Clothe them forever with the fleece
Unspotted of thy Lamb Divine !"
From one end of the immense
procession to the other rose chants
without discord — here from a band
of maidens and innocent children,
yonder from harmonious choirs of
maturer years. From time to time
a peal of trumpets drowned the
murmur of the Gave and awoke
the echoes of the mountains. In
the procession were hundreds of
men organized into pious confra-
ternities as in the Middle Ages.
They follow the path taken by
Bernadette, when she was irresistibly
led on to the place of the wondrous
vision. They all stop to make a
genuflection where she knelt before
the Beautiful Lady, and begin the
Litany of Loretto in the sweet
plaintive air peculiar to the coun-
try. It is delightful to hear Mary's
name swelling along the valley and
up the rocky heights ! Thus chant-
ing they ascend the winding path
on the cliff, forming a living mono-
gram of the Virgin's name, among
••OSes that give out their perfume,
h rough cedars of Lebanon and
>ther rare trees that bend down
-heir branches laden with dew.
And above this verdure, these per-
fumes, and these chanted supplica-
tions, the white marble Church of
the Immaculate Conception sends
heavenward the silent prayer of its
gleaming walls, its pillars, its turrets
and pinnacles. They wind arouriil
the church like a wreath and disap-
pear within its sculptured portal
chanting : Lcttatus sum in Jus qua
dicta sunt mi/ii — I was glad at the
things that were said to nie. We
will go into the house of the
Lord. ... Our feet were wont to
stand in thy courts, O Jerusalem!
Jerusalem which is built as a c\ts
that is at unity with itself. . . .
Plenteousness be to them that lor?
thee !
At the particular request of the
Prince of Viana, one of the greatest
benefactors to the church, his Ho-
liness Pope Pius IX. has granted a
partial indulgence to all who visit
the church, and a plenary indul-
gence to those who here approach
the sacraments and pray for con-
cord among Christian princes the
extirpation of heresies, and the ex-
altation of our holy Mother the
Church
A winding road leads from the
church by gentle ascent up the pic-
turesque mount behind, along which
are to be built fifteen chapels in
honor of the Mysteries of the Ro-
sary, where the words once spoken
by the angel will ascend the moun-
tain side in one long and incessant
Ave Maria ! Along this holy wnv
will continually ascend and descend
the pious votary in " pilgrim's cowl
and lowly weed "
" Dropping on each my»tic bead
To Mary, Mother Mikl« a cootrite tear."
A certain party, desirous of
bringing pilgrimages into disrepute,
and inclined to seek some human
cause for everything supernatural
attributes a political object to thi<^
great crusade of prayer which the
impious instinctively tremble h^
fore, and not without reason. M
Lasserre thus closes an address to
The House of Joan of Arc.
697
tHe visitor to Notre Dame de
l^ourdes :
** Pilgrims of France ! Your poli-
lics at the grotto of Lourdes is to
pray, to begin a new life, to sanctify
yourselves, and to become in this
corrupt age the chosen righteous
^vho are to save the wicked cities
of the land. It is thus you will
labor efficaciously for the pros-
perity of your country and bring
back its past splendor and glory.
A nation desirous of salvation in
heaven, is a nation saved on earth."
We close by echoing one of the
acclamations sung alternately by
clergy and people at the solemn
celebration in this place of bene-
diction :
V. Omnibus nobis peregrinanti-
bus, et universo Christiano populo,
Fidei, Spei, et Charitatis augmen-
tum et gaudium aeternum,
R. Amen. Amen. Salvos fac ser-
vos tuos, Domine, et benedic haere-
ditati tuae, et rege eos, et extolle
illos usque in aeternum.
Fiat. Fiat. Amen.
THE HOUSE OF JOAN OF ARC.
I AM writing these lines in a
small inn of Domrdmy, on the even-
ing of my pilgrimage to the lowly
dwelling of Jeanne d'Arc. My ta-
ble is an old coffer, shakily placed
on the rugged and disjointed pav-
ing stones which form the floor,
and my only companion a kitten
gambolling in the red rays of the
setting sun. I thus begin my ac-
count of that house which has been
well called the santa casa of France.
Arriving at Domrt^my while yet
its green valleys were enveloped in
the white vapors rising from the
Meuse, my first sight of the place
was through the mist of early morn-
ing.
It is a small village of ^Lorraine,
near the confines of Champagne.
God, who so often wills to choose a
mere nothing through which to ex-
ercise his power, chose it as the
starting-point of his work for the
deliverance of France. For Dom-
T^my was a little village also in the
year 1425, when there the heavenly
light appeared, there the angel de-
scended, and the voices not of
earth were heard.
The mutilation of this province
by the German invasion has only
rendered Domr^my more lor rain
than ever: and the Vosges Moun-
tains raise their blue summits
along the horizon and lengthen
their shadows as if the better to
guard the home of her who was the
good angel of her country.
The village consists of scarcely
more than a hundred houses, clus-
tered round the venerable church
and the old walls of the cottage
which sheltered the infancy and
youth of the daughter of Jaques
d'Arc and his wife Isabelle Rom^e.
This church, to which her earli-
est steps were bent, the place of her
prayers and inspirations, where she
armed her soul with virtue and
heroism before arming her breast
like a brave warrior preparing for
battle — this church is more than
lowly, it is poor ; and it is matter
698
The House of Joan of Arc.
for wonder that, if no one else does
so, at least that the maidens of
France do not organize themselves
into an association which should
make it their chosen sanctuary, and
by which they would engage them-
selves not only to provide it with
what is necessary and fitting, but
with pious generosity to enrich and
beautify their privileged altar.
At the threshold of the church
stands a ridiculous statue of Jeanne
d'Arc. It seems a sort of sacrilege
so to have misrepresented the fea-
tures of the Maid ; and the best way
to dispose of this image would be
to throw it into a furnace and melt
it down in company with the still
more objectionable equestrian statue
recently erected in the Place des
Pyramides at Paris, which insults
the modest virgin by placing her
astride on her charger, in a com-
plete suit of armor, instead of the
steel breastplate which alone she
wore over her womanly apparel.
Then, out of the metal of these
molten caricatures might be struck
medals of worthier design, to be
distributed in the country.
Among the trees at a few paces
from the church is a little Greek
monument supported by four col-
umns, beneath which is a bust of
Jeanne in white marble. Facing
this little monument, about a stone's
throw off, stands her dwelling.
This house fs separated from the
road by two pavilions connected
by a railing of gilt arrows. Trees
envelop its walls with their over-
shadowing branches, and a third
part of the roof is covered with ivy.
Above the door, which is low, are
three shields of armorial bearings,
the Arms of France, charged with
a sword, and those of the family of
D'Arc ; or, to speak more exactly,
the door is surmounted by three
escutcheons, namely, that of Louis
XI., who caused tne cottage to be
ombellished ; that which was grant-
ed to one of the brothers of Jeanne,
together with the name of Lys ; and
a third, which bears a star and three
ploughshares, to symbolize Jeanne's
heavenly mission and the lowly
condition of her parents. Two in-
scriptions in uncial Gothic are
graven on the stone : ** Vive Ia-
beurf** — the motto of Jeanne and
the resumS oi her history ; and **Ffcv
U Roi LoysT' — the resumi of her
great work.
On the left of the door is a lattice
window with diamond-shaped panes.
Two rooms constitute the whole of
the house. Jeanne was bom in the
first and larger of the two ; the
second and inner one is dimly
lighted by a small window open-
ing towards the church. Here it
was that Jeanne listened to the
heavenly voices, and here she heard
the church bells summoning to
prayer, or sounding the tocsin,
when the village was attacked by
marauding bands who came to sack
the place and cut down the parti-
sans of the throne of France.
On several occasions fugitives
were concealed by her in this ob-
scure chamber. She gave up her
bed to them, and went to rest in
the hayloft.
Facing the hearth in the entrance
room is a statue in bronze, reduced
from the expressive figure by the
Princess Mary of Orleans.* Gm-
lands of moss surround this statue,
* The poet Musiet thus sines of tbe Axtot-PaoD*
ccis:
" Ce naif g^nie
Qui courait Jisa mire au doux nom de Maria,
Sur son oeuvre chM, penchant son front iinar
A la fiUe des champs qui sauva sa Patne
PrSte sa pi^td, sa grace ct sa podeur."—
** This sun|4e genius.
Who, at tne sweet name of Marie, £0 her
To the daughter of the fields, the deliverer of hs
country.
Lends her own piety, aodesty, and giaoB.**
The House of Joan of Arc.
699
and rose-leaves are scattered at its
feet. The nuns who are in charge
of the house assemble every even-
ing in this room with the young
girls of the village, to sing hymns.
On the wall hangs a crucifix, and
beneath it stands an image of the
Blessed Virgin ; and here the nuns
with their little flock keep the
month of Mary, celebrating the
praises of the Royal Virgin of
Judah, who was so dear to the
heart of the virgin of Domr^my.
Here and there upon the walls
are ex voiosy slabs of marble and
bronze relating facts worthy of re-
membrance in honor of Jeanne, or
recalling historic dates. The beams
and rafters of the ceiling are dint-
ed by axe and sabre strokes given
by the Prussians in 1814, not by
any means from disrespect, or mo-
tives of jealousy, but merely from
nn oittbreak of destructive devotion.
They entered the house, silent, and
with their hats off, but they did not
wish to leave it without taking from
it some relics to carry into their
own country.
Numerous pilgrims have been
guilty of the low and objectionable
proceeding of carving their names
on the stones of the house, although
a register is kept at hand on pur-
pose to receive the visitors' names
and impressions. The piece of fur-
niture on which the volumes are
placed was presented last year by
a prince of France, and accompa-
nied by the gift of a piece of Gobe-
lin tapestry representing the entry
of King Charles VII. and fehanne
la bomie Lorraine into the city of
Rhcims.
The latest volume of the register
commences in 187 1, after the dis-
asters and misfortunes of France.
To every name inscribed in its
pages, whether of aristocrat or com-
moner, officers of the army or men
of the rank and file, thoughts are
elaborated of more or less preten-
sion to literary merit, in prose or
verse, but the dominant idea is pray-
er to God for the salvation of
France, and grateful love t6 Jeanne
d'Arc ; while here and there are
appeals to the Sovereign Pontiff for
the beatification of the young pa-
triot martyr, or at any rate for a
solemn affirmation of the miracu-
lous nature of her call and the sancti-
ty of her life.
A touching incident occurred not
quite a year ago. One evening in
the month of May, two English la-
dies, nuns of the Order of Servites,
visited the house, accompanied by
a priest of Vaucouleurs, and had no
sooner crossed the threshold than,
falling on their knees, they burst
into tdars, entreating God to par-
don England, guilty of the death
of Joan of Arc, and making a fer-
vent act of reparation for their
country, their ancestors, and them-
selves. Nor did they rise before
they had kissed the floor of that
lowly cottage where she had so oft-
en knelt in prayer to God and in
converse with his glorified saints,
and where she had lived in the ful-
filment of the daily duties of her
lowly estate.
On another occasion a band of
volunteers, on their way to join the
army, came to ask La Pucdle to
help them to be good soldiers, and
begging her blessing on themselves
and their arms as they would that
of a canonized saint. A cavalry offi-
cer made a visit to Domr^my ex-
pressly to remind Tier that one of
his comrades in arms died at Grave-
lotte repeating her name. A great
number of officers who made their
escape from Germany also came
hither direct from the frontier, to
return thanks for their safety, be-
fore returning to the homes where
700
Sonnet.
their families were anxiously await-
ing them.
A great pope has said, " France
will not perish, for God has always
a miracle in reserve to save her.**
The miracle came in the middle
of the XVth century, in the person
of Jeanne d*Arc. It may come
again through her instrumentality;
not this time leading on the victors
at Orleans, Patay, Troyes, Rheims,
Compeigne, Paris, or dying at Rou-
en amid the flames, but crowned a
saint upon the Church's altars, as a
powerful intercessor for her native
land. Mgr. Dupanloup has given
a great impetus to the desire for
forwarding her cause at the in-
fallible tribunal of the Catholic
Church.
GersoDy the great and pious
chancellor, and the contemporary
of Joan of Arc, ardently desired
the same cause, which is now taken
to heart, not only by the illustrious
bishop, but also by the clergy, the
magistrature, and the army in Or-
leans, who are at the head of vari-
ous commissions employed in ob-
taining the evidence necessary for
aiding the judgment of the Sove-
reign Pontiff. He will have a pleas-
ant task who may be entrusted to
collect the popular traditions which
linger like a fragrance at Domrf
my, of the innocent and holy life
of Joan of Arc, and to him the
very walls of her cottage birth-
place will be eloquent : /apid^s da-
fnabuni*
♦ The writerU indebted to M. TAbW Hoot te
portions of the foregoing.
SONNET.
Mark yonder gentle doe ! her one loved fawn
Close at her side, just where the leafy wood,
With all its summer charms of solitude,
Steps o*er the verdant edges of our lawn !
Mark their shy grace at this chaste hour of dawn !
. While culling spicy birch-twigs, their cropped food
Dew-drops impearl, and morning shadows brood
O er dells, towards which their timid feet are drawn.
Thus have I seen, within a cloister's shade,
A widowed mother and one tender child
Close at her side ; one habit on them laid ;
Both, by a kindred exaltation mild.
Led to the service of the Mother Maid,
With her to seek Heaven*s peace through pathways undefiled.
Dominique de Gourgues.
701
DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES,
THE A V£KGER OF THE HUGUENOTS IN FLORIDA, A CA THOUC,
The traveller between Bordeaux
and Bayonne who takes an east-
ward train at Morcenx, will arrive
in less than an hour at Mont-de*
Marsan, a small town of four or
live thousand inhabitants, on the
borders of the Landes, at the con-
fluence of the Douze and Midou,
which form the Midouze. Some
say it was founded on the site of
an old temple of Mars, by Charle-
magne, on his return from Ronces-
valles. If so, the place was after-
wards destroyed by the Saracen or
Norman invaders, for the fifth Vi-
comte de Marsan, desirous of purg-
ing the forest of Maremsin of the
robbers who endangered the lives
and property of the merchants and
pilgrims who passed that way, built
a castle at the junction of the two
rivers, on a spot which bore a name
of ominous meaning : MaU-paSy or
MauvaiS'pas — doubtless a bad place
lo fall into, on account of the fre-
quent robberies. Around this cas-
tle gathered the vassals of the neigh-
boring abbey of S. Sever for pro-
tection. They came from the
parish of S. Piferre-du-Mont, and
brought their devotion to S. Peter
with them. The arms of the town
are still two keys en pal^ between
the letters M. M. (Mons Martia-
i^us) ; and the parish church 'that
stood till the Revolution, was de-
dicated to S. Peter, where the
mayor, before entering on his func-
tions, took the following curious
oath in three languages — the Gas-
con, Latin, and French :
Per Diu et per aquet monsegn^ Saint P6,
Jou juri que bon et lejau a la bille jou ser<6
Lotis bens daquere jou proucurer^,
Et lous maux esbiter^.
Las causes doubtouses dab conselt jou fer^.
Justice tan au petit com au gros jou far^.
Com an heit lous autes maires et miUou si jou 96,
Ansi me adjud6 Diu et monscgn^ Saint P^.
Per Deum et sanctum Petrum juro
Quod urbi bonus et legalis ero,
Ejus bona procurabo,
Ejus mala vitabo :
Dubia &ciam cum consilio,
Et justitiam tarn parvo quam magno,
Sicut alii magistratus et melius si sdo.
Sic noo ero sine Dei ac sancti Petri adjutorio.
Je jure par le Dieu Tirant et par Saint Pierre,
Que \h. seray bon et 16gal it la viUe ;
Que j*en procureray les biens et eviteray les maux.
Que je ne feray jamais les chotes douteuses sans
conseil,
Que je feray justice, au petit comme au grand,
De mSme que les autres maires, et mieux si je scay ;
Alnsi me puisse toujours aydcr mon Dieu et Saint
Pierre.*
In 1256, the town passed into
the possession of the lords of B^arn,
and to keep it in due subjection
Gaston Phoebus built the castle of
Nou-U'bosy />., YoU'do-noiwish-it-
iJurCy referring to the opposition of
the inhabitants — a name that re-
calls the famous Quiquengrognc
erected by Anne of Bretagne to keep
the town of S. Malo in check, and
the Bridle built by Louis XII. at
the entrance of the harbor of Genoa.
Calvinism, of course, took some
root here in the time of Jeanne
d*Albret. Theodore Beza sent
preachers to win over the people,
but the Catholics organized imder
the Seigneur de Ravignan and for
* By tbc help of God and S. Peter, I swear to be
good and loyal to the town ; to seek its welfare and
avert all evil ; to take counsel in doubt, do justice
to the small as well as the great ; as former mayon
have done, and better if I know. So help me God
and S. Peter.
702
Dotninique de Gourguts.
a while kept the Huguenots from
any excesses. Montgomery, how-
ever, soon swept over the country,
sacking all the churches and mon-
asteries, many of which he razed to
the ground. Among these was the
convent of Bayries, a community
of Clarist nuns in the vicinity of
Mont-de-Marsan, founded in 1270
by Gaston Phoebus and his wife
Amate, which numbered Catherine
d*Albret, a cousin of Francis I.,
among its abbesses. Marie d'Al-
bret, another relative of the king's,
was abbess when the marriage be-
tween him and Eleanore of Austria
look place here, July 6, 1530. This
house of historic interest was strip-
ped of every valuable by the Hu-
guenots, and then burned to the
ground, the nuns barely escaping
with their lives.
The redoubtable Monluc soon
avenged all these sacrileges by tak-
ing Mont-de-Marsan, and despatch-
ing all who opposed the passage of
his troops. The few Huguenot sol-
diers left, he threw from the win-
dows of the formidable Nou-ii-bos^
to avenge, as he said, the brother-
in-arms, whose officers were treach-
erously butchered by the Hugue-
nots after the capitulation of Or-
thez.
This castle of terrible memory
has a pleasanter association, for in
it passed the early childhood of the
poet Francois Le Poulchre, the
king*s knight, and lord of La Motte-
Messeni^, who boasted of descend-
ing from the ancient Roman consul,
Appius Pulcher, who displayed such
conspicuous valor under the famous
I.ucullus,
*^ l*n Appiu* Pukhcr, fentUhomme Romain,
Pih^uci »*«*t mAiDtenu k nom de main en main
J uM«<'» *" t««P* present* jutqu'4 moi qui Ic portc."
\\^ took for his device : Suum cut-
^'.v/ /^/, h'umy in allusion to Ins
As his father was superintendent
of the household of Margaret, quctn
of Navarre, sister of Francis I..
Francois Le Poulchre had the hon-
or of having that king for his god-
father, and Margaret for his god-
mother. The latter conceived such
an affection for him that she kept
him at her castle at Marsan, and
made him eat at her table as soon
as he was old enough. He says
himself:
** J*eus lltouieur poor panaiB d'avoir le rai Fn»-
9ois,
Pour mamine n sceur« Royne des Navanois
Qui me favoriaa juaque U eUe meme
Me tenir tur les foos k iour de moo b^>Cesae,
Faict par un grand preslat I'eYesqne de Lope.
(Oloron).
** Me fiusant mesmement ^ sa table maacer
En pretence des siens, ou de quelqoe eoiaBfer
Qui pent y arriver, ne chaageaat one de place "*
With little taste for study Le
Poulchre left college at an early
age to embrace the profession of
arms.
** Aveoque ce grand due, noo motns vatOant qm boat
Race de Saint Louis, dit Louis de Boorboa,"
— that is to say, under the great
Cond^. He has given us his own
life and adventures under the title
of Les honnesUs Loisirs dn Seigneur
de *la Matte- Messcmiy which is di-
vided into seven books bearing the
title of the seven planets, as the
history of Herodotus bears the
name of the nine muses, and the
poetical Zodiac of Marcellus Palin-
genesis bears the names of the
twelve signs of the zodiac. To
compose it, he retired to the Cha-
teau de Bouzemont in Lorraine
We trust he was more skilful in ih:
use of the sword than of the pen
Oneof his sonnets, however, is pleas-
ing. It is like a single flower in a
barren parterre. It is addressed
to the dame de ses pensSes^ to whom,
after acknowledging she hears Mass
devoutly, fasts with due strictnes ,
goes to confession regularly, and is
Dominique de Gourgnes.
703
always charitable to the poor, he
says :
** Voos &icte8 tout oek, mais ce seroit resver
De crmre que cda tout seul vous pust sauver.
Ne votu y arrestez pas. je vous prie, Madame ;
D'aDer en Paradts le plus certain moyen
Cest de rendre i chacun ce que Too a du sien :
Rendez-moi done mon cceur, vous sauverea vostre
— You do all this, but it is a dream
to suppose this alone can save you.
Do not stop here, madam, I pray
you ; the surest means of gaining
paradise is to restore to every one
what belongs to him ; Give me
back my heart, then, and you will
save your soul !
Among othef historic memories
evoked by Le Poulchre in his seven
cantos, he relates how, going to
kiss the hand .of the young King
Charles IX., Anne d*Este,
** Veu^ du grand Lorrain,
Qu*aTait meschantement d'une traisteresse main
Blec^ d'on coup de plomb Poltrot, son domesti-
— came not to seek vengeance on
Poltrot, for he had already been
drawn and quartered before St.
Jean de Gr^ve, but on Coligny,
whom, in the presence of the king,
the Cardinal de Guise, and others,
in the nave of the chapel of the
chateau de Vincennes, she accused
of being an accomplice in the crime
of February 18, 1563.
It was not long after this the
king,
*•* Se hastant de traverser les Lanes
Pour aller voir sa sceur la Reyne des Espagnes,"
Stopped at Mont-de-Marsan, where
he made Le Poulchre escuyer (Tes-
cuyrie ordinaire^ as the poet does
not fail to record, and shortly after
he received the collar of knighthood
from the same royal hand.
The chiteau of Gaston Phoebus,
which had received so many princes
and princesses within its walls, and
been the witness of so many trage-
dies, was, after being taken anew
from the Huguenots, totally demol-
ished by the order of Louis XIII
A charming promenade, called the
Pepiniire^ surrounded by the
Douze, is now the spot.
Mont-de-Marsan was formerly a
centre of considerable trade, and
t4ie entrepdt of the country around.
Wine, grain, turpentine, wool, etc.,
were brought here to be sent down
the Midouze. This was a source
of considerable revenue to ths
place, and explains the ext«jnsive
warehouses, now unused in conse-
quence of the railway and the di-
version of trade. There is still a
little wharf, where are moored sev-
eral barks laden with wood or tur-
pentine, but there is not business
enough to disturb the quietness of
the place. No one would sup-
pose it had ever been the theatre
of terrible events. The most strik-
ing feature is a peculiar oblong
court, surrounded by houses of
uniform style, with numerous balco-
nies for the spectators to witness
the bull-fights occasionally held
here — an amusement that accords
with the fiery nature and pastoral
pursuits of the people around, and
is still clung to in several places in
the Landes and among the Pyre-
nees. This square is, by a singular
anomaly, called the Place St. Rochy
from a saint regarded throughout
the region as the patron of ani-
mals ; and they certainly have need
of his protection in a place where
they are exposed to such cruelty.
Such are some of the character-
istics and memories of the small
inland town in which was bom
Dominique de Gourgues, the lead-
er of the celebrated expedition
against the Spaniards in Florida.
He was the third son of Jean de
Gourgues and Isabella de Lau, his
wife.
He was born in the year 1537, in
an age of religious conflict, when
704
Dominique de Gourgues
party spirit ran too high for any
one to remain neutral, whatever
their grade of piety. It might
therefore seem surprising there
should ever have been any doubt
as to the religious convictions of
De Gourgues. Because he was the
avenger of the massacre of the
Huguenots in Florida, he has often
been identified with the Protestant
party. Because he lived in an age
when provincial and sectarian spir-
it often prevailed over patriotism,
it has been taken for granted that
sympathy with the religious senti-
ments of the victims of the Span-
iards could alone have induced
him to sell his property to provide
for a distant and dangerous expe-
dition that would never repay him
even if successful. In a work en-
titled, La France Protesiante^ by
MM. Haag, a kind of dictionary
of Protestant celebrities in France,
issued in 1853 by a proselyting
press, whose works are everywhere
to be found, De Gourgues is made
a Huguenot. No proof is given,
no doubt expressed — the surest and
shortest way of carrying one's point
in these days. Assurance always
produces a certain effect even on the
thoughtfully-minded. They take
it for granted it has some real foun-
dation.
The Revue Protestante* makes
the same assertion, appealing to De
Thou and other historians.
Francis Parkman, in his Pioneers
of France in the Neiv Worlds says :
** There was a gentleman of Mont-
de-Marsan, Dominique de Gour-
gues, a soldier of ancient birth and
high renown. That he was a Hu-
guenot is not certain. The Span-
ish annalist Barcia calls him a ter-
rible heretic ; but the French Jesu-
it, Charlevoix, anxious the faithful
• Article--** Domiaiqiie de Goaxgae^*»
should share the glory of his ex-
ploits, affirms, that, like his ances-
tors before him, he was a goc*
Catholic. If so, his faith sat ligh:-
ly upon him, and Catholic or here-
tic, he hated the Spaniards with a
mortal hate."
The English made the Catholic
Church responsible for the mas-
sacre of the Huguenots. The ac-
count of Le Moyne, published in
England under the patronage of
Raleigh, inflamed anew the public
mind against Catholicity, and the
terrible words of the Spanish lead-
er. El que fuere Iiere^e morira,
were regarded as the echo of the
church. Consequently the aven-
gers of the deed were supposed to
be necessarily Protestants — notonlv
De Gourgues, but all his followers.
Nor is this all. The whole familr
of the latter is said to have been
converted to Calvinism in the
XVIth century.
M. le Vicomte de Gourgues, the
present representative of the family,
desirous of vindicating the ortho-
doxy of his ancestors, and, in par-
ticular, of so illustrious a relative
as Dominique de Gourgues, has
given to the public incontroverti-
ble proofs that the whole family
was eminently Catholic, that Dom-
inique lived and died in the faith,
and that his expedition to Flondi
was a patriotic deed in which relig-
ious zeal had no part. He felt t-i:
anger of a man of honor against the
cruelty of the Spaniards. A great
national injury was to be avenged.
and he was too good a soldier not
to wish to be foremost in the con-
flict. And perha^ps some private mo-
tives excited him to vengeance, for he
had been taken himself by the Span-
iards, and narrowly escaped death
at their hands, and could therefore
feel for these new victims of theii
barbarity. Moreover, his cxpedi*
Dominique de Gourgucs,
705
ion was ihc expression of public
enliment in France concerning the
nassacrc — the mere outburst of the
electric current that ran over the
rountry at such an insult to the
»onor of France. The assertion
hat De Gourgues was a Protestant
s a modem invention without a
shadow of foundation. None of
he old French historians express
iny doubt as to his orthodoxy.
Kven the romances in which he
figures represent him as a Catholic,
as if his religion were a prominent
feature in his character. Some
years ago» a novel was published
in the Sicclc called "La Peine du
Talion/* of which the Chevalier de
Oourgues is the hero, and on his
Catholicity turns the interest of
the story. He is represented as a
\)ril1iant cavalier who has served in
ihe wars of Italy, and is now an of-
ficer in the service of the Duke of
Guise, whose favor he enjoys. An
.illachnient is formed between him
and Estiennelte de Nerac, whose
hand he requests in marriage. The
Seigneur de Nerac expresses great
surprise that Messire Dominique
should forget the insuperable abyss
there is between an ardent Ca-
tholic in the service of the house
of Lorraine and his Protestant
daughter.
But for more serious proofs.
And first let us examine the ortho-
doxy of Dominique de Gourgues*
family.
That his parents were Catholics
is proved by the list of those who ap-
peared in the ban and arri6re-ban
at Mont-de-Marsan, March 4, 1537.
"Noble Jean de Gourgues, Seig-
neur de Gaube and Monlezun, pre-
sent at the convocation held in this
town by order of the king.** And
Isabella de Lau, his wife, requests
in her will "to be buried in the
church of the convent of the Cor-
VOL. XXL — 45
deliers at Mont-de-Marsan,* be-
fore the chapel of the Conception
where the ancestors of the said De
Gourgues are buried.** It is sure,
therefore* that Doniinique was bap-
tized in the Catholic Church at
Mont-de-Marsan.
Dominique and his brother Ogier
left their native ])lace in early life
and established tliemselves at Bor-
deaux. The former was never
married, and seems to have made
his home with his brother, to whom
he was greatly attached. At the
chateau de Vayries there were, a
few years ago, four old evergreen
trees of some foreign s])ecies, at the
corners of the lawn before the ter-
race, said by tradition to have been
planted by the hero of Florida.
Ogier became king's counsellor
in the council of state, and presi-
dent of the treasury in Cuienne,.
and, after serving his country faith-
fully under five kings, died full of
years and honors at his house in
Bordeaux, " without leaving the
like of his quality in Guyenne.*"
He took part in all the affairs of the
province, in the accounts of which
we find many things significant of
his religious convictions. Monluc
mentions him in his Commcntiiries,
as offering to procure wheat and
cattle from the Landes, on his own
credit, when it was proposed to
fortify the coast to defeat the pro-
jects of the Huguenots. He placed
his i)roperty as much as possible at
the disposal of the king. He mani-
fested great interest in the reduc-
tion of La Rochelle, and lent
twenty-three hundred livres to ena-
ble the Baron de la Gardie to de-
spatch his galleys to the siege, as
is shown by the following letter
from the king :
*ThU church was sacked and burned by the
Huguenots. De Gourgues can hardly have sympa-
thized with the destroyers of his mother's tomb, to*
say nothing of several generations of ancestors.
706
Dominique dc Gourgucs,
** For ihc payment of my galleys
which I have ordered Daron dc la
Gardie, the general, to despatch
promptly to th^J coast of IJretagnc
on a service of great imporlance,
... I write praying you to advance
to Sieur Felix the sums I have as-
liigned for this purpose, . . . trust-
ing that, as in the ]>c1st you have
never spared your means and sub-
stance in my service, you will spare
them still less in this urgent neces-
sity. I have been advised, how-
ever, by the said Sieur de la Gardie
that you have not yet lent your
aid, which I am persuaded proceeds
from want of means; but well know-
ing the credit you have in my city
of IJordeaux, and trusting to your
good-will, I send this line to beg
you, in continuation of the good
and acceptable services I have
heretofore received from you in
]>ublic affairs, and on other occa-
sions which have presented them-
selves, to do me likewise this other
in so extreme a need, to advance
and place in the hands of the said
Jelix the sums I have assigned in
aid, not only of the said Sieur dc
la Gardie, but the other captains of
my said galleys, which I will pay
and reimburse you, or those who
by your favor and credit shall have
advanced them. . . . (Hoping) that
you have lessened in no way the
extreme adection you have had till
the present, in all that relates to my
service, which I will not forget in
due time or fail to recognize, . . .
to gratify you in every way possi-
ble, . . • I finish praying God, Sr.
de Gourgues, to have you in his
holy keeping. — Given at Gaillon
the 24th of May, 1571.
" Charles."
The appeal was not in vain, as
we have said.
Mart^chal de Matignon, in a let-
ter to the king in 1585, renders the
following fine testimony conccmii!;^
Ogier dc Gourgues :
"Sire, the i>estilence inihisciiv
continues to such a degree ihs
there is not a person, with ibe
means of living elsewhere, who lias
not left it, and there arc now only
the Srs. Premier President and l>c
(jourgucs, who remain otil ofibc
special affection they have for jour
service.'*
Ogicr dc Gourgues had Iwosons,
Anloine and Marc .Anloine. An-
toine, the elder, presumed by MM.
Ilaag and others to be a Tra-
testant, is thus spoken of in the
ChrofWfuc liourdcloysc^ published iti
1672:
"The chateau dc Caslillon. in
Mcdoc, having been surprised by
some troops, has been restored to
the obedience of the king and ibc
Seigneur de Matignon in eight davi
by Capt. de Gourgues, malrc J-
camp of a F'rench regimenl. ard
cousin of him who attacked i c
Spaniards in Florida.'*
And in another place : " .And nfur
some sorties from the garrison ci'
I>!ayc, in which Cajit. dc Gourgues
while fighting valiantly, was wound
ed, and after some days died, the said
Seigneur de Matignon raised liw
siege."
Of course, Marshal dc Maii^
non*s lieutenAnt could not be a
Huguenot. Besides, the accoun*
of the expenses at the grand funcr:-
services of Capt. An toine de Coir-
gues, attended -by all the religion
communities in Bordeaux, is still
extant. By this we find seven livr^•
are paid the Carmelite monks for
their services three days, and t- ^
use of several objects for tbe fan«^'
ral; three crowns to the canons oi
St. Andre for High Mass and ij^^
burial service ; twenty sols to the
Brothers of the Observance fo^
three days* assistance and ibc use
Dominique de Gourgnes.
707
of robes ; four crowns to the reli-
gious of the Chapelet for aiding in
the three days* service; five sols to
the Brothers of Mary for the same ;
two crowns to twenty-four priests
who recited prayers around the
bier ; fifty-one sols each to four
women who dressed the body and
remained with it day and night ;
one sol apiece given to three thou-
sand poor on the day of burial, and
six deniers the following day, etc.,
etc. There is a chapdU ardeniCy
hung with mourning, emblazoned
with the family arms, the bells are
tolled two days, and all the clergy
and poor follow him to the grave,
with the most solemn rites of the
Catholic Church.
Marc Antoine, the second son of
Ogier de Gourgues, was a zealous
defender of the Catholic faith. He
travelled all through Europe in his
youth, studied theology at the Ro-
man college, and, gifted with un-
common eloquence, though he did
not take Orders, held public con-
troversies against Calvinism and a
discussion with Scaliger, as is shown
by the eulogy at his funeral, which
took place at Bordeaux. Some
years after those public vindications
of the Catholic faith, he went to
England, where he was received
with great distinction by Queen
Elizabeth, a fact worthy of notice,
as the favor she manifested to Do-
minique has been considered as an
argument in proof of his Protestant
proclivities. She liked to gather
around her men of certain celebrity,
and those who were in her good
graces were not always in sympathy
with her religious notions, as is
shown in the case of Marc Antoine.
Marc Antoine became Premier
President of the Parliament of Bor-
deaux, and w»is charged with all the
preparations relative to the fulfilment
of the marriage between Louis XIII.
and the Infanta of Austria — a diffi-
cult mission, because the Huguenots,
opposed to the alliance, were resolv-
ed to frustrate it. M. O'Reilly, in his
Hisloire de Bordeaux^ says : " They
endeavored to seize the person of
the king in the environs of Guitre,
but he arrived at Bordeaux without
any disaster, thanks to the excel-
lent arrangements made by Presi-
dent de Gourgues.*'
Marc Antoine not only made
foundations in favor of the Jesuits
and Carmelites, but his second wife,
Olive de Lestonnac, left thirty thou-
sand livres to the Recollects of
Sainte Foy, to build a residence
where they could labor for the
conversion of the Huguenots. It
v.'ould seem as if every member of
the family were animated with a
particular zeal for the Catholic re-
ligion.
In 1690 we find Jacques Joseph
de Gourgues Bishop of Bazas.
After the foregoing proofs, no
possible doubt can be felt concern-
ing the stanch Catholicity of the
De Gourgues family. As for Do-
minique, but little is known of his
life previous to his expedition to
Florida. Though he afterwards be-
longed to the royal navy, it appears
that he first served on land and
took part in the Italian campaign
under Mar^chal de Strozzi. His last
feat of arms in Italy, says one of
his biographers, was to sustain a
siege,in 1557, with thirty men against
a corps of Spanish troops. The
fort held was taken by assault, and
the garrison all slaughtered, except
De Gourgues, who was spared, to
be sent ignoniiniously to row on
the galleys. His boat being cap-
tured by the Turks on the coast of
Sicily, he was taken to Rhodes and
thence to Constantinople. But his
fate was not changed ; he contirlued
to serve in the galleys. Again put-
7o8
Dtminique de Gourgues.
ting to sea, he was taken and set
at liberty by Mathurin Romegas,
commander of the galleys of Malta
and Knight of S. John of Jerusa-
lem. The deliverer of the future
hero of Florida was likewise a Gas-
con. His tombstone may still be
seen in the nave of the nuns' church
of Trinity de* Monti at Rome, the
inscription half effaced by the feet
of the worshippers.
Dominique now returned to
France, and after a voyage to Bra-
zil and the Indies, he entered the
service of the house of Lorraine,
who employed him on several pri-
vate occasions against the Hugue-
nots. His expedition to Florida
did not take place till the year
1567. We have seen him fighting
against the Spaniards in Italy, and
subjected by them to the utmost
degradation. It is not surprising
he burned to avenge the murder of
his companions-in-arms and the
severe treatment he had endured,
as well as to wipe out the stain on
the national honor caused by the
massacre of his fellow-countrymen
in Florida. He had too narrowly
escaped the Spanish sword himself
not to feel the deepest sympathy in
their fate. He afterwards drew up
himself an account of his expedi-
tion, which is full of thrilling in-
terest. It has been published, but
the original is in the Biblioth^que
Impe^riale at St. Germain.
The establishment of a French
colony in Florida grew out of the
civil and religious contests of the
XVIth century. Admiral de Co-
ligni, with the view of providing
his co-religionists a safe asylum be-
yond the seas, induced Charles IX.
to allow five or six hundred Hu-
guenots under Jean Ribault to em-
bark at Dieppe, Feb. 18, 1561, in
order to establish themselves in
Florida. They landed at the mouth
of the Rio San Mateo on the ist
of May, and built a fort on an is-
land,which they called Fort Charles,
in honor of their sovereign. The '
return of Ribault to France led to
a relaxation of discipline, and the
consequent ruin of the colonr.
Other companies, also favored by
Coligni, were sent in 1564 and 1565,
under Laudonni^re and the same
Ribault, to place the colony on a
better footing. Laudonni^re se-
cured the friendship of the Indians,
whose chief, Satirova, hastened to
offer his support. But the destitu-
tion to which the colony was re-
duced weakened the attachment of
the natives, and some acts of piracy
exasperated the Spaniards, who re-
garded them as intruders, and re-
solved on their destruction.
Pedro Melendez appeared with
six vessels before Fort Caroline
and summoned Laudonniere and
Ribault to surrender, promising to
spare those w^ho were Catholics,
but declaring all heretics should
be put to death. They defended
themselves valiantly, and even took
the offensive, and had it not been
for a tempest, perhaps bravery
would have won the day over the
number of the eneray. Bui vc
need not give details which are
familiar to all. The fort fell into
the hands of Melendez, and all,
except Laudonniere and one of hi^
companions who evaded the search,
were put to death, " not as French.
but as heretics,'* if we are to believt
an inscription left on the spot
Nothing could be more horrible
than this atrocious murder of four
hundred inoffensive colonists. The
Spaniards even tore out the eyes
of their victims, stuck them on the
point of their daggers, and hurled
them against the French on the
water. The skin of Ribault vas
sent to the King of Spain. And to
Dominique de Gourgues.
709
crown so barbarous a deed, they
heaped together the bodies of the
men, women, and children, and
kindling a great fire, reduced them
to ashes, with savage bowlings.
Whatever the zeal of the Spanish
for the Catholic religion, we may
naturally suppose it was not the
only motive that animated them on
this occasion. Their eagerness to
take possession of the country and
fortify it, instead of requesting
Charles IX. to send a Catholic
colony to replace the Huguenots,
shows that other motives influenced
them. Religion was only a cloak.
Moreri, in his Dictionnaire Historic
guCy 1712, says: "They hung the
French under the pretext they were
Lutherans."
Laudonni^rc, who escaped, brought
the fearful details of this butchery
to France. The rage was univer-
sal. Notwithstanding the antipa-
thy of the court* to the religion of
the majority of the victims, it has
been too strongly asserted that all
sense of national honor was lost in
view of the religious aspect of the
case. The government of Charles
IX. was too weak to insist on com-
plete reparation, but his letters to
the French Ambassador at Madrid
prove he demanded Philip II.
should chastise those who were
guilty of the massacre.* No re-
paration, however, was made, and
the cruelties of Melendez not only
remained unpunished, but he was
loaded with honors.
P^re Daniel, in his Hisloryy says :
**This inhumanity (of Melendez),
instead of being punished by the
government of Spain when com-
plaint was made, was praised, and
those who had a share in it reward-
ed. The unhappy state of afi*airs
^ Soe Leuen of Charles IX., Catherine de MMi-
ci«. and M. de Fourqucvaulx ambassador at Mad-
rid, pttbli&bed by the Marquis Duprat.
in the kingdom (France), in conse-
quence of the civil wars, prevented
the king from taking vengeance,
and three years passed away with-
out the court's thinking of exacting
justice. Capt. Gourgues, a man
who sought to distinguish himself,
.and loved glory more than any-
thing else, resolved to avenge the
insult to the French nation, and
without looking for any other re-
ward but success and renown, un-
dertook the expedition at his own
expense in spite of the danger and
every expectation of being disavow-
ed at court. . . . This deed, that
may be numbered among the most
memorable ever done of the kind,
wiped out the affront inflicted on
the French nation."
And the account from the Impe-
rial library says : " The traitors
and murderers, instead of being
blamed and punished in Spain,
were honored with great estates
and dignities. All the French na-
tion expected such an injury to the
king and the whole nation would
soon be avenged by the public au-
thorities, but this expectation being
disappointed for the space of three
years, it was hoped some private in-
dividual would be found to under-
take a deed so essential to the
honor and reputation of France.
There were many .who would have
been glad of the renown to be won
by such an enterprise, but it could
not be undertaken without great
expense; the result, -for many rea-
sons, was uncertain, hazardous, and
full of peril; and even if success-
fully executed, it might not be ex-
empt from calumny. And it was
difficult to find any one willing to
incur this calumny by the loss of
his property, and an infinite num-
ber of difficulties and dangers."
It was not Laudonni^re who went
to take vengeance on the Spaniards.
7IC
Dominique de Gourgues.
It was no agent of Coligni's. It
was not even one of the Huguenots,
though their brothers* blood cried
from the ground, who lent his ear to
the terrible appeal. No ; the brave
heart who atoned for the weakness
of the sovereign belonged to a de-
voted Catholic family of the Landes..
It was a soldier who had served un-
der the Strozzi in Italy, and after-
wards under the Guises in France,
who lost sight of religious distinc-
tions in view of his country's dis-
grace, and nobly resolved to become
the avenger of the Huguenots.
Dominique de Gourgues . began
his preparations early in the year
1567. He sold some of his pro-
l>erty, or, as stated by others, his
brother Ogier advanced the money
necessary for fitting out the expedi-
tion. He armed two vessels small
enough to enter the large rivers, and
a patache which, when there was
lack of wind, could be propelled
by oars. He manned them with
eighty sailors and one hundred and
fifty soldiers, among whom we find
some of the noble, as well as ple-
beian, names of Gascony. Monluc,
the governor of Bordeaux, allowed
him to depart on a pretended ex-
pedition to the coast of Africa. It
was the 2 2d of August. De
Gourgues even concealed the ob-
ject of the voyage from his fol-
lowers, which shows how unreason-
able it is to regard them as Protes-
tants going to avenge a Protestant
cause, as many suppose. The names
of only a few of them are known,
and nothing in particular of these.
Capt. Cazenove, of a noble family
near Agen that still exists, com-
manded one of the vessels. Another
is called Bierre by MM. Haag, and
De Berre by M. de Barbot, and one
of the captains of the Baron de la
Gardie*s galleys was named Loys de
Berre, of course a stanch Catholic
But we sec no reason for reHgionsdii'
tinctions in the case. The importani
thing was to have brave, resolute
men. And it is certain they knew
nothing of the object of the expedi-
tion till they arrived at Cape St An-
toine. It is said when they kamcd
it, " they were at first surprised and
dissatisfied," which does not look
much like sympathy for slaugh-
tered co-religionists. Parkman says:
** There (in Cuba) he gathered his
followers about him and addressed
them \vith his fiery Gascon elo-
quence. ... He painted with an-
gry rhetoric the butcheries of Fort
Caroline and St. Augustine. ' What
disgrace,' he cried, *if such an
insult should pass unpunished!
What glory to us if we avenge it!
To this I have devoted my fortrac.
I relied on you. I thought you
jealous enough of your country's
glory to sacrifice life itself in a
cause like this. Was I deceived?
I will show you the way; I will
be always at your head ; I will bear
the brunt of the danger. Will yoa
refuse to follow me ? ' The sparb
fell among gunpowder. The com-
bustible French nature bursts into
flame."
There is not a word in this address
of their being Huguenots, thoagh
free to express his sentiments at such
a distance from their native land.
The only appeal is — glory and
France.
It is unnecessary to relate the
wonderful coup-de-main by which the
three forts of the Spanish were taken.
Every one knows how he hung tip
the thirty Spaniards who were left,
on the same trees on which his fel-
low-countrymen had been hung, and
in place of the inscriprion Idft by
Melendez, he graved with a red-
hot iron on a pine slab : " This is
not done to Spaniards, but to treach-
erous robbers and assassins." Ose
Dominique de Gourgues.
711
of these victims confessed the justice
of the act, as he had hung five of
the Huguenots with his own hand.
The Rtviu des Deux Mondes calls
the retaliation of the bold Landais
" savage," and certainly grave mpral
reasons can be brought against such
a proceeding. But everything was
exceptional in this historic episode,
and we must not regard it according
to the ideas of the present age.
The disinterested and heroic dar-
ing of De Gourgues cannot be
denied, nor can any one help ap-
plauding his patriotic wish to repair
the injured honor of the nation.
That he looked upon his deed as
one of righteous vengeance is sure.
How solemn and religious is his
language in addressing his followers
after his victory :
•* My friends, let us give thanks
to God for the success he has
accorded to our enterprise. It was
he who saved us from danger in
the tempest off Cape Finibus Terrae,
at Hispaniola, Cuba, and the river
of Halimacany ! It was he who
inclined the hearts of the savages to
aid us I It was he who blinded the
understanding of the Spaniards, so
they were unable to discover our
forces, or avail themselves of their
own! They were four to our one,
strongly intrenched, and well pro-
vided with artillery, and supplies of
food and ammunition. We only had
justice on our side, and yet we have
conquered them with but little trou-
ble. It is not to our strength, but
to God alone we owe the victory.'
Let us thank him, my friends, and
never forget the benefits we have
received from him. Let us pray
him to continue his favor towards
us, to guide us on our way back and
preserve us from all danger; pray
him also to vouchsafe to dispose
the hearts of men so that the many
dangers we have incurred and the
fatigues yve have endured may find
grace and favor before our king and
before all France, as we had no
other motive but the service of the
king and the honor of our country I "
They set sail May 3, and arrived
at La Rochelle the 6th of June. De
Gourgues went immediately to Bor-
deaux to render an account of his
voyage to Monluc, who, as P^re
Daniel says, loaded him with praises
and caresses, which, with his anti-
pathy to Huguenotism, he would
hardly have done had De Gourgues
been a Huguenot in the service of
Huguenots. If the latter did not in-
form him before his departure of the
object of his expedition, it was be-
cause he knew Monluc was anxious
to avoid all occasion of rupture with
Spain. MM. Haag say Monluc had
received orders to forbid all expedi-
tions of the kind. And though De
Gourgues did not doubt the appro-
bation of the governor, he did not
wish to compromise him in the eyes
of the king,
De Gourgues received not only a
flattering welcome from Monluc but
the acclamations of the entire nation.
The wish 'for vengeance had ba?n
universal, and he was applauded for
realizing it. Perhaps it was this out-
burst of patriotism that forgot all
religious animosities which led that
sagacious diplomatist, Francois de
Noailles, at this very time Bishop of
Dax, a place not far from Montde-
Marsan, to assure the king the best
means of putting an end to the civil
dissensions of the country was to
declare war against Spain.
Had De Gourgues been a Hiiguc-
not he would probably have disposed
of his war prizes at La Rochelle,
where he first touched, thereby ren-
dering his party a service by supply-
ing them with arms. Instead of that,
he took them to Bordeaux, and Mon-
luc bought them to arm the city
712
Dominique de Gourgues.
against the Huguenots, as -is shown
by existing documents estimating
their value, dated Aug. 27, 1568.
"This day appeared before me
Capt. Dominique de Gourgues re-
questing the appraisement of nine
pieces of artillery, one cannon, a cul-
verin, and three moyennes^ which he
has brought to this said city from the
voyage he lias lately made, and taken
in the fort the French had built, but
which was afterwards seized by one
Pierre Malendes, a Spaniard. . . .
Presented themselves before us to
make the said appraisement and
valuation: Antoine de Cassagnet,
lord of Cassagnet and Tilhadet,
Knight of the Order of the King,
and governor of the city and country
of Bordeaux in the absence of Sr.
de Monluc ; Jehan de Monluc,
Knight of the Order of St. John of
Jerusalem, gentleman in ordinary of
the king's chamber, and colonel of
the infantry of Guienne; Jacques
Descar, Knight of the Order of the
King, captain of fifty men-at-arms of
his ordinance, captain and governor
of the Chdteau du Ha in the said
citjr and province of. Guienne;
Charles de Monferrand, also Knight
of the Order of the King ; Pierre da
Savignac, also Knight of the same
order; and Loys de Lur, Seigneur
d'Uza, whom, etc."
All these persons to whom De
Gourgues thus confided his interests
were Catholic lords of Guienne,
whose religious convictions could
not be doubted, and with whom he
must have been on intimate terms to
induce them to take the trouble to
estimate the value of his war-prizes.
But it is said Charles IX. and his
court condemned De Gourgues' act.
M. de Lacaze, in his biography,
says ; " He received from his com-
patriots the liveliest testimonies of
admiration and gratitude; but it was
not the same at court, where his
courage and achievements were r^
warded by ingratitude and persecu-
tion. The Spanish ambassador de-
manded his head, and the heroic
Frenchman was obliged to conceal
himself at Rouen to escape death.
He was living in a state borderlDg
on want when Queen Elizabeth of-
fered him command of a fleet ^
was going to send to the assistaoce
of King Antonio of Portugal; bm
enfeebled by age, chagrin, and ^
tigue, Gourgues was unable to profit
by so brilliant an offer. He died on
his way to London."
Many of these statements need
to be greatly modified, as we sbaH
show.
De Thou says : " At his return he
is badly received by the court, which
is wholly Spanish, The king treats
him as a disturber of the public
peace."
There is no doubt the king feared
a rupture with Spain, in consequence
of the civil dissensions in his king*
dom. M. de Monluc, in his G^«-
mentaries^ alluding to his son's expe-
dition to Africa, expressed a fear of
its leading to disturbance with Spain.
Personally, he desired war, but di«i
not wish him to draw upon hin^
the censure of the goyemmeot.
What he says explains the receptioD
of De Gourgues at a court where
Spanish influence predominated, asil
leaves no doubt the latter was onk
received as the son of Monluc him-
self would have been, had he given
cause for war with Spain. He was,
however, soon honorably received
into service, for we find him, in
August, 1568, attached to the royal
navy ; so he could not, as he states,
go to Dax, being " prevented by the
affairs of .the king and the service of
the galleys."
We find De Gourgues' vessel, the
Charles^ named in an act of October
22, 1568, in which it is said that Loys
Dominique de Gourgues.
7n
de Lrur, Vicomte d'Uza, was ** gene-
ral-in-chief of the army, and of the
vessels Charles ^ Catherine^ etc., which
will at once set sail by order of M.
de Monluc." These vessels were to
guard the mouth of the Gironde.
There are still several documents
in the archives of the department of
the Gironde which refer to De Gour-
gues* official duties at this time.
From them we give the following
extracts :
" Know all men that on this 14th
of March, 1572, appeared before me,
Tehan Castaigne,* etc., for the pur-
pose of selling by these presents' to
Dominique de Gourgues, squire and
gentleman in ordinary of the king's
chamber, . . . four hundred quin-
tals of biscuit, good and salable, for
the sum of six livres and fifteen sols
for each of said quintals.* . . ."
Arc^re speaks of an armament fit-
ted out at Brouage by Philip de
Strozzi, as if to ravage the Spanish
coasts of America — a cloak to his
real design. He provided this fleet
with provisions, munitions of war,
etc., with no appearance of haste,
though so late in the season. Coligni,
therefore, was warned.
We find a letter from Charles IX.
to Dominique de Gourgues on the
subject, written fifteen days after St.
Bartholomew's Day, when there was
no. need of concealing his real de-
signs :
•* Captain Gourgues : As I have
wrilteu my cousin, the Sire de Stroz-
ly^ to approve his appointing you to
go on a voyage of discovery, with
the general consent of the company,
I trust this letter will find you ready
to set sail. I beg to warn you, be-
fore setting out, not to touch at any
place belonging to my brother- in-law,
or any prince friendly to me, and
with whom I am at peace. Above
* Evidently for ship provisions.
all, fear to disobey me if you desire
my approbation, and the more, be-
cause I have more need than I once
had of preserving the friendship of
all my neighbors. Conduct yourself,
therefore, wisely, and according to my
intentions, and I will remember the
service you do me. Praying God,
Captain Goufgues, to have you in his
keeping. Charles.
" Pasis^ September 14, 1573."
This letter proves the king's serious
intention of sending the fleet abroad,
and contains a somewhat severe
warning not to repeat his bold dee<ls
in Florida.
D'Aubign^ declares that these ves-
sels were really intended to attack
the Spanish settlements in America,
but their destination was changed,
and they served at the siege of La
Rochelle, " to the great displeasure
of those who were hoping for a voy-
age at sea/'
Arc^re, in his Histoire de la Ro-
chelle^ thus speaks of the CharUs at
the siege of that city : " The king's
fleet was composed of six galleys and
nine vessels. The Is^rgest of these
vessels was called the Charles, Tlie
admiral's, named the Grand Biscay en^
was under the Vicomte d'Uza, com-
mander of the fleet in the absence of
the Baron de la Gardie. Montgomery
advanced as if to engage in combat,
but he encountered full fire from the
enemy's fleet; the vessel he com-
manded, pierced by a ball, would
have sunk without speedy assistance,
and he decided to retreat."
That Dominique de Gourgues was
in command of the Charles on this
occasion is proved by a document in
possession of the present Vicomte de
Gourgues, which states that Domi-
nique, by an act signed by the king
in council, August lo, 1578, was paid
the sum of seven thousand crowns
" for services rendered at and before
the siege of La Rochelle with his ves-
714
Dominique de Gourgues.
sel, the Charles^ ana a patache called
the DespeTixda:'
This is the latest known document
referring to the public services of
Dominique de Gourgues. There is,
however, another letter from the
king referring to another service a
few years previous, and confirming
the fact that the Charles was under
his command : " Capt. Gourgues :
After deliberating about using some
of the largest and best vessels of my
navy before the city of La Rochelle
— in the number of which is the
CharUsy which belongs to you — for
the embarkation of four thousand
soldiers intended for Poland,.! have
concluded to send you this present
to notify you at once of my inten-
tion, praying you above all, as you
love the welfare of my service, to
give orders that your vessel be equip-
ped as soon as it can be done, and
ordered to Havre de Grace, where it
is necessary to arrive by the 12th or
13th of August next; and, that you
arrive with greater security, it will be
expedient for your vessel to join the
others ordered on the same voyage,
that you may go in company to said
Havre. I beg you, therefore, to pro-
ceed for this purpose to Bordeaux,
where the Sire de Berre is to de-
spatch twelve cannons and other
arms, that are also to go to said
Havre with all speed. Endeavor to
render the service I expect of you in
that place. Praying God that he
have you, Captain Gourgues, in his
holy and safe keeping,
" Charles.
" Gaillon, July a, 1573."
Such are some of the records of
the public services of Dominique de
Gourgues after the Florida expedi-
tion. Of course his achievements
were not rewarded as they should
have been. Pedro Melendez was
created marquis for his barbarous
deed and enriched with estates. The
brave Landais, who took vengeance,
merited far more. But, as we have
shown, he still remained in the kings
service, and retained, or regained, his
confidence. And his exploit has
always been regarded as one of the
most brilliant episodes of Freodi
history. Chdteaubriand, blaming the
author of the Henriade for baviog
recourse to threadbare examples from
ancient times, says " the Chevalier
de Gourgues offered him one of the
most thrilling of episodes."
We find a private paper dated
January 14, 1580, in which Domi-
nique de Gourgues gives Romarinede
Mesmes, damoyselUy his aunt, poirer
and authority to receive the fruits,
profits, and emoluments of all his
catde and real estate in the Vicointc
de Marsan, which shows that he did
not sell all his property to provide
for the expedition to Florida, or die
in want, as has been stated.
Queen Elizabeth of England of
fered him command of a fleet to aid
Don Antonio of Portugal in the war
against Spain ; but this honor is no
proof of his being regarded by her
as a Protestant, but rather of his
well-known hatred of the Spanish,
for it was to aid one Catholic nation
against another. It was on his way
to take command of this fleet that he
fell ill at Tours, in which he died ia
the year 1583. He was buried with
honor in the abbatial church of S.
Martin of Tours — the crowning proof
that Dominique de Gourgues was a
genuine Catholic.
The Ladder of Life.
71s
THE LADDER OF LIFE.
There are a great many rounds
m the ladder of life, though simple
youths have always fancied that a
few gallant steps would take them
to the summit of riches and power.
Now the top-round of this ladder
is not the presidency of any rail-
road or country, nor even the pos-
session of renowned genius ; for it
oddly happens that when one sits
down upon it, then, be he ever so
high'ug in life, he has really begun
to descend. Those who put velvet
cushions to their particular rounds,
and squat at ease with a view of
l>locking up the rise of other good
folks, do not know they are going
down the other side of the ladder;
hut such is the fact. Many thrifty
men have, in their own minds, gone
far up its life-steps, when, verily,
they were descending them fast ;
and poor people without number
have in all men's eyes been travel-
ling downward, though in truth they
iiave journeyed higher by descent
than others could by rising. So
many slippery and delusive ways
has this magical ladder that we
. may say it is as various as men's
minds. One may slip through its
rounds out of the common way of
ascent, and find himself going down
when he ought to be going up ; and
vain toilers have ever fancied that
they were mounting to the clouds
when everybody else must have
seen they were still at the same
old rounds. Ambitious heroes have
made the same mistake, if indeed
the particular ladder which they
have imagined for themselves has
not itself been sliding down all the
while they have been seeking vain-
glory by its steps.
The ladder of life is an infinite
ladder. It is full of indirections to
suit the abilities, and of attrac-
tions to suit the tastes of climbers.
You may work at a forge, or sail
the sea, or trade in money and
goods, or hear operas, or write
romances, or wander over moun-
tains, or go to church, while living
thereon ; but you must go up or
go down, and, anyway, you will
have some toiling to do. Every-
where on the ladder is trouble save
in careful steps, and since human
progress is so illusory, many honest
persons rather feared to fall than
aspire.
7IO
New Publications.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
The Spirit of Faith ; or, What must I
Do to Believe ? Five Lectures deliver-
ed at S. Peter's, Cardiff, by the Right
Reverend Bishop Hedley, O.S.B. New
York : The Catholic Publication Socie-
ty. 1875.
When we noticed these lectures last
month, we had not found tigne to do
more than glance at them. But having
since discovered their tery uncommon
merit, we feel bound to let our readers
know it.
Never — we do not say seldom, but
never — have we seen such a happy com-
bination of simplicity with force. The
bishop's English, by itself, is a treat.
His style has all the ease of conversation ;
here and there rising into eloquence, or
delighting us with master-strokes of de-
scription and illustration. Then, as to
the argument of his book, it is so amiable
and courteous that no one can take of-
fence ; yet the points are put with stern
fidelity and driven home with ruthless
cogency.
The title speaks for itself. The " spirit
of faith " is precisely what is least under-
stood by non-Catholics ; and again,
" What they must do to believe " is the
thing they most need to be shown.
Wiien accused of being ** mental
slave?," etc., we justly reply that, on the
contrarj', we are the freest of the free,
that " truth " alone " makes free " ; but
perhaps we are apt to forget— or rather,
we fail to insist — that the " spirit of faith '*
is, nevertheless, **a spirit of lowliness"
(as the bishop says) — *' of childlike obe-
dience, and of 'captivity*"; that there
must be " a taking up of a yoke, a bow-
ing of the head, a humbling of the heart." .
It will therefore do Catholics good, as
well as Protestants, to read the second
of these lectures on " What faith is." So,
again, when allowing for the strength of
prejudice in alienating the Protestant
mind, we are in danger of false charity —
by forgetting that prejudice may easily be
a sin; and that wilfulness plays a large
part in popular " ignorance " nowadays.
The third and fourth lectures, on " Preju-
dice " and •* Wilfulness " as *' Obstacles to
Faith," are the best of their kind we re-
member to have seen, and we are sure
that many Catholics need to read them —
nor only for the sake of their Protestar^t
friends.
But, of course, it is chiefly for the sake
of Protestant friends that we wish to sec
these lectures in the hands of our readerL
The book is something for an etrnen
man to go wild about. Its cost is little ,
and we hope it will soon be scattered
broadcast over the land.
Religion and Science in theik Riuk-
TiON TO Philosophy. An Essay oq
the Present State of the Sciences.
Read before the Philosophical Sodctr
of Washington. By Charles W.
Shields, D.D., Professor of the Har-
mony of Science and Revealed Reli-
gion in Princeton College, N". j.
New York : Scribner, Armsftong A
Co. 1875.
The trustees of Princeton College
have deserved commendation and given
a good example to other colleges by es-
tablishing the chair filled by Dr. ShicWi
The learned doctor is evidently apply-
ing himself with zeal and industry to the
studies which will fit him to teach wiih
ability in his important branch of sciena
^-one which demands an almost ency-
clopedic knowledge of many sciences
specifically different from each other.
He informs us that he is preparing aa
extensive work on the topics presenid
in the essay before us, which is ccrtaialr
a most laudable undertaking, and one in
which we hope he may achieve a success-
ful and useful result. In the preseoi
essay the author shows a very consider-
able amount of reading and thought
some skill in generalization, and a good
deal of that felicity of diction which is
requisite in making such abstnise
themes as those which relate to natural
and theological science attractive tfl<J
intelligible even to tho mass of culti^cJ
persons.
Tlie distinctive and principal ibesi?
defended by Dr. Shields is, that pbfloso-
phy is the only umpire to determine
controversies in which the opposing
parties advocate what are professedly
revealed and professedly scientific facjs
or truths, respectively, in a mutually iJe
structive or hostile sense to each other.
To a certain extent, and in a correctly
New Publications.
717
defined sense, we cordially agree with
him, and in this sense the high office of
philosophy, as the queen of all rational
science, is affirmed and defended by all
Catholic philosophers and theologians
worthy of the name. The five primary
natural sc^ences — physic^, mathematics,
metaphysics, logic, and ethics — are cer-
tainly none of them subaltern one to
another, yet the other four are subordi-
nate to metaphysics, because its object
has a precedence in the order of the know-
able, and its principles furnish the othsr
sciences with their rational foundation.
Nev^ertheless, it is evident, and must be
admitted by every one who believes in a
certain, clear, and surely ascertainable
revelation of facts and truths by God,
which is supernatural, that there is a
science above metaphysics in excellence
— viz.» theology, which dominates over it
in so far that the latter science cannot
reject any of its dogmas. The sciences
cannot therefore properly be said to be
separate from each other, although they
are really distinct. All rational sciences
are subalternated to one or more of the
tave primaries, and thus subordinated to
metaphysics, which is subordinated to
theology. We consider that the author
is mistaken in asserting that a "health-
lul separation and progress" marked
the first stage of the history of the
sciences since the Reformation. If
by separation he means distinction
oiily, and the free development in
each science of its own proper prin-
ciples by its proper methods, this
distinction was recognized and acted
on before the Reformation, as may be
seen by consulting the great master
of the schools, S. Thomas. Some of
the sciences have made great progress
since that event, not by means of,
but partly notwithstanding, their vio-
lent and unnatural separation from
metaphysics and theology. In respect
to metaphysics and ethics, the Refor-
mation has produced one only direct
result, which is a miserable decadence
and retrogression, which seems to have
nearly reached its lowest term. The
sciences can only progress with full
liberty towards the perfection of hiTmah
knowledge when they exist in the due
liarmony and subordination which their
nature demands and God has established.
The exposition of the order and relation
of scientific facts, principles, and deduc-
tions in the universal realm of truth, as a
universal or encyclopxdie science, must,
therefore, always place each one in its
due subordination, and cannot admit of
the umpirage of an inferior over a supe-
rior science, much less of a revolt on the
part ot the inferior. It Is absurd to sup-
pose that the inferior tribunal of human
reason can judge a case in which the
judgment of God, who is the supreme
reason, or of an authority which God has
made supjeme, comes up by appeal. Dr.
Shields objects that the great problems
in question cannot be settled by the
determination of Scripture, councils, the
Holy See, or any kind of ecclesiastical
decisions, because there is no agreement
respecting the true sense of Scripture, or
universal recc^ition of a competent and
unerring tribunal. To this we reply that
the construction of certain and complete
science is one thing, and the communica-
tion of this science to the ignorant or err-
ing is another. Questions may be really
and definitively settled, though great
numbers of men may remain in culpable
or inculpable ignorance or error. The
Syllabus has settled all that it was intend-
ed to settle, so far as the right of the
matter is concerned, and for the whole
body of men who submit to the infallible
authority of the Vicar of Christ. Our know-
ledge is not in any way impaired by the
ignorance of those who are deprived of
the benefit of that instruction which
Catholics enjoy. But, when we come to
controversy, we cannot, of course, attempt
to convince or confute the ignorant or
erring by simply appealing to an autho-
rity which the antagonist or objector, or
uninstructed inqiiirer, does not know or
recognize to be an authority. We cannot
assume the authority of God with ah
atheist, of the Christian revelation with
an infidel, of the Catholic Church with a
Protestant. One of the fathers says, Qui
fidtm exigit^ fidem astruat, and Catholic
theologians have always acted on that
ma\im. Dr. Shields, as a Protestant,
has no rational idea of a positive, theo-
logical science. It is all mere contro-
versy, and we apprehend that his philoso-
phy will be found to be something equally
unsettled and incapable of settling itself.
It is a very dangerous thing for any kind
of dogmatic Protestantism to concede the
rights of reason, and especially so for
Calvinism. Princeton appears to be los-
ing the old, Presbyterian, Calvinistic
spirit, and going the way of the rest of
the world towards rationalism. We are
718
New Publications.
not sorry for it, because we hope that the
cultivation and exercise of reason will
prepare the way for a great number of
intelligent and educated young men to
submit their minds to the rightful and
ennobling dominion of divine faith. Not-
withstanding the defects of Dr. Shields'
essay, we are glad to see him advocate
the study of philosophy and exalt its
dignity ; for the search after the true phi-
losophy may lead many to find it, and
the true philosophy is the handmaid of
the true theology, and leads her votaries
to the feet of her mistress^
An Elementary Treatise on Physi-
cal Geography. By D. M. Warren.
Revised by A. von Steinwehr. Phila-
delphia : Cowperthwait & Co.
This book is one which Catholic teach-
ers should never think of using, and
against which Catholic children should,
as far as possible, be specially warned,
should it be introduced in any school
which they are obliged by circumstances
to attend.
It is probable that the chapter on
ethnograpHy, which is specially objection-
able, is the composition of the reviser.
At least we should so infer from the stu-
pid arrogance which crops out in its last
sentence, and which is characteristic of
the Prussia of to-day, intoxicated with a
temporary success which was, as any
careful student of history will conclude,
intended for the purification of France
rather than for the exaltation of her oppo-
nent. "The present historical period,"
he says, ** is directed by the Germanic
Aryans, who are the leaders of modem
Christian civilization." Comment is un-
necessary. We venture to say that few
of our or anybody else's readers have
ever come across anything more impu-
dent or absurd. It is an insult to the
American people, Catholic or non-Catho-
lic, to palm off on them such stuff as this.
He also implies in another place that
the German nation ** worked out its own
civilization." We have not heard of any
nation that has done that, but that the
Germans did not is too manifest to admit
of argument.
The principal objection to the chapter,
however, is the publication, without note
or comment of course, of two heresies with
regard to the origin of the human race,
as being equally entitled to acceptance
with the Mosaic account. One of these is
its origin from different original pairs, the
other what 'is commonly known as Di'
winism.
It is not worth while to gire a mart
extended notice to a book of this sor.
This species of book can be turned off tn
any person with a smattering of sdeoct
who has the leisure for authorship, aed
who can find a publisher. The mirkd
is flooded with such. We should not hart
said anything about it had not oar atiea
tion been called to it by a friend od ac-
count of its dangerous character.
It is high time that we had a compkic
series of really Catholic text-books whkii
would need no correction, either in tbej
matter or in the spirit in which iheyaic
written. We could put up even with in
ferior ones for the sake of religion and
the faith of our young people ; but »r
should not have to try very hard to cotse
up to the standard of such books as iftt
one just noticed.
New Practical Meditatioks for Ererv
Day in the Year, on the Life of Oar
Lord Jesus Christ. Chiefly intcndci
for the use of Religious CommuBiiits.
By the R'ev. Father Bruno Vcrcmyssc,
S.J. The only complete English t^n^
lation. New York and Cincionan
Benziger Brothers. 1875.
We have seen several books of medita-
tions, but none so business-Ule as tbi«s
The practice of mental prayer is br »•
means easy to everybody, and ntti^
much explanation and suggestire a^
Now, many of the manuals which are cf-
fered as guides prove unsatisfactory i*^
the user by either suggesting too little t.r
making the meditation for him. Intkf
work before us we see nothing of tL^
kind to regret. The plan is in many re-
spects new. Indeed, the author calls st*
cial attention to the preface in which -'
explains his method.
Though •* chiefly intended forreligio.^
communities," these meditations are «
adapted for private individuals, botht
clesiastic and lay. Moreover, a sioj '
** point" of each meditation will befwn'
sufficient by itself for those who have ret
time for more. The work is also ''<"
riched by several Novenas and Octavt*
Meditations for the First Friday of evtn
month, and for the days of Commnnion
. . .a new method of hearing Ma-*
and practical remarks on the difertt"
parts of meditations ; a plan of Jerosaic :
with a map of Palestine, showing tber .
ftreni localities mentioned throujh '
New Publications.
719
the work, and an alphabetical table of
contents, and of meditations on the Gos-
pels of the Sundays." Also, for religious,
'* Exercises preparatory to the renewal
of vows, and for a retreat of eight
davs/*
Lastly, the approbation of his emi-
nence Cardinal Deschamps, Archbishop
of Mechlin, speaks in unequivocal terms
of tlie work's merit. " These Medita-
tions," he says, ..." are remarkable for
the solidity of doctrine, the happy choice
of subjects, and unctuous piety. The
use of them cannot fail to be very profita-
ble to religious communities, to eccle-
siastics, and to those pious persons in
the world who aspire to perfection."
Annexed also is the approbation of
Father Charaux, S.J., Superior-General
of the Mission of New York and Canada ;
together with extracts from three letters
of Father Beckx,the General of the Jesu-
its, to the author.
Madame de Lavallk's Bequest : Coun-
sels to Young Ladies who have Com-
pleted their Education. Translated
from the fourth French edition by a
Sister of St. Joseph. Philadelphia : P.
F. Cunningham. 1875.
There is no doubt that this book, writ-
ten in a tone of genuine affection and in-
terest, and addressed to young ladies who
have completed their education, is one
that might profitably be put into the
hands of those for whom it was written
and translated. The only question seems
to be how best to commend it to their
attention ; for in these days of varied and
indiscriminate reading, the advice or rec-
ommendation of older people is seldom
asked, and a hurried glance at the con-
tents of a book is often sufficient to cause
its rejection, as prosy or unattractive.
To young ladies, also, who enjoying
in a liappy home the merited confidence
of their parents, and accustomed to few
restrictions from them, the minute and
careful instructions and directions found
in some of the chapters might perhaps
seem superfluous and a little amusing.
Yet, when they read the dedication, and
recognize the fact that the book was writ-
ten under the eyes, as it were, of the
Blessed Virgin, with the approbation of
her who was the -truest lady as well as
the purest woman in the world, they will
be disposed to accept with more humili-
ty and gratitude suggestions which they
tnusifecl, if followed, would render them
more truly her imitators, more worthy of
the name of her children.
To tho»e who have had the privilege
and happiness of a convent education,
this book is of course appropriate. It
will bring to their minds the gentle
teaching of those peaceful days, and act
as a kind of charm in recalling holy as-
pirations and resolutions. Especially
will they welcome it as proving the ten-
der interest of their former teachers,
which, though no longer folded arqund
them like a mantle, now attracts their at- ■
tention, as a signal waved from a secure
haven, to encourage their frail barks, as
they push out on the uncertain waves of
life.
Thoughtful minds are glad to find in a
book a companion and friend ; to such,
and as such, we recommend this valuable
Bequest. ,
Herbert's Wife: A Story for Yo;/.
By Minnie Mar)' Lee. Baltimore:
Kelly, Pict & Co. 1875.
We again welcome the author of The
Heart of Myrrha Lake to the field
o( Catholic literature. The writer pos-
sesses many of the qualifications most
essential to a writer of fiction — skill in
the construction of plots, ability to read
character at sight, and a certain racincss
and vivacity of style, which holds the
reader's attention from first to last, and
gives her the preference over some writers
of greater artistic finish. In this is indi-
cated our chief criticism and regret — that
one so well qualified should neglect that
attention to detail which characterizes
the perfect artist. Not that we would
advocate anything stiff or "artificial,"
for true art is always in harmony with
nature. It is precisely these exubere
ances and inaccuracies which cause the
writer subsequent annoyance, and for
which the critical eye is needed, to prune
and correct. The plot of Herberts Wife,
though simple, abounds in vivid pictures
of real life, and its incident^ serve the
moral purpose of the story admirably.
We do not doubt that each succeeding
effort will exhibit less and less of the
defect alluded to.
Breakfast, Luncheon, and Tea. By
Marian Harland. Author of Common
Sense in the Household, New York :
Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1875.
This is decidedly the most sensible,
and, we may add, entertaining book on
720
New Publications.
domestic economy we remember to have
met. ** Marian Hailand " has evidently
availed herself of her skill as a novelist
in sugar-coating a subject supposed to
be unpalatable to those for whom the
book is intended, the instructions being
conveyed in the form of ** Familiar Talks
with the Reader." If the writer succeeds
in inducing her fair countrywomen to
become proficients in the art she teaches,
much will have been added to the sub-
stantial comfort of households, and a
truer appreciation reached of the services
of good domestics
Lincard's History of England,
Abridged : With a Continuation from
i6SS to 1854. By James Burke, A.B.
And an Appendix to 1873. The whole
preceded by a Memoir of Dr. Lingard,
and Marginal Notes.f By M. J. Ker-
ney, A M. Baltimore : J. Murphy &
Co. 1S75.
This is a library edition of the abridg-
ment heretofore issued by the same house,
printed on better paper, and making a
handsome octavo of 688 pages.
Lingard's is still considered the stan-
dard English History by Catholic, and by
an increasing number of impartial non-
Catholic, students, and as it is probable
that comparatively few readers will con-
sider they have time enough for the en-
tire work, this edition is likely to be a
favorite one with book-buyers.
The Catholic Premium-Book Library.
First Series, 8vo. New York and Cin-
cinnati : Benziger Brothers. 1875.
The six volumes we have seen of this
series seem to be creditable specimens,
both in matter and illustrations, and the
publishers are to be commended for their
contributions towards a class of literature
which needed attention. We cannot well
have too many books which are attractive
in style and healthful in tone at the. same
time. Th^ works having been taken from
the French, the translations have been
made by competent hands, and the pic-
tures have much greater pretensions to be-
ing termed illustrations than many which
are made to do duty in that capacity.
We think, however, that the pub-
lishers' American printers and binders
could have produced better work than
the letter-press and " imitation cloth "
binding of these volumes.
The same publishers also issue a duo-
decimo and an i8mo series of thessce
library.
WaNN SpRICHT die KiRCHE UNFEHLEAl '
ODER : Natur xnxn Zwecic des kikch
LICHEN Lehramts. Von Tbomi'J
Franz Knox, Priester des Oratoriams
in London. Regensburg : Gcorg
Joseph Manz. 1874.
We are glad to see that Father Knox's
work has met the appreciation in Ger-
many of which this translation is the
evidence. The publication may aIso,«t
presume, be taken as an indication of the
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%s
ITERARY
OLLETIN.
PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.
8RECIAL NOTICE.
This department was specially opened to keep the readers of The Catholic
World acquainted from month to month with ajl the new Catholic books published
m this country and in England, a list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin.
By consulting this list every month, much fime 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 publisher's intention to make the list as correct as possible.
'The Slnstrated OaUiollc Family
tor 1876 '* is now in prets. Those
withlng to adrertise in it should send In their
sdTenis«nents daring July and August. To dl- '
rectors of colleges and academies, no better me-
dium can be found in which to make known their
Institutions.
The Parla magastne Xm X$ud49 notices Father
ntrper*s great book« ** Peace Throngh the
Truth,'* second series, as follows :
'* In this age of superflcial science and hasty
toll the church has presenred the glory and the
secret of great works. One Iotos to see an author
derate eight years to the composition of a second
voTume, when truth demanded eight years of re-
sesrch and labor. He risks being less widely
dfectlTe, but what matters that to the select pub-
lic whom he addresses. One has already com-
pletely forgotten a pamphlet, celebrated in its
time, composed in 1866 by Dr. Pusey, and which
wu really an indictment of the practices of the
Ctthollc Churth under a pacific title. The Ber.
Esther Harper replied to some of the accusations
in a very remarkable work, which we noticed at
the time in the Stud49. It contained an essay on
the theory of the union of the churcke<>, and
three treatises, on the unity of the church, Tranr
tnbstantiation, and the Immaculate Conception.
The Tolome now before us belongs to another
eootrorersy—the prohibition of tiM Levitical law
la the matter of marriage and the dispensations
•ccorded by the Holy See.
"The question Is treated ezhaustiyely and
nadsr all its aspects. This work, which was
originally only a refutation, has become a com-
piste treatise on marriage, in legal, political, and
Kslsl points of Tiew. It is remarkable for the
<l«vatlet, SltaraeiB, aad Tigorous aigumeat of a
theologian. Joined to a beauty of form which
markii aman brought up amidst the grand literary
traditions of the University of Oxford.
"This work of a master mind is one of the
most beaatUhl which the Catholic literature of
England, so young and already so prolific, has
produced since the period of the r€oM. Now, as
in the earliest ages, the passionate attacks of
heresy proroke the Ulent of Catholic doctors,
and call from them works of Inestimable value.**
This work is for sale by The Catholic Pubu-
CATTOK SOCIBTT.
The Newark (HU»m says that the «« Lif^ of
Ohrlet," by Louis Veuillot, translated by Rer^.
A. Parley, and published by Ths Oathouc Pub-
lication SociETT, No. Warren Street, New
Tork, is one of the most remarkable books that
have issued ttom. the press of the XlXth cen-
tury. Itis written by one of the most celebrated
publicists of this century —the editor of the French
paper entitled the Univtr$. A man of profound
thought, and deeply conversant with the feelings,
the prejudices, the knowledge, and the ignocance
of the age in which he lives, be takes up the de-
fence of the Gospel history in the same spirit as
the men of his race and nation once took up thr
sword to defend the sepulchre of Him who is the
subject of that history. A knight he is without
fear or reproach, and bravely does be accomplish
his work. No man of any of the varied creeds
should fall to read this admirable work ; it will
strengthen bis faith; it will eticourage his hope ;
it will expand his love of all that pertains to the
lif^ and character of the blepsed Savloar. The
translation is good and faithful, and, although It
may lack the grandeur and elegance of the origi-
nal work, it is still very pure and readable Bag-
lish.**
Literary Bututin.
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HOME AND FOREIGN AND EDUCATIONAL REi
A New Series, price One Penny, iUnstnted.
Oontainhig the beet selections from the Catholic Continental, American, and OolOBia)
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ilTARS ARRANGED F0.-{ PRIVATE USE.
in (soffl SifA\
30IF JiBADY:
CATHOLIC SCHOOL BOl
"Hi Ioi IiMi's IfcU W Ml!
THe Cttlhoik Pul»tioit)on StKietv hi« nnw In prtip, wM In t'
Haak»» tu \ve kna^irn bf lite 4bor« I lie, which ft 0(*fiyriKDk»ed. I it.
for dvUwry ;
THiiJ FooHir Vait^dir**- W*f^ri0trd Priwiitr,
• « i*
«»
Hmrmut /.
Tkivd Ututit* t'.
•• Vuihaiic Vmtnff Ladirjt* Reaitrr^ • . ♦ •
G*LboUi) IkiibouL
./'
What in 8iiid uf the '' Youiig Catholk'a Illtt^^lralrd Hih
L ivKM^vir. H*...,., %Vt» Wm;
ably «riiiuit«<(l, U> -
'^ The
Wur Br tt nri\v1r 1j3r<-il' < hr f frf'i til' i-»f thi' *■,; i . I itjrwr
"^t^lM /.V#
»!•- L[4»'CT.Cn
fvery fi^tti I
No. 126.
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
or
iNERAL Literature and Science.
SEPTEMBER, 1875.
Contents.
721
A V iM I \'* IfL-lnniJ III lS74^ ^ 765
The l,tjTcn(l of FTiar^s Ruck, 7^*0
n|utcC*Sllc (Poctry)i .- 7i^0
-f. - - - . .790
nic, ^ . ^ 805
'S5 in the Desert* -843
^ Utiiciti nmJ Pf r^^rcss of {\\e
Mjssioti of Ktnrucky, - 825
X. Blessed Nicholas von dtfr
Flue, * ^ . . . S36
XI. The Assumption (Poetrj-), - 848
XII. The Scienrifir r-oblla.* - 849
XIIL The llappv Islands tPoelrv) 852
XIV. Nc^v 'v- . '- 555
\''' t Im Idee* Mo-
de- 'i-titn.t lv,lViara
T. ..,,._
A t!ic
I;
New "York \
'HE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
(P. O. Box 5396,) No. 9 VVarrkn Stkcet.
terms: $S FER YRAR| in ADVANCl.
>EAt£ES SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY.
►- ' ■- TO lOOISEUfRS. MUST LOQIC TO TMIW, AND NOT TO US. FOR THI IIAOA:
'I tin ''Tin: ( VTllill.ir HOHLII** 10 (;riiit Itrinnii rinil Jr.
Seion Hall College,
BOVTU OUANGE, JS.J.
iriratiOlt Wflh tT«r r- ^.f^.tUi
Snt^tn TTftTl *^lrtlFl r»t oomr/lnftje the ftdranfiic
tttt«»ritloo.
tloft to KnglliAi tJifotntboat. For tortus. «?te., appl^' to
Btp Bev. M. A. COfiHIGAN, D.B . Presideai. 1
.1 BruHlifnf Book,
MAIAL OF THE BLESS0] SACEAM
^PPHOBA^TIO?^.
Wo approvi?. and wish to comtut'ntl in a ii()^ri&I ruiiJii2C>r, tlji» "^ JlAicr Ji. or mi fit-
Sacr^iib?«t," troti'^lutrd from the Frt'iicli, It aboiinfU wUh uflcfui lii&lftirtfnti a^ ! ^n-ti»'
thrnii^bout ft fsptrtt. af f«ftli and pletj that con hiirclly fmlJ lo excite «
n>adors a dec»p«r K.v** for th» mowt anpuftt luj-fstfiry of the nltar, •»<! a •
the SacTed He&rt of Jet^tia, ^V i» hope from it many prectoun tru£t» to 6nul»
Xew York, AprU tl, l87\
This MouuaJ la printed ob the ftneet paper, tnym \hT^r, olc nr tjpf'.
Cloth, red edjjea . ...» .... .31 DO j Morweo, UJctfft «
Roao,,,...,.,...... 'i o<i| FuliCjUf-..
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
Lfiwrenre Kefme, ft en* AfjettU
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77*^ nndivAigni'ji rapifMA thut nil oJJUini eomhi
Pamh mat/ ht ttirfrUd to the lin' Alfnd Yuuuff, <
EdUoriM i)fpnrifnaU ^tf the rATBOLIC WORLli u> J/' t
tani'fditor ; attd Mcr rowmunicnti^mn, ojkial or private, in h
Mai-y\ i^f thfi LaJic, Lakt George, N. T,
Ar^,uaT^^
Alt the back H*tmf»rrs 0/ THE CATHOLICirORLU -
af the puhUmthH o^lv&, 9 Warren Street. Frtw Fifty Ceritm prr n t.
ifi b<fitnd fofa, Xtnvtiien v*/ts, noie rtudy. /Yw*, per vt/l, ptmn cun^, ysjt^
*tkor0CC4)f ^,
ilic'sScW
SAMPLE OF THK COVER.
Sample Pages of the
Tbs Young Catholi&h Primer. ii
— +—
I am.
It is.
All ax.
An ox.
On us.
Of lis.
Lesson I.
It is I. I am up.
I am in. Am I on?
It is on. It is up.
Am I up ? I am on.
As it is. If it is.
As I am. It is in.
St. Icnatius College, 413 W. ijth.St., Chicago, III., July 26, 1874.
1,. Kehoe, Esq., New York :
Dear Sir : Please to accept the thanks of the Faculty for the three volumes
entitleti " Young Catholic's Illustrated School Series "— Primer, First Reader,
"Young: Catholic*8 Primer/'
Tbe Youno Catholic* 8 Primer. 63
— + —
Lesson XX VIL
God is
we
owe oiir
life and
all that
we have
and are.
We pray
to Him
each day, and He gives us
the food we eat, the clothes
we wear, our health and our
strength. Let us try at all
times to please Him. Jjet us
speak no bad word and do no
bad act. Then God will love
us and bless us.
Second Reader. Upon hasty perusal, I find them excellent for the use of our
schools, and my wish is that they may be introduced into every Catholic school
in the States. In haste, very respectfully,
John G. Venneman, SJ., Sec
Sample Pages of the
10
The Youno
man
lad
CATHOLicfs First Reader.
LESSON IL
bag
ran
mat
nag
A man had a cat.
A man had a hat.
A man had a map.
A man had a bag.
A man had a nag.
LESSON in.
rag fan pan
_. cap rap lap
A bat is in a
bag.
A cat is in a
bag.
A fan is in a bag. The fan.
A rat is in a liat. The rat.
A rag is in a hat. The cap.
Cathedral School, Vincennes, Ind., June 22, 1875.
Mr. L. Kehoe:
Dear Sir : Last February we introduced " The Young Catholic's Readers "
=""• our school, and I assure you I have never found books so well adapted to
"Young Catholic's First Reader."
The Young Catholic's First Readkh. 51
— + —
LESSON LII.
cross
grace
It is time for bed. We must now pray-
to God. He is near us when we play, and
He is near us when we sleep. God's love
is 80 great, that He sent his Son to die
on the cross to save us. Let us say, "
my God, keep us from harm. Give us
grace to lead good lives.''
our wants. The subjects of the lessons are instructive, and interest the little
readers so that they cannot but make progress.
Wishing you success in your undertaking, I subscribe myself, yours respect-
fully, Bro. Stephen.
Sample Pages of the
The Young Catiiolic's Second Deader. 17
LE8S0N VIII.
wreck
saved
storm
reach
cling
lives
shore
mast
THE STORM.
1. There has been a storm, and the
good ship is a wreck.
2. Do you see how the crew cUng to
the mast of the ship?
3. The life-boat has been sent out, and
some of them are in it. They try to
reach the shore. Row, men; row for
your lives!
4. See, the boat seems to sink in the
From the Boston '"^ Pilots
'* We have received the Primer and the First and Second Readers of this
series, and we are delighted with them. If the whole series be as good as these
first parts, the Catholics of the country will have solid reason to be grateful to
*'— /^ntholic Publication Society. A need too long felt will now be supplied, and
ler second to no other educational system in the United States. These
"Young Catholic's Second Reader."
96 The Younq Catholjc's Second Reader,
— + —
Thy father and I have sought Thee sor-
rowing.
5. And He said unto them, *^How is it
that you sought Me ? Did you not know
that I must be about the things that are
My Father's?'^
6. Our Lord wished to remind them
that His own Father was God, and that
it was right. for Him to leave His eai-thly
parents for the sake of doing the w^ork
of His Father in heaven.
O
ui
first books are beautifully printed and are copiously illustrated. The arrange-
ment and gradual progression of words, to' suit the infant mind, are admirable.
Unlike the school-books hitherto used by Catholic children, the illustrations
in this series are connected with the matter printed in the same page. The
illustrations have the advantage of being well drawn and well engraved, and
will themselves give children a good lesson in picturesque art."
Sample Pages of the
22 7'he Young Catholk^s Third Reader.
tliiit we love (lod ; but if we do anytliiiii^
wroug, he is very sad and sorrowful.
6. We should think very often of this
dear angel of ours, and we should try to
show him we
are gi-ateful
for all his
love and
care.
7. In the
morning wo
should thank
him for hav-
ing M'atch(Hl
over us dur-
ing the nig]it,
and at night
we should
aisk his par-
don for all
the pain
w h i c h our
faults have
caused him
during the day.
8. There was once a saint named Frances,
who was allowed by God to see lier guardian
angel ; and she described his appearance in
these words:
St. Aloysius Academy, Frankfort, Ky., May 22, 1875.
Dear Sir : The Sixth, Fifth, Fourth, and Third Readers of ** The Young
Catholic's Series," which you sent me, are received with many thanks. I assure
you that 1 have found none so well adapted for Catholic schools as this series.
"Young Catholic's Third Reader."
82 7'he YouiYG Catholics Tmuh Rkadkr,
— + —
^'So it doPi^/' said little Oarric. ^' What
a fiiimy little tliiiijj^!"
''It is not only a funny little thing,
Carrie," said Mrs. Wallace, ''but it is also
very useful."
6. "Oh, mamma!" said Alice.
" Wait, my dear ; don't be in a hurry.
It not only works harder than some little
girls, but it makes something which is very
beautiful, too, I believe I have something
in my work-box that a worm like this has
made
7. " This little fellow finds a quiet plac(5
w here he can work without being disturbed ;
but not until he has eaten a great number
of leaves of the siune kind as that in your
hand, which he is now eating.
The subjects in the reading lessons are of the best in every respect. I have ii
troduced them into this^ Academy, and will advise others to do the same.
Yours respectfully, B. Flavian.
Ffom the Boston ''Pihty
"The Third Reader is certainly one of the best school readers we have ev<
seen. It is admirably arranged, the selections are interesting, and the ei
Rravings give life and beauty to the book.''
Sample Pages of the
« The TovyG Catholic's Fourth Reader.
— +—
11. *' Whatever liappens, I will make the best
of my lot/' said the last ; and it went high
np. but came down against the garret window of
an old hou^, and was caught there in a crack
filled with moss and soft mould.
1± The moss closed around it, and there it
lav a prisoner, lost to sight, but not forgotten
by God. ''I shall make the bestof my lot/' it
said as it lay there.
13. Within the little garret lived a poor wo-
man, who went out every day to do house-
work, which was her only means of getting a
little money. She was strong and industrious,
but nevertheless she was a very poor widow, and
the prospect was that she would always be so.
From " BrownsofCs Review, ^^
** This scries is very handsomely printed and done up, and we presume wiD
l»v .1 moai lavoriie with both children and teachers, as it will savfe the one all
ivMiMv \\\ unu hiiig, and the other all labor in learning. In a word, the scries
"" "Mvil on a theory we do not approve — that of simplifying the lessons lo
^* Young Catholic's Fourth Reader."
The Young Catholh^s Fourth Reader, 79
readied a river, and gladly plunged into its
cool waters.
LESSON XX.
Arrayed', dressed. In fliot'ed, imposed.
En dnred', bore with patience. Pros'trate, lying at length.
Flincdi'iiig, shrinking. Bib'ald, mean, vile:
COURAGE.
1. •' Dear children," exclaimed Aunt Margaret,
as they assembled round the table for a story,
''look carefully at this picture, and note whom
you see, and how He is arrays d.
2. "He stands, He, the son of the great King,
the greatest possible extent, so as to tax the intellect of the child the least
possible. . . . Yet our objection is to the system on which this series is
prepared, not specially to this series itseK. Accept the system^ these books are
admirable. . . . They are the best we have examined^ and we do twt expect to see
for a long time any to be pre/erred to them^
Sample Pages of the
X
48 The Yol\\g CATHOLnfs Fifth Readeb^
— + —
LESSON VIII.
ARCHBISHOP CARROLL.
1. The Most Rev. Jolin Carroll, the first Bishop
and Art-hbishup of Baltimore and of the Catho-
lic Church in the
United States, was
bom in Maryland
on the 8th of Jan-
uary, 1735.
The Catholics
who, fleeing from
persecution in
England, had
formed the colony
of Maryland, and
embodied in the
laws which they
Ifi-amed the great
'principle of liber-
ty of conscience,
were themselves
soon deprived of
religious freedom.
Their worship was
proscribed, and they were forbidden to open schools
in which their children might receive instruction in
the truths of their faith.
2. This was the state of affairs at the time of the
birth of John Carroll ; and his parents, who were
possessed of fortune, were compelled to send him
to Europe to be educated. He entered the Jesuit
College at St. Omer, in Flanders, where he remained
From the Pittsburgh '' Hibemianr
\\V ttHTnOy received copies of the Fifth and Sixth Readers, and delayed
auv h^ s^hlrr lo examine them thoroughly. This we have done, and find
, us Msv^^\ rtshunalUy suiteil for the requirements of Catholic youth. In the
' ' •' ^> iMvMV important facts in the history of the Church, in the Old as
No\\ World, are presented to the pupil in an attractive shape.
" Young Catholic's Fifth Reader."
The Yovxg Catholic s Fifth Rkadkr, 199
— + —
But, cheered by hope, the seamen cope
With the billows single-handed :
They are all in the boat !— hurrah I they're afloat ! —
And now they are safely landed.
By the life-boat ! Cheer the life-boat I
Hurrah ! Hurrah for the life-boat !
LESSON XLV.
^
THE USES OP THE OCEAN.
1. The traveller who would speak of his expe-
rience in foreign lands must be^n with the sea.
God has spread this vast pavement of his temple
between the hemispheres, so that he who sails to
foreign shores must pay a double tribute to the
ft
m
There arc, in addition, characteristic selections from the writings of the masters
of English, in prose and poetry. The * Sixth Reader and Speaker * is intended
for a more advanced grade of scholars. A brief, plain, but comprehensive
explanation of all that is really important in the science of elocution forms the
introductory treatise. Both Readers are text-books of the very choicest
character."
Sample Pages of the
?
Jo
cz:
/V/rr /««• Hermit Preaching the CruttuU.
The Yooag Catholics Firm Readeu, 395
— 4- —
brave defence, in which the last Emperor, Constan-
tine Xn., was slain (1463).
9. The fall of the imperial city filled Europe
with terror. Pope Nicholas V. immediately sent
From thf Dttbuqiu " TeUgraphr
** We have ret eived the Fifth and Sixth Readers of this series, and have
examineii them with some care. We find them differing from other school-
readers with which we are familiar in the selection of matter from a greater
2
3
" Young Catholic's Fifth Reader."
t:
c
X
s
"5
^jBTiF To UNO Catholi&s Fifth Beader. 425
— + —
LESSON C.
DANIEL O'CONNELL.
1. In the vaults of the church of St. Agatha at
Rome is inurned a lieart which once beat as respon-
sive to the cause
of civil and reli-
gious liberty as
that of any public
character of this
century. It is the
heart of the great
Daniel O'Connell.
This illustrious
champion of. the
faith, and defend-
er of a persecut-
^ ed race, was born
j near the town
I of Cahirciveen,
County of Kerry,
Ireland, on the
6th day of Au-
gust, 1775. His
~ parents, though
not wealthy, were of ancient lineage, and much
respected in the community for their hospitality,
probity, and piety.
2. At the age of thirteen, young O'Connell was
sent to a school in a neighboring county, where his
conduct seems to have been excellent, and his pro-
gress proportionately rapid. " I was the only boy
at Harrington's school," he afterwards said, ''who
number of writers of eminence than is usual in most school-readers. In thes
readers we find selections from writers who are very seldom, if ever, referred 1
in other school-readers, but whose learning, virtue, and erudition entitle thei
to be considered as models for learners to imitate in scholarship and virtue."
Sample Pages of the
The Young Catholic's Second Reader. 17
LESSON VIII.
wreck
saved
storm
reach
cling
lives
shore
mast
THE STORM.
1. There has been a storm, and the
good ship is a wreck.
2. Do you see how the crew cling to
the mast of the ship?
3. The hfe-boat has been sent out, and
some of them are in it. They try to
reach the shore. Row, men; row for
your lives!
4. See, the boat seems to sink in the
From the Boston " Pilot:'
'; We have received the Primer and the First and Second Readers of this
senes, and we are delighted with them. If the whole series be as good as these
first parts, the Catholics of the country will have solid reason to be grateful to
the Catholic Publication Society. A need too long felt will now be supplied, and
m a manner second to no other educational system in the United Sutes. These
"Young Catholic's Second Reader."
96 The Young Catholic's Second Reader.
Thy father and I have sought Thee sor-
rowing.
5. And He said unto them, '^How is it
that you sought Me ? Did you not know
that I must be about the things that are
My Father's ? "
6. Our Lord wished to remind them
that His own Father was God, and that
it was right. for Him to leave His earthly
parents for the sake of doing the work
of His Father in heaven.
o
CD
O
Ul
first books are beautifully printed and are copiously illustrated. The arrange-
ment and gradual progression of words, to* suit the infant mind, are admirable.
Unlike the school-books hitherto used by Catholic children, the illustrations
in this series are connected with the matter printed in the same page. The
illustrations have the advantage of being well drawn and well engraved, and
will themselves give children a good lesson in picturesque art."
o
I
o
a?
cS
EH
02
Sample Pages of the
TBS YoUNO CATHOUCfS SlXTH READER. 105
+—
LESSON XXV.
CARDINAL W0L8EY AND CROMWELL.
WoUey, Farewell, a long farewell, to all my givat-
ness !
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And— when he thinks, good, easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening— nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured.
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
J^om the Cincinnati " Catholic Telegraph:^
" We can now safely say that they are decidedly the best Catholic Readers
published in this country. The grading is almost perfect, the illustrations are
very far ahead of those in any other of our Catholic readers, and the literary
selections are made with good judgment and excellent taste. They have an-
other great merit rarely found in Catholic school-books— that of durability.
TK^v orM 6fr/\nrrl«i
Iff «^#X<va»Uaw
^^A ^» *
.^^.^ T>..
"Young Catholic's Sixth Reader/'
The Young CATuoLicfs Sixth Reader. 239
— 4—
LESSON LXXVIII.
LAS CA8A8 DISSUADING FROM BATTLE.
Is then the dreadful measure of your cruelty not
yet complete ? Battle ! gracious heaven ! Against
whom ? Against a king, in whose mild bosom your
atrocious injuries, even yet, have not excited hate !
but who, insulted or victorious, still sues for peace.
Against a people who never wronged the living
being their Creator formed ; a people who, children
of innocence ! received you as cherished guests, with
eager hospitality and confiding kindness. Gener-
ously and freely did they share with you their com-
forts, their treasures, and their homes : you repaid
them by fraud, oppression, and dishonor. These
eyes have witnessed all I speak : as gods you were
received — as fiends you have acted.
Pizarro, hear me ! — Hear me, chieftains 1 And
thou. All-powerful 1 whose thunder can shiver
into sand the adamantine rock — whose lightnings
can pierce to the core of the riven and quaking
earth— oh, let thy power give effect to thy ser-
vant' s words, as thy spirit . gives courage to his will !
Do not, I implore you, chieftains — countrymen —
do not, I implore you, renew the foul barbarities
your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched,
unoffending race ! But hush, my sighs I— fall not, ye
drops of useless sorrow! — heart-breaking anguish,
choke not my utterance ! All I entreat is, send me
once more to those you call your enemies. Oh, let
me be the messenger of penitence from you ; I shall
return with blessings and peace from them. Elvira,
you weep ! Alas ! does this dreadful crisis move
series of school-readers now in circulation the pockets of the poor are emptied
to enrich the bookseller. As to the * get-up ' of these books— in paper, press-
work, and binding — they are in keeping with all the books published by The
Catholic Publication Society, models for our other Catholic publishers.
"It may be said this is strong language, but we mean what we say. When
some one else shall publish a better set of readers, we shall let our readers know
Sample Pages of the
.2
o
0^
Eh
'o
FRONTISPIECE.
J*rom the Bishop of Erie.
Erie, July 29, 1875.
Mr. Lawrence Kehoe :
Dear Sir: "The Young Ladies* Reader,** published at the establishment of
which you are the general agent, is, in my opinion, the best work of the kind I
have seen.
Its lessons are entertainincr and insfrnrHv** f^nrh €\i them j« treat of
"Young Ladies' Reader,''
302 Tbe Young Catholic? s Illustrated Readers.
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass,
My father, howsoe'er I seem to yon,
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best
And greatest, though my love had no return ;
which all are written leaves nothing to be desired. Your " Full Catechism of
the Catholic Religion," translated from the German of Rev. J. Deharbe, SJ.,
by Rev. John Fander, I have examined, as yet, only in a very cursory manner ;
^tit what I have read of it convinces me that the popularity it has enjoyed in
Germany, since its publication in 1847, is well deserved.
Yours sincerely,
4^ T. Mullen. Bishop of Erie.
Sample Pages of the
Young Ladies' Reader.
— + —
LESSON C.
401
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
1. In tlie spring of the year 1853 I observed, as
conductor of the weekly journal Ilon^ehold Word^s^
a short poem among tht; proffered contributions,
very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses
perpetually setting through the ofl5ce of such a
periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its
From the ''Pittsburgh Catholic:'
" This is another excellent school-book of the series now being furnished to
our Catholic educational institutions by The Catholic Publication Society. This
Reader, as the title indicates, is specially intended for the use of young ladies,
-particularly those who are well advanced in their studies. The compiler draws
jely on well-known authors of the Old and New World for his matter, of
"Young Ladies' Reader."
Young Ladie^ Reader.
— + —
385
Was staini)ed the seal of tliat creating hand
Whose spirit dwelt within that temple rare,
Her holy virgin heart ; and from her eyes,
Soul-lit, beamed forth the splendor and the depth
Of tliat informing mind whose lights they were,
Until you heeded not their violet hues,
Tlieir lashes long, or nobly arching brows.
Her flossy hair was colored like the sun,
Her cheeks were opal-tinted, like the hues
Of rosy sunset mingled with the pure
Soft paly whiteness of the maiden moon.
Her mouth was a pomegranate-flower, with all
Its crimson sweetness, and her rounded chin,
Love's finger touching, had impressed therein
CD
to
Or
both prose and poetry, and fills it with a fair share of original matter. It gives
brief biographical sketches of many good and pious women, founders of
religious orders, etc., to show what woman can be elevated to in both the re-
ligious 2lnd s6dar,order;of things. It has a frontispiece giving the likenesses of
nine of the founders oT reh'gious orders in the Church, and a number of other
illustrations distributed through the work. We cheerfully recommend the work
to our educational institutions/'
Sample Pages of the
96 The Young Catholi&s Speller.
— 4- —
LESSON III.
me ni al ra di ant
pa pa cy
re gen cy
CO gen cy
80 berly
vacan cy
vi tal ly
totally
fu ri 0U8
pre vi 0U8
glo ri 0U8
spu ri ous
8tn di oas
ha mor oos
In min ous
i ci cle
ve hi cle
cu ti cle
tu ber cle
pi ons ly
flu ent ly
mn tu al
f u ner al
nn mer al
tu te lar
u ni form
u ni verse
le ni ent
vi o lent
ve he ment
va ri ance
vi o lence
ve he mence
LESSON IV.
o dor ous
nu mer ous
dan ger ous
lu di crous
grate f ul ly
hope less ly
fre quent ly
11 able
pli a ble
ca pa ble
sal a ble
tarn a ble
blam a ble
tast a ble
LESSON V.
a the ist
di a gram
di a lect
e go tist
e qui nox
fa tal ist
lu na tic
ho sier y
o ver sight
pa gan ism
por ce lain
u su rer
van ons
de vi ous
Be ri oa8
ri ot ons
CO pi ous
en ri ous
du bi ous
du ra ble
mu ta ble
cur a ble
tun a ble
for ci ble
ford a ble
port a ble
di o cese
e qui poise
like li hood
live li hood
mi cro scope
mo tion less
fa mons ly
forg er y
va gi-an cy
use f ul ness
LESSON VL*
fo li age
de i f V
ra di ate
8U i cide
pu er ile
CO di fy
de vi ate
qui et ude
fa vor ite
no ti fy
me di ate
i dol ize
ju ve nile
pu ri fy
vi late
re al ize
f u gi tive
glo ri fy
fu mi gate
le gal ize
lu era tive
pu tre fy
. mu ti late
e qual ize
nu tri tive
stu pe fy
al ien ate
ste ve dore
♦ In ttie flret
precedine Anai 4 is short: in Uie thM
' and fonrtb co'.umas. it is long. The flnal y of the eeoond oolmnn is long.
... Erie, Aug. 8, 1575.
Mr. Lawrence Kehoe:
Dear Sir: I hope the efforts you are making to supply the Gatholic com-
munity with an excellent senes of school books, will meet with the'encouragc-
UKMU It so well deserves. V'ours sincerely,
•J^T. Mullen, Bishop of Erie.
"Young Catholic's Speller."
r:
26
The Young Catholic's Hpelle
1
'R.
T
WORDS OF FOUR LhTlTERS.
SHORT SOUNDS.
liESSON I.
adze
back lamp belt
help
edge
camp land best
jest
else
cash rash deck
kept
etch
damp sack desk
lend
inch
fact samp felt
lens
1
odds
hand sand held
melt
*
LESSON II.
1
mend
rest went gift
wind
^
4
^
neck
sect west hilt
wing
1^
nest
send yelk lift
wish
Lext
tent dish list
sick
£
peck
text film milk
silk
^
rent
vest fish risk
sing
1/
H
LESSON III.
bond
long bulb fund
pump
S
cost
mock bulk hunt
pulp
dock
pomp bust husk
rush
o"
fond
pond duck jump
rust
font
rock dusk just
sulk
lock
1
soft dust lung
tuck
JProm the Louisviile ** Catholic Advocate:' —
'* JxGtfi z merely secular and intellectual standpoint, the books ^e cqwl to
the best ever produced. But their most exalted merits consist in the ubiquitous
Catholicity with which they are saturated. The skilfulness of this blending of
doctrine, devotion, and secular information is a marvel. There is no strained
effort at obtrusive sermonizing, yet the little student is never able to forget that he
island must be a Catholic, first, last, and always, over and above everything else."
Sample Pages of
44
same time, they most virulently attacked and calumni-
ated the Pope and the Catholic Clergy. Moreover, in
many places crying acts of violence were committed,
and people were forced by all sorts of oppression and
persecution to renounce the H0I3' Catholic Faith.
44. Tha Catholics, on their part, made several at-
tempts to restore peace to the Church, by entering into
amicable discussions with their opponents; but the
hatred which Luther bore to the Pope, the Head of
the Church, continued implacable. To check the pro-
gross of heresy an<l wickedness, the Emperor Charles
V. assembled in 1529 a second Diet at Spire, where a
decree was issued, that, until the decision of a General
Council, Lutheranism should be tolerated wherever it
had alrearly been established, but should not be spread
any farther ; that no one should be hindered from say-
ing or hearing Mass, and that all invectives against any
Keligion should be prohibited. The Lutherans pro-
teated against this decree, and from this circumstance
is derived their name of Protestants ; which appella-
tion has since been given also to the other Sect;^ into
which they have divided. At length, the Holy Father
convoked a General Council at Trent, in the Tyrol, in
the year 1545. The doctrine of the Innovators was
examined and unanimously (condemned; at the same
tirje, many excellent decrees concerning Ecclesiastical
institutions and the reformation of abuses, were issuetl ;
in a word, the eminent transactions of this Council gave
fresh beauty and new vigour to the Catholic Church.
What means did they upe in many places to make the Catbo-
licd renounce their faith ?
44. What did the Catholics do for the restoration of peace,
and what was the result ? In what year, and by whom, wai
the Diet of Spire assembled 7 What famous decree was issued
there? Howdid the name of Pr<7t«x^aftt<oriKinate7 Areotity
the Lutherans now callt-d ProtestantB? What measures did
the Holy Father at lat«t take ? In what year was the Council
of Trent convoked, and what was done by it? What did th»
J
From the Ave Maria.
" Wc Tiaye on our table a complete set of « The Young Catholic's Illns-
trated School Serjes,' edited by Rev. J. L. Spalding, "S.T.L., and published by
The Catholic Publication Society of New York. The series comprises eleven
■ -Ties, M follows : Fleury's Short Catechism, Fr. Deharbe's FuU Catechism.
er. Speller, First Reader, Second Reader, Third Reader, Fourth Reader
.eader, Sixth Reader, and, finally. The Youne CathoUc Ladies' Hiah-
Deharbe's Catechism.
3U9
all events, be weighty, is erident from the decree of the Gounoil
of Trent (Sess. 24, Ch. ▼), which says that ' Impediments of
marriage are either never, or but rarely, to be dispensed with.*
A dispensation got by fraud, though valid before men, is, never-
theless, invalid before GoA.
,17. What should we think oi mixed marriages, t. e,
of marriages which are contracted hetwe^n Catholics
and non-Catholics, especially Protestants ?
That the Church has, at all times, disapproved of
such marriages, and never permits them, except on cer-
tain conditions.
18. Why does the Church disapprove of such mar-
riages!
1. Because the Catholic party is exposed to great
danger of either losing or becoming indifferent to the
faith ;
2. Because the Catholic education of the children is
generally deficient, and not seldom impossible ;
3. Because the non-Catholic party does not acknow-
ledge Matrimony either as a Sacrament or as indissolu-
ble, and can, therefore, according to his or her princi-
ples, separate, and marry again, which the Catholic
consort is not permitted to do ; and
4. Because for that very reason such a marriage
never is a true emblem of the most intimate indissolu-
ble union of Christ with His Church, which, however,
every Christian marriage ought to be ; in fine,
5. Because the happiness of conjugal union depends,
above all, on unity of faith.
19. On what conditions does the Church consent
to a mixed marriage!
On these : 1. That the Catholic party be allowed
the free exercise of religion ; 2. That he or she earnestly
endeavour to gain by persuasion the non-Catholic con-
sort to the true Church ; and 3. That all the children
be brought up in the Catholic religion (Briefs of Pius
VIII. and Gregory XVL).
o
CD
O
m
" Flcury's Historical Catechism has been revised, enlarged, and brought
down to the Pontificate of Pius IX. by Father Formby, and has the imprimatur
of Cardinal Manning. Of Father Deharbe's Catechism we have already spoken
in a previous notice. The Speller of this series is a model one. It is simple,
practical, and well arranged. We think, however, that a larger Speller, like
Wm. T. Adams's, is needed to make the Series complete. (This is now in pre-
paration. — Publisher, ") The readers we cannot sufficiently praise. They ai
Sample Pages of the
First Lessons jx ^iUmbehs,
27
ADUITIO^^
LESSON I.
1. Addition is the process of uniting several
uiunbers into one sum.
2. The Sum, or Amount, is t]ie result or nuni>
ber obtained. It is equal to all the nnmb^^rs
added.
3. The Sign of Addition is a perpendicular
cross +, and is called plus, wliich means more.
Placed between two numbers, it shows that they
are to be added together.
carefully graded, and compiled with great taste and judgment The illustrations,
on the whole, are good, and we are delighted at the number of religious sub-
jects chosen. Those who know anything about children will readily understand
the importance of this. The higher readers are excellent ; the selections are
mostly new, and well adapted to foster a taste for solid reading. As to the
mechanical part of the series — binding, printing, paper, etc. — it is enough to
say that ^ is in keeping with the other books of The Catholic Publication So-
"First Lessons in Numbers."
First Lfssoxs ix Xr.vnERs. 59
LESSON A
'.
5
times
I
are 5.
5
times 7
are
35-
5
**
2
** 10.
5
- 8
*•
40.
5
a
3
" 15.
5
*' 9
ti
45-
5
a
4
*-' 20.
5
" 10
<<
50-
5
a
5
" 25.
5
** II
<i
55-
S
a
6
" 30.
5
** 12
£<
60.
1. What will be tlie cost of 5 hats at $2 each ?
2. At 3 cents each, what will be the cost of
three oranges ?
3. Frank lives 2 miles from school : how many
miles does he walk in 5 days ? Aug, 20 miles.
4. If a man earns $4 a day, how many dollai-s
will he earn in 5 days ?
5. If 6 marbles can be bought for one cent,
how many can be bought for 5 cents ?
6. There are 7 days in i week : how many
days are there in 5 weeks ?
7. Ten cents make one dime : how many cents
in 5 dimes ?
8. What will 11 quarts of chestnuts cost at
5 cents a quart ?
9. How many inches in 5 feet ? In 4 feet ?
10. How many fives make 20 ? etc.
11. Write the table in both forms.
(12.) (13.) (14.) (15.) (16.) (17.)
Multiply 11 12 21 27 ^n 111
By 5 6 6 5 5 5
added to 'The Young Catholic's Series ' in course of time, ^nd we have reasoi
to think they will be up to the standard of those already published."
I*rom the New Orleans " Star,''
We know nothing more commendatory of this excellent series than thes<
graceful words in the preface to the Sixth Reader: **The purpose of makini
religion, like a thread of fine gold, run through the whole fabric of instruction
has not been lost sight of in the entire series," etc.
First Lessons in Ifumbers-
First Lessons in Numbers, 13
LESSON VL
1. How many men are seventeen men and
one man ?
2. Show by marks on the black-board that ten
and eight are eighteen.
3. How do you express eighteen ?
4. What number comes next after eighteen ?
5. Count from ten to nineteen.
6. How do you express nineteen ?
7. What is the meaning of the word nineteen?
8. What number comes next aft^r nineteen ?
9. Twenty is how many more than ten ?
A considerable number of the lessons have been written expressly for these
Readers ; and all the important facts in the history of the Church are presented
in a style so attractive that it must necessarily lead the pupil to desire further
information. The selections are of so instructive and entertaining a nature that
the casual reader is beguiled into giving them his whole attention. Our own
experience assured us oi this fact, and we heartily recommend them to teachcn
as well as to scholars.
STANDARD SCHOOL BOOKS,
Published by JOHN MURPHY & CO., Baltimore.
0^A UbMftl diNoanl to BoolueUtrs. Schools, TMohen, ko,, when purehMed la qiunfcitiaf.
Amym Tfrwt Class Book of Hlfftoiy, Designed for Pupils commencing the Studv of His-
tory, with OueftiwM, adapted to the use of Schools. "By M. J. KxRirsr, A. M., Author of Com-
pendium of History, Ac, Ac Revised and Enlarged Edition. (76th Thousand.) ^,4 60
"'Upwards of 70,000 Oopios bsTO boon sold— it is Cloar, Comprehontiro, Trathftil and Impartial, aad «aa bo
r — e umm o m iod witii ooafldenoo, as tho bost and most roliablo Sobool History PabUshod.
raey** Oompendlnm of Andent and Modem History, from the Oreation to the year
18<7. With Oue»UoH$ adapted to the Use of Schools ; also an Appendix, containing the Decla-
ration of Independence, the Constitution of the U.S^va Biographical Slcetch of Eminent
Personages, with a Chronological Table of Remarkable ETents, Discoyeries, Improyements,
etc By M. J. KnuntT, A. M. 44th Reylsed and Enlarged Edition ^ » . . 1 25
Tikis work has boon roeontly introdnood into tbe Fomalo Pablio Hiith Sehools of Baltlmoro, and is oxtonsiToly
mmm4 ia OoUeges aad Sehools througboat tho United SuUoi, Canada, England, Iralaad, and tho British ProTiaoes.
K«niey's Introdnotion to Golninblan Arithmetlo, for the use of Schools. 80th Revised ed., 20
Colnmbian Arltlunetlo« designed for the use of Academies and Schools. 26th Edition, 50
Key to do. Containing the solution of the principal questions...... 40
Abridipment Murray's Oranunar and Exercises, Designed for the use of Academies
atnd SchooU: with an Appendix, containing Rules f .r Writing with Perspicuity and Accuracy ;
also a Treatise on Epiutolary Composition. By M. J. KsaMsr. 43d Edition ^ 25
Morray** Eni^lish Grammar, Complete 40 cts. Mnrrajr'e English Beader. 35
'Wilson** ProgresslTe Speller, containing upwards of 12,ooo Words, with Reading and Dicta-
Uo.1 Exercises Annexed to each Lesson, by W. J. WiLSoir, of North Carolina. 3d Revised ed. 26
ji^rRominm«Qd«d by tho Board of Ednoation for mo 1 n tho Pablio Schools in North Carolina. It has already boon
•xuuai v«l/ aooptod by many of tho loading Inttitntions of the Soathem States and in tho City of Baltimore.
Xbe Iforth Amerloan Spelling Book, designed for Elementary Instruction in Schools,— an
Improvement upon all others. The Best and Cheapeat Spelling Book published. 20
Predet*s Ancient History, from the Dispersion of the Sons of Noe.to the Battle of Actium, and
the change of the Roman Republic into an Enipire. By Pstib Fbbdbt, D. D., Professor of
History in St. Mary's College, Baltimore. SOth Revised Edition 1 60
f^^detfs Modem History, flrom the Coming of Chrint, and the Change of the Roman Republic
into an Empire, to the Year of our Lord. 1>67. By Psna Freoet, D. D., Professor of History in
8t^ Mary's College, Baltimore. 82d Revised and Enlarged Edition 1 60
JVTbo Stndont will And in Dr. Fredet's two B •oks. the Anolent and Modem Histories, the most CompleU,
▲atheatie, and reliable Bi$torjf of tho World, from its Creation to the Year of onr Lord, 1867.
Ungard's History of England. By John Liicoard, D. D. With a Continuation from 1688, to
the reign of Oneen Victoria. Abridged by Jamis Buekk, Esq., A. B. With an Appendix to
1873. By the Editor of the First Class Boole of History. To which are added, Marginal Notes
and Questions, adapted to the use of Schools. 16th Kdltion 1 60
4VThe ipsissima verba of the great Historian of England, has been religiously presenred in tho Abridgmtat
Hlatory of the Catholic Chnrch, firom the Commencement of the Christian Era to the Ecu-
menical Council of the Vatican. Compiled and Translated from the best Authors. By Rev.
Thiodoks Noktbbn. With Questions, adapted to the use of Schools. (Recently Published.)... 1 25
Onderdonk'e History of Maryland, upon the basis of McSherry, from its Settlement, to 1867. 75
4arAta Meetlag of tbe Btatb Boasd or EmroATioir. held on the 29th of May, 1872. Onderdonh's Sobool History of
Mirylsnd, was vnaniraonsly reoommeode'l for edoptlnn in all tho Pnblio Sohools of the State. It has been
adopted as a Tazt-Book, ia the Pnblio Sehools of Baltimore.
Catechism of Scripture History, compiled by the Sisters of Mercy for the Children attending
their schools. Revised by M. J. KEaNsr, A. M. SOth Edition.... ....» 75
i9*Thls work is extensively used in Catholio Instltntions throughout the U. S.. Canada, England and Ireland.
Catechism of Ecclesiastical History. Abridged for the use of Schools, by a friend of Youth, 80
Sestlnl's Manual of Ctoometrloal and Infinitesimal Analysis. (Recently Published,) 1 50
Sestlnl's Eleuients of Ctoometry and Trlgononietry 2 00
Seatlnl's Elenients of Algebra 75 cts. Sestlnl's Treatise on Algebra 1 00
Roddlmaa's Latin Grammar, (the cheapest and best published,) 76
Ars Rhetorica— Aoctore, R. P. Martino du Cygne, Soc. Jesu. Editio Seounda Americana. In
U»um Cullegii QeorgeopoliUni, S.J 76
Wettenhall's Oreek Grammar— Rudiments of Greek Language ^ 76
Elements of Philosophy, Comprising Logic and General Principles of Metaphysics. By Rev.
W.H.Hm., B.J., Professor of Philosophyln the St. Louis University, Mo. Sd Bevia^ Edition, 1 60
Volume II, being the second part, preparing for early Publication,
Gillespie's ProgresslTe System of Penmanship, in 6 Numbers, with Steel Plate Copies at
the Head of each Page. $1 60 per dos.
Jl^Thfs BOW aad oemplete lyfltem, deoigned to lead tho pupils from the first prindples tn Penmanship to a fToo, open,
aad praetleal style of writing, adapted to general business purposes, is well worthy the attention of teaehers.
WtbtlifurdUUebmKleinen 10 cts. I^esebuohleln /«r dio <M6sn KMnen 16
IrTlng*8 Catechisms— Grecian History— Grecian Antiquities— Roman Antiq. per dos. |l 20 net.
4^Jpee<men Capie9 of any of the above, will be supplied to Professors, Teachers and others, with
a view to introduction, on receipt of one-half the retail price. 4^ Liberal terms for Introduction.
4^0Malognes, with Recommendations, etc., furnished on application.
School and Classical Books, Ac.— Their Stock of School Books embraces in addition to their
own, nearly all the Publications of the leading Publishers in the United States, comprising every
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I^Paper, Stationery and School Requisites, generally. Their Stock comprises every variety,
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a^MUMPHY ± CQS. PubUeatkmt are kepi ennetqj^ay Ui Stock and eotd at PubUshere' prieea, by th$
Catholic Publication Societjp 9 Warren Sty New York.
NOW BEADY,
OF
CATHOLIC SCHOOL READERS.
The Catholic Publication Society has now in press, and in preparation, a neir series
of school books, to be known by the above title, which is copyrighted.
The following books are now ready for delivery :
The Young CtUhidic^H lUustrated Primer^ .
« ^ " ** Speller, . .
*' Young Lfulie^
First Reader^
Secontl Refider^
Third Betuler,
Fourth Retuler,
Fifth Reader,
Sia>th Reitder,
Bender,
$0 20
25
25
45
00
75
125
150
1 25
These Readers are compiled by competent hands, and the proof-sheets have been
carefully read and revised by Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. It is also the intention of Tbe
Catholic Publication Society to issue from time to time all the books needed in a weO-
regulated Catholic School
• ♦ •
Other School Books Ready.
The Young Catholic's Illustrated Table-Book and First Lessons in
Numb«»rB, |0 3D
A Full Catechism of the Catholic Religion. Preceded by a Short History
of Religion from the Creation of the World to tne Present Time. With Qae^-
tions for Examination. Translated from the German of Rev. J. Deharbe, S. J.,
by Rev. John Fander, S.J. First American edition. 1 voL 16mo, . . . 75
Mylins's History of England, continued down to the Present Time, .125
Gahan's Chnrch History, continued down to the Present Time, .135
Formby's Bible and Church History. Illustrated. School edition. With
Questions at end of book, 1 50
Fleury'ft Catechism, from the Creation of Adam and Eve to the Present Time.
In Questions and Answers. By Rev. H. Formby, 16
School Books in Preparation.
The Young Catholic's Illustrated Bible and Church History. In one vdame.
The Young Catholic's Illustrated History of the United States.
The Young Catholic's Grammar-School Speller and Definer*
As well as several other works to be announced hereafter.
^^ Samples of all sent free. Special terms for introduction. Address
The Catholic hblicatioi Society, Lawrence Kehoe, GiDerai Agest, 9 Warren Street, Net M
The above School Books can
BOSTON,
BALTIMORE, . .
PHILADELPHIA, .
PITTSBURGH, .
NEWARK, .
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SAN FRANCISCO, .
SAN JOSE. .
PORTULND (Oregon),
be had at the following Depots at our prices :
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J. MoCORMICK.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXI., No. 126.— SEPTEMBER, 1875.
THE RIGHTS OF THE CHURCH OVER EDUCATION.
FROM LK8 BTUDBS RSLICnUSBS, BTC
Of all the questions which preoc-
cupy — and justly — public opinion,
and on which war is declared
against the Catholic Church, one
of ilie most vital is that of educa-
tion.
" It is certain that instruction is,
in fact, the great battle-field chosen
in our days by the intelligent ene-
mies of the faith. It is there they
hope to take captive the youth of
France, and to train up future gene-
rations for impiety and scepticism.
And it must be admitted that they
conduct this war with a skill which
is only equalled by their persever-
ance.'* *
We endeavored to point out, in a
former article, the intentions of the
enemies of the church, the depth
of the abyss they are digging for
Christian society, and the infernal
art which they have shown in com-
hining their plan of attack. f Since
* " Letter of the Bishop of Orle aiw to the Catho*
he Committee." — Umivers^ January 7, 1373.
t See the number of February, X875— " Education
on the Radical Plan/*
then, a first success has befallen
them to justify their hopes and in-
flame their ardor. We may expect
to see them increase their efforts to
carry the fortress. Why should
they not succeed when they have
opposed to them only divided for-
ces?
Happen what may, nowever, we
must remain true to ourselves. It
is our duty to hold fast the stan-
dard of our faith, in spite of the
contradictions of human reason ;
and to oppose to the pagan error,
that the state is master of educa-
tion, the Christian truth, that the
church alone is endowed with the
power to educate the young. . . .
The opponents of the church on this
point are of two classes. One con-
sists of those who never belonged
to her, or who do so no longer;
the other, of those who still call
themselves her children. The
former are principally Protestants,
and those philosophical adveisaries
of revelation who deny, witli more
or less good faith, Catholic doc-
Eotered according to Act of Con^r^ss, in the ysar 1375. by Rev. I. T. Hbcksx, in the Office of the
Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
The Rights of the Chirch over Education.
722
trine, and pretend to find nothing
in it but illusion and blind creduli-
ty. These are, it must be own-
ed, consistent with themselves when
they refuse to the church the rights
she claims over education. Their
logic is correct ; but it islhe logic
of error, and to contend with such
adversaries we should have to be-
gin with a proof of Christianity.
That is not our object. Whatever
may be their error, however, on the
subjects of Christian revelation and
the church, we hope to be able to
convince them that a spirit of en-
croachment and ambition of rule
has no part in the pretensions of
the church, in the matter of the
education of the young. Rather,
they ought to acknowledge, with
us, that therein we only fulfil a
duty the most sacred, the most in-
violable— that of conducting Chris-
tian souls to their supreme and
eternal destiny.
But what is far less excusable is
the inconsistency of certain Catho-
lics. They are persuaded, they say,
of the truth of the Catholic religion ;
they profess to believe her doc-
trine, to submit to her authority ;
and yet one sees them make com-
mon cause with the enemies of their
faith in repudiating all control of
the church in questions of instruc-
tion and of education. It is for
these especially we write, in the
hope of convincing them that, in
challenging for herself not only
complete liberty to teach her chil-
dren divine and human science, but
also the moral and religious direc-
tion of all Christian schools, the
Catholic Church claims nothing but
what is her right, and pretends to
nothing more than the legitimate
exercise of a necessary and divine
power. Would that they could
understand, in short, that no Catho-
lic can, without inconsistency and
without a kind of apostasy, assent to
the exclusion of the Church from
the supervision of instruction, ap<i
to the whole of it being directed
by the sole authority of the ci\il
power ! »
X. — THE PRiNaPLES OF SOLUTION W THE
PRESENT QUESTION.
The whole Christian theory of
education rests on the foUoiring
twofold truth taught by the Catho-
lic Church : that man is created by
God for a supernatural end, and thnr
the church is the necessary inter-
mediary between man and his su-
preme destiny. These two points
cannot be admitted without admit-
ting, also, that the church is right in
all the rest. Unfortunately, nothing
is less common than the clear un-
derstanding of these truths, essen-
tial as they are to Christianity. It
will, therefore, not be unprofitable
to take a brief survey of them.
The Christian religion docs not
resemble those philosophical theo
ries which an insignificant minority
of the human race have been dis-
cussing for three thou^nd years
without arriving at any conclusion,
and which have no practical issoe
for the rest of mankind. Its aim, on
the contrary, is essentially practical.
From the first it addresses itself,
not to a few persons of the highe^i
culture, but to all indifferently, rich
and poor, learned and ignorant. It
is designed *for every one, because
every one has a soul, created in the
image of God, and because this soul
religion alone can save — that is t'^
say, conduct to its ultimate cDii.
by rendering it at last conformable
to its divine type, to the infinite
perfections of God. But especialh
is Christianity practical, because,
without any long discussiobs, it says
to every one of us, " I am the voice
of God revealing to men troths
The RigfUs of the Church over Education.
723
which it is their duty to believe,
virtues which it is their duty to
practise in this life in order to de-
serve, after death, everlasting hap-
piness in the very bosom of God.
Here are my credentials; they
affirm the mission I have received
from on high. Believe, then, the
Word of God ; practise his pre-
cepts, and you will be saved." Her
credentials having been verified, it
comes to pass that multitudes of
men yield faith to the teachings of
Christianity as coming from God;
they place themselves under her
obedience, and the Christian soci-
ety is founded, with its hierarchy,
its object clearly defined, and its
special means determined by Jesus
Christ, its divine fomider.
But is it all, and will it be suffi-
cient to call one's self Christian, to
be enrolled in the numbei* of be-
lievers, to have received baptism,
and to practise with more or less
fidelity the precepts of the divine
and ecclesiastical law? To sup-
pose that it is, is the fatal error of
a number of modern Christians, as
unacquainted with their religion as
they are lukewarm in fulfilling its
duties. Thus understood, would
Christianity have done anything
but add to the religions of
the philosophers incomprehensible
mysteries, exceedingly troublesome
practices, and ceremonies as mean-
ingless to the mind as useless to
•the soul? Far from this, Chris-
tianity is itself, also, radical after
its fashion. It deprives man of
nothing which constitutes his no-
bility; it enriches it rather. It
does not oppose his legitimate as-
pirations for what is great, for what
IS beautiful ; it hallows them rath-
er. It does not deny him the
gratification of any of his loftier
and more generous instincts; it
only supplies them with an object
infinitely capable of contenting
them. In a word, it does not de-
stroy nature ; it transforms and dei-
fies it, by communicating to it a
supernatural and divine life.
What is life in mortal man but
the movement of all his powers in
quest of an object which gives
them happiness ? Well, then, Chris-
tianity lays hold of these hu-
man powers, and, in order to trans-
form them, it infuses into them a
new principle, which is grace — that
is, the virtue of God uniting itself
to the soul ; it places a higher end
before them — the possession of
God in his own essence, an infi-
nite object of knowledge and of
love; it enables them, indeed, to
bring forth works not possible to
our frail nature without a divine
illumination which enlightens the
intelligence, and without a holy in-
spiration which strengthens and as-
sists the will. It is a completely
new man grafted on the root of the
natural man. It is a new way of
living, wherein, under the influence
of a supernatural and divine prin-
ciple, our feelings become purified
by finding their source in God,
our knowledge enlarges, because it
penetrates even into the mysteries
of the divine essence, and our love
becomes limitless as God himself,
the only true good, whom we love
in himself, and in his creatures,
the reflex of himself.
We know well that rationalistic
philosophy, when it hears us speak
of a divine life, of union with God
by a higher principle than nature,
shrugs its shoulders, and with
superb self-complacency rings the
changes on the words illusion, mys-
ticism, extravagance. But what
matter? Has it ever, like us, had
any experience of this second life
of the soul, so as to understand its
reality and its grandeur? Its God,
724
The Rights of the Church over Education,
silent and solitary, exists only for
reason. He will never issue from
his eternal repose. He will not
meddle with his creatures to con-
stitute their happiness. This is
not the God to satisfy our nature,
thirsting for the infinite. He is not
the God of Christianity whom we
have learned to know and to love.
But to return to the church.
Manhood is not the work of a day.
Thirty years at the least pass away be-
fore the human being arrives at ma-
turity, passing successively tlirough
the stages of infancy, boyhood, and
youth. What care, what pains, and
what active solicitude are needed
'for his education ! A mother, a fa-
tiier, a master, devote themselves
to it by turns. Fortunate if, after
all, these efforts are crowned with
success! Is it to be said that it
costs less time and labor to bring a
soul to spiritual maturity, to raise
it to the perfection of this divine
life.^ A day, a year — will they suf-
fice to enlighten the intelligence
witli truths it must believe, to in-
struct it in obligations it must ful-
fil, but, above all, to form in it a
habit of all those virtues it is bound
to practise.^ Or is its education
so different from the natural educa-
tion that it can dispense with an
instructor } Will the child, unaid-
ed, raise itself to God — we mean to
the highest degree of moral perfec-
tion, of Christian sanctity } It
would be folly to suppose it. It
needs, therefore, a master ; some
one charged with the duty of teach-
ing it truth, of forming it in virtue.
Who is this instructor.^ Is it any
other than that one to whom Jesus
Ciirist, the divine but invisible
Master, once said, " As my Father
has sent me, I send you. Go then,
teach all nations; teaching them to
observe my whole law.'* This in-
structor is the church, represented
by her pastors, the lawful succes-
sors of the apostles.
This principle must be borne ip
mind, this indisputable truth of re-
vealed doctrine. We shall see the
consequences of it presently. Wc
assert that the church, and *thr
church alone, has received from
Jesus Christ the power of forming'
the supernatural man — the Chrisiiat
in the full force of that term. Nc
one else can pretend to it. Not
the state, witli its power; not pn-
vate individuals, with their know-
ledge, however great ; not even tbt
father or mother of the family,
great as is the authority over tbcir
children's souls with which Godlu^
invested them. And wherefore'
Because the church alone possesses
the means indispensable for aCliriv
tian education.
These means are of three kinds
In the name of God, the churcli
gives truth to the understanding;
she imposes a law on the will ; and
she dispenses grace, without whicii
the Christian would lack power tc
believe the truth and to fulfil the
law. Withdraw these things, and
Christian education ceases to exist.
You deliver up the understanding
to human opinions ; therein it losc^
faith. The will becomes a law to it-
self ; that is to say, it has no other
law to guide it than its own capri-
ces and passions; and then, the
moral force disappearing, man in
the face of duty is oftener than m
powerless to fulfil it. Now, who is
it whom God has charged with the
duty of preserving amongst men,
and of communicating to ever}
generation the treasure of revealed
truths t Who is it who represents
on earth the divine power, and Lj^
the right of enlightening conscien
ces on the subjects of justice and
injustice, of right and wrong?
Whom, in short, has Jesus Christ
The Rights of the Church over Education.
72s
appointed minister of his sacra-
ments to distribute to souls the su-
pernatural succors of grace ? The
church, and the church alone. To
her have all generations of mankind
bee^n entrusted throughout the pro-
gress of the ages, in order that she
may bring {hem forth to spiritual
life, and form in them Jesus Christ,
the divine model whom Christian
education ought to reproduce in
every one of us. It is, then, true
that the formation of the supernatu-
ral man, of the Christian, is the
proper ministry of the church ;
that this ministry constitutes a part
of her essential functions ; that it is,
in a sense, her whole mission on
enrth ; so much so, that she could
not abdicate it without betraying her
trust, without abandoning the object
of her mission, and overthrowing the
whole work of Christianity.
This is a fundamental principle
^^hich no sincere Catholic could
ihink of rejecting, so solidly is it
based on revelation, and so con-
formable is it to the principles of
faith. There remains, consequently,
only to deduce from it its conse-
quences, and to point out how the
whole claim of power over the in-
struction and education of Chris-
tian youth which the church asserts
flows from it as a necessary and
logical deduction. Now the church
Iicrself having been careful to de-
termine the rights which belong to
her, it is her word we shall take for
our guide, it is her doctrine we
propose to defend. It is clearly
annunciated in the Encyclical
Quanta Cura^ and in the Syllabus^
Uie most authentic exposition of the
mind of the church on all the disput-
^•d questions of the day, as it is the
most assailed.
II.— POSniON OF THE QUESTION.
For nearly three centuries the
government of France has labored
with indefatigable persistency and
energy to concentrate in its hands
all the social powers, and to con-
stitute itself, as it were, the univer-
sal motive-cause in the state. Au-
tonomy of provinces, communal
franchises, individual or collective
precedence in certain great public
services, all have successively dis-
appeared before the continual en-
• croachments of the central power.
Thus the state is no longer a living
organism of its own life, at once
manifold and ordered. It has be-
come a huge mechanism, wliose
thousands of wheels, inert and pow-
erless of themselves, move only at the
impulse of the centre of the motive
forces. To make of society a kind
of human machine may be the ideal
of a certain materialist and socialist
school. It has never been the idea
of Christianity. We Christians
have too much regard for our per-
sonal dignity, we know too well the
limits of the functions of the civil
power, thus to abdicate all spon-
taneity, all precedence of our own,
and to consent to become nothing
but mere parts of a machine, when
we can be, and ought to be, activi-
ties full of life and movement.
In the matter of education espe-
cially, what errors have not been
committed, of what usurpations has
not the civil power incurred the
guilt } By the creation of an offi-
cial, pattern university, monopo-
lizing instruction, and subject ex-
clusively to the direction of the gov-
ernment, all the authorities to whom
belonged formerly the instruction
and education of youth have been
suppressed at one blow. There is
no longer any right recognized, any
action suffered, but that of the state,
master both of school and pay.
Everything by the state, every-
thing for the state, this through
726
Tlu Rights of the Church over Education*
long weary years has been the un-
discussable maxim against which
Catholic consciences, little disposed
to sacrifice their right to the usurp-
ed power of the government, strug-
gled in vain.
At last, thanks to the persistent
protest of those consciences, so
long despised, the principle has lost
its pretended obviousness, and the
fact itself has received its first
check — sure prelude of its approach- ,
ing disappearance. The moment
seems to have arrived when those
who have the right ought to claim
their legitimate share in the exer-
cise of a function eminently social.
Now all have a right here. The
government has its rights; as re-
sponsible for the good and evil
which befall society; for the evil,
to check and prevent it ; for the
good, to help in effecting it. The
church has her rights, because she
is the great moral power in society,
and there is question here, pre-
eminently, of a moral function.
The family has its .rights, for it is
its fruit which has to be reared and
instructed. Individuals, even, have
their rights — the right of devotion
and sacrifice in behalf of a holy
work, and of a ministry which,
more than any other, stands in need
of those graces.
Here are, assuredly, enough of
rights, despised for three-quarters
of a century, and swallowed up in
the insatiable power of the state.
It would be a deed worthy of our
generation to re-establish all in
their original and proper order. It
is being attempted, we kilow, and
already the National Assembly * has
begun to concede an instalment of
justice to the family and to indi-
♦ Laboulaye*s measure concerning higher in-
struction. The reporter recogniies in it the right of
ftuniUes themselves to choose tutors for their chil-
dren, and also the right of associations formed with
toe new of instruction.
viduals. But the church ! Why is
silence kept concerning her? \\\t
is it sought to exclude her from the
debate, and to treat her claims as
null and void ? We Catholics can-
not accept this disavowal of oar
rights. It concerns us to ascertain
what place they propose to assign
to our church in the modem state.
We should like to know whether we
still belong to a Christian societ)-.
or must prepare to defend the
rights of our conscience in a sutc
decidedly pagan.
What are these rights.^ What
do we demand for the churcfe?
What position, in short, do we wisli
to see her assume in all that con-
cerns the education of youth?
Such are the questions we propose
to solve. We will state them with
yet more precision. When there is
question of the rights of the churcb
in communities, three hypotheses
are possible according to the diflfcr-
ent conditions of those communi-
ties. We may suppose a state relig-
iously constituted — that is to sav,
wherein the gospel and ChrLstianily
are not only the rule of life and the
religion of individuals, but, besides,
the foundation of legislation, the
worship adopted in the manifesta-
tions of public piety ; whatever raay
be, in other respects, the general
aspect of the relations established,
by common consent, between the
church and the state.
In opposition to this first hp.
pothesis there exists another — that
of a civil society, wherein the re-
ligious authority and the political
authority have the appearance of
ignoring one another ; wherein the
state affects indifference with re-
gard to all religions, fosters no one
of them, and, limiting its action ex-
clusively to the material interests
of the community, leaves individu-
als to etnbrace and practise which-
The Rig/Us of the Church over Education.
727
ever of the worships suits them best.
To borrow the popular formula,
such a constitution would realize
'*a free church in a free state "; or,
more exactly, " a state separated
from the church."*
Lastly, modern times have given
birth to a third kind of political
constitution, a mean between the
two preceding ones, in which
Catholicity is no longer the base
of the social edifice in preference .
to every other religion, and is only
one of the public worships recog-
nized by the state ; at times that
of the majority of the citizens, and
observed as such in the religious
solemnities in which the govern-
ment takes a part. In this hy-
potliesis, the state remains religious,
but it is neither Catholic nor Pro-
testant. A Christianism vague and
general enough to lend itself to all
communions, a kind of rational
deisra, rather, inspires its legisla-
tion ; honor is done to ministers
of recognized worships, and when
j;ovcrnment feels a need of betak-
ing itself to God, in order to im-
plore his mercy, or to give him
thanks for his blessings, it orders
prayer in all the places of worship
without distinction. Manifold, as
may be supposed, are the shades
of difference in the manner of con-
stituting a state of such indefinite
religious forms. It is nevertheless
true that the greater number of our
modern constitutions reproduce,
more or less, the type we have just
sketched. Are we to see in this
merely a kind of transition between
ancient communities, wiiich almost
alkealized the first hypothesis, and
the communities of the future ?
Or will the state, separated from
* A recent speech defivered at BcUeyiUe by the
leader of French Ut>enilism, M. Gambetta, gives a
Mificitatly exact idea of this kind of dvil constitu-
V'SL See the political journals of April 36, 1873.
the church, organize itself and gov-
ern itself in a complete indepen-
dence of all religion ? This is the
dream of our free-thinkers. For
the happiness of humanity, we hope
it will not be realized.
In addition to these three hy
potheses there remains the state per-
secutor of the church. But al-
though this is by no means uncom-
mon in these days, it does not enter
into our present subject ; which is
limited to determining the rights
and action of the cliurch in a tran-
quil and, up to a certain point,
regular state of things.
Further, Christianity being to us
truth, and the Catholic Church
the only true Christianity, it evi-
dently follows that the first hy-
pothesis constitutes the normal state
of society, that in which it attains
its end with the greatest perfection
by the most abundant and most
appropriate means. Religion, in
short, is as necesjJary to communi-
ties as to individuals ; and of all
religions, only the true one can be
a real element of the prosperity of
states.
The problem to solve, then, is as
follows : First to examine and de-
termine the rights which belong to
the church in a well-organized so-
ciety — that is to say, in a Christian
or Catholic society. Then, when
we know the better, the more per-
fect, to lay down the necessary and
the possible, in communities where
human passions have made for the
church an inferior position, but
little favorable to the full exercise
of her rights.
III.— CHRISTIAN EDUCATION IN A CHRIS-
TIAN STATE.
The Jews in this resembled, to a
certain extent, a Christian — that is
a Catholic — people; namely, that
amongst them one of the tribes had
728
The Rights of the Church over Education.
been chosen by God to be wholly
consecrated to his service, and to
be devoted exclusively to the min-
istry of the altars. So also, but
with the difference demanded by
the new conditions of the priest-
hood, God chooses amongst the
faithful his clerics, divinely called to
exercise the sacerdotal functions;
for under the New Law, as under the
Old, no one can pretend to this
honor unless he be called of God.
Here, then, are two categories of
individuals in the nation; those
who, by divine vocation, are des-
tined for the service of the church,
and those who continue in the ordi-
nary condition of Christians — the
ecclesiastics and the laics. The
distinction is necessary, because
the church does not claim the same
rights in regard to both.
The Rights of the Church over
the Education of Clerics, — The ed-
ucation of clerics — of young men,
that is, who devote themselves
to the ecclesiastical ministry —
has always been the object of the
liveliest solicitude of the church.
Solely anxious to see the knowledge
of the faith and true piety flourish
among the faithful entrusted to her
care, could she forget that people
conform themselves to the model
of those who govern them, and
that the essential condition for en-
lightening understandings in the
truths of religion, as well as for
inclining their hearts to the prac-
tice of Christian virtues, is first to
fashion a clergy solidly instructed
and sincerely pious ? In Thomas-
sin * may be found innumerable ex-
amples testifying to the solicitude
of the church on the subject of
schools wherein young clerics are
instructed. But the most solemn
* Ancienne tt nouvtlU dtui^iim* d* tEgiise
toMchantUs binifictt trUs tin^ficitrt^ a; part., Ut.
U. ch. 26, 97 ; 3» part., Ht. ii. ch. 18-93.
act, and the most prolific in happy
results, that has been accomplished
for this object, is, without contra-
diction, the decree of the hdy
Council of Trent, directing all the
bishops, metropolitans, and other
pastors charged with the govern-
ment of the church to erect, each
in their resp>ective dioceses, a house
or seminary for the purpose of
lodging there, of instructing in ec-
clesiastical science, and bringing
up in ecclesiastical virtue, the chil^
dren of the town, diocese, or pro-
vince, who shall show signs of a
true divine vocation.*
At the same time that it directs
the institution oi seminaries, the
council is at the pains to explain
their great usefulness, the necessity,
even, of them for the church, as
the only efficacious means of aV
ways providing zealous as well 2s
solidly instructed ministers. It
lays down also the way of life whicii
should be observed within them,
the studies to which especially the
young men should devote them-
selves, the means to be eraployeti
by the masters for the complete
education of their pupils, and even
the resources of which the bishops
will be able to avail themselves to
help to defray the expenses of these
precious schools.
It may have been already re-
marked how the council regulates
everything of its own authority and
without asking aught of secular
powers. It proves the church's
right to herself alone institute and
organize her ecclesiastical semina-
ries. But that which decisively
manifests her mind on this p^in^
is the care which the Council of
Trent takes to place the entire ad-
ministration of these schools in the
hands of the bishops, assisted by
• Cone, Tridsy «s«8. xxii. d* rt/arm.^ ctp. «*•
The Rigfits of tin Church aver Education.
729
two of the oldest and most pradent
of the cathedral chapter, chosen by
them under the inspiration of the
Holy Ghost.* Such is the authori-
ty to which belongs exclusively the
right of regulating all that concerns
the education of clerics. Neither
can the lay faithful, nor Christian
families, nor, still less, governments,
meddle at all with this work, which
is exclusively the affair of the
church. Accordingly, in the forty-
sixth proposition of the SyilabuSy
the Sovereign Pontiff, Pius IX., has
reproved, proscribed, and condemn-
ed the doctrine of those who pre-
tend ** to subject to civil authority
the method to be followed in the
theological seminaries.*'
The church claims, then, complete
liberty to choose her ministers her-
self, and to form them in the man-
ner which seems to her most desira-
ble. This is no privilege which
she asks of the state, it is a right
which she holds from Jesus Christ,
and by his divine appointment:
the right of existing, the right of
perpetuating herself upon earth by
keeping up her hierarchy of teach-
ing pastors and faithful taught, and
in recruiting from among the latter
those whom God himself calls to
the honors of the priesthood.
And, in truth, to what rights
over the education of clerics can a
civil government pretend } Is it to
judge of the knowledge which is
necessary for the ministers of the
altar? But is not the church ap-
pointed by Jesus Christ the sole
guardian of revealed truth, and has
not she alone received the mission
of teaching the peoples } Can it be,
indeed, to discern in the subjects
* '* QiUB omnia, atque aHa ad banc opportuna et
neccnaria, epucopi singuli, cum consilio duorum
caiooiconim seniorum et fTaviorum, qoos ipci elc*
r--nnt, prout Spin tut Sanctus tuggesMiit, coosdta-
ent ; eaque ut semper ohserventur« saepius visitan-
<Jo, openun dabnnt."— Cww. Trid.^ loc. dt.
who present themselves a divine
vocation, and the degree of virtue
requisite for a priest ? But for
such discernment, has, then, the
civil power the special illumination
of the Holy Ghost ? Does it know
the mysterious action of gince in
the soul, and does God reveal to it
his secrets.? Or can it be, as some
governments have not been afraid
to do, to determine the number of
young men who ought every year
to respond to the call of God and
enrol themselves in the sacred
army ? Impious and sacrilegious
pretension ! which says to the Spirit
of God, " Thus far shall your inspi-
rations go, and no farther.** As if
the state, and not God, were the
judge of the church's needs! As
if the civil power had received from
Jesus Christ the commission to fix
annually in the budget the effective
of men employed in his divine
service, after the same fashion as it
regulates the annual contingent of
soldiers called to the service of the
state !
But no, not one of these preten-
sions is tenable. The state has no
power whatever over the education
of clerics; and the church, by its
divine institution, is alone compe-
tent for this work, necessary above
all to its existence and the perpetu-
ity of its action in the world.
Such are the rights of the church
in this first department of educa-
tion. They are absolute, exclusive,
and inalienable. What have we
next to say of those she possesses
in the education of the laity ?
The Rights of the Church over
Public Education, — That which
certain Catholics refuse to the
church, even in a community
Christianly constituted, is not the
right of giving instruction in the
public schools, and making her
influence felt there to the advan-
730
Th* Rights of the Church aver Education.
tage of the morality and good edu-
cation of the youth. No one but a
rationalist or free-thinker can deny
the necessity of making religion
the foundation of all education, if
we would bring up Christians, and
not unbelievers. More Uian this,
these same Catholics acknowledge,
besides, that the church by her
priests, and her religious devoted
to the education of youth, enjoys
the right possessed by all citizens
of opening public schools and
teaching, not only the verities of
the Catholic faith, but letters and
human science in all its branches.
They are generally advocates of
freedom of instruction to its ut-
most extent; and the power they
accord to the iiumblest citizen they
do not commit the folly of refusing
to those whose character, know-
ledge, and disinterestedness best
qualify them for those delicate
functions.
Here, then, are two acknowledged
rights of the church, on which we
need not insist further. First, the
right of providing religious instruc-
tion for the youth at school, and
their education according to the
principles of Christian morality.
Secondly, the right of giving, her-
self, to children and to young peo-
ple, whose families entrust them to
her, a complete education, embrac-
ing instruction in letters and in the
secular sciences; the right, conse-
quently, of founding religious con-
gregations entirely consecrated to
the ministry of instruction and Chris-
tian education ; the right of estab-
lishing these institutions, providing
for their recruitment, and for their
material means of existence. All
tliis, it is acknowledged, constitutes
the normal condition of the church
in communities which concede a
just share of influence to the
Catholic religion, to its ministers,
and to all those who are inspired
with its spirit of devotion to the gen-
eral welfare. But observe the pobts
of divergence between the Catbo-
lics of whom we are speaking and
those who are more jealous to pre-
serve intact the rights conferred
by Jesus Christ upon his church.
According to the former, a distinc-
rion must be made between relig-
ious education and literary or sci-
entific education. The former, by
its object and by its end, escapes
from the competence of the state
to re-enter what is exclusively the
province of the church. It is dif-
ferent with literary and scientific
instruction. That, they say, is a
social service which belongs, like
other services of a similar kind, to
the jurisdiction of the city or na-
tion. The exercise of the teach-
ing ministry is undoubtedly free.
Private individuals are entitled to
devote themselves to it without let
or hindrance. But the direction
of this ministry should be ascribed
to the state, the only judge of
whatever affects the present and
the future of society. Guardian of
order, of justice, and of morals in the
community, it is theduty of govcra-
ment itself to regulate the disci-
pline of public schools, the instruc-
tion which is given there, the acad-
emic titles which open the way to
certain civil or administrative ca-
reers, and the choice of masters;
who, at any rate, should not have
incurred any of the disqualifi-
cations determined by the law.
Moreover, since its functions im-
pose on it the duty of encouraging,
as much as possible, useful institu-
tions, and such as are essential to
public prosperity, the government
is bound to support schools found-
ed by private individuals; and
even, if there be not enough of
them for the needs of the people,
The Rights of the Church oi^cr Education.
731
> institute others by its own
utliority, and out of the public
inds. This, according to them,
elongs to the domain of the state.
lere it reigns supreme, without
aving to share its power with
ny other power, civil or religious.
*ablic instruction is a branch of
dministration on the same grounds
s war or finance.
"Thus think and speak Catholics
>f the modern political school.
Jnluckily for them, such is not the
ioctrine of the church. Pius IX.,
n the forty-fifth proposition of the
SyliabuSy explicitly condemns the
i)pinion we have just decribed, and
which he formulates in the follow-
ing terms: " The whole direction
of public schools, in which the
youth of a Christian state is
brought up, with the exception, to
a certain extent, of episcopal semi-
naries, can be and ought to be vest-
ed in the civil authority, and that
in such a manner that the right of
no other authority should be rec-
ognized to interfere with the dis-
cipline of those schools, with the
curriculum of studies, with the
conferring of degrees, or with the
choice or approval of masters,"
I'his, however specious, is thus
^roneous, and no Catholic can
maintain it. It is, in fact, false in
a two-fold point of view — false in
a merely natural point of view, be-
cause it ascribes to the state a
function which, in default of the
church, belongs exclusively to the
family; false also, and especially,
in a supernatural point of view, be-
cause it separates what ought to be
united, the temporal consequences
of education, and its supernatural
end. We will expose this twofold
error.
Under the empire of a nonde-
script philosophical paganism, our
modem politicians have a striking
tendency to enlarge more and more
in society the circle of govern-
mental privileges. One would sup-
pose, to listen to them, that it was
the function of power to complete-
ly absorb all the organic elements
which go to make a nation, and to
leave no longer existing side by
side of it, or beneath it, auglit but
inert rndividnaltties, social material
capable of receiving impulse and
movement only from it. Healtliy
reason protests against a theory so
destructive of the most indispensa-
ble elements of social prosperity.
Families collecting into cities for-
feited none of their natural rights;
cities, in associating themselves in
nations did not pretend to abdi-
cate all their powers. What both
sought, on the contrary, in associa-
tion, was a stronger guarantee of
those very rights; it was the main-
tenance of the most inviolable jus-
tice in human relations; it was, in
short, an efficient protection against
violence and oppression, whether
from within or without.
What ! Are we to admit that the
right and the duty of educating
children sprung from society, and
was originated by it.^ The bare
thought is folly. From the first crea-
tion of the family, God willed that the
infant should come into the world
in feebleness and impotence ; that,
physically, intellectually, and mor-
ally, it should have need of a long
and toilsome education before be-
coming a complete man. On whom
was it, then, that he imposed a nat-
ural obligation of undertaking and
accomplishing its education ? Cer-
tainly not on society, which did not
then exist. It was on the family it-
self, on the father especially, who is
its responsible head. The power
of engendering human beings in-
cludes of necessity the duty of not
leaving such a work incomplete —
732
The Rights of the Church over Education.
the duty, consequently, of guiding
the infant up to full manhood.
The family thus, by virtue of a
law of nature, possesses the power of
instructing and educating the under-
standing and will of the child born
of it* and this power the family
does not lose by being associated
with others in social life. For, we
repeat, the state is not instituted to
absorb into its collective life all
pre-existing rights. The act of
union merely consecrates those
rights by placing them under the
protection of public authority.
But when this authority, instead of
protecting the rights of the family,
proceeds to take possession of
them, it commits an usurpation, it
breaks the social pact, by making
itself guilty of the very crime which
it ought to prevent.
Nothing less than the utter and
ruinous confusion of ideas intro-
duced by the philosophy of the last
century, and by its absurd theories
about the Social Contract, could
have caused principles so clear and
so indisputable to be lost sight of,
and all the usurpations of the lib-
erty and rights of families and indi-
viduals by the civil power to be le-
gitimised. But, be the errors of the
time what they may, it is not fitting
that we Catholics should be either
their accomplices or their dupes.
Enlightened by faith, our reason
must hold fast those principles on
which human society is based, and
were we to be their only defenders,
it would be to our honor to have
maintained them against all the
negations of the spirit of system.
To judge, then, only by reason, the
state has not those rights over the
education of youth which a cer-
tain school ascribes to it.
We asserted, moreover, that the
opinion of this school is also false
in a supernatural point of view, be-
cause it separates what ought to be
united, because it makes the infe-
rence the principle, and despises tht
one in order to attach itself exclu-
sively to the other. And here we
touch the pith of the question.
It is alleged, a public education
good or bad, has very serious con-
sequences for society. Its security
or its ruin may depend on it, and,
anyhow, nothing more vitally afiects
its peace, strength, and prosperity.
The power, therefore, with which
the government of a community ]&
invested cannot be a matter of in-
difference in education. It ought,
then, to superintend and direct it,
and to place itself at its head, as it
naturally does of every social func-
tion. We shall presently see bow
much this reasoning is worth. It
includes three things — a principle,!
fact, and an inference. The prin-
ciple is as follows : Whatever is for
society an element of strength and
progress, and can cause its pros-
perity and decay, is within the com-
petence of the civil authority and
ought to be subject to it. The feet
is affirmed in the premises of the
argument, to wit, that public edu-
cation, according as it is good or
bad, is naturally of serious conse-
quence to the state. Whence th«
inference, that it ought to be sub-
ject to the civil authority — that is,
to the government.
The principle we dispute; the
fact is explained and vindicated in
another way, and the inference is
inconsequential.
First, it is not true that whatever
affects the prosperity of the state
ought of necessity to belong to the
jurisdiction of the civil power, and
to be subject to its direction and
control. Are not commerce and
manufacture elements of national
prosperity,? Is it necessar}% oa
that account, that the govemmcot
The Rights of the Church aver Educatiou.
733
should .assume the dir^Qtion of
ihem, and tliat nothing should be
done in those two departments of
social activity except by it. No.
In these the office of power is limit-
ed to causing right and justice to
be respected in industrial and com-
iiierciul transactions, to intervene
in contentions to decide what is
just, to secure the observance of
positive laws enacted by it for the
purpose of applying to every par-
ticular case the general principles
of the natural and of the divine law.
The rest is an affair of individual
enterprise among citizens. Thus, in
the question which engages us, that
the education of youth ought to
contribute much towards the pros-
perity of a state is not sufficient
reason to induce us to resign the
whole of it into the hands of the
civil power. We must further in-
quire if there is not some one in
the community authorized, by the
law of nature or by divine right, to
assume its direction and control.
If this be so, it will not do to in-
vest the state with a right which
belongs to another.
In the second place, the happi-
ness and prosperity of a state are
certainly the result of a good edu-
cation of its youth ; of a complete
education, that is, well conducted ;
such, in a word, as gives to the
young man all the qualities of per-
fect manhood. Now, this educa-
tion is, of necessity. Christian edu-
cation, in which the state can do no-
thing — the church, and the church
alone, as we have endeavored to
show, everything.
What, once more, is education t
We have already defined it : the
work of fitting a man to fulfil his
destiny ; to place the faculties of
man in a condition of sufficing for
themselves, and of pursuing, with
the help of God, the end which is
allotted to them. Such, clearly, is
the work of edueation ; such the
end it must of necessity propose to
itself. Suppose that in educating
a child this considenation of his
final destiny should be neglected,
that he was brought up within eye
solely to a proximate and terrestrial
end, beyond which he could do no-
thing. Could such an education
be called complete } Could it be
called sufficient } Would it deserve
even the name of education } Un-
doubtedly not. That child would
not have been educated. He would
never become a man, wV, in the full
sense of that term, because the
vision of his intelligence would
never reach beyond the narrow
horizon of this world ; because his
powers of well-doing would neces-
sarily be extremely limited; because,
at last, he would miss the end
which every man is bound to at-
tain, and would be compelled to
remain for ever nothing but an im-
mortal abortion.
Such is the necessity of recogniz-
ing man's final end in education.
That must be its aim, that only,
under pain of compromising all the
rest. Is there any need of mention-
ing the guarantees afforded by gen-
erations thus educated, for the
peace and happiness of communi-
ties } Has not true and sincere
piety, in the words of the ap>ostle,*
promise of this life as well as of
that of eternity ? Is it in any other
way than in practising the virtues
which make man a social being
that we can hope to achieve im-
mortality ? Thus to labor to ren-
der ourselves worthy of the destiny
which awaits us is, also, to prepare
ourselves to become good citizens of
the earthly city, is to give to society
the best possible security of being
^ *^ Pietas ad omnia utilis est, pro misd<Miem ha<
bens vitaqtic nunc ttt, et futunB."— i Tim. it. 8.
734
The Rights of the Church over Education.
useful as well as loyal to it. The
greatest men of -whom humanity is
proud, were they not at the same
time the most virtuous ?
Now, we must repeat to Catholics
who forget it, that there are not
two last ends for man, but only
one ; and that is the supernatural
end of which we treated at the
commencement. Created by God
to enjoy his glory and his happi-
ness through eternity, in vain would
man seek elsewhere the end of his
efforts and of his existence. Every-
thing in him tends towards this
end. It is his perfection, and in
order to exalt himself to it, he
ought to give to his faculties the
whole power of development of
which they are capable. Woe to
him, but much more woe to those
who have had the responsibility of
his education, if, through their fault,
he does not find himself on the
level of his destiny; if, instead of
gravitating towards heaven in his
rapid passage across life, he drags
himself miserably along the ground,
wallowing in selfish interests and
sensual passions !
But if this be so, what can the
state do to guide souls to heights
which surpass itself? There is
nothing to be done but to apply
the principle formulated by S.
Thomas : " It is his to order means
to an end, in whose possession that
end is'* — Iliiusest ordinare ad finem^
cujtis est proprius iiic finis .* The
supernatural transformation of the
soul into God, and eternal beati-
tude, which education ought inva-
riably to propose to itself, are not
the objects of human society any
more than of the civil power which
regulates it. That power is con-
sequently incapable, of itself, of or-
daining the means which contribute
^Summ, Tkwi,^ i. a. q. xc., art. 3.
to this iupematural end. It can-
not afford the very smallest assist-
ance to education in this respect,
nothing to form the man, and to
adapt him to the grand designs of
God in his behalf. In a word, edu-
cation is not within the jurisdiction
of earthly governments. It is aboTc
their competence.
What, then, is the power in the
Christian communities commission-
ed with the sublime ministry of
the education of souls } Who has
received from God the divine mis-
sion of begetting them to the super-
natural and divine life, rough-
drawn on earth, perfected in heav-
en ? There is, there can be, but
one reply. The church ! When
he founded that august spintual
society, Jesus Christ assigned to it
as its end, to guide men to eternal
happiness ; and on that account he
endowed it with all the powers ne-
cessary to ordain and to put in
operation the proper means for this
end. Education conducted in a
spirit fundamentally Christian-
such is the universal, indisi)ensab)e
mean, over which, consequentlf,
the church has exclusive rights.
See then, established by Jesos
Christ, the great instructress of the
human race — the only one which
can rightfully pretend to direct
public education in Christian com-
munities ! That superintendence,
that direction, are an integral part of
the pastoral ministry. The church
cannot renounce it without prevan-
cation.
Her reason, therefore, is obvious
for insisting, with such obstinate
persistency, in claiming, ever)'whcre
and always, the exercise of a right
which she holds from God himself
Obvious is the reason for whicii
the Sovereign Pontiffs have so se-
verely condemned a doctrine which
is the denial of this inalienable
The Rights of the Church over Education.
735
right for which, in the concordats
concluded with Catholic powers, a
special clause invariably reserves for
the church the faculty of " seeing
that youth receive a Christian edu-
cation.** *
Nothing is more clear than that,
when the Catholic Church, in a
Christian state, claims for itself the
ministry of public instruction, it is
no monopoly which it seeks to
grasp for the profit of its clerics.
It has but one object, to wit, that
instruction should have as wide a
scope as possible ; and for this
object she appeals to all devoted-
ness. Laymen and ecclesiastics,
seculars and religious, all — all are
besought to take a part in this work
of instniciing the peoples. Who-
ever oflfers himself with the necessary
qualifications, a pure faith, Chris-
tian manners, and competent know-
ledge, is welcome. To such an one
the church opens a free scope for
his energies, to cultivate the rising
generations under her shelter and
m co-operation with her, in order to
enable them to bring forth the
* Wc quote at length the remarkable passage from
whioh these words are quoted. It occurs in an allo-
cutioQ of the Holy Father to the cardinals, deliver-
ed in the Secret Consistory, Sept. 5, 1851, in which
bis Holiness announces the concordat which had re*
ceotly been concluded with the Spanish govern-
ment ** The great object of our solicitude was to
*ecure the int^rity of our holy religion and to pro-
vide (or the spiritual wants of the church. Now,
you will see, the concordat arranges that the Catho-
lic rctigioo, with all the rights it enjoys by virtue
of its djvinc institution, and of rules established by
the sacred canons, should be exclusively dominant
in that kingdom ; every other religion will be open-
ly banished from it and forbidden. It b, conse-
quently, settled that the manner of educating and
instructing the youth in all the universities, col-
leges or seminaries, in all the public and private
schools, will be in full conformity with the doctrine
of the Catholic religion. The bishops and heads
of dioceses, who, by virtue of their office, are bound
to labor with all their might to protect the purity
of Catholic teaching, to propagate it, to watch that
ihc youth receive a Christian education, will find
no <^ade to the accomplishment of those duties ;
they wiD be able, without meeting the least hin-
drAoie, to exercise the most attentive superintend-
ence over the ichoob, even the public ones, and to
dltchaifc freely, in all iu plenitude, their office of
[M4tor." Is not this, in exact terms, the thesis here
defeodcd?
fruits of knowledge and of virtue
What she does not assent to, what
she cannot assent to, is that, under
the pretext of liberty of instruction,
the ravening wolf should introduce
himself into the fold, in the person
of those teachers of errors and false-
hood who lay waste the flock by
bringing into it discord and war;
that, under the guise of science and
intellectual progress, they should
sap the religious belief of a people,
assault Christian trutii, and infect
the young understanding with the
deadly poison of doubt and unbe-
lief. No, indeed ! Such havoc the
church can neither sanction nor
allow them an opportunity to ac-
complish. She remembers that she
has received from Christ the care
of souls, that the salvation of his
children has been entrusted to her
keeping, and that God will demand
of her an account of their blood
shed — that is to say, of their eternal
perdition. San^uiium ejus deinanu
tua requiram (Ezech. iii. 18). As
a watchful sentinel she keeps guard
over the flock, and so long as the
criminal violence of human powers
does not rob her of her rights,
neither the thieves nor the assassins
of souls can succeed in exercising
their ravages.
By way of recapitulation we will
enunciate, in five or six propositions,
the whole of this doctrine of the
rights of the church over educa-
tion, and thus place the reader in
a better position for judging of its
full force and extent.
ist. The education of clerics de-
stined to ecclesiastical functions is
the exclusive right of the church.
She alone regulates everything
connected with it, whether the
erection of seminaries, or their in-
terior discipline, or the appoint-
ment of masters, or the instruction
in letters and science, or the good
736
The Rights of tJie Church over Education.
education of the pupils, or their ad-
mission into the ecclesiastical body.
2d. The church implicitly re-
spects the right of families to pro-
vide a private education for their
children by whomsoever and in
whatever manner they prefer. Only
she imposes on the consciences of
Christian parents the obligation of
seeing to it that that education be
religious and in conformity with
the faith they profess.
3d. The superintendence and di-
rection of the public schools, as
well of those wherein the mass of
the people are instructed in the
rudiments of human knowledge, as
of those where secondary and higli-
er instruction are given, belong
of right to the Catholic Church.
She alone has the right of watch-
ing over the moral character of
those schools, of approving the
masters who instruct the youth
therein, of controlling their teach-
ing, and dismissing, without appeal
to any other authority, those whose
doctrine or manners should be
contrary to the purity of Christian
doctrine.
4th. Subject to the condition of
being able to guarantee pure faith,
irreproachable manners, and com-
petent knowledge, entire liberty is
left to private individuals, eccle-
siastics and laity, seculars and re-
ligious, to devote themselves to the
ministry of teaching and education
of youth, to form associations for
this object, to found academies and
universities wherein the sciences
are taught, and which govern them-
selves by their internal discipline,
the choice of masters, and the regu-
lation of the studies, programmes,
examens, etc. The church only
reserves to herself, in their case,
her right of superintendence in the
matters of morality and the integ-
rity of the faith.
5 th. The church not only does
not refuse the co-operation of the
state in education, but, on the con-
trary, she solicits it, whenever pri-
vate enterprise and her own re-
sources do not suffice to enable lier
to extend instruction as much as
she would wish and as the welfare
of peoples demands. She then ap-
peals to the communes, to the prov-
inces, to the nation, in order that
everywhere the co-operation of the
two powers may effect the founda-
tion of schools, the increase of the
number of masters, and may come
to the aid of the indigent parents.
But even in these schools estab-
lished with the concurrence of the
civil power, if the state may superin-
tend the administration of material
interests, the right of direction and
superintendence of teaching re-
mains with the church.
6th. Lastly, the power, neverthe-
less, which the church exercises
over public instruction docs not
hinder governments, if they deem it
expedient, from establishing schools
where professors chosen by them
may give a special training to young
people who devote themselves to
administrative and military careers.
The administration and the army
belong, in fact, exclusively to the
jurisdiction of governments. It
is but just, therefore, that tlicj
should be able to give to those who
are to belong to them the cspeciai
knowledge required for their em-
ployment. Only, here, the civil
or military authority contracts the
same obligations as those which
bind the consciences of individ-
uals, to wU, to watch that there be
nothing in those schools contrary
to religion and to good morals.
Such is the whole doctrine of
the Catholic Clmrch with regard to
the education of youth in Chris-
tian states. Is tliere not in this
The Rights of t fie Church aver Education.
m
organization an ideal which one
may justly long to see realized,
since it would be the solution of
a ceitain number of problems
which strangely perplex our inse-
curely founded and badly balanced
modern communities ? Two au-
thorities, each having a distinct ob-
ject, but united and being mutual-
ly the complement one of the
other, have the guardianship of
human interests — interests of time
and interests of eternity. One,
the civil authority, has for its di-
rect domain, temporal affairs. The
other, the religious authority, com-
mands and directs in all that con-
cerns the supernatural life. The
latter, having the responsibility of
guiding man from his birth up to
his entrance into eternity, educates
him, instructs him, and transforms
him into a perfect man, into a
Ciiristian worthy by his virtues
of the destiny which awaits him.
The former benefits generations
thus formed, and out of these ele-
ments, so well prepared to fulfil all
the duties of the present life, it
constitutes social communities as so
many provisional countries, where
justice and charity, loyally prac-
tised, present an image of the true
and final country — Heaven. Thus,
the two powers lend to one an-
other a mutual support; the civil
power, by securing to the spiritual
power a complete liberty of action ;
and the spiritual power, in its turn,
by forming for the state honest and
perfect citizens. Thus peace and
concord reign throughout the en-
tire society, interests harmonize,
justice is loved, order exists every-
where from the highest to the low-
est step of the social ladder, and
every t)ne, content with his position
here on earth, because his hopes
are on high, is more intent on mak-
ing himself Tietter than on over-
voL. XXI. — 47
throwing existing institutions that
he may raise himself on their ruins.
Where is to be found, once more
we demand, an ideal more grand
and more true than this conception
of Christian society ? The middle
ages were not far from realizing it.
Unhappily, a work so well begun
at the inspiration of the church,
first legists, courtiers of the civil
power, afterwards Protestantism and
its direct off-shoot, rationalism, were
fain to interrupt it, and gradually
to throw us back into a state of
things which threatens to become
worse than paganism or barbarism.
There is yet time to return to truth,
to right and order, which are im-
possible to be found except in a
society based on Christian princi-
ples. But will peoples and legisla-
tors have a sufficiently clear per-
ception of their duty and their in-
terest to stay themselves at once on
the incline down which they are
gliding, and dragging us with them,
towards a dark and tempest-threat-
ening future }
IV.— CONDUCT OF THE CHURCH IN NON-
CHRISTIAN COMMUNITIES.
In the eyes of the Catholic
Church, Christianity is the divine
afflatus, breathing upon human so-
ciety to give it a soul and infuse
life. Without her there can be in it
no true nor prolific life, and every
social organization which is not in-
spired by Christianity is, of neces-
sity, defective and abnormal. The
church cannot regard such an or-
ganization as a benefit, much less as
a progress beyond Christian com-
munities.* She deplores it, on the
contrary, and she endeavors to per-
* The following propoution htt been condemned
by Pius IX. in hit Encyclical Quanta emra : ** Op-
timam societatis publics rationem dvilemque pro-
gresstun mnnino requirere, ut humana societas coo-
•dtuatur et gubernetur, nuUo habito ad reHgionem
respectu, ac it ea non exuteret, vel saltern nullo (ao-
to Teram inter fidsaaque reUgiones discfimine.**
7^8
Tlu Rights of the Church over Education.
suade people that it would be bet-
ter for them to submit absolutely to
religion, and to take it as the guide
and regulator of their social inter-
ests. Never has the church con-
cealed her desire, not to lord it
over, but to direct communities, to
penetrate them with her spirit, to
recover the salutary influence over
them which is their due, and which
they cannot reject without serious
injury. The church has never
made any mystery of this ambition.
Her enemies themselves are wit-
nesses to it, even *when they per-
mit themselves, as they too often
do, to travesty and calumniate her
motives in order to render them
odious.
Lamentable, however, as may ap-
])ear to her to be the inferior posi-
tion which is allotted to her in
modern communities, she does not
abandon herself to useless regrets.
Without renouncing her inalienable
rights, she sets out from a fact
which it is not in her power to
change, and exhausts her ingenuity
in making the best she can of it for
the good of souls. The little liber-
ty and influence left to her, slie
employs to fulfil her ministry; her
zeal is inventive to supply by re-
doubled vigilance the want of her
ordinary means in the spiritual
government. Must not the work
of (iod be accomplished on earth,
in spite of the difficulties, in spite
of the impediments of all kinds de-
vised by hell }
Such, then, is the principle which
regulates the conduct of the church
in slates where her authority is dis-
owned. To take into consideration
circumstances, established facts ;
to do nothing brusquely, but using
whatever power still remains to her,
to e.xert every, efibrt to ameliorate
the situation, to make herself more
useful to the faithful and to societv.
Let us see how she applies this rule
to education in non-Christian com-
munities.
We find first the communities
wherein the constitution proclaim-i
the liberty of all worships, and their
equality before the law. Here, thr
Catholic Church has ceased to be
the religion of the state, which nt)
longer lives in her spirit, no longer
accepts her direction in matters of
religion and morality, but prefer?
independence to all the advantagc>
of a union with which it thinks :i
can dispense. How will the chnrrh
act in this novel position } In iht
name of liberty, and of the equal
protection accorded to every wor-
ship, she demands, first of all* thtr
right of recruiting her ministei?.
and that of training them accord-
ing to her own laws ; the establish-
ment of large and small seminaries,
as well as their administration by
the bishops exclusively. This i?
the first need to satisfy. It is her
right, included in her claim to ex-
istence.
She demands, moreover, that in
the public schools created or au-
thorized by the government, reli-
gion be invariably the foundation
of education ; that the pupils be in-
structed in the verities of the faith,
and that neither atheism nor reli-
gious indifierentism be taught there.
She demands that at least the pri-
mary schools remain denomination-
al — that is to say, specially appro-
priated to the children of every re-
ligion, and that the Catholic clergy
have free admission to the schools
for Catholics. The preservation
of the faith in those young hearts
is at stake here; for the church
knows by experience the doleful
effects of an early education in
which religion has not had the prrn-
cipal part. Thus she may, with
good right, claim of a goveniment
The Rights of the Church over Education.
739
C^hristian in name, that it leave to
tlie religions protected by the law
t.liis legitimate amount of influence
in the education of the people.
From the same motives, the church
jxjsitivcly rejects the system of
Tion-denominational schools, in
%vhich eventuates a jumble of reli-
gions fatal to the faith and piety
of children. Assuredly Catholics
Is: now how to recognize and respect
the rights of dissenters, nor do they
dream of doing violence to the con-
stcicnce of any one. Is it not, then,
simply common justice that no ad-
vantage should be taken of the lib-
erty and equality of the several re-
ligions before the law, to ha«d
over Catholic children to a mani-
fest danger of religious perversion
and moral ruin ?
But this is not all. The principles
on which the communities of which
wc speak rest, permit Catholics to
require more. True liberty for a
religion consists in its being able
to be not only practised by its ad-
herents, but also transmitted in its
integrity to succeeding generations,
with its beliefs, its precepts, its ex-
terior forms, and, above all, its in-
terior spirit. Now, that is only
possible by means of education.
It is, then, permitted to the church
to demand that liberty be left to
families to choose themselves mas-
ters worthy of their confidence,
and whom they can trust to instruct
and educate their children in the
principles of the Catholic religion.
When the national constitution has
already embodied the liberty of in-
struction in every stage. Catholics
make as extensive use of it as they
can, and as their peculiar property,
imitating in that the shipwrecked
man^who collects together the waifs
saved from the wreck, and out of
them tries to rebuild his shattered
fortune. If, on the contrary, the
monopoly in favor of the state
should be embodied in the law, they
arm themselves with maxims of
natural right, at times even with
the commonly accepted ideas of
liberty, wherewith to beat down
this scandalous monopoly. They
know how to set in motion all legal
means ; and without having re-
course, like many of their adversa-
ries, to insurrection or corruption,
they succeed, sooner or later, in
bringing over public opinion to' the
side of justice and truth, and in re-
covering, thus, a portion of the
rights which belong to their church,
the right of making instructed and
conscientious Christians. After
that, the church can await from the
divine benediction and her own ef-
forts the return of. a happier era,
for, which she exerts all the means
at her disposal, by a solid Christian
education given to youth, by
preaching, and by good example.
She will, at least, have neglected
nothing to acquit herself of her
mission, and to make herself useful
even to the communities which
repudiate her.
There remains, lastly, the third
hypothesis, that of a state separat-
ed from the church — that in to say,
organized wholly out of the reli-
gious idea, a ** lay state," in the full
force of that phrase.
We observe, first, that there is
more than one degree in this secu-
larization of the state. The first
realizes the rationalist idea, accord-
ing to which governments, respect-
ful towards religion, and allowing
absolute liberty, leave the church
to organize herself after her fash-
ion, to preach in her temples, to
teach in her schools, and to govern
the consciences subject to her au-
thority, whilst themselves govern
according to the right of rational-
ism, and without asking counsel of
740
The Rights of tlu Church over Education.
any religious power. It is the
dream of raore than one liberal,
simple enough to believe a perfect
equilibrium of human passions to
be possible in society, by the sole
force of nature and reason. But
experience soon dissipates the il-
lusion of so fair a dream. All the
degrees of separation between re-
ligion and society are soon travers-
ed up to the last, wherein the state,
no longer acknowledging creed,
church, or religion, announces it-
self atheist, and forces consciences
to the inflexible level of an impious
legislation. From thence there is
but a step to the proscription of
Catholics, and to open persecu-
tion.
However, in the conditions of an
existence so unpromising what is
the conduct of Catholics.^ What
can they do save invoke the com-
mon right, and turn against their
adversaries the weapons by which
the latter dispossessed them t The
lay state proclaims liberty for all to
speak, write, and teach, as seems
good to them. It is in the name
of this pretended principle that the
church saw herself robbed of almost
all hfr rights and driven from so-
ciety. Do not imagine that she
approves or that she will ever
adopt so monstrous an error. But
this liberty of speaking, writing, and
teaching which you do not refuse to
error, is it forbidden to claim it for
truth ? Truth ! It is herself; and
her right to speak to the world she
holds, not from false maxims in-
scribed in modern constitutions, but
from Jesus Christ, her divine foun-
der.- Strong in this right, superior
to human constitutions, the church
never hesitates to assume in com-
munities the whole space they leave
her to occupy, and to extend her
action to the uttermost. If they
claim to exclude her, she fashions a
weapon out of common rfgbt. She
summons the governments to admit
her to the benefit of the universal
liberty inscribed in the law^, and
too profusely lavished on teachers
of error. What exception can be
taken to this conduct, at once so
loyal and so right .'
But they charge it against us as
an unworthy manoeuvre, that we
claim for ourselves, in modem com-
munities, and in the name of their
principles, a liberty we shall refuse
to our adversaries the moment we
regain power. In presence of ibis
accusation, the more exalted liber-
als demand that preventive reprisals
be employed in our regard, aad
that liberty be denied us. The
more moderate, affecting a sort of
confidence in the stability of their
work — or rather, in the impossibility
of modern communities ever again
returning to the yoke of religion-
prefer to show themselves generouN
and to vote for liberty even al-
though it be that of Catholics.
Touching self-sacrifice, and which
it must be owned is no longer w
unison with the temperament of
contemporary liberalism !
Be that as it may, the accusation
is sheer calumny, as facts prove-
Neither in the small Swiss cantons,
nor in Belgium, where Catholic
govern, are dissenters oppressed.
If persecution rages anywhere In
the two hemispheres, it is where
liberalism has planted its banner,
and against Catholics. It is soln^
thing more than ignorance which
can accuse us of persecuting ten-
dencies at this time of day. The
truth is^ that social peace has nt
firmer supporters than CathoHcs.
We have before asserted, but it
is well to repeat it, that the Catho-
lic Church professes and practise?
the most absolute respect for ac-
quired rights, for conventions con-
The Rights of tJu Church over Education.
741
eluded and accepted. Thus, for
the sake of peace, certain govern-
ments have felt themselves obliged
to recognize the right of dissenters
to live in the state, retaining their
beliefs and their religious forms.
Liberty of conscience hjB been pro-
claimed, the public exercise of all
the worships authorized. It is,
doubtless, a misfortune that reli-
gious unity in society should be
broken. The church regrets this
misfortune, and her most earnest
desire is to see, some day, unity re-
established. But is that to say that
she wishes violently to change a
situation imposed on her by circum-
stances? that she meditates seizing
again, at a blow, and in contempt of
acquired rights, the power she en-
joyed in better times? By no
means. The liberty which the va-
rious sects enjoy, for the sake of
peace, the Catholic Church respects
and knows how to maintain. Dis-
senters may continue to practise
publicly their religion, provided
that they trouble neither order nor
the tranquillity of the state. Equal-
ity of civil and political rights is
guaranteed to all citizens. Catholic
or not. The same liberty is con-
ceded to them to open schools, and
to educate their children according
to their beliefs. Nothing, in short,
which is just and equitable among
fellow-citizens is refused by Catho-
lics to those who do not share their
faith. What more do they want ?
And what is lacking in this conduct
to constitute true toleration in mix-
ed communities ?
Of Catholics who have become
the depositaries of power in these
communities the church demands
complete liberty to fulfil the duti^
with which she has been charged
by Jesus Christ — the right of organ-
izing herself according to her own
laws ; of recruiting the sacerdotal
ministry and exercising all its
functions; of watching over the
good education of Catholic youth ;
of founding and directing schools,
colleges, and universities ; of having
her religious congregations conse-
crated to prayer, preaching, or edu-
cation; of being able, in short, to
exercise her salutary influence in
society, and of being free to de-
vote herself to rendering the people
better, better instructed in their
duties, and more resolute to fulfil
them. As regards non-Catholics»
she demands of the government not
to substitute license for liberty, but
to use its utmost efforts to banisli
from society two things which are
the most hostile to its prosperity
and to its happiness : we mean im-
morality and irreligion. If, later on,
differences disappear, if all hearts
should unite in the profession of
one same faith, it will then be a
source of regret to no one that the
church resumes her rank, and that
society is once more Christian and
Catholic.
742
Are You My Wife t
ARE YOU MY WIFE?
■T THB AUTHCK OF *^ PARIS BSFOKB TH8 WAR," ^^ICUMRSR THIRTR5II,*' ** PlUi VI V ■'C.
CHAPTER VIII.
A STARTLING DlSCLOSUS£. v*
And bow had things fared at
The Lilies all this time ? Sir Si-
mon had behaved in the strangest
way. Immediately after Glide's
departure, he came, according to
his promise, and explained it after
a plausible fashion to M. de la
Bourbonais, who, unsuspecting as
an infant, accepted the story with-
out surprise or question.
At the end of a week Sir Simon
knew that the worst fears were con-
firmed ; the identity of the suppos-
ed Isabel had been disproved, and
the existence of the real one ascer-
tained beyond the possibility of
doubt. Glide was on her track, but
when or how he should find her
was yet the secret of the future.
The one thing clear in it was, that
it was amiserable business and could
end in notlnjig but shame and sorrow
for every one connected with it.
Sir Simon was helpless and bewil-
dered. He was always slow at tak-
ing in bad news, and when he suc-
ceeded in doing it, his first idea
was, not to take the bull by the
horns and face the facts manfully,
but to stave off the evil day, to gain
time, to trust to something turning
up that would avert the inevitable.
He had never in the whole course
of his life felt so helpless in the face
of evil tidings as on the present
occasion. He foresaw, all too
plainly, what the effect was likely
to be on the innocent young crea-
ture on whom he had brought so
terrible a share in the catastrophe.
It was no comfort to him that it
was not his fault. He would will-
ingly have taken the fault on his
own shoulders, if thereby he could
have lifted the pain from hers. He
was too generously absorbed in
the thought of Franceline's trouble
to split hairs on the difference
between remorse and regret ; he
cursed his own meddling as bitterh
as if he had acted like a deliberate
villain towards her; he felt there
was nothing for him to do but blow
his brains out. He passed the dajr
he received the admiral's letter in
this suicidal and desjxiiring st.itc
of mind. The next day his indig-
nation against himself found some
solace in vituperating Glide's ill-
luck, and the villainy of the woman
who had led him such a devils-
dance. This diversion soothed
him; he slept better that night,
and next morning he awoke refresh-
ed; cheered up according to his
happy matutinal habit, and took a
brighter view of everything. It re-
mained no doubt a most unfortu-
nate affair, look at it as one might
but Franceline would get over it bv
and b> . Why not .? All the nicest
girls he knew when he was a young
fellow had been crossed in love,
and they had all got over it, and
married somebody else and lived
happily ever after. Why should
not Franceline do the same ? De
Winton was a very nice fellow, hat
there were other nice fellows in the
world. There was Roxhara, for in-
Are You My Wife?
743
stance. If he, Sir Simon, was a
pretty girl, he was not sure but he
should like Roxham best of the
two ; be was deuced good-looking,
and the eldest son of a peer to
boot ; that counts with every girl,
why sliouldn't it with Franceline ?
'* But is she like every girl ? Is
i>Vie a butterfly to be caught by any
candle ?" whispered somebody at
Sir Simon's ear; but he pooh-poohed
the unwelcome busybody, as he
would have brushed away a buzzing
fly. She must get over it ; Roxham
should come in and cut out this un-
lucky Glide. The worst of it was
that conversation Sir Simon had had
\v\iU Raymond before Franceline 's
visit to London. If he had but had
the wit ro hold his tongue a little
longer ! Well, biting it off now
would not mend matters. Roxham
must come to the rescue. He liad
evidently been smitten the night of
the ball. Sir Simon had intention-
ally brought him into the field to
rouse Glide's jealousy, and bring
liim to the point; he had invoked
every species of anathema on him-
self for it ever since, but it was go-
ing to turn out the luckiest inspira-
tion after all. While the baronet
was performing his toilet, he ar-
ranged matters thus satisfactorily
to his own mind, and by tlie time
he came down to breakfast he was
fully convinced that everything was
i^oing to be for the best. He read
liis letters, wished a few unpleasant
little eventualities to the writers of
most of them, and crammed them
into a drawer where they were not
likely to be disturbed for some
time to come. The others he an-
swered ; then he read the news-
papers, and that done, ordered his
horse round, and rode to Rydal,
Lady Anwyll's place.
The conversation naturally fell
on the recent ball at the Court, and
from that to the acknowledged
belle of the evening. Mile, de la
Bourbonais. In answer to the
plump little dowager's enthusiastic
praises of his young friend's beauty
the baronet remarked that it was a
pity she did not live nearer The
Lilies. " It is dull for the little
thing, you see," he said ; " Bourbo-
nais is up to his eyes in books and
study, and she has no society to
speak of within reach ; she and the
Langrove girls don't seem to take
to each other much ; she is a peculiar
child, Franceline ; you see she has
never mixed with children, she has
been like a companion to her father,
and the result is that she has fallen
into a dreamy kind of world of her
own, and that's not good for a girl ;
she is apt to prey upon herself. I
wish you were a nearer neighbor of
ours."
** I am near enough for all intents
and purposes," said Lady Anwyll,
promptly; "what is it but an hour's
drive.'' There's nothing I should
like better than to take her about,
pretty creature, with her great
gazelle eyes; but I dare say she
would bore herself with me ; they
don't care for old women's society,
those young things — why should
they } I hated an old woman like a
sour apple when I was her age."
** Oh ! but Franceline is not a bit
like most girls of her age ; she
would enjoy you very much, I as-
sure you she would," protested Sir
Simon warmly. " There is nothing
she likes better than talking to me
now, and I might be your father,"
he added, with more gallantry than
truth ; but Lady Anwyll laughed a
contemptuous, little, good-humored
laugh without contradicting him.
** She has seen very little and read
a great deal — too much in fact ; you
would be surprised to see how
much she has read about all sorts
744
Are You My Wife?
of things that most girls only know
by name; her father was for teach-
ing her Greek and Latin, but I
bullied him out of that nonsense;
it would have been a downright
crime to spoil such a creature by
making her blue. IVc saved her
from that, at any rate."
" I dare say that is not the only
good service she owes you," ob-
served the dowager, "nor is it like-
ly to be the last. When is your
young relation coming back V*
" De Winton, you mean ? He's
hardly a relation — a connection at
most. I don't know when he is
likely to turn up; I believe he's on
his way to the North Pole at pre-
sent."
" Really ! I thought there was a
magnet drawing him nearer home/*
" What ! Franceline, eh > Well,
I thought myself he was a trifle
spooney in tJiat quarter," said the
baronet, bending down to examine
his boots, "but it would seem not,
or he would not have decamped;
he's an odd fish. Glide — a capital
fellow, but odd."
**I thought him original, and
liked him very much, what little I
saw of him," replied L^dy Anwyll.
" However, I am glad to hear it is
not a case between him and your
pretty friend ; if there is a thing I
hate* — with ten drops of vitriol in
the monosyllable — " it's chaperon-
ing a girl in love. You have no
satisfaction in her; nothing inter-
ests or amuses her ; she is ready to
bite the nose off any man that
looks civil at her; she is a social
nuisance in fact^and I make a point
of having nothing to do with her."
Sir Simon threw back his head
and laughed.
** How about young Charlton .'"
resumed the dowager; "he is the
match of the county. Has he gone
in for the prize V^
'''He's too great an ass," was the
rejoinder-
" Humph ! Asses are proof, then,
against the power of a beautiful
face ? It's the first time I've heard
it."
"The fact is, I don't think be I
has had a chance yet," said Sir Si- \
mon ; " Bourbonais is peculiar, and
does not encourage people to go
and see him ; he only admits a se-
lect circle of old fogies, and I
think he fancies Charlton is a bit
of a puppy."
" Perhaps he's not much out id |
that," assented the lady.
"Roxham struck me as being
rather smitten the other night;
did you notice anything in that di-
rection," inquired Sir Simon care-
lessly, as he rose to ga "I was too
busy to see much of what was go-
ing on in the way of flirtation, but
I fancied he was rather assidu-
ous!"
" Now, that would be a very nice
thing!" And the mother who had
made many matches brightened up
with lively interest. " I should like
to help on that ; it would be quite
an exciting amusement, and I have
nothing to do just now."
"Take care!" and Sir Simon
raised his finger with a warning
gesture ; " you may have a social
nuisance on your hands before you
know where you are."
" Oh ! I don't mind when it's of
my own making," said the dow-
ager ; " that quite alters the case."
"Then you will drive over to-
morrow or next day and call at
The Lilies r
Sir Simon mounted Nero in high
good humor; whistled a hunting
air as he dashed through the stif
Wellingtonias that flanked the kmg
avenue at Rydal, and never drew
rein until he alighted at his own
door.
Are You My Wife?
745
M. de la Bourbonnis greeted
Lady Anwyll with the innate cour-
lesy of a grand seignior, and nev-
er let her see by so much as a look
that her visit was not an agreeable
surprise. Yet it was not so. Since
that conversation with Sir Simon
about Franceline's fortune, an un-
easy feeling had possessed him, and
be had shrunk back more sensitive-
ly than ever into his shell of reserve
and isolation. He had been con-
tent, or rather compelled, to leave
matters entirely in Sir Simon's
hands, or in the hands of fate, but
be did not feel at rest, and he had
no mind to launch out into new ac-
quaintances just at a moment when
his mind was disturbed by strange
probabilities, and his habitual ab-
straction broken up by vague anxie-
ties, that could not take any defi-
nite shape as yet. But Lady Anwyll
saw nothing of this in the old
gentleman's courtly greeting; she
saw that Franceline had welcomed
her with a warmth that was unmis-
takable — childlike and gleeful, and
fettered by no ice bands of conven-
tional politeness.
The dowager's visit was indeed
welcome ; the utter silence that had
succeeded to the stir and agitation
of the past few weeks had fallen
upon Franceline like a snow-drift
in the midst of summer; the return
to the old stagnant life was dread-
ful—she felt chilled to death by it.
The reaction was natural enough
to one of her age and circumstan-
ces ; bat we know that there was a
deeper reason for her sense of lone-
liness and weariness than the mere
relapse into routine and dulness
after a season of excitement. Where
was Mr. de Winton, and why had he
gone off in that strange way, without
a sign or a word, leaving her trem-
bling and expectant on the threshold
of hei awakened womanhood ?
It was more than a week now
since he went, and she had not
heard his name once mentioned,
and there was no prospect of her
hearing any one speak of him ; since
neither her father nor Sir Simon
did so. Lady Anwyll came like a
messenger and a link ; Lady Anwyll
was in Glide's world, the wide,
wide world beyond her own small
sphere where no one knew him.
This was unconsciously the reason
of Franceline's joyous greeting.
Sir Simon had come with the dowa-
ger ; they had walked down through
the park together, and it was. the
first time in her life that Franceline
was not thoroughly glad to see him.
He was not quite like his usual self
either, to her, she fancied. He
rattled on in his own way, telling
stories and making jokes, and then
catching up some chance words of
Raymond's and quarrelling with
them, until their author waxed
warm, and was drawn out into an
elaborate refutation of some mean-
ing that he never dreamed of giving
them, but into which Sir Simon
had purposely twisted them ; and
finally accomplishing his aim of
keeping the conversation on ab-
stract subjects and not letting it
slip into the dangerous path of per-
sonal or local events.
" So you will let me come and
take you out for a drive sometimes,"
Lady Anwyll said, as she rose to
take leave, " and by-and-by, when
you get used to the old woman,
perhaps you will come and spend a
day or two with her in her big,
lonely house ? You will not be al-
ways afraid of her ?"
" I am not afraid of her now,"
protested Franceline, looking with
her radiant dark eyes straight into
the old lady's face, " you don't look
wicked at all."
"Don't I? Then more shame
Are You My Wife f
5::^5 1*21 a hy|x>-
--T -L ^' I'c -ire, my
i.ci^icti^r :a:icaily
-L z^^-^ a little
c-^ izjLt i:R"i come
^ -=. ■ cr.ei Sir Si-
1" ji^ mis. --ni
' --:^ti::r -t alexin be
- ' ; I iTi ict trgat-
.1 T _ ;;r:ciise to
l;i is sctile it
' . .^=-iJ.- -rei:?*' and
- . .^c - " * hiT-d in
. 1.:- ...t-i :: M. de
-* - t-:ia -- s>f"ic his
.▼',.: e *-r -:ii to
X i":.iC-i*<. -itC sac
_-^ iz ' . a Hi ^ar-
^ r '^-.Sv: -::*s i;^^-
< ^? ; y- a must
, . .u I : ..s war;
. 1 J.:. .:.xe o::ier
^^ .cr ^^ijoii ; it will
..e J..: and joined
^ u :o : ic jjck en-
k .1 :.:e visitors
-.~v >-r :^e park..
v* \ ang i>t?ople
. . ioc jc so very
. .->. *;/' coniinued
> .u^ A.utied four
, , v^ : *' and I can
V , ** x .>a rice/*
av siie would
\ r ^.^d; but Sir
*^ do* a for a
. ,^ tot that I
. ^ , .: "^."4 near
• 3< c a< ;.rac I
heard of him ; but for all I knov
he may have joined your friend
young De Win ton at the North
Pole by this. AVell, good-Ly, ra\
dear. I should dearly like a kiss.
Would you mind kissing the old
woman?"
Franceline put her soft, vermi-
lion lips to the wrinkled cheek
Neither Lady Anwyll nor Ray-
mond saw how instantaneously the
blood had forsaken tliera, leaving
them white as her brow ; but Sir
Simon did, and it smote him to the
heart. He walked on before the
good-bys were over, ostensibly to
give some order about the carrirge
that was drawn up at a turn in the
avenue, but in reality to avoid
meeting Raymond's glance.
Late that evening a note carac
to The Lilies to say that he was
obliged to start at a moment's no-
lice for the south of France, wliere
his step-mother. Lady Rebecca, was
dangerously ill. He was sorr)* to
have to rusli off without saying
good-by, but he had not a mo-
ment to lose to catch the express.
Sir Simon did start by the ex-
press, and after a day or two in
London, where he saw Admiral de
Winton, and ascertained that noth-
ing new had turned up in Gides
affairs, he thought he might just as
well go to the south of France,
where he would be within reach of
his interesting relative in case she
should need him, or die, which the
older she grew the less she seemed
inclined to do, in spite of Mr
Simpson's periodical tolling of her
death-knell. Fate, that abstract
divinity invoked by pagans and
novelists, interfered with the fulfil*
mcnt of Franceline *s engagement
to Lady Anwyll. A letter — a real
letter — awaited her at home from
her son-in-law, saying that his wife
was taken suddenly ill, and entreat-
Are You My Wife?
747
ed her mother to come to her with-
out delay. Franceline was rather
glad than sorry when the note
came to postpone her visit. The
desire to go to Rydal was gone.
She wanted to be left alone. She
was not equal to the effort of seem-
ing arnused. And yet, again, in an-
other way she regretted it. A day
or two's absence from her father
would have been a relief; the
strain of keeping up false appear-
ances before him was worse than it
^eed have been amongst strangers;
it would liave sufficed them to be
calm ; at home she must be gay.
After tlie sudden shock which
those words so carelessly uttered
by Lady Anwyll had caused her,
Franccline's first thought was to
screen lier feelings from her father.
She was lielped in her effort to do
this by her certainty that he had
no key to them, that he had not
for a moment connected her and
Ch'de de Winton in his thoughts.
If she had known how much had
been disclosed to him, how closely
he had watched her ever since that
fatal conversation with Sir Simon,
concealment would have been im-
possible. As it was, she found it
hard enough; but there was an un-
suspected strength of will, a vitality
of power in her, that enabled her
lo act the part she had resolved
upon. She called up all her love
for her father and all her native
woman's pride and maiden deli-
cacy to the effort, and she achieved
it. Her father watched her with
the jealous eye of anxious affec-
tion, but he could see nothing
forced in .her spirits ; he heard no
hollow note in her laugh ; he saw
no trace of sadness in her smile.
She was merrier^ brighter, more
talkative for several days after
Lady Anwyll's visit than he re-
membered to have seen her. Ray-
mond sighed with relief many times
a day as he heard her singing to
herself, or caressing her doves with
new names of endearment and fresh
delight. She succeeded perfectly
in blinding him, but not in si-
lencing the wild tumult of her own
heart. It was all mystery yet ; pain
and wonder were predominant, but
hope was not absent from the
chaos of conflicting emotions, and
there was nothing of wounded self-
respect, no definite feeling of re-
proach towards Glide. It seemed
as if everything were a mistake;
no one had done anything wrong,
and yet everything had gone wrong.
Was it all a dream the life she had
been living for those few blissful
weeks? Was his devotion to her,
his exclusive assiduity during all
that time, nothing but the custom-
ary demeanor of a gentleman to a
young girl in whose society chance
had thrown him.^ Franceline ask-
ed herself this over and over again,
and could only find one answer to
it — the echo of her own heart. But
what did she really know about
such things — what standard had
she to go by } What had she ever
seen to guide her in forming a rea-
sonable conclusion ? — for she want-
ed to be reasonable : to judge
calmly without listening to the
longings and tyrannical affirma-
tions of this heart. " He may
have been so assiduous in attend-
ing me in my rides simply to please
Sir Simon," whispered reason ; but
the response came quickly : ** Need
he have looked and spoken as he
did to please Sir Simon ? And
that night of the ball, was it to
please Sir Simon that he was stung
and angry when I deserted him for
Lord Roxham } Was it for that
that he spoke those words that
had set my every fibre thrilling.^
* What does anything matter to us,
Awe YmMy Wifef
^' *-=. 2 1-j
. 1 » . j: ^ j ^.
L .*
are not
— -:.:err' To what
— i^rr-.: :.:c3i ! How
^ .: - ^e and rested
:^ ^ :^-:r :ae words
-L -^-r*! I aai to b«-
-—1 -nr.!::: ao more
cnes ot a
rtner ia
•.r -^^etiij lierself
-s i-c^eoa rase in
r\-=a» ocart 6:octt
^ - Trru:aunv, there
-i JLiic i reelings
^ -^L-T»Ti i.msidi CO
r *::^ :< !'W -C and
r= ' -i; .;e i:d 50 !
* . 1 ii-txz.rtT'^ •' ocen
zr'^^ \^v. I. s,:e
~*.j- w u^d be
= -- *. ».n- It
- • '^ ."w is
* r. - r •-!>
1 .- «.'-.: a.
-^ ■ -:. -d
was no music in her, and when she
could have broken into passionate
tears if they had not been restrain-
ed by a strong effort of will. These
alternations, however, passed un-
observed by the two who might
have noticed them. Raymond had
made up his mind that Sir Simon's
brilliant scheme had failed, zod.
that as the failure had dealt no
blow at Franceline's happiness, it
was not to be regretted. It had
been altogether too brilliant to be
practicable ; he felt that from the
first, and his instinct served him
better than Sir Simon's experience,
shrewd man of the world though be
was. " Kind, foolish friend, his
affection blinded him and made him
see everything as he desired it for
Franceline, and now he is vexed
with himself, and ashamed very
likely, and so he keeps away from
me. Perhaps he imagines I would
reproach him. This poor, dear
S.mon has more heart than head."
And with these indulgent reflec'
dons, Raymond sank back into his
dreamy historical world, and left
c5 watching the changeful aspects
cf his child. She was safe; things
were just as they used to be.
A month went by ; during that
"une one letter had come from the
jorooct, affectionate as ever, bol
CMcenily written under some f«^
n^ o< restraint. He talked of the
xnioyances he had had on the
T'-jd* and the loss of some of hb
I'l^A^, and about French poli-
ces. M. de le Bourbonais fan-
cied be saw through the awkward-
ness: he answered the letter in a
aicre than usually affectionate
scrim ; was very comraunicat/»'e
i:cu: himself and Franceline, who
'vo^ growing quite beyond An^eli-
^ -^s and his control, he assured
1 s •nend,and required Sir Simon's
lo-id 10 keep her within bounds, »
J
Are You My Wife?
749
he had better hasten home as quick-
ly as possible if he had any pity for
the two victims of her tyranny and
numberless caprices. This letter
had the effect intended ; it brought
another without many days* delay,
and written with all the abandon
and spirit of the writer's most
cheerful mood.
Lady Anwyll returned at the end
of the month, and bore down on
'File Lilies the very next day.
Francelinc would have fought off
if she could have done so with any
chance of success ; but the dowager
was peremptory in claiming what
had been distinctly promised, and
she agreed to be ready the next day
to accompany the old lady to
Rydal.
Ang^lique put her biggest irons
in the fire, and smoothed out her
young mistress's prettiest white
muslin dress, and set her sashes
and ribbons in order, and was as
full of bustle as if the quiet visit a
few miles off had been a wedding.
" I am glad the petite is going; it
will do her good," she observed,
complacently, as she brought in
the lamp and set it down on the
count's table that evening.
•* Why do you think it will do
lier good .^ Is she suffering in any
way?" said the father, a sudden
Sling of the old fear giving sharp-
ness to his voice.
** Bont6 divine ! How monsieur
Lakes the word out of one's mouth !"
ejaculated Ang^lique, throwing up
her hands like an aggrieved woman ;
** why, a little distraction always
does good at mamselle's age ; look
at me : it v/ould put new blood into
my old veins if I could go some-
where and distract myself."
•* You find it very dull, my good
Ang^lique?" And the master turned
a kindly, almost penitent glance on
the nut-brown face.
** H^ ! listen to him again ! One
does not want to be dying of ennui
to enjoy a little distraction ; one
does not think of it, but when it
comes one may like it !" She gave
the shade a jerk that made it spin
round the lamp, and walked off in
high dudgeon.
Franceline was conscious of a
pleasurable flutter next day, when
she heard the carriage crunching
the gravel, and presently Lady
Anwyll came round on foot, follow-
ed by the footman, who carried off
her box and secured it in some
mysterious part of the vehicle. She
was flushed when she kissed her
father and said good-by ; he thought
it was the pleasure of the " little
distraction " that heightened her
color, and that took away the pang
of the short parting.
** Yes, decidedly, a change does
her good," he mentally remarked ;
** I must let her take advantage of
any pleasant one that offers."
It was an event in Franceline's
life, going to stay at a strange
house. The Court was too much
like her own home, and she had
known it too long and too early
to feel like a visitor there, or to
be overpowered by its splendors.
Rydal was not to be compared to
it either for architectural beauty or
magnitude, or for the extent and
beauty of the grounds and surround-
ing scenery. The Court was a
grand baronial hall ; Rydal was an
old-fashioned manor house; low-
roofed, straggling, and picturesque
outside; spacious and comfortable
inside ; with enough of the marks
of time on the furniture and decora-
tions to stamp it as the abode of
many generations of gentlemen.
A low-ceiled square hall, with sit-
ting-rooms opening into it on either
side, and quaint pictures and arms
ornamenting its walls, received you
750
Are You My Wife?
with a hospitable hearth, where a
huge log was blazing cheerily under
a high, carved oak mantel-piece.
1: was not flagged with marble, nor
Mipl^orted by majestic columns like
the Gothic hall of the Court, but it
had a charm of its own that France-
line felt, and expressed by a bright
exclamation as she alighted in it.
" Come in and sit down for a mo-
ment in the drawingproom," said
Lody Anwyll. *' I always rest before
toiUng up-stairs, my dear ; and you
mu:>t fancy yourself an old woman
and do so too."
Franceline followed her into the
handsome square room. Two pro-
jecting windows thrust themselves
o'ji lo the west to catch the last
ra\s of the setting sun at one end,
and another bulged out southward
to sun itself in the noon-tide warmth ;
an old-fashioned sofa was drawn
close lo the fire. Franceline fan-
cied she saw the soles of two boots
resting on the arm facing the door;
and was beginning to wonder where
tiic body was that they might be-
long to, when the dowager sudden-
ly cried out in tones of amazement
rather than delight ;
** Good gracious, Ponce ! what
brought you back, and when did
\ou come? I verily believe you
have got some talisman like Riquet
wKii the Tuft for flying about the
world like a bird I Where have
\ou come from now V*
She stooped down to kiss the in-
visible head that lay at the other
end of the figure, and a voice from
the cushions answered : ** I pledg-
ed my word I would be back in a
day and a month ; did you ever
know me break my word, ladv mo-
ther?*'
** Vou so seldom commit your-
>eU by pledging it to me that I
hardly remember; however, now
I hat \ou arc here, I am glad to see
you, and to be able to offer yoc a
reward for your punctuality. Come
here, my dear, and let me intrc-
duce my son Ponsonby to you."
The recumbent giant was on his
feet in an instant, with an involun-
tary *' Hollo !" as Franceline ad-
vanced at his mother's bidding,
" This is Mile, de la Bourbonois.
Ponce; my son, Captain Anwyll."
" It is not often punishment ov-
ertakes the guilty so fast," said t'rc
gentleman, with a ver}- low bou,
and an awkward laugh ; ** I so sel-
dom indulge in the laziness oi
stretching ray long legs on a sofa,
that it's rather hard on uie thai I
should be caught in the act by a
lady. Mother, you ought to have
given me notice in time."
" Served you right ! I'm glad
you were caught; and, my dear,
don't you mind his seldom ; when
he is not flying through the air ox
over the water, this big son of mir-
is stretching himself somewhere.
Come, now, and get your thing-
off." As tliey were leaving the
room, she looked back to ask her
son if he ** had brought the regi-
ment down with him,'* and on hear-
ing that he had left that appendage
in Yorkshire, his mother observed
that it was like him to leave it be-
hind just when it might have been
useful.
There are some people who,
though inert and quiet themselves,
have a faculty for putting everjbod}
about them in a commotion. Pon-
sonby Anwyll was one of these.
When he came down to Rydal it
was as if an earthquake shook the
place. He wanted next to no wait-
ing on, yet somehow every ser\-ant
in the house was busied about him
He was like a baby in a house, ex-
acting nothing, but occupying every-
body.
He was constantly cither over-
Are You My Wife?
75 1
turning something, or on the point
of doing it. Like so many men of
the giant type, he was as gentle as
a -woman and as easily cowed ;'
and like a woman, he always want-
ed somebody at his elbow to look
after him. If he attempted to light
a lamp, ten to one he upset it and
spoiled a table-cover or a carpet,
or he let the chimney fall, and cut
his fingers picking up the bits to
prevent some one else's being cut.
He took next to no interest practi-
cally in the estate; yet his tenantry
were very fond of him ; he never
bothered them about improvements
or abuses, and they were more
obliged to him for letting them
alone than for benefiting them
against their will. Whenever he
interfered it was to take their part
;i gainst the agent, who could not
see wliy the tenants were to be let
off i)aying full rents because the
harvest happened to be a failure
tme year, when it had been good so
many preceding ones. Lady Anwyll
would bully and storm and protest
that he was ruining the property,
and that they would all end in the
Union ; but Ponsonby soon petted
her into good humor. In her heart
of hearts she was proud of her big,
easy-going son, who cared so little
for money, and she was as pleased
to be patronized by him as a little
kitten is when the powerful New-
foundland condescends to a game
of romps with it.
When Franceline, in her white
muslin dress, floated into the draw-
ing-room, like a summer cloud, the
Newfoundland was standing on the
liearth-rug, with its eyes fixed ex-
pectantly on the door. Lady
Anwyll was generally down long
before her son. Ponce took an age
to get out of one set of clothes and
into another ; but he had the start
of her to-day.
" You have had a nice drive from
Dullerton," he began; how else
could he begin ? " But I fear the
weather is on the turn ; those clouds
over the common look mischiev-
ous."
" Are you weatherwise ?" inquir-
ed Franceline, following his eyes
to the window.
" Not he, my dear ! He's not
wise in anything!" answered a
voice from behind her.
"Mother, this is positively too
bad of you ! I protest against your
taking away my character in this
fashion, before I have a chance of
making one with Miss Franceline.
You begin by making me out the
laziest dog in Christendom, and
now you would rob me of my one
intellectual quality ! You know I
am weatherwise ! They call me
Girouette in the loth, because I can
tell to a feather how the wind is
blowing ; 'pon my honor they do.
Miss Franceline!"
Franceline was going to assure
him of her entire faith in this as-
sertion when dinner was announced,
and they crossed the hall into the
dining-room.
" Now, tell us something about
where you've been and what you've
seen and done,** said the dowager ;
"and try and be as entertaining as
you can, for you see there is no one
else to amuse my young friend."
" I'm sure I should be very proud ;
I wish I could remember something
amusing to tell ; but that's the
deuce of it, the more a fellow wants
to be pleasant the less he can. Do
you care to hear about fishing?"
This was addressed to Franceline.
There was something so boyish in
his manner, such an entire absence
of conceit or affectation, that, in
spite of other deficiencies, she liked
the shy hussar, and felt at ease with
him.
Are Y0uMy Wifet
3^ -am- 1 suscjd if I under-
_L nr I ii: aot. But I
.^-rr -srr-us "u ksov about
-= -.a-r^ aoa ^eopley" she
' 1 _:-ui a ujr: I can tell
-:- ojubi to -ai :f pbces,"
-_ ztr 'ix:-i-*ii?r pw— ptiy ;
-TT -ix T-a -• aecK them
- ; 'ccr vea Mt of Dul-
istr -
sat icse s a child.
r - .
.£<r ^1 s a» Lomioa,^
:rcr:-.n
c: ' jB -oKcxaiiaidlf
^ 1
=1-.:-; sc oinnc any
fe -- ;
¥.-,1 3 rarhgr re-
: ^r-'-'s* ?«ott are
-ri-
* t =c viacn -jr tfic
tc rjac \^ SB too 900r
:::*ie -a:a t js amply
.£•5 2A ^^isA "2J3L ure rain
. I* i-iL«xrswtcain
••_ .a* s Tccit brok-
- ■.. -.. oni pecv
> ^ 1 C TOW
fellow need care to cat. Only pa
would not like the popish ways of
the place. That's the deuce of it
you can't get out of the way of thai
sort of thing ; it's in the air, jou
see ; but one grows used to it after
a while, as one does to the bad
smells."
" I should not suffer from that. I
am a Catholic," said Franceline, her
color rising slightly.
" Oh, indeed ! I beg your par-
don ; I had no idea; of course thai
makes all the difference," stammer-
ed the hussar, mentally compar-
ing himself to Patrick, who couM
never open his mouth without pot-
ting his foot in it.
Lady Anwyll had now despatch-
ed her dinner, or as much oi the
long meal as she ever partook of
Feeling that the conversation was
not progressing very favorably be-
tween her son and her guest, she
took the reins in her own hand
and by dint of direct questions and
an occasional touch of the spar she
managed to make time trot on in a
straggling but on the whole amus-
ing style of talk, half narratire,
half anecdote, until dinner was
ended, and she and Franceline mi-
grated to the drawing-room, lear-
ing the captain to discuss the claret
in solitary state.
The next morning at breakfast
Lady Anwyll proposed that the two
yeang people should go for a ride
after hinch. Franceline demuned
on the plea that she had never rid-
den but one horse and was afraid
to trust herself on any other. Tk
captain, however, settled this difr
cult}\ by volunteering to send ^
man over to Dullerton for Roscbad.
She would come at an easy pact,
and after an hour's rest be readf
for the road. On seeing the point
so satisfactorily arranged, France-
Are You My Wifcf
753
line imniediately dismissed her ter-
rors, and thought it would be rather
desirable to try how she could
manage on a strange horse. She
roil Id not plead that she had for-
t;otten her riding habit, for Ang^-
lique had remembered it, as well as
the hat and gloves and whip, all
of which had been packed up with
her other clothes.
The weather was fine, a bright
sun beamed from a stainless sky ;
the furze on the common was yel-
low enough still to illuminate the
flat expanse of the country round
Rydal, and as Franceline dashed
through the golden bushes on her
s]>irited steed, her youth vindicated
itself, the young blood coursed joy-
ously through her veins, her spirits
rose, and soon the exercise that
^he begun reliictantly became one
of keen enjoyment. Capt. Anwyll
was not a very interesting compan-
ion, but he was natural and good-
natured, and anxious to please ; he
knew now what ground he was
treading, too, and made no more
blunders, but chatted on without
^liyness or effort, and was pleasant
enough.
** Roxham is coming to dinner.
Vou know Roxham ? A capital
fellow ; a dead shot ; a clever fel-
low too ; goes in strong for politics
and philanthropy and so forth.
Hell be in the ministry one of
these days I dare say, and setting
the country by the ears with his re-
form crochets, and that sort of
tiling : his head is full of them.*'
" Not a bad sort of furniture
cither. Why don't you follow his
example ?" demanded Franceline.
** Me ! How satirical you are !
That's not my line at all. I don't
go in for politics — only for soldier-
ing, if there were any to do. They
set me up as liberal candidate for
the last elections, but when I found
VOL. XXF.— 48
it was not to be a walk-over, and
that I was to contest it, I backed
out. My mother was dreadfully
savage. But bless her! she does
not understand it a bit. I'm no
hand at making speeches and ad-
dressing constituents. Now, Rox-
ham can hold forth by the hour to
a mob, or to any set of fellows; it's
wonderful to see how he spins out
the palaver — and first-rate palaver
it is, I can tell you. You should
hear him on the hustings! We'll
make him describe a great row he
and the liberal candidate had at
the last elections, when Roxham
beat him out of the field in grand
style; he was no match for Rox-
ham anyhow, and besides he had a
stutter, and when he was in a pas-
sion he couldn't get a word out
without stamping like a vicious
horse. It's great fun to hear Rox-
ham tell it ; we'll make him do so
this evening. It will amuse you."
Franceline laughed. The name
of Lord Roxham and the mention
of his electioneering feats recalled
a scene that was seldom absent
from her memory now. Every tri-
fling detail of that scene rose viv-
idly before her as she listened to
Captain Anwyll. W^ould he never
allude to one figure in it that over-
shadowed every other.? If she
could but lead him to speak of
elide ! Perhaps he could tell her
something of his present move-
ments; throw some light on h^r
perplexity.
" Lord Roxham has a very hand-
some cousin, Lady Emily Fitznor-
man ; do you know her }" she ask-
ed, carelessly.
" Yes. A ver)- nice girl as well
as handsome."
** I wonder she's not married al-
ready."
" You think she's on the wane !
Wait a while ; you won't think three-
754
Art You My Wifef
and - twenty so antique by and
by."
** I did not mean that ; I thought
she was about my own age," pro-
tested Franceline with vivacity ;
" but when one is so much ad-
mired as Lady Emily seemed to be
that night at Dullerton, one won-
ders she is not carried off by some
devoted admirer."
"Then you noticed that she had
^ great many ? Would it be unfair
to ask a few names V*
" Mr. de Winton for one seemed
very devoted."
"De Winton! Humph! Who
else ?**
" Why do you say * humph' ? Is
there reason why he should not be
amongst the number?"
" Rather — that is to say perhaps
— in fact, thereby hangs a tale."
His face wore a quizzical expres-
sion as he spoke.
" What tale .?" She looked round
with a quick, curious glance.
" Oh ! it's not fair to tell tales out
-of school, is it ?"
" Certainly not ; I had no idea
there was a secret in the way," said
Franceline, bridling.
Ponsonby was not gified with the
knack of calm irrelevance ; instead
^of dropping the subject and turn-
ing to something else, he resumed
.presently :
" De Winton is a capital shot
too — better than Roxham ; I went
boar-hunting with him in Germany
three years ago, and then black-cock
shooting in Prussia, and I never
'knew him to miss his aim once."
" He will come home laden with
bears this time no doubt," she re-
marked with affected coolness.
" Hears ! not he. He has other
game to follow now. Are you up
lo taking that fence, or shall we go
nnind by the bridle-path } It
mftkcs it a good bit longer.^"
" I don't care to take the feocfc
Let us go round."
She put her horse at a canter,
and they scarcely spoke again until
they reached Rydal.-
Lady Anwyll's voice sounded
from the drawing- room, summoning
her to come in before going up-
stairs, but Franceline did not heed
it. She went straight to her room ;
she must have a few moments
alone ; she could not talk or listen
just now. While she was flying
through the air, ir seemed as if mo-
tion suspended thought, and kept
her poised above the mental whirl-
wind that Capt. Anwyll's worda
had evoked ; but once standing
with the ground firm under her
feet, thought resumed its power,
and shook off the temporary torpor.
She closed her door, and proceeded
quietly to take off her habit. .\<
she did so a voice kept repeatin;;
distinctly in her ears, " He has
other game to follow now !" Wlmi
did it, could it mean } W'hy, since
he had said so much, could he not
in mercy have said something more?
But what did Capt. Anwyll kno*
about mercy in the matter.^ What
was Mr. de Winton to her in hi*?
eyes? Nothing, thank heaven!
Nor in any one else's. It was fruo
mystery to mystery ; she coald
make nothing out of it. One f^tc:
alone grew clearer and clearer to
her amidst the dim chaos — Glide
de Winton was the loadstar thai
was drawing her thoughts, her long-
ings, her life after him wherever be
was. Everything else was vague
and undefined. She could not blame
any one ; she could not grieve or
lament ; she could only lose herself
in torturing conjecture. It wanted
more than an hour to dinner-time.
Franceline had not the courage to
spend it in the drawing-room, where
she would be the object of I>adj
Are You My Wifet
755
Anwyll's motherly petting, and
Ponsonby*s flat gossip ; she must
have the interval to school herself
for the effort that was before her
for the rest of the evening. There
were steps on the landing; she
opened her door ; one of the maids
was passing.
" Please tell her ladyship that I
am a little tired, and shall lie down
for half an hour before I dress."
The servant took the message,
Franceline did not lie down,
however ; she seated herself before
the window, and thought. The ex-
ercise was not soothing, but it was
.1 respite ; and when she made her
appearance in the drawing-room,
there was so little trace of fatigue
about her that Lady Anwyll rallied
her good-naturedly on the cruelty
of having stayed away under false
pretences.
Lord Roxham met her with the
frankness of an old acquaintance,
and had many pretty speeches to
make about their last meeting.
Franceline responded with sprightly
grace, and hoped he had come pre-
pared to complete her education in
parliamentary matters. The even-
ing passed off gaily. Lord Roxham
was a fluent if not a brilliant talker,
and under the animating influence
of his lively rattle, Franceline's
spirits rose, and her hosts, who had
hitherto seen her rather willing to be
amused than amusing, were surpris-
ed to see with what graceful spirit
she kept the ball going, bandying
light repartee with Lord Roxham,
and pricking Ponsonby into join-
ing in the game with a liveliness
that astonished him and enchanted
his mother. The dowager chuckled
inwardly, and applauded herself on
the success of her little matrimonial
scheme; she already saw France-
line a peeress, and happily settled
as a near neighbor of her own.
None of the party were musicab
but they did not miss this delight-
ful element of sociability, so unflag-
ging was the flow of talk and anec-
dote ; and when Lord Roxham
started up at eleven o'clock to ring
for his horse, every one protested
he must have heard the clock strike
one too many.
" Come and lunch to-morrow,
and join these two in their ride,"
said Lady Anwyll, as she shook
hands with him.
"Am I going to ride home.'"
inquired Franceline, surprised.
" Certainly not ! Nor drive either.
You don't suppose I'm going to let
you off with one day's penance.**"
** O dear Lady Anwyll ! papa
will expect me to-morrow, and he
will be uneasy if he does not see
me ; I assure you he will," pleaded
Franceline.
" I can remove that obstacle,"
said Lord Roxham promptly. " I
must ride over to Dullerton early
to-morrow morning, and I can have
the honor of calling at M. de la
Bourbonais*, and setting his mind
at rest about you."
** The very thing !" cried Lady
Anwyll, shutting up Franceline,
who had an excuse ready ; " you
can call at The Lilies on your way
back, and tell the count he is to ex-
pect this young lady when he sees
her."
Luckily Franceline was ignorant
of the juxtaposition of the various
seats round Dullerton, or it might
have struck her as odd that Lady
Anwyll should propose the messen-
ger's going a round of fifteen miles
to call at The Lilies *»on his way
back." But she suspected nothing,
and when Lord Roxham alighted
at Rydal next day punctually as
the clock struck two p.m. she greet-
ed him with unabashed cordiality,
and was all eagerness to know if he
756
Are You Afy Wife t
had seen her father, and what the
latter had said.
She had slept restlessly, but she
had slept ; her anxiety had not as
yet the sting in it that destroys
sleep. She did not fail to notice
with renewed wonder that Lord
Roxhara had studiously avoided
mentioning Mr. de Winton's name.
Studiously it must have been ; for
what more natural than to have
mentioned him when discus&ing the
{^\x\ festa where they had first met .'
She felt certain there must be a
motive for so palpable a reticence,
and the thought did not tend to re-
assure her. She had dressed her-
self before luncheon, so when the
horses came round, they mounted
at once. Franccline, on starting,
had mentally resolved to make
Lord Roxham speak on the subject
that was uppermost in her mind —
to put a direct question in fact, if
everything else failed — but, strive
as she might, he would not be lured
into the trap, and her courage sank
so much on seeing this that she
dared not venture on a direct in-
terrogation.
They stayed out until near sun-
t!v>wn; the day was breezy and
briijht* and Franceline looked radi-
um with the excitement and exer-
1 :>e.
" Let us ride up to the knoll and
see the sun go down behind the
rommon," proposed Capt. Anwyll,
as they were about to pass the
park gate; the sunset is the only
thing we have worth showing at
Rydal, and I'd like Mile, de la
Bourbonais to see it.**
His companions gladly assented,
and the party turned off the road
into a bridle-path across the fields
which led to the elevation com-
manding an unbroken view of the
spectacle. It seemed as if every-
thing had been purposely cleared
away from the landscape that could
divert attention for an instant from
the glorious pageant of the western
skies. Not a lK>use was visible,
and scarcely a habitation ; the cot-
tages were hid in the flanks of the
valley, and only reminded you of
their existence by a thin vapor that
curled up from a solitary chimney
and quickly lost itself in the trees, j
Nothing gave any sign of life bat
the sheep browsing on the gilded
emerald of the shorn meadows.
The red and gold waves flooded
the vast expanse of the horiion,
flowing further and higher as the
spectators gazed, until half heaven
was on fire with a conflagration of
rainbows. Swiftly the colors chang-
ed, crimson and orange first, then
deep and tender shades of purple
and green, until all melted into uni-
form violet, the herald of the gath-
ering darkness. They stood watch-
ing it in silence, Franceline with
baled breath. The sunset always
had a solemn charm for her, and
she had never seen so vast and gor-
geous a one as this. It was like
watching the dying throes of a di-
vinity.
" The play is over, the audience
may retire !** said Ponsonby, break-
ing the pause; even he had been
subdued by the sublimity of the
scene.
** If I were a pagan I should be a
fire-worshipper,** said Franceline,
as they moved away. " I think the
worship of the sun is the most nat-
ural as well as the most poetic of
all forms of idolatry."
"That's just what De Winton
said the first time he saw the sun
set from here!** exclaimed Capt.
Anwyll triumphantly ; " how comi-
cal that you should have hit on the
very same idea ! He said, by the
way, that it was the finest sunset be
had ever seen in England ; it's so
Are You My Wifet
717
wide and low, you see ; he showed
me a sketch he made of a sunset
somewhere in the Vosges that he
said it reminded him of. I forget
the name of the valley ; but it was
uncommonly like; do you know
the Vosges?"
** No ; I have never been to that
part of France."
Lord Roxham glanced at her as
she said this in a clear, low voice.
He saw nothing in her counte-
nance that afforded a clew to what-
ever he was looking for.
It had grown chilly now that the
sun had set, and they had been
standing several minutes on the
knoll. Of one accord the three
riders broke into a gallop as they
entered the park, and dashed along
between the pollard Wellington ias,
standing stiff and stark as tumuli
on either side of the long avenue.
Lady Anwyll had gone to visit
some poor sick woman in the
neighborhood, and had not yet
relumed. The gentlemen went
round to the stables, and France-
line to her room. She dressed
herself quickly, wrote a short let-
ter to her father according to her
promise of writing to him every
day during her absence, and then
threw the window wide open and
sat down beside it. It was fresh
enough, and she wore only her
muslin dress, but she did not feel
the freshness of the air — she was
too excited to be conscious of any
external influence of the kind. She
sat as motionless as a statue, gazing
abstractedly over the empurpled
sky where the moon appeared like
a shred of white cloud. She had
not sat there long when the fragrant
fumes of a cigar came floating in
through her \vindow, followed soon
by a sound of footsteps and voices.
Ponsonby and his guest were com-
ing in. Franceline did not close
the window or move away, though
the voices were now audible; the
speakers had not entered the
house ; they were walking under
the veranda that ran round the
front. What matter? They were
not likely to be talking secrets;
she was welcome to listen, no doubt,
to whatever they might have to
say.
" There is the carriage coming,*'
said Ponsonby; " my mother is out
too late with her rheumatism ; Til
pitch into her for it.'*
"Yes; it doesn't do to stay out
after sunset when one has any
chronic ailment of that sort. By
the way, you mentioned De Winton
just now; have you heard of him
lately ?"
** No ; not since he left Berlin.
It seems lie was very near kicking
the bucket there; he was awfully
bad, and nobody with him but his
man Stanton."
" How did you hear about xiV*
"Through Parker, a fellow in
our regiment whose brother is at^
tachS at Berlin; the story made a
sensation there, but no one knew
of it until De Winton had left."
The speakers j^assed on to the
end of the veranda, and Franceline
could catch nothing more until
they drew near again. Lord Rox-
ham was speaking.
" Poor fellow ! It's tremendously
hard on him, and I believe there is
no redress; nothing to make out a
case for divorce.**
" I fancy not ; but even if there
were it would not be available,
since he's a Romanist."
" Ah ! to be sure ; I forgot that ;
but what a mystification the whole
business is! I've known De Win-
ton since we were both boys — we
were Eton chums, you know — but
he never breathed a word of it to
me. Yet he's not a close fellow;
75^^
Are You My IVrfef
quite the contrary. And who the
deuce is the woman ? Where did
he come across her ?*'
They passed out of hearing
again, and when they returned the
tramping of horses and the crunch-
ing of wheels overtopped their
voices. The sounds all died away ;
Lady Anvyll had come in, and
gone to her room — every one was
waiting in the drawing-room, but
Franceline did not appear. Her
hostess, thinking she had not heard
lac dinner-bell, sent for her. Pres-
ently the maid came rushing down
the stairs and into the forbidden
precincts of the drawing-room with
a ^i-arcd face.
" Please, my lady, she's in a dead
uini ! I found her all in a heap on
tiie floor, ready dressed. I lifted
her on to the bed, but she don't
movi; I"
An exclamation burst simultane-
t Uily from the three listeners. In
a moment they were all in France-
line's room ; there she lay stretch-
ed on the bed, as the woman had
^aid, white and still as death, one
hand hanging, and her hair, that
r.ad been loosened in the fall, drop-
ping on her shoulder. The usual
restoratives were applied, and in
aLM>ut a quarter of an hour she
iidve signs of awakening — the vein-
ed lids quivered, the mouth twitch-
ed convulsively, and a short sigh
escaped her. Lady Anwyll signed
to her ron and Lord Roxham to
withdraw; they had scarcely left
the rooni when Franceline opened
her eyes and stared about her with
i\\c blank gaze of returning con-
sriousness. She swallowed some
wine at Lady Anwyll's request, but
M)on put the glass away with a ges-
ture of disgust. In answer to her
lu».stess* anxious entreaties to say
where she suffered, and v.-hy she
had swooned, the young girl could
only say she had felt tired ad
weary, and that she longed to he
left alone and go to sleep. Ladf
Anwyll agreed that sleep would be
the best restorative, and insisted
on staying till she saw her settled
in bed; then she kissed her, and
promising to come soon and see if
she was asleep, she left the room
with a noiseless step.
" What is it ? Is there anything
much amiss, mother?" was the cap-
tain's exclamation. Lord Roxham
was equally concerned.
" Nothing, except you ha%e near-
ly killed her, both of you. You
have ridden the child to death;
she is not accustomed to it, and she
has overdone herself; but she will
be all right 1 hope in the morning.
There's nothing the matter but
fatigue, she assures me."
Ponsonby rated himself soundly
for being such a brute as to have
let her tire herself; he ought to
have remembered that she was done
up the day before after a much
shorter ride. He was awfully
sorry. His remorse was no doub^
quite genuine, but when they sat
down to dinner he proved to de-
monstration that that feeling is com-
patible with an unimpaired appetite.
Lady Anwyll left them before they
had finisheil to see how Franceline
was going on ; she found her awake,
but quite well, and going to sleep
very soon, she assured the kind old
lady.
" Then, my dear child, I will not
have you disturbed again ; if you
wake and want anything, strike this
gong, and Trinner will come at
once. I will make her sleep in the
room next yours to-night."
Franceline protested, but the
dowager silenced her with a kiss;
put out the light, and left her.
She lay very still, but there was
no chance of sleep for her. Sleep
Are You My Wif^t
759
had fled from her eyes as peace had
fled from her heart. She longed to
get up, and find relief from the in-
tolerable strain of immobility, but
she dared not ; her room was over
a part of the drawing-room, and she
might be heard. The evening
seemed to drag on with preternatu-
ral slowness. She could hear the
low hum of voices through the
ceiling. Once there was a clatter
of porcelain — probably Ponce over-
turning the tea-tray; At last the
stable-clock struck eleven ; there
was opening and shutting of doors
for a while, and then silence.
Franceline sat up and listened
until not a sound was anywhere
to be heard. Every soul in the
house had gone to bed. Trinner
had come last of all to her room.
The star made by her candle gleam-
ed through the key-hole for a long
time ; at last it disappeared, and
soon the loud, regular breathing
lold that she was fast asleep. Fran-
celine rose, threw her dressing-
wrapper round her, and drew back
the curtain from the windov/. It
was a relief to let the night-lights
in upon her solitude ; the glorious
gaze of the moon seemed to chase
aw;iy phantoms with the dark-
ness. She felt awake now. All
this time, lying there in the utter
darkness, it seemed as if she were
still in a swoon, or held in the grip
.of a nightmare ; she shook herself
free from the benumbing clutch,
and sat down close by the window,
and tried to collect her thoughts.
There was one phantom which the
moonlight could not dispel; it
stood out now distinctly as she
looked at it with revived conscious-
ness. Glide de Winton was a mar-
ried man. It was to the husband of
another that she had given her
heart with its first pure vintage of
impassioned love. He who had
looked at her with those ardent
eyes, penetrating her soul like flame,
had all along been another woman's
husband. There was no more room
for hope, even for doubt ; suspense
was at an end ; the period of dark
conjecture was gone. It was clear
enough, all that had been so inex-
plicable, — clear as when the light-
ning flashes out of a lurid sky, and
illuminates the scene of an earth-
quake; a sea lashed to fury by
winds that have lost their current,
ships sinking in billows that break
before they heave, the land gaping
and groaning, trees uprooted, habi-
tations falling with a crash of thun-
der, all live things clinging and fly-
ing in wild disorder. Franceline
considered it all as she sat, still and
white as a stone, without missing a
single detail in the scene.
Violent demonstration was not
in her nature. In pain or in joy it
was her habit to be self-contained.
She had as yet been called upon
but for very slight trials of strength
and self-control ; but such as the
experience was it had left behind
it an innate though unconsciouh
sense of power that rose instinctive-
ly to her aid now. She had fainted
away under the first shock of the
discovery ; but that tribute of
weakness paid to nature, she would
yield no more. Tears might come
later; but now she would not in
dulge in them. She must face the-
worst without flinching. What was
the worst t Glide was a marrieo
man. That was bad enough in ni;
conscience ; yet there might bt*
worse behind. Gircumstancesmigiu
cast a blacker dye even on ihis.
Lord Roxham had spoken in a lone
of sympathy : " Poor fellow ! it's
tremendously hard on him. . . .'*
He would have spoken differently
if there were any villany in ques-
tion. But if Lord Roxham h.-.d not
ySo
Are You My Wife?
ihus indirectly acquitted him, Fran-
celine would have done so sponta-
neously. Yes, even in the first mo-
ment of despair, while the flood was
sweeping over her, she acquitted
him. He had dragged her down
into unsounded depths of agony
and shame, but he had not done it
deliberately ; he was neither a liar
nor a traitor. Had he not been
brought to the jaws of death him-
self only a month ago.^ There was
an indescribable comfort in the pang
those words had inflicted. He too,
then, was suflering ; they were both
victims. Glide had never meant to
deceive her ; she would have sworn
it on the altar of her unshaken faith
in him ; she wanted no stronger evi-
dence than the promptings of her
own heart. She was confident there
would be some adequate explana-
tion of whatever now seemed am-
biguous, when she should have learn-
ed all. No ; she need not separate
the attribute of truth and honor
from his image ; she could no more
do it than she could separate the
idea of light from the pure maiden
moon that was looking down on
her from heaven ; she would see
darkness in light before she would
believe Glide de Winton false.
This irrepressible need of her
heart once satisfied — Glide judged
and acquitted — what then 1 Grant-
ed that he was innocent as yonder
stars, how did it afl*ect her ? What
did it signify to her henceforth
whether he was innocent or guilty,
true or false 7 He was the hus-
band of another woman ; as good
as dead to Franceline de la Bour-
bonais ; parted from her by a more
impassable barrier than death. If
he were only dead she might love
him still, hold him enshrined in her
heart's core with a clasp that death
could not sever — only strengthen.
Uut he was worse than dead; he
was married. She must banisii
him even from her thoughts; his
memory must henceforth be as far
from her as the thought of murder,
or any other crime that her cryslai
conscience shuddered even lo name.
She might acquit him, crown hini
with the noblest attributes of man-
hood ; but that done, she must dis-
miss him from her remembrance,
and forget him as if he had never
lived.
Franceline Had remained seated,
her hands locked passively in her
lap, while these thoughts shaped
themselves in her mind. When they
reached the climax, expressed in
these words : " I must forget him
as if he had never lived !" she rose
to her feet, clasped her forehead in
both hands, and an inarticulate cr)*
broke from her : " It would be
easier to die ! ... If 1 had any-
thing to forgive, that would help
me ! But I have nothing to for-
give !" It would not have helped
her, though she fancied so ; it wouKl
have turned the bitterness of the
cup into poison. But she couM
not realize this now. It seemed
harder to renounce what was good
and beautiful than to cast airay
what was unworthy. If the idol
had uttered one false oracle, de-
manded anything base, betrayed it-
self before betraying her, it wonid
have been easier, she thought, to
overturn it. Indignation would
have nerved her to the deed, and
she would have dealt the blow with-
out compunction. But it had done
nothing to forfeit her love and trust,
and nevertheless she must dash it
down and cast the fragments into
the fire, and not preserve even the
dust as a precious thing. What a
merciful doom his death would
have been compared to this!
How was she to do it ? Who
would help her to so ruthless a d^
Are You My Wifef
761
molition? Did any one speak in
the silence, or was it only the un-
spoken cry of her own soul that
answered ? She had fancied her-
self alone ; she had forgotten that
a Presence was close to her, wait-
ing to be invoked, patient, faithful,
and protecting even while forgot-
ten. The voice sounded sweet in
its warning solemnity, and filled the
lonely chamber with a more benign
r?.y than ever shone from midnight
sky or blazing noorf. Franceline
stretched out her arms to meet it,
and with a loud sob fell upon her
knees. ** O my God ! forgive me !
Forgive me, and help me ! I have
sinned, but my punishment is great-
er than I can bear !" The flood-
gates were thrown back ; the tears
tell in hot showers, the sobs shook
her as the storm shakes the sap-
ling. She knelt there crouching in
the darkness, her head leaning on
her folded arms, and gave herself
up to the passionate outburst, like
a child weeping itself to sleep on
its mother's breast. But this could
not last. It was only a truce. The
real battle, the decisive one, had
only now begun ; what had gone
before were but the preliminaries.
Hitherto she had thought only of
her grief and humiliation ; she was
now brought face to face with her
sin — the sin of idolatry. She had
raade unto herself an idol of clay,
and placed it on the altar of her
heart, and burned incense before it
with every breath she drew; the
smoke had made a mist before her
eyes, but it was dissolving. She
looked into the desecrated sanctu-
ary, and struck her breast with hu-
mility and self-abasement. Her
tears were flowing copiously, but
they were not all brine ; she was
drawing strength from their bitter-
ness. Victory was not for "the
days of peace," but for such an
hour as this. She had been trained
from childhood in the hope of
heaven, in the firm belief that this
life was but the transitory passage
to the true home ; that its sorrows
and joys were too evanescent, too
unreal to be counted of more im-
portance than the rain and wind
that scatter the sunshine of a sum-
mer's day; she had been taught,
too, that the bliss of that immortal
home is purchased by suffering — a
thing to be taken by violence, a
crown to be grasped through thorns.
Hitherto her adherence to this
creed had been entirely theoretical ;
she accepted it, but in some vague
way felt that she, personally, was
beyond its action. Her father had
suffered ; her mother, too, cut off in
her happy bloom, had won the
crown by a lingering illness and an
early death ; but she, .Franceline,
enjoyed, it would seem, some privi-
leged immunity from the stern
law. Such had unawares been her
reasoning. But now she was unde-
ceived ; her hour had come, and
she must meet it as a Christian.
Now was the time to prove the sin-
cerity of her faith, the strength of
her principles; if they failed her,
they were no better than stubble
and brass that dissolve at the first
breath of the furnace.
A duel to the death is always
brief: the foes close in mortal con-
flict ; the thrusts come fast and
sharp ; one or other falls. When
Franceline lifted her head from her
arms, the expression of the tear-
stained face showed which way the
battle had gone : the victor stood
erect with his foot upon the vic-
tim's neck, unscathed, serene, and
pitiless. Love lay bleeding and
maimed, but Conscience smiled
in triumph. " I will not let thee
go until thou hast blessed me,"
the wrestler had said, and the
762
Are You My Wifet
tngel had blessed her before he
fled.
Tlie night was nearly spent when
Franceline rose up from her knees,
numbed and shivering, although
the weather was not cold. She
walked rapidly up and down for
a few moments to warm herself;
there was a spring in her step, a
light in her eyes, that told of re-
covered energy and unshaken pur-
l)Ose; her nerves might tingle, her
heart might grieve, but they would
neither faint nor quail. She drop-
ped on her knees again for one mo-
ment and uttered a prayer, more
of thanksgiving this time than sup-
plication, and then lay down and
soon fell asleep.
When Franceline came down next
morning, after breakfasting in her
room as if she had been ailing,
there was scarcely any trace in her
aspect of the conflict of the night.
Eyes do not retain the stains of
tears very long at eighteen, and if
she was a trifle paler than usual, it
was accounted for by the over-ex-
ertion which had brought the faint-
ing fit. She expressed a wish to
go home as early as was convenient
to her hosts, and they consented
with reluctance, but without ofler-
ing any resistance. Lady Anwyll
said the child was weary and dull,
and that the next time she came to
Rydal they should make it livelier
for her.
With what a feeling of regaining
a haven of rest did Franceline en-
ter the little garden at The Lilies,
where her father, warned by the
sound of the wheels, hastened out
and stood waiting to clasp her ! —
Angeliviue graciously letting him
have the first kiss, before she claim-
ed her turn.
"We have been like fishes out
of water without thee!— have we
not, ma bonne?*' was RavBoond's
joyful exclamation, as he gathered
his child to his heart, and then
held her from him to look vistfuUj
into the sweet, smiling face.
" Yes, we were dull enough with-
out our singing bird, though I ^MXi.
say she didn*t miss us much!*' was
Ang^lique's rejoinder. Franceline
declared she would go a-ay very
soon again to teach them to value
her more.
But the singing bird was not the
same after this. The spirit that
had found utterance io its joyous
voice was dead. A lark rises iiom
the clover-field, and pours out its
sweet, "harmonious madness" over
the earth ; swiftly it soars a way— away
— into fathomless space, and while,
spell-bound, we strain after the fad-
ing notes, lo! the sportsiaan*s ar-
row hisses by, a cry rends the wel-
kin, the songster is struck — he will
never sing again.
Perhaps you despise Franceline
for allowing the loss of an imagi-
nary possession to put the light oai
of her life in this way. As \i oar
lives were not made desolate half
the time by the loss of what wc
never had ! You will say that self-
respect and pride ought to have
come to her aid, and enabled ber
to quench in blood, if needs be,
the fire that her conscience pro-
nounced guilty. But is the pro-
cess so quickly accomplished, think
you.^ Franceline was doing ber
best ; she was concentrating all the
energies of her mind and soul in
the struggle, but it was not to be
done in a day; the very puritjTof
her love constituted its strength.
If there had been the smallest ele-
ment of corruption in it, it would
have died quicker ; but its fibres were
enduring because they were pure.
Yet she was not forgetful of ber
father and of all that he had hiib-
Are You My Wife f
7H
?rto l>een to her, and she to him ;
[ar from it. The effort to conceal
ber sufferings from him was a great
lielp to her in controlling them,
though it often taxed her strength
severely. Sometimes, when the
feeling of isolation pressed on her
almost beyond endurance, when
she felt that she must have the so-
lace of his sympathy, cost what it
might, she would steal into his
study, determined to speak and let
the murder out; but the sight of
the venerable head bowed over his
books, absorbed, and happy in his
unc^scilousness, would arrest her
words and choke them back into
Mlence. The strain was hard, but
was it not a mercy that she had as
yet only her own burden to bear?
What a price would she not have
to pay for the momentary relief of
leaning it on him! What might
not be dreaded from the effect of
the revelation on his sensitive
pride, and still more sensitive
love? And then the inevitable
breach between him and his old-
est, almost his only friend. Sir Si-
mon ! They would leave The
Lilies and go forth she knew not
where. No; silence indubitably
was best. To speak might be to
kill her father.
This state of things lasted for
a week, and then there was grant-
ed an alleviation. Father Hen-
wick had been called to a dis-
tance to see his mother, who was
dying ; he arrived in time to assist
her with his filial ministry in the
last passage ; remained to settle all
that followed, and then came back
to resume the even tenor of his life
at Dullertom
Father Henwick was one of those
men whom you may know for a life-
time, and never find out until some
special circumstance reveals them.
There was no sign in his outward
man of anything remarkable in the
inner man. He had not acquired,
or at any rate retained, any French
polish or grace from his early so-
journ at the French seminary. His
manners were very homely, and
abrupt almost to brusqueness ; he
was neither tall nor small, but of
that height which steers between
the two, and so escapes notice ; his
voice had the unmistakable ring
of refinement and early education,
yet he seldom associated with his
equals, his intercourse being con-
fined chiefly to the poor. These
and their children were his familiars
at DuUerton. The latter looked on
him as their especial property, and
took all manner of liberties with
him un rebuked — hanging on to his
coat-tails, and plunging their auda-
cious little paws into the sacred
precincts of his pockets, whence ex-
perience had taught them something
might turn up to their advantage :
penny whistles, Dutch dolls, buns,
lollypops, and crackers were contin-
ually issuing from those mysterious
depths which the small fry sound-
ed behind Father Henwick's back,
and apparently unbeknown to him,
while he administered comfort of
another description to their elders.
The fact of his havmg been edu-
cated in France, and speaking
French like a Frenchman, account-
ed to the general mind of Dullerton
for the eccentric habits and uncpn-
ventional manners of the Catholic
priest, especially for his shyness
with his own class, and undue fami-
liarity with those in the h ambler
ranks. It ought to have establish-
ed him on the footing of close inti-
macy at The Lilies ; and yet it had
not done so. M. de le Bourbonais
professed and fell the greatest es-
teem for him, and made him wel-
come in his gracious way ; but Fa-
ther Henwick was too shrewd an
764
Are You My Wife?
observer of human nature not to
see exactly how far this was meant
to ga Franceline's early instruc-
tion had been confided to him, and
the remembrance of the pains he had
taken with the little catechumen,
the fondness with which he had
planted and fostered the good seed
in her heart, made a claim on Ray-
mond's gratitude ; but it did not
remove an intangible barrier be-
tween the father in the flesh and the
father in the spirit. M. de la Bourbo-
nais was a Catholic ; if anybody had
dared to impugn by one word the
stanchness of his Catholicity, he
would have felt it his painful duty to
run that person through the body ;
but, as with so many of his country-
men, his faith ended here ; it was al-
together theoretical ; he was ready at
a moment's notice to fight or die
for it; but it did not enter into his
views to live for it. For France-
line, however, it was a different
thing. Religion was made for
women, and women for religion.
With that tender reverence for his
child's fiiiih, which in France is so
often the last bulwark of the father's,
Raymond had been at considerable
pains to hide from Franceline the in-
consistency that existed between his
own practice and teaching. When
the great event was approaching
which, in the life of a French child
especially, is surrounded by such
touching solemnity, he made it his
delight to assist Father Henwick
in preparing her for it, making her
rehearse his instructions between
times, or teaching her the cate-
chism himself. Then, to anticipate
awkward questions and impossible
explanations, he made a point of
rising early on Sundays and festi-
vals and going to first Mass before
Franceline was out of bed. The
habit once contracted, he continued
it ; so it came about naturally that
slie took for granted her fither ^d
at a different hour what be attacii-
ed so much importance to her do*
ing. In conversation with Fatbrr
Henwick she had more tlian once
incidentally let this belief trans-
pire ; but he was not the one to un
deceive her, or tear away the ve;i
that parental sensitiveness had
drawn between itself and those
childlike eyes. Neither was he
one to broach the subject indiscreet-
ly to M. de la Bourbonais. A dav
might come for speaking; mean-
while he was content to be silcni
and to wait. ^
The day Father Henwick re-
turned to Dullerton after his moth-
er's funeral, his confessional was
surrounded by a greater crowd than
usual ; his parishioners hud a whole
week's arrears of troubles and ques-
tions, spiritual and temporal, to set-
tle with him, and it was late when
he was able to speak to Franceline.
The conference was a long one;
by the time it was over the chnrci;
was nearly empty ; only a few fig-
ures were still kneeling in the sha-
dows as the young girl, coming ou:
through a side- door, walked throtigh
the graves with a quick, light step
and proceeded homewards. Tears
were falling under her veil, and a
sob every now and then showed
that the source was still full to
overflowing; but her heart was
lighter than it had been for niany
days, her will was strengthened aud
her purpose fixed. She was bcm
on being courageous, on walkini;
forward bravely and never lookinit
back. She blessed God for tht
comfort she had received and the
strength that had been imparted to
her. Oh ! she was glad now that
she had resisted the first impulse to
speak to her father, and had been
silent.
That evening M, de ki Bour-
A Visit to Inlattd in 1874.
;ۤ
»onais and Ang^lique remarked
»ow cheerful she was. She stayed
ip later than usual reading to Ray-
nondy and commenting spiritedly
on what she read; then bade him
good-night with almost a rejoicing
heart, and slept soundly until long
past daybreak.
TO BB CONTIMUBD'
A VISIT TO IRELAND IN 1874.
" Yes," said Mr. Bernard at the
close of a long discussion, " it is
<\\\\i& marvellous how little English-
men know about Ireland! And
iheir prejudices are the necessary
roriscquence of such ignorance ! I
wish they could be made to travel
Uiere more f*
No one, perhaps, more heartily
agreed wiili him than I did, taught
l>y my experiences of last autumn,
which occurred in the following
manner.
I had been sometime absent from
that country, a resident in London,
when I unexpectedly received a
pressing invitation Inst September,
Irom a friend living in the County
Westmeath, to cross St. George's
Channel and pay her my long-
proroiscd visit. "Westmeath!" ex-
claimed my London circle — ''West-
meath ! You must not dream of it !
Voiril be shot, my dear!" said
one old lady. "Taken up by the
j>olice !" said another. " It's ridi-
rulous, absurd!" cried athird. "Re-
member the Peace- Preservation
Act and all that implies — murders,
Fenians, Ribbonmen, police ! Don't
risk your precious life amongst
ihcm, or we shall never lay eyes
upon you again !" And they all
looked as solemn as if they had re-
ceived an invitation to attend my
Requiem, and were meditating what
flowers to choose for the wreaths
each meant to lay upon my coffin.
Nothing, however, made me hesi-
tate. Go I would, in defiance of
all their remonstrances; for, I ar-
gued, if my friend, who herself own-
ed land in Westmeath, could live
there and see no impropriety in
asking me, as a matter of course I
should run no risk in accepting her
invitation. At length, finding me
obstinate, my cousin, Harry West,
came forward, and, volunteering
to escort me, promised my relatives
that he would judge for himself,
and if he saw danger would insist
on my returning with him. He was
a middle-aged man, land agent of
an estate in Buckinghamshire — one
of the most peaceful counties in the
United Kingdom — had never set
foot in Ireland, but, having been
studying the Irish question — as he
thought — and poring over the de-
bates on this same Peace-Preserva-
tion Act last session, held even
gloomier views concerning Ireland
than any of my other numerous ac-
quaintances. Inconsequence, Hook-
ed upon this as the most self-sacri-
ficing act of friendship he could
possibly offer. At the same time, I
accepted it.
Accordingly, we started by the
766
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
a^t viail which leaves Euston
Square at twenty-five minutes past
eight P.M.
For the first two hours I was
haunted, I confess, by the dread
of the Scotch limited mail running
into us« as I knew it was to leave
ih€ same spot only five minutes
later ; and both trains being express,
if any hitch should occur to us be-
tween the stations, we might *' tele-
scope " each other without any
means of preventing it. At least,
so it seemed to my ignorant mind.
Harry fortunately knew nothing of
this ; bot his thoughts were none
the less running upon danger, re-
membering some terrible accidents
to this same Irish mail — notably
tiie one some four years ago, when
Lord and Lady Famham, Judge
Berwick and hi9 sister, and others
we knew, were reduced to a heap
of ashes in a few minutes by an ex-
plosion of petroleum which caught
fire in a collision. Luckily, Harry
fell asleep on quitting Chester, and
never noticed the fatal spot, nor
awoke until we drew up at five min-
utes past three a.m. alongside the
mail packet Leinsier some way out
on the pier at Holyhead.
The night was fine, the sea calm,
the passengers tired ; so every one
slept tranquilly until the stewardess,
rushing into the ladies* cabin, an-
nounced that we had passed the
Kish light some time, and should
lie '* in ** in half an hour.
Without conveying any meaning
to an English lady close by, the
word quickly roused me ; for it was
full of memories — sad, yet happy.
Many and many an evening, when
living once on the Wicklow shore,
had I sat watching on the far ho-
rizon the sparkling light which
marked the well-known light-ship
wine miles off the Irish coast. Of
4 summer*s night it shone like a
twinkling star, suggestive of cool,
refreshing breezes far away upon
the calm waters, when perchance a
hot breeze hung heavily over the
land ; but in winter the simple
knowledge of its existence, with two
men living there on board in a soli-
tude that was broken only once a
month, while the winds and waves
raged fiercely around the ship, often
haunted my dreams and made the
stormy nights doubly dreary all
along the Wicklow sea-board.
" The Kish light ! Has not that
a delightful, pleasant home sound Y*
said a middle-aged woman near,
looking at roe as if she bad divined
my thoughts. ** And these boats^
there are no others to be com-
pared to thero ! The English have
no excuse for not coming to Ire-
land/' she continued, "with ves-
sels of this kind, that are like true
floating bridges, so steady, swift,
and large. Who could be ill in
them ? No one !"
I was puzzled to think who sbe
could be ; for though the face was not
unfamiliar, I could give it no name.
It was that of a lady, certainly,
with a bright, intelligent, happy ex-
pression ; but I saw that her garb
was coarse as she bent and rum-
maged for something in her bag.
In a moment, however, the mystery
was solved by her lightly throw-
ing a snow-white piece of linen
over her head, which, as if by
magic, took the form of the cornel
of a Sister of S. Vincent de Paul.
"Sister Mary !** I exclaime<?.
"whom I knew at Constantino-
ple!"
"The same," she answered. **I
thought 1 knew you !" And shaking
hands cordially, we sat down to
talk over the past.
She was a native of Ireland— her
accent alone betrayed her, thoogJi
she had not seen her native land
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
767
'or years — and I had known her in
he East, after which she had been
o Algiers and various other parts.
Vow, to her great joy, she had been
ordered for a while to one of the
:onvents of the order in Dubh'n — a
joy which, though she tried, nun-
like, to subdue it, burst forth uncon-
trollably the nearer we approached
the land. Coming with me on
deck to watch our entrance into
Kingstown Harbor, the first person
we met was Harry West, who eyed
ray companion with amazement ;
for he had never seen a Sister
of Charity in living form before,
though he entertained that sort
of romantic admiration for them
which tlie most rigid Protestants
often accord to this order, though
iney deny it to every other. Turn-
ing round again, my surprise was
great at encountering the Bishop —
the Catholic Bishop — of shire,
on his way to the consecration of a
church in the far west of Ireland.
"Quelle heureuse rencontre !" said
his lordship playfully ; for we were
very old friends. ** You see /am at-
tracted also to the dear old coun-
tr}'! You smile," he continued,
noticing my 'amused expression
as I introduced Harry to him.
*' Oh ! yes, I know I am a Saxon,
pur sang. But we English bishops
and priests always feel as if we
were at home the instant we put
our foot on shore in the Green
Isle- There's Kingstown and its
cnurch, where I shall go to say
Mass the moment we land. Watch,
now !" he added, as we drew up
alongside the jetty; "you'll see
how civil the men will be the in-
stant they perceive I am a bishop."
As he spoke a porter rushed by,
and an impulse seized me to give
him a hint to this effect. At once
the man knelt down, in all his hurry,
**for his lordship's blessing;" nor
did he limit his attentions to this,
but insisted on carrying his lug-
gage, not only on shore, but up to
the hotel, refusing, as the bishop
later told us, to accept a penny for
his time and trouble — " the honor
of serving his lordship and of get-
ting his blessing was quite reward
enough !"
Harry, standing by, could not
believe his eyes. It was a phase
of life quite unknown to him. But
there was no time for meditation ;
the train was on the pier, the whis-
tle sounded, and we were soon on
the road to Dublin.
It was Sunday — the one day of
all others which, had I wished to
show Harry the difference between
the two countries, I should have
purposely chosen ; the one morning
in the week when Dublin is astir
from early dawn, and London, on
the other hand, sleeps. Residents
in the latter, Catholic residents es-
pecially, are painfully aware of the
difficulty of finding cab or convey-
ance of any kind to take them to
early Mass, and know how, in the
finest summer weather, they may
wander through the parks without
meeting a human being until the
afternoon. In England church-
going commences, properly speak-
ing, at eleven o'clock only, and
then chiefly for the upper classes;
the evening services, on the con-
trary, are largely attended by the
servants and trades-people, to meet
which custom a vast majority of
families dine on cold viands, or
even relinquish the meal altogeth-
er, substituting tea, with cold meat
— or " heavy tea," as it is generally
called — for the ordinary social gath^
ering. In Ireland, as in every
Catholic country, the whole system
is reversed, as the natural conse-
quence of the church discipline,
which enjoins the hearing of Mass
768
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
on the whole community, high and
low- and — contrary to the Protes-
tant system — once this obligation
fulfilled, the attendance at evening
service is necessarily much smaller.
Harry never having even been out
of England, except for a " run up
the Rhine" some years before, and
knowing no Catholic but myself, it
never occurred to him to think of
these distinctions, nor to suppose
that he would find anything in Ire-
land different from English ways,
except that unlimited lawlessness
the existence of which he believed
made life so impossible there.
He was in the process of recov-
ering from his astonishment at the
unfamiliar phraseology of the West-
land Row railway porters wl>en our
|)assage to the cab was impeded by
a crowd suddenly rushing along
the footway, met by an advancing
one from the opposite direction,
composed of the very poorest class,
men, women, and children. Har-
ry's lively imagination and precon-
ceived ideas led him at once to
conclude that it must be a Fenian
Hyde Park mob r en force; and the
bewildered horror of his counte-
nance at thus finding his worst
fears realized the instant he ar-
rived at the Dublin terminus was
beyond all description comic.
" Ah ! sure, your honor, it's the
seven o'clock Mass that's just over,
and the half-past seven that is going
to begin," explained the cabman,
pointing to the large church which
stands at Westland Row adjoining
the railway station. "Sure, this
goes on every half-hour until one
o'clock. An't we all obliged to hear
Mass, whatever else we do V And
as we proceeded, I cross-ques-
tioned him for the benefit of my
cousin. We discovered that this same
man had been to church at six
o'clock that morning, belonged to
a confraternity, approached the sac-
raments regularly, and performed
various acts of charity in sickness
and distress amongst his fellosr-
members, in accordance with the
rules of the said society ; yet he wis
but poorly clad, and showed noooi-
ward signs of the remarkable intelli-
gence with which he answered me od
every point.
As usual on these occasions, the
choice of a hotel had been puzzling,
the Shelbourne, Morrison's, Maple's,
each having their distinctive ad-
vantages; but at last we decide^i
in favor of the Imperial, a quiet
but comfortable establishment fac-
ing the General Post-Office in
Sackville Street. The streets were
alive with people as we crossed Car-
lisle Bridge, past Smith O'Bj^^aV
white marble statue; and Hirry
could not help noticing the c/tuti^t
to England at that early ^usdiy
hour.
Refreshed by our ablutions asd
clean toilets, we were conifcollUf
seated at breakfast, when sounditf
music approaching caused m ft*
rubh to the window, and sharr.
us a wagonette full of nitisictifii
in grecsi uniform, playing *^Q3X^
Owen " and '' Patrick*s Day^ fot-
lowed by half a dozen outside c«*
full of men and women^
*' Fenians r* cried Harry, *I
tnld you 1 could not be mistikcft '*
" Only some trade guild going etbI
for an innocent day's pleasure ifi tic
country ; after having been to Mas
ff)i;>_ I [k/ive nn (Iniilit,** £>hservrJ •
gentleman close by, whose accerit
was unmistakably English. '* TIils
is not the only custom that will seem
new to you, if you are strangers '
he continued, addressing Harry, anu
smiling meanwhile. " No two co«r-
tries ever were more different than
England and Ireland. I shall neve:
forget my astonishment on arri*-
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
769
ng here trro years ago. I could not
;et accustomed to it at all at first.
\ remember one circumstance par-
icularly which greatly struck me.
I arrived on a Sunday morning, as
. ou have done, and taking up the
Freeman s Journal — one of the best
Dublin papers — on Monday, per-
:ei ved a short paragraph in a comer,
leaded, * A Bishop Killed,* so small
hat it might easily have escaped
notice. Nor was there any allusion
to it in any other part of the paper ;
t>ut, reading on, you may conceive
my surprise at finding that * a
bishop ' was no one less than the
Bishop of Winchester, the leading
bishop in England, whose death
by a fall from his horse, you will re-
member, convulsed that country
til rough its length and breadth.
Not one of my acquaintances even —
and I had many in Dublin — took
the smallest interest in it. They had
not followed his career ; he had not
the slightest influence in Ireland ;
and few knew his name, or that he
was any relation to the great Wil-
berforce. On the other hand, they
were at the time living upon news
from the North, where a police offi-
cer was on his trial for the murder
of a bank manager — a fact which no
one in England gave the smallest
heed to. I had never heard of it.
But that same afternoon the head
waiter of the hotel, unable to con-
real his excitement, came up and
whispered to me, * He is condemned,
sir! I have got a telegram from
Omagh myself this instant.* I had
only been thirty-six hours in Ire-
land at the time, and, having merely
glanced at the newspaper, knew
nothing of the trial ; so I was elec-
trified and mystified beyond mea-
sure, and had no remedy but to sit
down and study it. I then discov-
ered it was deeply interesting from
its bearing upon all classes, and I
VOL. XXI. — 49
could not resist writing to some of
the English papers and endeavor-
ing to excite them on the subject.
But it would not do ! No paper
inserted my letter. The similarity
of interest is not kept up con-
tinuously between the two coun-
tries, owing very much, I think, to
the little interchange of newspa-
pers between them. I hope you
have ordered your Titnes to be for-
warded, sir," he continued ; " for
you can't expect to find one to buy
in Dublin. They'll always give
you the Irish Times^ if you merely
ask for the Times; they never think
about the latter — far less than on
the Continent."
This was a dreadful blow to
Harry ; 'for, like all Englishmen, he
could not exist without his Times
at breakfast, and, though I proposed
that he should write for it by that
night's mail, his reviving spirits
were sadly checked by the feeling
of being in a land which apparently
did not believe in his guide and
vade-mecum. I felt it would be
heartless under such circumstances
to leave him alone ; yet, I should go
to Mass. At length, not liking to
let me wander by myself in " such
a dangerous city," he offered to ac-
company me and give up his own
service for the day. A little curi-
osity, I thought, lurked beneath the
kindness; but if so, it was amply
rewarded.
Following the porter's direction
of " first to the right and then to
the left," we soon reached the hand-
some church in Marlborough Street,
opposite the National Schools.
As at Westland Row, so here an
immense crowd was pouring out,
but a far larger one pushing in ; so
that, although long before twelve
o'clock, we considered ourselves
fortunate in getting any places what-
ever. Unaware that this was the
770
A Visit to Irelapid in 1874.
cathedral, and without any expec-
tations regarding it in consequence,
our surprise was great when a long
l)rocession moved up the centre,
closed by His Eminence Cardinal
Cullen, in full pontificals, blessing
us as he passed. " Those are the
canons who attend on all great
occasions, and the young men are
the students at Clonliffe Seminary,"
whispered a young woman next me
in answer to my inquiries, while
his eminence was taking his seat
on the throne, to Harry's infinite
edification. ** And we shall have a
sermon from Father Burke after
Mass," she continued — "*our
Prince of Preachers,* as the cardi-
nal calls him. I came here more
than an hour ago, in order to get a
place. I promise you it'll be worth
hearing. Oh! there's no one like
him. God bless him !"
.\nd as she said, so it happened.
The instant Mass was over, not
before, the famous Dominican was
seen ascending the pulpit. The
centre of the church was filled with
benches, and a standing mass in the
passage between, while the aisles
were so packed by the poorest
classes that a pin could not be
dropped amongst them. * Of that
vast multitude not one individual
had stirred, and in a few seconds
they hung with rapt attention upon
every word spoken by the gifted
preacher. By their countenances
it was easy to see how they follow-
ed all his arguments, drank in every
sentiment, and — who could wonder
at it } — were entranced by his lofty
accents. Harry himself was mes-
merized. The subject was charity,
and the cause an appeal for schools
under Sisters of Charity. In all
his experience of English preachers
— and it was varied — Harry confess-
ed that he had never heard anything
like this. Whether for sublime
language, beautiful, delicate actkm,
pathetic tone, quotations from Scrip-
ture Old and New, or eloquence of
appeal, he considered it unrivalled
It lasted an hour, but seemed not
five minutes. As we passed ont of
the door, the plates were filled with
piles of those one-pound notes which
in Ireland represent the gold. I sai
Harry's hand glide almost uncon-
sciously into his pockets, and beheld
a sovereign fall noiselessly amonga
the paper.
" One certainly is the better ot 1
fine sermon," he remarked, as wc
sauntered back to the hotel ; *'and
I never heard a finer. Altogether,
it was a remarkable sight, and x^c
people looked mild enough. Bi:
we must not trust to appearance-
nor be deceived too easily, yw
know," he added after a few mr-
ments.
I knew nothing of the kind, bJi
thought the best reply wotxld be 1 1
proposal to follow the multilact j
who were now crowding the tram |
carriages that start from Nc1«oq'>
Pillar to all the suburbs. ** In k^:!
an hour the streets will be deserted
until evening," said our Englr^i
acquaintance, whom we again mt;
accidentally, and who reconicK"»i'
ed'a walk on the pier at Kingston
as the least fatiguing trip, volurt
teering, moreover, to acconapany X
part of the way, as he was goii
visit friends on that line at tr(
"Rock," as Blackrock is usiu-
called. It was contrary to Him
customs on the "Sabbath"; T^i
after all the church-going he h;
seen that morning, he could notdf^
that air and exercise were inostit
gitimate. Accordingly, enterins
crowded train to Westland Ro*.^
soon found ourselves retracing t*
route we came a few hours befor«^
Most truly has it been said ti^i
no city has more varied or bc»cJ
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
in
fal suburbs than Dublin, and no
population which so much enjoy
them. Hitherto we had seen few
but the lower and middle classes ;
for the wealthier side of Dublin is
south of the Liffey. Moreover, be-
ing autumn, the " fashionables *'
were not in town. They were
»;ither travelling on the Continent
or scattered in the vicinity. The
train, however, was full of smart
dresses and bright faces, " wreathed
in smiles *' and brimming over with
merriment. Every one, too, seemed
more or less to know every one
else, and even our English friend
was acquainted with many, " That
is Judge Keogh," he said, as he
bowed to a short, square-built man
waiting on the platform near us —
*' Keogh, of the celebrated Gal way
judgment — a man of first-rate
talent, as you may guess from his
broad forehead and long head ; but
he has ruined himself by his vio-
lence on that occasion. He is
quite * broken ' since then, and his
spirits gone ; for he knows what his
fellow-countrymen think of him,
and he rarely appears in public ex-
cept upon the bench. He is proba-
bly going to Bray now, where he is
spending the summer quietly and
unnoticed. And that is Judge
Monahan getting into the next
carriage with those ladies — he who
presided at the Yelverton trial ;
also of great legal capacity and a
most kindly, tender-hearted man,
always surrounded by his children
and grandchildren. Sir Dominic
Corrigan, the eminent physician, is
in that corner yonder; his fame
has doubtless reached you too," he
continued, addressing Harry, who
had been contemplating the two
legal celebrities, well known to him
through his oracle, the J/'w^^, which,
from their connection with the
above-named events, had noticed
them on both occasions. " I could
point out many others, if I could
escort you to Kingstown "; but as
we halted at the Blackrock Station
a smart carriage was awaiting and
carried him off inland, whilst we
dashed onwards, the blue waters of
Dublin Bay, bounded by the hill df
Howth, on our left, and rows of
terraces and pretty villas along the
shore on our right.
It was a bright afternoon, with a
cool, refreshing breeze, and the pier
was one gay mass of pedestrians.
The whole of Dublin might have
been there, so great was the gather-
ing ; but we afterwards found that
every other side of the capital was
equally frequented. Fully an Eng-
lish mile in length, it is of substan-
tial masonry, which on the outer
side slopes by large blocks of gran-
ite into the sea, while a broad road
skirts the inner line next to the har-
bor, terminated by a lighthouse at
the extreme point. Old and young
were here congregated; children
playing amongst the granite rocks;
clerks and shop-girls, mixed with
whole families of the professional
classes of the capital, perambulat-
ing in groups, dressed in their pret-
tiest and brightest, looking the very
pictures of enjoyment and friendly
intercourse. A man-of-war was an-
chored in the harbor, which was
also full of graceful yachts and
alive with boating parties rowing
about in all directions. A more
healthful, innocent afternoon it were
difficult to conceive, and even
Harry admitted the general brio
which seemed to pervade the air.
Nor could he any longer deny the
proverbial beauty of the Dublin
maidens; and I found him quite
ready to linger on a seat and watch
the clear complexions. and faultless
features that passed in such con-
stant succession before us.
n^
A Visit to Ireland in 1 874.
After some time that tinge of
melancholy common to strangers
in a crowd began imperceptibly to
steal over us, as we awoke to the
recollection that we alone seem-
ed without acquaintances in that
throng, and we moved to the sta-
tion on our way Dublin- ward.
Suddenly the one defect to us was
repaired ; for on the platform we
found the Bishop of shire go-
ing to Dalkey to dine with some
old friends. Harry had made ra-
pid strides since the morning; for his
face brightened as he recognized
our fellow-passenger, and the next
moment, undisguisedly admitting
that he had spent a charming day,
he dwelt with earnestness on the
splendid sermon of the morning.
" Oh ! yes," observed a priest
who accompanied his lordship,
** even a Protestant clergyman told
me lately that he considered the
only orators in the true sense
of the word now in the United
Kingdom to be Gladstone, Bright,
and Father Burke- But Father
Burke has something more than
mere oratory," said he, smiling.
'* Vou ought to hear him at his
own church in Dominic Street, where
he is to preach again to-night.
He is more at home there than
anywhere else. If you want a real
treat in the matter of preaching, I
recommend you to go there."
The remark was dropped at ran-
dom ; but, to my excessive surprise,
Harry caught fire, and, finding me
willing, he hurried through his din-
ner in a 'manner that was perfectly
astounding. Then, in feverish haste,
we made our way to S. Saviour's.
It was not yet eight o'clock, but
still the church was so full that
entrance was quite impossible.
There was no standing room even,
said those at the door, and we were
turning away, lo Harry's deep dis-
appointment, when a beggar-woman
accosted us with "Won't your
honor give me something for a cop
of tea .' Sure', I dreamt last nighi
that your honor would give me a
pound of tea and her ladyship a
pound of sugar. Ye were the ren
faces I saw in my drame. .\nd msy
God reward ye !"
** Dreams go by contraries," re-
plied Harry testily, so vexed 2]
missing the sermon that be was in
no humor to be teased.
" Indeed ! then, that's just ii,"
answered the woman, an arch via*
lighting up her wizened features
" It's just your honor, then, that's ii
give me the sugar and her ladyshp
the tea ; so it'll be good luck :>
me anyhow ! And may God blc?-
you and his holy Mother watch
over you I" she continued, as Har
ry, unable to resist a hearty laugi.
at the woman's readiness, drew ou:
his purse and handed her a sbli-
ling. "And now, sure, 111 shoT
ye how to get in to hear his rirc!-
ence ! There's no one all theworki
over like Father Burke !— the dir-
lin'. It would be a sin for you:*
go away without hearing him; so
I'll bring ye round to the sacristr
door, and you'll get in quite com-
fortable !"
" You must be very murli ai
home here, if you can maBa^
that," observed Harry, amused -
the whole performance, as we meek
ly followed our tattered guide.
**0h! then,. don't I spend biU
my time in the church, your honor'
A poor body like me can't worl;
but sure an' can't I pray? Ihcir
three Masses every Sunday ^
one every week-day. Sure, it'd V
a sin if I didn't. Oh ! I don :
mane it'd be a sin on week-days,
but it'd be a mortal sin \i I didn't
hear one on Sundays, Sure, e^ery
one knows that !" ...
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
77i
This was, however, precisely the
tind of knowledge in which Harry
kvas utterly deficient. Mortal sin
xnd venial sin were to him, as to
most Englishmen, unknown terms,
ind he gaped with bewilderment as
this ragged woman proceeded to
develop to him the difference in the
clearest possible language. There
is no saying to what length the
ratechetical instruction might have
extended, if we had not reach-
ed the sacristy door, where, true
enough, the clerk, noticing we
were strangers, led us into reserved
seats beside the sanctuary, though
even there but scant room then re-
mained.
S. Saviour's, built by the Domini-
cans within the last fifteen years, is
an excellent specimen of Gothic,
and, filled to overflowing with a
devout, earnest congregation, upon
whom brilliant gaseliers now shed
a flood of light, no sight could be
more impressive. The devotions,
50 fitting in a Dominican church,
commenced with the Rosary, which
being over, the black mantle, white
robe, and striking head of the fa-
vorite preacher rose above the pul-
pit ledge. His text was again on
< harity ; and if anything were need-
ed to show his powers, the versa-
tility with which he treated the
same theme would have been all-
suflicient. Harry was lost in ad-
miration, especially as it was ex-
tempore, in contradistinction to the
Protestant habit of reading ser-
mons; nor could he believe, on
iooking at his watch, that we had
once more been listening for an
entire hour. He could have re-
mained there for many more quar-
ters ; and, to judge from their coun-
tenances, so could the whole con-
gregation, even to the very poorest.
Benediction followed, and, as deep-
ly impressed as in the morning, we
pursued our way back with the
crowd through Dominic Street into
Sackville street and to our "home"
at the Imperial Hotel.
Next morning Harry West was a
different man. I sought, however,
for an explanation in vain. No
TimeSy it is true, was forthcoming ;
but then it was Monday, and in his
Buckinghamshire retreat this like-
wise happened on the first day of
the week. The Irish papers doubt-
less irritated him by their paucity of
English news — not even ** a bishop
killed !** — and their volubility on
topics quite unfamiliar to him was
very vexatious. Still this was not
sufficient to account for the change
which had come over the spirit of
his dream. At length, by a slight
hint, I discovered that he thought
he had allowed himself to be car-
ried away giddily by the excite-
ment of the previous day, and that
he must look at matters more sober-
ly if he really were to be an impar-
tial judge. This was the day of
our departure for Westmeath, and
he would not be influenced by any
one. Our train did not leave until
three p.m., and I urged a ramble
through the town ; but in his present
mood he viewed everything askance,
and would not even smile at the many
witticisms and pleasant answers
which I found it possible to draw
forth from the guides, porters, and
cabmen, almost unconsciously to
themselves.
At last we started from the Broad-
stone station. The afternoon was
cloudy, and, as we advanced, the
country became dull and uninterest-
ing. The line ran beside a canal
— on which there seemed but poor
traffic — bordered by broad, fields
of pasture, so thinly stocked with
cattle, however, and «o deserted-
looking, though in the vicinity of
Dublin, that the effect was even de-
774
4 Visit to Ireland in 1874-
pressing upon me. Two ladies in our
compartment, certainly, noticed it
as something unusual, saying some
mysterious words about Balhnasloe
fair and how different it would be
when that event took place ; but they
left the carriage immediately, so we
had no opportunity of cross-ques-
tioning them. In the course of two
and a half hours we reached our ter-
minus at Athboy, and the porter,
asking if we were the friends ex-
pected by Mrs. Connor, handed me a
note just brought from her. It ex-
plained that one of her horses being^
laid up and she likewise ailing, she
could neither come herself nor send
her carriage ; she hoped, therefore,
that we might be content with the
"outside car," a cart going at the
same time for our luggage. Content
I certainly was, for I loved the na-
tional vehicle ; but Harry had never
tried one, and in his present temper
notliing pleased him. The civility
of the coachman even provoked
him, and made him whisper some-
thing about ** blarney " in my ear.
However, putting our cloaks and
bundles in the *' well," we got up
back to back, one on each side and
tlie coachman on the seat in the
middle.
Athboy, too, known to Harry
from the debates as a focus of Rib-
bonism, was an unlucky starting-
|>oint, and the number of barefooted
though well-made, handsome chil-
dren running about its streets,
greatly shocked him.
Whether the coachman really
urged on the horse faster than
on subsequent occasions, or the
turnings were sharper, or that Harry
was startled by the difficulty every
novice experiences in holding on,
1 have never since been able to as-
certain ; but; looking around at him
in less than ^\t minutes after we left,
i\iii piteous expression convulsed
me with laughter. From him, !io«r-
ever, it met with no response, and
he either could not or would not
admire the brilliant sunset sky,
which in autumn is often so exqui-
site in this part of Ireland. ^Ith
every step the road grew prettier,
thickly overshadowed by thehrge,
spreading trees of the beautiful gen-
tlemen's seats in this dbtrict:
though here and there a wretched
roadside cabin startled Harry froro
his revery, and the recurrence of a
black cross now and again on a
wall attracted his attention.
"O sir! that's only where some
one was killed," answered Dan, the
coachman, most innocently, making
Harry shudder n>eanwhi)e; though
m the same breath he added : **Thi-
is where Mr. W was killed b)
a fall from his horse, and the last
one was put up where poor Biddr
Whelan was thrown out of the cart
when returning from market at
Delvin two years last Michaelmas,
by the old horse shying. She
died on the spot in a few minutes,
and these crosses are painted that
way on the wall to remind us to
say a prayer for the poor souls.
God be merciful to them !"
Harry's sidelong glances towards
me, however, plainly proved that he
mistrusted the man's words and pve
them a very different meaning. Bi
degrees — as always does happen on
these cars, which amongst their
many advantages cannot boast their
adaptation for conversation— ire
grew silent, and no one had spoken
for the next ten minutes, when wc
turned down a long, straight road,
rendered still darker by the iixag
nificent elms which stretched across
it as in a high arch. Suddenly >
feeble shot was heard not far of.
and at the same moment Ham
jumped off the car, put his hand to
his heart, rnd cried out : " I'm kill-
A Visit to Ire/an J in 1874.
775
ed ! I'm killed !" What words can
express my horror? To this day
I kno\!«r not how I too jumped off;
I only know that I found myself
standing beside huti in an agony
of mind. Had all my vain boast-
ing, all my obstinacy, resulted in
this ? Was poor Harry West thus to
be sacrificed to my fool hardiness?
But the agony though sharp was —
must I betray my cousin's weak-
ness, and confess it ? — short. I
looked for blood, for fainting, for
anything resembling my preconceiv-
ed notions of a " roadside murder " ;
Ykhcm^-as quickly as he had jumped
oflT the car, so quickly he now seem-
ed to recover. Ashamed of him-
self he certainly was, when, taking
away his hand, he was obliged to
admit ** it was all a mistake !" Af-
ter all, he had never been touched !
But the shot had been so unex-
pected, and he had at the time been
brooding so deeply over all the
stories he had read of "agrarian
outrages," that he had positively
thought he had been hit; and very
natural it seemed to him, as no
doubt he had been already recog-
nized as a /ami agent by the Irish
population ! * Quite impossible is
it to describe my mingled feelings
of vexation at the needless fright
and of uncontrollable amusement at
my* English friend's unexampled
folly. Dan, the coachman, under-
went the same process, only in an
aggravated form ; for, while he felt
indignant at the implied insult to
his countrymen, every feature in
his face betrayed the most uncon-
trollable amusement, mixed with
supreme contempt; for he declared
that the shot was fired by his own
son running in search of hedge-
sparrows, as was his wont at that
hour, and he pointed him out to us
• Incredible as this taaj teem, it ir aeverthdcM
ttut.
in the next field, which belonged to
Mrs. Connor. The gate of her ave-
nue was only a few yards further
on.
If I had wished to break tlie ice
on our arrival at Mauverstown, this
incident would effectually have ac-
complished it. But the party con-
sisted of Mrs. Connor; her son, a
youth of twenty; Katie, a daughter of
twenty-nine, and a handsome, black-
eyed, fair-complexioned young lady.
Miss Florence 0*Grady, come on a
visit "all the way from Kerry." Poor
Harry ! At a glance I saw that he
was in my power, and he gave me
such an imploring look that my lips
were sealed, in the hope of saving
him from the tender mercies of the
merry young ones. Not a word
did I say of the adventure. It was
not to be expected, however, that
Dan would show him equal mercy ;
and young Connor*s roguish expres-
sion next morning, when he came in
late to breakfast after a visit to the
stables, told me that he had heard
the story, and, moreover, that it had
lost nothing in the telling. For-
tunately Harry, who was by nature
the kindest and most amiable of
men, had thoroughly recovered his
ordinary good temper, and joined
in the laugh against himself so cor-
dially that the hearts of all were at
once gained. Had he by chance
done otherwise, his life would have
been made miserable ; but now one
and all declared that they would only
punish him by making him ac-
quainted with every hedge and bush
in the country, and that he should
not leave until he " made restitu-
tion " by singing the praises of
"ould Ireland." Charlie Connor
would help him in the shootings
the young ladies could take \\\w\
across country — for " cub-hunting *
had begun, though it was too early
yet for the regular hunt — while Mrs.
710
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
Connor mentioned a list of gentle-
men's places far aftd near which
she would show him, that he might
tell his English friends it was not
quite so barbarous a land as they
evidently imagined.
Good-natured though he was,
Harry's face lengthened at a pros-
pect which would involve a longer
stay than he had intended; but
there was no time for reflection, for
Charlie led him off to inspect the
farm, the young ladies took him
through the pleasure-grounds on
his return, and in the afternoon we
all drove to a croquet party more
than eight miles off.
Henceforward most faithfully did
they carry out their resolutions,
leaving no morning or afternoon
unappropriated to some pleasure.
Of all counties in Ireland, West-
meath is remarkable for its many
handsome seats, well-timbered parks,
and the pleasant social intercourse
maintained amongst their owners.
At this season, too, every one was
at home, and croquet parties, mati-
nies piusicaies, or dinner parties
were countless. The shooting fill-
ed a certain place in the programme
for the gentlemen, no doubt ; still,
Harry, announcing that he saw
more of the country by following
the ladies, always managed to ac-
company us. The gardens and
conservatories interested him, he
said ; and the luxuriance of the
shrubs and evergreens always at-
tracted his admiration, and was an
invariable excuse for a saunter with
the young ladies, though oftener
with only one of the party. When we
had inspected those in our immedi-
ate vicinity, a flower-show at Kells,
in the bordering county of Meath
(also under the Peace-Preservation
Act !), displayed to us in addition
the ** beauty, gallantry, and fashion "
of both neighborhoods. Nothing,
perhaps, on these occasions is more
striking to a stranger than the sort
of family life which seems to exist
in Irish counties, every one know-
ing the other from boyhood inii-
mately — nay, from generation to
generation. Above all is it re-
markable how every one can tell at
once by the family name what pan
of Ireland a new-comer springs
from, or whether Celtic, of "the
Pale," or Cromwellian, with most
unerring accuracy. The majonty
of land-owners in Meath and West-
meath belong to the latter — Crom-
wellian — class; but this in noway
hinders their living on the best
terms — unlike what occurs in the
" Black North "—with their Catho-
lic neighbors, few and far between
Ihougli these undoubtedly are.
One of the prettiest and moist ifi
teresting places in this neigUiOf
h ood— Bal I i nly ugh Castle— bfJoiir'
to the descendants of ihe vetf m-
cicnt sept of O'ReiUj'p dthaugii
within the present centurf tte^
have taken the name of Kugeat,ir
consequence of a large fi9p0t>
having been left to them bjf tmt^i
that family. As the word itn- '
it is situated on a lough, or »"^
lake, and the house consists iii ar
old building to which se*xraJ hirf-
rooms have been added wiihin ilst
present century. The portbwt*'
front IS now completely covffri
^vitli ivj, thickly intemTingied -
Virginia creepers, the deep-red
leaves of which amidst the dark
green of the ivy made a beauiifui
picture at this autumnal season.
Embedded in the foliage, a tablet
over the door records the date.
1 6 14 — thirty-five years before tlie
invasion of Ireland by Cromwell
In the dining-i'oom are two deep
recesses, still called by the family
Cromwell's stables ; for tradition re
lates that in one his horse, in the
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
777
other his coWy rested during the one
night he slept in the castle. Early
on the following day he left the
place to continue his march; but
before he had proceeded far, having
repented that he had not seized so
fine a property, he sent back one
of his officers with an order to the
O'Reilly, the owner, to surrender
at once, giving the officer permis-
sion — as was his wont on such oc-
casions — to take and keep the cas-
tle for himself. Not so easy was
this, however, as they had imagin-
ed from their previous day's expe-
rience ; for " forewarned is fore-
armed," and the instant Cromwell
departed the house had been barri-
caded. His messenger, therefore,
seen returning along the avenue,
was communicated with now only
from behind closed doors. Yet
the owner did not refuse in so many
words. He merely presented the
house-key hanging on the end of a
pistol, through an opening over the
door, desiring the man to seize it if
he dared ! Not of a daring char-
acter, however, was the officer, and
he took a few moments to consider;
then, throwing a would-be contemp-
tuous look at the coveted house and
land, he turned away, was soon out
of sight, and no Cromwell or Crom-
wellian ever troubled Ballinlough
again.
The castle contains, besides some
most beautiful carvings from Spain,
.^ubusson tapestries from France,
marble chimney-pieces and paint-
ings from Italy, collected in his
travels by Sir James Nugent some
fifty years since; also many relics
of past limes-- for example, one
very fine Vandyke; a full-length
portrait of Lady Thurles, widow
of the Duke of Ormond's son, and
afterwards allied to the O'Reillys;
another, of the famous Peggy
O'Neil, only daughter of Sir Dan-
iel O'Neil, the hero at the battle
of the Boyne, who is said to be the
one who exclaimed when the day
was over : ** Change kings, and we
will fight the battle over again."
He then accompanied King James
to France, but, being subsequently
pardoned by William and recalled
to take possession of his estates, he
died at Calais on his road home.
King William, strange to relate, is
stated notwithstanding, in a fit of
generosity, to have given a large
dower to this his only daughter
Peggy when she soon afterwards
married Hugh O'Reijly, of Ballin-
lough Castle, and thus became the
ancestress of the present family.
A satin quilt embroidered by her
hands still exists amongst the cas-
tle treasures; but most interesting
of all the relics is an old chalice
dating from that period.
On our road thither we had
passed by the niins of a small
chapel carefully preserved, stand-
ing in a field still called Cromwell's
field, because there the priest was
saying Mass when a scout returned
and gave the alarm that the in-
vader and his troops were speedily
advancing. In consternation, the
congregation fled ; but the priest
neither could nor would interrupt
the Holy Sacrifice, and he had
just time to finish it when the ene-
my's soldiers appeared in sight.
Then, and then only, he took flight
across the fields; but his foot slip-
ped as he was crossing the nearest
hedge, and the chalice which he
held in his hand was bent by his
fall. And this same chalice, notch-
ed and bent, we now saw carefully
preserved by the gracious Dame-
ChdUlaim of Ballinlough. And
here it may be noticed that similar
relics and traditions are found all
over Ireland. Another family of our
acquaintance possesses the dirainu-
778
A Visit to Inland in 1874.
live, plain chalice used by a priest
of their blood — his name being en-
graven on the base — for saying
Mass behind a hedge when even
this was penal both for priest and
people. In that particular case,
too, this steadfastness to his duty
did end fatally ; for this same priest
was one of those killed at Drog-
heda. In the grounds of another
friend a small, thickly-wooded emi-
nence is shown, with a grotto which
served to shelter the priest when
officiating, whilst the congregation
knelt in groups around, with scouts
outside ready ^to give warning of
any unfriendly approach. • Else-
where the " priest's hill," enclosed
within the demesn* walls, bears its
name from the sad fate of another
of the sacred ministry killed there
whilst caught in the act of saying
Mass. Two hundred years and
more have elapsed since Crom-
well's day, but it is no wonder that
the memory of these events is still
fresh in the minds of a faithful
posterity, or that they should de-
light to speak of deeds which
would honor any people.
Deeply impressed as Harry West
was by traditions which until then
had been unknown to him, he was
further edified by the manner in
which the Irish poor flock from far
and near on Sunday mornings to the
parish church, often walking thith-
er many a long mile in hail, rain,
and snow. Sometimes it stands at
a central point, on a hill or in the
middle of a field, no village even
near; but many handsome new
churches are in course of erection
from contributions gathered chiefly
amongst the poor. Some of these
collections are wonderful, consid-
ering the localities, seven and eight
hundred pounds — nay, a thousand
— being often the result of the ** lay-
ing the foundation-stone," or " open-
ing day," in a district solely inhab-
ited by farmers and peasants — es-
pecially, be it added, if the favorite
Father Burke be the preacher.
Many and many a time, however,
large sums are sent on such occa-
sions back from America from
some old parishioner whose for
tune has increased since he left the
"dear ould country," but whose
heart still clings to it faithfully and
tenderly. Most remarkable, too, is
the correspondence kept up by emi-
grants with their families, and the
large presents in money " sent
home" from sons to fathers, broth-
ers to sisters. It was our friend's
custom — as it is at Ballinlough Cas-
tle and many other houses — to let
the poorer cottagers come up to the
hall- door for doles of bread, or
presents of clothes at certain sea-
sons, and at all times for medicine,
of which the ladies have knowledge
just sufiicient for all minor wants.
One morning I was watching Mrs.
Connor's distribution, when old
Biddy Nolan produced a letter
which she begged her honor to
read for her. The postmark was
Chicago, and it came from her son
Mike^ who had not written since he
left home ; but now he gave a foil
account of his adventures, windicg
up by enclosing his mother, who
was bathed in tears of joy, a draft
for twenty pounds — his savings dur-
ing the last few months !
Another characteristic of the
County Westmeath consists in its
many pretty lakes ; and as picnics,
fishing and boating excursions, were
not forgotten in the Connor hospi-
talities, these — Lough Derrevarrain
particular — could not be omitted.
The road to the lakes lay across a
bog, moor, and wild, deserted-look-
ing tract, the exact reverse of the
neighborhood we were living in.
Dismal enough it was retumiog
A Visit to Ireland in 1874.
779
sometimes in the dark without meet-
ing a human being perhaps for
miles, and difficult to me now and
then to resist a shudder. Strange,
how^ever, is the world, and in no-
thing did it appear to me stranger
than in Harry West's air of tran-
quillity and perfect security.
He never dreamt of jumping off
of the car (he would have left a
pretty neighbor if he had!), nor
seemed to remember the existence
of the police, Ribbonmen, or Peace-
Preservation Act ! He heard no
one naention them, and he had given
up thinking about them.
Truly, a second change had
come over the spirit of his dream.
And in proportion to his aversion
to my Irish visit, so now he was
the one that experienced difficulty
in ending it. Not days but weeks
passed by ; yet there he lingered, to
the inconceivable surprise of his
friends at home. Not to mine,
liowever. The cause was patent to
every one on the spot ; nor could I
wonder when, one morning, throw-
ing off his customary reserve, he
asked me to welcome as a cousin
his Irish fianch^ the beautiful Flo-
rence O'Grady. Short had been
the wooing, he said, but none the
less thorough his conversion. A
curious mixture of love and reli-
gion those outside-car excursions
must certainly have been (these
two never would avail themselves
of carriage or other vehicle) ; foi
not only had she conquered his
Saxon, but even his religious pre-
judices so fully that he voluntarily
offered to place himself at once
under some able teacher.
Christmas was not long in com-
ing round under these circumstan-
ces, nor Harry West in returning
as a Catholic to claim his Kerry
bride, blessing me for having ac-
cepted his escort, whilst I regarded
the event as a reward for that act
of self-denial on his part. Nor
could he, at the joyous wedding
breakfast, resist describing the scene
of his leap from the car on the eve-
ning of his arrival, giving a cheer
at the same time for the Peace-
Preservation Act, which, to him
at least — although only from the
terror it had inspired — had been
the primary cause of so much hap-
piness.
78o
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
THE LEGEND OF FRIAR'S ROCK.
The thing long hoped for had
come to pass (though, alas! by
what a way of grieQ and I was vis-
iting my school friend, Anne d*Es-
taing, in Bretagne. It was six years
since we had met, but we had kept
up a constant correspondence ; and
by letter when absent, as well as
by word when together, I had be-
come so familiar with her home
and her family that I did not go
there as a stranger.
They lived in an old castle part-
ly fallen into picturesque decay.
In the eastern tower was a small
chapel, which they had put into
•complete repair, and there daily
they had service, and Anne found
her great delight in decking the altar
with flowers, and keeping everything
in exquisite order and neatness with
her own hands. They had had
great sorrows in the six years of our
separation. Only Anne and her
])arents were left of the loving fam-
ily that once numbered eleven. Two
ol the sons fell in battle, a conta-
gious disease swept off the three
youngest children in one week;
Anne*s favorite brother Bertrand
became a missionary priest, and
went to China under a vow never
to return ; and her twin sister faded
away in consumption.
It had seemed to me, in my Irish
home, as if such sorrows could
scarcely be borne ; but I had r ever
been able to come to my friend
with visible, face-to-face, hoart-to-
heart consolation, for my daily duty
was beside a couch wliere my pre-
cious m<fther lay, suffering from an
incurable disease. When her long
trouble was at last over my strength
and spirits were much shatter-
ed, and I longed to accept Anne's
pressing invitation. My father whs
very unwilling that I should go-
he thought it would be so sad and
dreary there; but Anne's letters
had revealed to me such a life of
peace and prayer and happy service
that it seemed to me that Chiteaa
d*Estaing must be a very luven
of rest.
And so I found it. From the
moment that I looked on Anne's
pale but placid face ; from the time
that her mother's arms held me as
those other arms, which I had miss-
ed so sorely, used to do ; from the
first words of fatherly welcome
that the old count gave me, I was
at home and at peace. And when
at sunset I went to Vespers, and
the dying light shone in through
the lancet windows, along the aisle,
and on the richly-decorated altar,
and Anne's voice and fingers led
the sootliing Nunc Dimittis^ it was
as if the dews of healing fell on
my bruised heart.
They made no stranger of me;
they knew too well what sorrow was,
and how its sting for them had been
withdrawn. So together, in the
early dawn, we knelt for the holiest
service, beginning the day in close
intercourse with Him whose ** com-
passions fail not," and finding that
they are indeed " new every morn-
ing." Together we kept the Hours,
and did plain household duties, and
visited in the village, dispensing
medicines, reading to old women,
caring for the sick. Two afternoons
The Legend of Friar s Rock;
781
in the week classes came to the cas-
tle for instruction ; every Wednesday
evening the children came to prac-
tise the church music — and, oh!
Iiow sweet that music was ; and on
one afternoon we used to mount our
si^aggy ponies and ride to a distant
hamlet, to teach the children there.
Together we took care of the gar-
den, where grew the flowers for the
alvar and for weddings and fune-
rals ; and of the trellis of rare grapes,
from which came the sacramental
wine. Every pleasant day we went
out upon the bay in Anne's boat,
rowed by two strong-armed Breton
t^rls, visiting the rocky coves and
inlets, startling the sea-fowl from
tlieir nests, and enjoying the sea-
breeze and crisp waves.
Where the bay and the sea join
is a headland, which commands the
finest view for miles around; yet,
much as we loved that view, we
were oftenest to be found at the
base, where we sat idly, while the
l)oat rocked on the water, which
lapped with lulling sound against
the rock. It was a pretty sight, the
face of that cliff, where wild vines
crept and delicate wild flowers
bloomed, and an aromatic odor rose
from the herbs that grew there,
and some small, weather-beaten firs
found footing in the crevices. On
the summit were a few ruins. But
the chief natural point of interest,
and that from which the Head de-
rived its name, was a curious rock
which stood at its base. It was
called the Friar. At first I saw lit-
tle about it which could lay claim
to such a name ; but the more I
watched it, the more the likeness
grew upon me, till it became at
times quite startling. It was a mas-
sive stone, some thirty feet above
the water at low tide, like a human
figure wrapped in a monk's robe,
always facing the cast, and always
like one absorbed in prayer and
meditation, yet ever keeping guard.
One day I asked Anne if there was
not some legend about it, and she
replied that the country-people had
one which was very interesting, and
partly founded on fact. Of course
I begged for it, and she was ready
to tell me.
As I write, I seem to see and
hear it all again — the rocking boat ;
the two girls resting on their oars
and talking in their broad patois ;
the twittering, darting birds ; the
butterfly that fluttered round us;
the solemn rock casting its long
shadow on the water, that glittered
in the light of a summer afternoon ;
Anne's pale, thin, sparkling face,
and earnest voice. I see even the
children at play upon the shore,
actmg out the old Breton supersti-
tion of the washerwomen of the
night, who wash the shrouds of the
dead ; and their quaint song mingles
with Anne's story :
** Si chrtftien ne vtent nous sauver,
Jusqu'an jugemcnt faut larer ;
Au dair de la lune, au bruit du rent.
Sous la neige, le Unceul blanc ;*'
and the little bare feet are dancing
through the water, and the little
brown hands wash and wring the
sea-kale for the shrouds, and it all
seems as yesterday to me. But it
was years and years ago.
** You know that this is a very
dangerous coast," Anne said.
'* The tide runs fast here, and the
rocks are jagged and dangerous.
Row out a few strokes, Tiphaine
and Alix, and let Mile. Darcy see
what happens."
A dozen strokes of the oars, and
we were in an eddy where it took
all the strength of our rowers to
keep back the boat ; and beyond
Friar's Rock the tide-race was like
a whirlpool, one eddy fighting with
another.
782
The Legend of Friar's Rock.
" Wc would not dare go further,"
Anne said. "No row-boats ven-
ture there, and large sailing-vessels
need a cautious helmsman. In a
storm it is frightful, and the men
and the boats are not few that have
gone down there. But never a
board or a corpse has been found
afterwards. There is a swift un-
der-current that sweeps them out
to sea. Now, Tiphaine, row back
again."
A white, modern lighthouse
stands on a rock on the outer
shore ; its lantern was visible above
the Head. Anne pointed to it.
" That has been there only a cen-
tury," she said. " Before it we
had another and a better light, we
Bretons. Where those ruins are,
Joanne dear, there was a small
chapel once, and on the plain below
the Head was a monastery. It was
founded hundreds of years ago, by
S. Sampson some say, and others
by the Saxon S. Dunstan himself,
or, as they call him here, S. Gon-
stan, the patron of mariners. I do
not know how long it had been in
existence at the time of the legend,
but long enough to have become
famous, quite large in numbers, and
a blessing to the country round
about. The monks were the physi-
cians of the place ; they knew every
herb, and distilled potions from
them, which they administered to
the sick, so that they came to the
beds of poverty and pain with heal-
ing for soul and body both. They
taught the children; they settled
quarrels and disputes ; on Rogation
days they led the devouLprocession
from field to field, marking bounda-
ry lines, and praying or chanting
praises at every wayside cross.
"But that which was their spe-
cial work was the guarding of this
coast. Instead of that staring
white lighthouse, there was on the
top of the chapel's square tower a
large lantern surmounted by a cross,
and all through the night the monks
kept it burning, and many a ship
was saved and many a life preserv-
ed by this means. At Vespers the
lamp was lighted, and one monk
tended it from then till Noctums,
giving his unoccupied time to pray-
er for all at sea, both as to their
bodily and spiritual wants, and .to
every one in any need or tempta-
tion that night At Noctums he
was relieved by another monk, who
kept watch till Prime. Such for
three centuries had been the cus-
tom, and never had the light been
known to fail.
"It must have been a strange
sight — that band of men in gown
and cowl engaged in the never-
omitted devotions before the altar,
then departing silently, leaving one
alone to wrestle in prayer for the
tried souls that knew little of the
hours thus spent for them.
Joanne ! what would I not give to
have it here again ; to know that
this was once more the Holy Cape,
as it used to be called ; and that
here no hour went by, however it
might be elsewhere, that prayers
and praises were not being offered
to our dear Lord, who ever inter-
cedes for us !"
Anne was silent for a while, and
I felt sure that she was praying.
When she roused herself,^it was to
bid the rowers pull home fast, as it
was almost time for Vespers.
" You shall hear the rest, dear."
she said, " when we go up-stairs to-
night." So after Compline, and af-
ter Anne and I had played and
sung to her parents, as we were
wont to do, she came into my
room and lighted the fire and the
tall candles, and we settled our-
selves for a real school-girl talk.
Anne showed me a sketch which
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
783
her brother Bertrand had made,
partly from fancy, and partly from
the ruins, of the monastery and
chapel.
•*It looks like a place of peace
and holiness, where one might be
safe from sin for ever," I said ; but
Anne shook her head.
•• The old delusion," she sighed.
** As if Satan would not spread sore
temptations just in such abodes as
these. Don't you remember how
often we have spoken of it — the
terrible strength and subtlety of
spiritual temptations, simply be-
cause they are less obvious than
others .> The legend of the Friar
witnesses to that, whether you take
the stor>' as true or false. I am
going to give myself a treat to-
night, and I am sure it will be one
to you. Bertrand wrote out the
legend after he made the sketch.
Will you care to hear it V
** Indeed I would," I answered ;
and Anne unfolded her precious
paper.
•* It is only a fragment,** she said,
"beginning abruptly where I left
off this afternoon ; but perhaps it
will show you more of what Ber-
trand is.**
** Anne,** I asked suddenly, "don't
you miss him — more than any of
the others V
•* No — yes,** she answered, tlien
paused thoughtfully. "Yes,** she
said at last, " I suppose I do. Be-
cause, so long as I know he is liv-
ing somewhere on this earth, it
seems possible for my feet to go to
. him and my eyes to see his face.
But, after all, none of them seem
far away. We are brought so
near in the great Communion, in
prayers — in everything. In fact, Jo-
anne — does it seem very cold-heart-
ed.^ — oftenest I do not miss them
at all ; God so makes up for every
loss."
I was crying by this time, for
my heartache was constant ; and
Anne came and kissed me, and
looked distressed. " 1 ought not
to trouble you," she said. "Did
I? I did not mean to hurt vou."
" Oh ! no,** I answered. '" Only
why should I not be as resigned as
you ?**
" Joanne darling !'* she exclaim-
ed, " you are that much more thatt
I am. Can't you see ? You feel —
God causes you to feel it-^keenly.
That is your great cross; and so,
when you do not murmur, but say.
* God*s will be done,* you are re-
signed. But that is not the cross
he gives to me. Instead, he
makes bereavement light to me by
choosing to reveal his mercies;
and I must take great care to cor-
respond to his grace. Bertrand
warned me solemnly of that. And
yet this is not all I mean. Per-
haps you will understand better
when you have heard the legend.'*
She sat on the floor close beside
me, and held my hand. I thanked
God for her, she comforted me so.
I was always hungry then for visi-
ble love ; but by degrees, and partly
through her, he taught me to be
content with a love that is invisi-
ble.
" There was once a monk,*' she
read, " the youngest of the broth-
erhood, who was left to keep the
watch from midnight until dawn.
Through the windows the moon-
beams fell, mingling with the light
that burned before the tabernacle,
and with the gleam of the monk's
small taper. Outside, the sea was
smooth like glass, and the stars
shone brightly, and a long line of
glory stretched from shore to shore.
Lost in supplication, the monk lay
prostrate before the altar. His
thoughts and prayers were wander-
ing far away — to the sick upon
784
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
their beds of pain, to travellers on
land and sea, to mourners sunk in
loneliness or in despair, to the poor
who had no helper, to little chil-
dren, to the dying; most of all, to
the tempted, wherever they might
be.
" He was intensely earnest, and
he had a loving temperament and
a strong imagination which had
found fitting curb and training in
the devout practice of meditation.
The prayers he used were no mere
form to him ; he seemed actually to
behold those for whom he inter-
ceded, actually to feel their needs
and sore distress. This was no-
thing new, but to-night the power of
realization came upon him as never
before. He saw the dying in their
final anguish ; he suffered with the
suffering, and felt keen temptations
to many a deed of evil, and mark-
ed Satan's messengers going up
and down upon the earth, seeking
to capture souls. Sharper than all
else was the conflict he underwent
with doubts quite new to him —
doubts of the use or power of his
prayers. Still he prayed on, in
spite of the keen sense of unwortlii-
ness to pray. He would not give
l)lace for a moment to the sugges-
tion that his prayers were power-
less. Again and again he fortified
himself with the Name of all-pre-
vailing might. And then it seemed
to him, in the dim candle-light and
among the pale moonbeams, that
the Form upon the crucifix opened
its eyes and smiled at him, and that
from the lips came a voice saying,
* Whatsoever ye shall ask in my
name, that will I do.*
"The hour came to tend the
light; he knew it. But he knew,
too, that the sea without was calm,
even like the crystal sea before the
Throne, save where the wild currents
that never rested were surging
white with foam and uttering hoarse
murmurs. He knew that the night
was marvellously still ; that there
was no wind, not even enough to
stir the lightest leaf. What mari-
ner could err, even though for once
the light of the monks grew dim-
nay, even if it failed } Could he
leave that glorious vision, in order
to trim a lantern of which there
was no need ; or cease his prayers
for perishing souls, in order to give
needless help to bodies able to pro-
tect themselves.^ These thoughts
swept through his mind, and his
choice was hastily made to remain
before the altar; and even as he
made it the vision faded, yet with
it, or with his decision, all tempta-
tion to doubt vanished too. If de-
vils had been working upon him to
cause him to cease from interces-
sion, they left him quite free now
to pray — with words, too, of such
seeming power as he had never
used before.
" Suddenly a sound smote upon
his ear — such a sound as might well
ring on in one's brain for a lifetime,
and which he was to hear above
all earthly clamor until all earthly
clamor should cease. It was the
cry of strong men who meet death
on a sudden, utterly unprepared;
the crash of timbers against a rock:
the groan of a ship splitting from
side to side. He sprang to his feet
and rushed to the door. Already
the great bell of the monastery was
tolling, and dark, cowled figures
were hastening to the shore. He
looked up. In the cross-topped
tower, for the first time in mans
knowledge, the lamp of the monks
was out. Just then the prior har-
ried by him and up the stairs, and
soon, but all too late, the beacon
blazed again.
" With an awful dread upon his
heart he made his way to the coast.
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
785
The water foamed unbroken by
aught save rocks; but pallid lips
told the story of the vessel that had
sailed thither, manned by a merry
crew made merrier by drink, care-
less of their course, depending on
the steadfast light, and sure, be-
cavise they did not see it, that they
had not neared the dangerous whirl-
pool and hidden rocks. Only one
man escaped, and, trembling, told
the story. He had been the only
sober man on board ; and when he
warned the captain of their danger,
he was laughed and mocked at for
his pains, and told that all true ma-
riners would stake the monks* light
against the eyes of any man on
earth. It was not the Holy Cape
that they were nearing, but Cape
Brie, they said, and every one knew
it was safe sailing there. With jests
and oaths instead of prayers upon
their lips, with sin-stained souls,
they had gone down into that whirl-
ing tide, which had swept them off
in its strong under-tow to sea.
There were homes that would be
desolate and hearts broken ; there
were bodies drowned, and souls
launcl>ed into eternity — perhaps for
ever lost — for lack of one little
light, for the fault of a single half-
hour. And still the stars shone
brightly, and the long line of glory
stretched from shore to shore, and
the night was marvellously still;
but upon one soul there had fallen
a darkness that might be felt — al-
most the darkness of despair.
*' Monk Felix they had called
him, and had been wont to say that
he did not belie his name, with his
sweet young face and happy smile,
and his clear voice in the clioir.
He was Monk Infelix now iind while
time lasted.
'* In the monastery none saw an
empty place ; for the man whose
life had been the only one preserv-
VOL. XXI. — 50
ed in that swift death-struggle had
begged, awed and repentant, to be
received into the number of these
brethren vowed to God's peculiar
service- But in village and in
choir they missed him who had
gone in and out among them since
his boyhood, and under their breath
the people asked, 'Where is he?'
No definite answer was given, but
a rumor crept about, and at length
prevailed, that Monk Felix had
despaired of pardon ; that day and
night the awful death-cry rang in
his ears ; and day and night he be-
sought God to punish here and
spare there, imploring that he might
also bear some of the punishment
of those souls that had passed away
through his neglect. And a year
from that night, and in the very hour,
the last rites having been given to
him as to the dying, the rock now
called the Friar's had opened mys-
teriously. Around it stood the
brotherhood, chanting the funeral
psalms very solemnly; and as the
words, " De profundis claniavi ad
Te, Domine," were intoned, one left
their number, and, with steady step
and a face full of awe and yet of
thankfulness, entered the cleft, and
the rock closed.
" Years came and went, other
hands tended the lantern, till' in
the Revolution the light of the
monks and the Order itself were
swept away, and the monastery was
laid in ruins. But the legend is
even now held for truth by simple
folk, that in Friar's Rock the monk
lives still, hearing always the eddy-
ing flood about him, that beats in
upon his memory the story of his
sin ; and they say that with it mirn
gles ever the cry of men in their
last agony, and the cry is his name,
thus kept continually before the
Judge. There, in perpetual fast
and vigil, he watches and prays for
786
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
the cotning of the Lord and the sal-
vation of souls, and the rock that
forms his prison has been made to
take his shape by the action of
those revengeful waves. What he
knows of passing events — what
added misery and mystery it is that
now no longer the holy bell and
chant echo above him — none can
tell. But there, they say, what-
ever chance or change shall come
to Bretagne, he must live and pray
and wait till the Lord comes.
Then, wlien the mountains fall and
the rocks are rent, his long penance
shall be over, and he shall enter
into peace."
Anne looked at me. *' Was it
very liard — too hard.**" she asked.
"O Anne !" I cried, " it is not
true?"
She smiled. " I have more to
read," she said ; *' more of fact, per-
haps." So she went on.
*' There is, in the archives of this
domain, an account of a settlement
some twenty miles from here, where
a horde of outlaws dwell in huts
and caves, their hand against every
man, and every man's hand against
them. It was as much as one's
life was worth to go among them,
imless one was ready to live as they
lived, and sin as they sinned. But
it is recorded that in the same year
in which is also recorded the loss
of a Dutch vessel by reason of the
• failure of the light of the monks —
•m event never known before, and
never again till the Revolution in
its great guilt quenched it and
shattered the sacred walls — there
came to these men a missionary
l)riest, seeking to save their souls.
They say he was a man who never
smiled, yet his very presence
brought comfort. Little children
loved him ; and poor, down-trodden
women learned hope and patience
from him; and men consented to
have him there, and not to slay
him.
" Yet what he underwent was
fearful. He lived in a hovel so
mean that the storms drove through
it, and the floor was soaked with
rain or white with frost or snov
No being in that place poorer
more hungry, more destitute of
earthly comfort. Yet his crusts
he shared with the beggar, his pal-
let of straw far often er held the
child turned out from shelter, thf
sick, the dying, than him. There
the leper found a home, and tend-
ance, not only of pity but of love
— hands that washed, lips that kiss-
ed, prayers that upbore him in the
final struggle.
" We read of temptations from
devils which the saints have under-
gone ; there are those who presume
to doubt them. This man wrestled
with temptations from his brother
men, who seemed like very fiends,
and often, often, the anguish of
despair came upon him, and he
thought he was already lost, and a
wild desire almost overwhelmed
him to join them in their evil
ways. For, by some horrible in-
stinct, they seemed to divine that
pain to the body would be slight
to him compared to the tortures
which they could invent for his
soul. They came to his ministn-
tions, and mimicked him when he
spoke, and set their ribald songs to
sacred tunes. Before his door they
parodied the holiest rites. Ther
taught the children to do the same
things at their sports.
" And he — it is said that in the
pauses of midnight or noontide
rout and wild temptation they
heard him praying for them, and
praying for himself, like one who
had bound up his outi life in the
bundle of their lives, and believed
that he would be lost or saved with
The Legend of Friar' s Rock.
787
them. It is said that at times he
rushed out among them like S.
Michael, and his voice was as a
trumpet, and he spoke of the wrath
of God ; and, again, he would open
iiis door, and his face would be like
death, and he would tremble sorely,
as he begged them, like some tor-
tured creature, to cease from sin.
What tliey did was to him as if he
did it. He was so of them that
their temptations were his also, till
be often seemed to himself as sunk
in sin as any of them.
"Yet, one by one, souls went to
God from that fiend-beleaguered
place ; babes with the cross hardly
dry upon their foreheads; children
taught to love the God whom once
they had only known to curse;
some of those sick made for ever
well, some of those lepers made
for ever clean. Tlie priest set up
crosses on their graves, and sacrileg-
ious hands broke them down ; but
no hands could stop his prayers
and praises {o\ the souls that by
God*s blessing he had won. He
tried to build a little chapel, and
they rent it stone from stone ; but
none could destroy the temple of
liiing stones built up to God out
of that mournful spot.
** A Lent came when as never be-
fore he strove with and for these
people. It was as if an angel spoke
:o them. An angel ? Nay, a very
man like themselves, as tempted as
any of them, a sinner suffering from
his sin ; yet a man and a sinner
who loved God, believed in God,
knew that he would come to judge,
yet knew he was mighty to save.
That Lent, Satan himself held sway
there; new and more vile and awful
hiasphemies surged through the
place ; it was his last carnival, and
:t was a mad one. Men held wo-
men back from church if they wish-
ed to worship, but followed them
there and elsewhere to darker
deeds of sacrilege and revelry than
even they had known before. Yet
in the gray dawn, when sleep over-
powered the revellers, a few people
crept to that holy hut round which
the sinners had danced their dance
of defiance and death and sin, and
there sought for pardon and bless-
ing, and knelt before the Lord, who
shunned not the poor earth-altar
where a priest pleaded daily for
souls, as for so long he had done,
except on the rare occasions when
he would be gone for a night and a
day, they knew not where, and re-
turn with fresh vigor and courage.
*' Thursday in Holy Week he
kept his watch with the Master in
his agony. Round him the storm
of evil deeds and *vords rose high.
In the midst of it the rioters thought
they saw a vision. It was a moon-
light night, and marvellously still ;
no wind moved the trees, and the
water was like glass. But all the
silence of earth was broken by hid-
eous shout and song, and all its
brightness turned to darkness by
such deeds of evil as Christians
may not name. Before those crea-
tures steeped in sin, wallowing in
it, one stood suddenly, haggard,
spent as beneath some great bur-
den, wan as with awful sufiering.
The moonbeams wrapped him in
unearthly Ijght, he seemed of hea-
ven, and yet a sufferer. He did not
speak ; how could he speak, who
had pleaded with them again and
again by day, and spent his nights
in prayer, for such return as this }
He lifted up his eyes, and spread
his arms. He looked to them like
one upon a cross. * The Christ I
The Christ!* they murmured, awe-
struck. And then, * Slay him !' some
one shouted frantically. There
came a crash of stones, of wood, of
jagged iron^ and in the midst a dis*
788
The Legend of Friar s Rock.
tinct, intense voice, ' O Lord Jesus,
forgive us.' They had heard the
last of the prayers that vexed
them.
** On Good Friday morning, as
the brotherhood came from Prime,
a strange being, more like a beast
than a man, approached them.
* Come to us/ he said in a scarcely
intelligible dialect — 'come to the
Dol des FUs* The abbot asked
no questions, and made no delay.
He bade one of the older monks ac-
company him, and together they
sought the place. Before they
reached it, sounds of loud, hoarse
wailing were borne to them upoi\
the breeze ; and their guide, on hear-
ing them, broke forth into groans
like the groans of a beast, and beat
his breast, and cried, * My father,
my father ! My sin, my sin T
" They saw hovels and caves,
deserted ; among the poorest, one
still poorer ; about it, men, women,
and children wrung their hands
or sobbed and tore their hair, or
lay despairing on the ground. En-
tering, four bare walls met their
vie^v ; then a pallet, where an idiot
grinned and pointed. Following
his pointing finger, they saw an
earth-altar where the light still
burned. Before it one lay at rest.
Wrapped in his tattered robe; his
hands clasped, as though he prayed
yet, above the crucifix upon his
heart; hands, neck, and face bruised
and battered and red with blood;
his face was of one at peace. The
contest w^s ended. He who lay
there dead lay there a victor, by the
grace of God. Around him his
people, for whom he gave his life,
begged for the very help they had
so long refused. And soon, where
so long he labored, sowing good
seed in tears, the reapers went with
shouting,bringing their sheaves with
them. That which had been the
abode of sinners has become years
since the abode of saints.
" Thanks be to God !"
" But it was such a little sin," 1
said, as Anne put the paper by.
** How great a sin lost Eden ?'
she asked gravely. " Besides, wc
cannot tell what spiritual pride or
carelessness, unknown or hidden,
may have led to such a fall. Bat
dear, it was not anything of that
sort I wanted to talk about, but the
mercy, and how it explains what
we were speaking of."
** The mercy ?" I repeated.
** Yes," she said fervently. ** To
be punished, and yet the very pun-
ishment to contain the power to
pray on still — to speak to God—to
plead with him for souls, the soul?
he died for on the cross. What
though one were shut for all time in
Friar's Rock, if one trusted that a:
the end the Vision of God would be
his for ever, and till then could and
must ask him continually to have
mercy on immortal souls ? Or who
would not live that living death in
Dol des FSes to live it in prayer at
the altar, and to die a martyr's
death }
'* Joanne, my darling, what, after
all, are sorrow and death and sepa-
ration and loneliness to us who can
speak to God } In him we are ail
brought near. His blood makes
each of his children dear to those
who love him. Day by day to for-
get self in them, in him; day by
day to let grief or pleasure gror
less and less in one absorbing prayer
that his kingdom come ; day by day
to lose one's self in him — that is
living, and that is loving. I cannc:
mourn much for my precious ones
th&t are only absent from my sight,
but safe and present with him ; my
tears are for souls that are not safe,
the wide world over ; and I cannot
miss much what I have never reallv
Dunluce CasiL\
789
lost. A thousand times Friar's
Kock speaks to me, and this is
-what it says :
*• * If thou, Lord, wilt mark iniqui-
ties, Lord, who sliall stand it ?
" ' For with thee there is merci-
ful forgiveness ; and by reason of
trhy law I have waited— /£?/• ihee^ O
Lord.
" * From the morning watch even
\xntil night, let Israel hope in the
l-rord.
** * Because with the Lord there is
mercy, and with him plentiful re-
demption.
" ' And he shall redeem Israel
frcra all his iniquities.' "
It was years ago, as I have said,
that Anne d'Estaing told me this
legend. Since then, her parents
have died, the chdteau has passed
into other hands« she is head of a
convent in Bretagne, and I — I lie
here, the last of my name, a hope-
less invalid, with not a penny to
call my own. Rich once, and
young, and fair, and proud ; sad
once, and doubting how to bear a
lonely future, I know the meaning of
Anne's stor)' now. " I have waited
for ihee^ O Lord ! And he shall re-
deem Israel from all his iniquities."
While I wait for him, I pray. It
does not grieve me that I do not hear
from Anne. La M^re Ang^lique
is more to me, and nearer to me,
than when, in days long past, we
spoke face to face. For I know we
meet in the sure refuge of the Sa-
cred Heart of Jesus, and that, with
saints on earth and saints in glory,
and the souls beneath the altar, we
pray together the same prayer —
" Thy kingdom come."
DUNLUCE CASTLE.
(COUNTY ANTRIM.)
Oh ! of the fallen most fallen, yet of the proud
Proudest ; sole-seated on thy tower-girt rock ;
Breasting for ever circling ocean's shock ;
With blind sea-caves for ever dinned and loud ;
Now sunset-gilt; now wrapt in vapor-shroud;
Till distant ships — so well thy bastions mock
Primeval nature's work in joint and block —
Misdeem her ramparts, round thee bent and bowed,
For thine, and on her walls, men say, have hurled
The red artillery store designed for thee : —
Thy wars are done ! Henceforth perpetually
Thou restest, like some judged, impassive world
Whose sons, their probatory period past.
Have left that planet void amid the vast.
AUBREV DE VeRE.
790
Space
SPACE.
III.
Bodies have bulk or volume,
whereby they are said to occupy a
certain place, and to fill it with
their dimensions. Hence, to com-
plete our task, we have now to con-
sider space in relation with the vol-
umes and places of bodies. To
proceed orderly, we must first de-
termine the proper definition of
" place," and its division ; then we
shall examine a few questions con-
cerning the relation of each body
to its place, and particularly the
difficult and interesting one wheth-
er bodies can be really bilocated
and multilocated.
Place, — Aristotle, in the fourth
book of his PhysicSy defines the
])lace of a body as " the surface by
which the body is immediately sur-
rounded and enveloped" — ^^ Locus est
cxtrema superficies corporis continen-
tis immobilis,'' This definition was
accepted by nearly all the ancients.
The best of their representatives,
S. Tliomas, says : " Locus est fermi-
nus corporis contincntis'' — viz.. The
place of a body is the surface of
the body which contains it; and
the Schoolmen very generally de-
fine place to be " the concave sur-
face of the surrounding body : Su-
perficies concava corporis ambicntis.
Thus, according to the followers
of Aristotle, no body can have
place unless it is surrounded by
some other body. Immobility was
also believed to be necessarily in-
cluded in the notion of place : Su-
perficies immobilis. Cardinal de
Lugo says : " The word place
seems to be understood as meaning
the real surface of a surrounding
body, not, however, as simply hav-
ing its extension all around, but as
immovable — that is, as attached to
a determinate imaginary space."*
We do not see what can be the
meaning of this last phrase. For
De Lugo holds that " real space"
is the equivalent of "place," ar.d
that space, as distinguished from
place, is nothing real: Non est
aliquidreal€.\ His imaginary space
is, therefore, a mere nothing. If o^
are we, then, to understand that a
real surface can be '* attached to
a determinate imaginary space"?
Can a real being be attached to n
determinate nothing? Are there
many nothings 1 or nothings pos-
sessing distinct determination^?
We think that these questions must
all be answered in the negative,
and that neither Cardinal deLugo,
nor any one else who considers im-
aginary space as a mere nothing,
can account for the immobility
thus attributed to place.
The reason why Aristotle's defi-
nition of place came to be general-
ly adopted by the old Schoolmen is
very plain. For, in the place occu-
pied by any given body, two things
can be considered, viz., the limiting
surface, and the dimensive quantity
which extends within the limiting
surface. Now, as the ancients be-
lieved the matter of which bodies
* *^ Nonune loci videtur intelfigi super&iss nab
corporis drcumdands, non tamen secundum sc »>
lum, sed prout immobilis, hoc e^t, proct e^ afia
tali spatio imaginario" (Z>* Sacr, £m<,Ji,^ di^ 5.
sect. 4).
t Loc. dt , sect. 5, n. 133.
Space,
791
«tre composed to be endowed with
orontinuity, it was natural that they
should look upon the dimensive
c^uantity included within the limit-
ing surface as an appurtenance of
the matter itself, and that they
should consider it, not as an intrin-
sic constituent of the place occu-
l^ied, but as a distinct reality through
%vhich the body could occupy a
crertain place. According to this
notion of dimensive quantity, the
limiting surface was retained as the
sole constituent of the place occu-
pied ; and the dimensions within
the surface being thus excluded
from the notion of place, were at-
tached to the matter of the body
itself, as a special accident inhering
in it.
This manner of conceiving things
is still looked upon as unobjection-
able by those philosophers who
think that the old metaphysics has
been carried to such a degree of
perfection by the peripatetics as to
have nothing or little to learn from
the modern positive sciences. But
whoever has once realized the fact
that the dimensions of bodies are
not continuous lines of matter, but
intervals, or relations, in space, will
agree that such dimensions do not
ifihere'yxi the matter, but are extrin-
sic relations between material terms
distinctly ubicated. What is called
tlie volume of a body is nothing but
the resultant of a system of rela-
tions in space. The matter of the
body supplies nothing to its consti-
tution except the extrinsic terms
of the relations. The foundation
of those relations is not to be found
in the body, but in space alone, as
we have proved in our last article ;
and the relations themselves do not
inhere in the terms, but only inter-
i*ene between them. Hence the di-
mensive quantity of the volume
is intrinsically connected with the
place it occupies, and must enter
into the definition of place as its
material constituent, as we are go-
ing to show.
As to the Aristotelic definition
of place, we have the following ob-
jections: First, a good definition
always consists of two notions, the
one generic and determinable, as
its material element, the other dif-
ferential and determinant, as its
formal element. Now, Aristotle's
definition of place exhibits at best
only the formal or determinant, and
omits entirely the material or de-
terminable. It is evident, in fact,
that the surface of any given body
determines the limits and the figure
of something involved in the no-
tion of place. But what is this
something? It cannot be a mere
nothing; for nothing does not re-
ceive limits and figure, as real lim--
its and real figure must be settled
upon something real. This some-
thing must therefore be either the
quantity of the matter, or the quan-
tity of the volume enclosed within
the limiting surface. And as we
cannot admit that the quantity of
the place occupied by a body is
the quantity of matter contained
in the body (because bodies which
have different quantities of matter
can occupy equal places), we arc
bound to conclude that the quanti-
ty of the place occupied by a body
is the quantity of tiie volume com-'
prised within the limiting surface.
This is the determinable or niateriitl
constituent of place ; for this, and
this alone, is determined by liie
concave surface of the surrounding
body. In the same manner as a
cubic body contains dimensions
within its cubic form, so also a cu-
bic place contains dimensions un-
der its cubic surface; hence the
place of a body has volume, the
same volume as the body ; and
792
Space.
therefore it cannot be defined as a
mere limiting surface.
Secondly, the definition of a thing
should express what every one un-
derstands the thing to be. But no
one understands the word " place "
as meaning the exterior limit of the
body which occupies it, therefore
the exterior limit of the body is nbt
the true definition of place. The
minor of this syllogism is manifest.
For we predicate of place many
things which cannot be predicated
of the exterior limit of the body.
We say, for instance, that a place is
full, half-full, or empty; that it is
capable of so many objects, persons,
etc. ; and it is plain that these pred-
icates cannot appertain to the ex-
terior limit of the body, but they
exclusively belong to the capacity
within the limiting boundary.
Hence a definition of place which
overlooks such a capacity is de-
fective
Thirdly, to equal quantities of
limiting surfaces do not necessarily
correspond equal quantities of
place. Therefore, the limiting sur-
face is not synonymous with place,
and cannot be its definition. The
antecedent is well known. Take
two cylinders having equal surfaces,
but whose bases and altitudes are
to one another in different ratios.
It is evident by geometry that such
cylinders will have different capa-
cities — that is, there will be more oc-
cupable or occupied room in the one
than in the other. The consequence,
too, is plain ; for, if the room, or
place, can be greater or less while
the limiting surface does not be-
come greater or less, it is clear that
the place is not the liniiting sur-
face.
Fourthly, what Aristotle and his
school called " the surface of the
surrounding body," is now admit-
ted to be formed by an assemblage
of unextended material points, pc^
fectly isolated ; and therefore such
a surface does not constitute a con-
tinuous material envelope, as it was
believed in earlier times. No«\
since those isolated points have no
dimensions, but are simply terms of
the dimensions in space, the so-
called " surface " owes its own di-
mensions to the free intcnals be-
tween those points, just as the di-
mensions also of the volume enclos-
ed owe their existence to simitar in-
tervals between the same points.
Therefore the same terms which
mark in space the limit of place,
mark also its volume; and thus the
volume under the surface belongs
to the place itself no less than does
the limiting surface.
FifthV)', a body in vacuum would
have its absolute place ; and yet in
vacuum there is no surface of sur-
rounding bodies. Therefore an
exterior surrounding body is not
needed to constitute place. In fact,
the body itself determines its oirn
place by the extreme terms of its
own bodily dimensions. This the
philosophers of the peripatetic
school could not admit, because
they thought that the place of the
body could not move with the body,
but ought to remain " attached to
a determinate imaginary space."
But, in so reasoning, they confound-
ed the absolute place with the rela-
tive, as will be shown hereafter. Vet
they conceded that a body in vacu-
um would have its place ; and,
when asked to point out there the
surface of a surrounding body, they
could not answer, except by aban-
doning the Aristotelic definition and
by resorting to the centre and the
poles of the world, thus exchanging
the absolute place {locus) for the
relative {st'^i/s), without reflecting
that they had no right to admit a
relative place where, according to
Space.
793
their definition, the absolute was
wanting.
Sixthly, the true definition of
place must be so general as to be
aj>plicable to all possible places.
But the Aristotelic definition does
not apply to all places. Therefore
such a definition is not true. The
major of our argument needs no
proof. The minor is proved thus :
There are places not only within
surfaces, but also within lines, and
on the lines themselves ; for, if on
the surface of a body we describe a
circle or a triangle, it is evident
that a place will be marked and de-
termined on that surface. Its lim-
iting boundary, however, will be,
not the surface of a surrounding
body, but simply the circumference
of the circle, or the perimeter of the
triangle.
For these reasons we maintain
that place cannot properly be dt*
lined as **the surface of the sur-
rounding body." As to the ad-
ditional limitation, that such a sur-
face should be considered as '* im-
movable" — that is, affixed to a de-
terminate space (imaginary, of
course, according to the peripatetic
theory, and therefore wholly ficti-
tious) — we need only say that even
if it were possible to attach the sur-
face of a body to a determinate
space, which is not the case, yet
this condition could not be admit-
ted in the definition of place, be-
cause the absolute place of a body
is invariably the same, wherever it
be, in absolute space, and does not
change except as compared with
other places. Absolute place, just
as absolute ubication, has but one
manner of existing in absolute
space ; for all places, considered in
themselves, are extrinsic termina-
tions of the same infinite virtuali-
ty, and are all equally in the centre,
so to say, of its infinite expanse.
whatever be their mutual rela*
tions.
True Notion of Place,— \S\^7!X is,
then, the true definition of place ?
Webster describes it in his Diction-
ary as "a particular portion of
space of indefinite extent, occupied,
or intended to be occupied, by any
person or thing, and considered as
the space where a person or thing
does or may rest, or has rested, as
distinct from space in general."
This is in fact the meaning of the
word ** place " in the popular lan-
guage. The philosophical defini-
tion of place, as gathered from this
description, would be : " Place is
a particular portion of space."
This is the very definition which all
philosophers, before Aristotle, ad-
mitted, and which Aristotle endeav-
ored to refute, on the ground that,
when a body moves through space,
its place remains intrinsically the
same.
We have shown in our last arti-
cle that space considered in itself
has no parts ; but those who admit
portion of space, consider space as
a reality dependent on the dimen-
sions of the bodies by which it is
occupied — that is, they call " space "
those resultant relative intervals
which have their foundation in
space itself. If we were to talce
the word " space " in this popular
sense, we might well say that " place
is a portion of space," because any
given place is but one out of the
many places determined by the
presence of bodies in tlie whole
world. On the other hand, since
space,- properly so called, is itself
virtually extended — that is, equiva-
lent in its absolute simplicity to in-
finite extension, and since virtual
extension suggests the thought of
virtual parts, we might admit that
there are virtual portions of space
in this sense, that space as the fcun*
794
Space.
dation of all local relations corre-
sponds by its virtuality to all the di-
mensions and intervals mensurable
between all terms ubicated, and re-
ceives from them distinct extrinsic
denominations. Thus, space as
occupied by the sun is virtually
distinguished from itself as occu-
pied by the moon, not because it
has a distinct entity in the sun and
another in the moon, but because
it has two distinct extrinsic termin-
ations. We might therefore admit
that place is " a virtual portion of
space determined by material lim-
its " ; and we might even omit the
epithet " virtual " if it were under-
stood that the word " space " was
taken as synonymous with the di-
mensions of bodies, as is taken by
those who deny the reality of vacuum.
But, though this manner of speaking
is and will always remain popular,
owing to its agreement with our
imagination and to its conciseness,
which makes it preferable for our
ordinary intercourse, we think that
the place of a body, \\\ proper philo-
sophical language, should be defined
as ** a system of correlations between
the terms which mark out the limits
of the body in space " ; and there-
fore place in general, whether really
occupied or not, should be defined
a^ "a system of correlations be-
tween ubications marking out the
limits of dimensive quantity."
This definition expresses all that
we imply and that Webster includes
in the description of place; but it
changes the somewhat objectiona-
ble phrase *' portion of space " into
what people mean by it, viz., " a
system of correlations between dis-
tinct ubications," thereby showing
that it is not the absolute entity
of fundamental space, but only the
resultant relations in space, that
enter into the intrinsic constitution
of place. .
By " a system of correlations "
we mean the adequate result of ibe
combination of all the internals
from every single term to every
other within the limits assumed, in
every direction. Such a result will
therefore represent either a volume,
or a surface, or a line, according
as the terms considered within tbe
given limits are differently disposed
in space. Thus a spherical place
results from the mutual relaiioiLs
intervening between all the terms
of its geometric surface ; and there-
fore it implies all the intervals
which can be measured, and all the
lines that can be traced, in all di-
rections, from any of those terms to
any other within the given Umits,
In like manner, a triangular place
results from the mutual relations
intervening between all the terras
forming its perimeter ; and there-
fore it implies all the intervals and
lines of movement which can \^
traced, in all directions, from any of
those terms to any other witliin ibe
given limits.
In the definition we have given,
the material or determinable ele-
ment is the system of correlations
or intervals which are mensurable
within the limiting terms; the for-
mal or determinant is the disposi-
tion of the limiting terms them-
selves — that is, the definite bounda-
ry which determines the extent of
those intervals, and gives to the
place a definite shape.
Thus it appears that, although
there is no place without space,
nevertheless the entity of space
does not enter into the constitmion
of place as an intrinsic constitueat,
but only as the extrinsic founda-
tion. . This is what we have en-
deavored to express as clearly us
we could in our definition of place.
As, however, in our ordinary inter-
course we cannot well speak of
Space.
795
place with sucn nice circumlocu-
tions as are needed in philosophi-
cal treatises, we do not much object
to the common notion that place is
*' space intercepted by a limiting
boundary," and we ourselves have
no difficulty in using this expres-
sion, out of philosophy, owing to the
loose meaning attached to the
word " space" in common language ;
for all distances and intervals in
space are called ** spaces," even in
mechanics ; and thus, when we hear
of "space intercepted," we know
that the speakers do not refer to
the absolute entity of space (which
they have been taught to identify
with nothingness), but merely to
the intervals resulting from the ex-
trinsic terminations of that entity.
Most of the Schoolmen (vizi, all
those who considered void space as
imaginary and unreal) agreed, as we
have intimated, with Aristotle, that
the notion of place involves no-
thing but the surface of a surround-
ing body, and contended that with-
in the limits of that surface there
was no such chimerical thing as
mere space, but only the quantity
of the body itself. Suarez, in his
Metaphysics (Disp. 51, sect, i, n.
9), mentions the opinion of those
who maintained that place is the
space occupied by a body, and
argues against it on the ground
that no one can say what kind of
being such a space is. Some have
affirmed, says he, that such a space
is a body indivisible and immate-
rial — which leads to an open con-
tradiction — though they perhaps
considered this body to be " indi-
visible," not because it had no parts,
but because its parts could not be
separated. They also called it
*' immaterial,** on account of its
permeability tp all bodies. But
this opinion, he justly adds, is
against reason and even against
faith; for, on the one hand this
space should be eternal, uncreated,
and infinite, whilst on the other no
body can be admitted to have these
attributes.
Others, Suarez continues, thought
that the space which can be occu-
pied by bodies is mere quantity
extending all around without end.
This opinion was refuted by Aris-
totle, and is inadmissible, because
there cannot be quantitative dimen-
sions without a substance, and be-
cause the bodies which would oc-
cupy such a space have already
their own dimensions, which can-
not be compenetrated with the di-
mensions of space. And moreover,
such a quantity would be either
eternal and uncreated — which is
against faith — or created with all
other things, and therefore created
in space ; which shows that space
itself is not such a quantity.
Others finally opine, with greater,
probability, says he, that space, as
distinct from the bodies that fill it,
is nothing real and positive, but a
mere emptiness, implying both the
absence of bodies and the aptitude
to be filled by bodies. Of this
opinion Toletus says (4 Phys. q, 3)
that it is probable, and that it can-
not be demonstratively refuted.
Yet, adds Suarez, it can be shown
that such a space, as distinct from
bodies, is in fact nothing ; for it is
neither a substance nor an accident,
nor anything created or temporal,
but eternal.
Such is the substance of the rea-
sons adduced by Suarez to prove
that the space occupied by bodies
is nothing real. Had he, like Les-
sius, turned his thought to the ex-
trinsic lerminability of God's im-
mensity, he would have easily dis-
covered that, to establish the real-
ity of space, none of those old hy-
potheses which he refuted were
7^:^
Sface.
needed. As we have already set-
tled this point in a preceding article,
we will not return to it. It may,
iiowever, be remarked that what
Suarez says regarding the incom-
penetrability of the quantity of
space with the quantity of the body
\s based entirely on the assumption
that bodies have their own volume
independently of space — an as-
sumption which, though plausibly
maintained by the ancients, can by
no means be reconciled with the
true notion of the volume of bodies
as now established by physical
science and accepted by all philos-
ophers. As all dimensive quantity
arises from relations in space, so it
is owing to space itself that bodies
have volume ; and therefore there
are not, as the ancients imagined,
two volumes compenetrated, the
one of space, and the other of mat-
ter ; but there is one volume alone
determined by the material terms
related through space. And thus
there is no ground left for the com-
penetration of two quantities.
S. Thomas also, in his Commen-
tary to the Physics of Aristotle (4
Phys» lect. 6), and in the opuscule,
DeNattira Loci^ argues that there is
no space within the limiting surface
of the body, for two reasons. The
first is, that such a quantity of
space would be an accident without
a subject : Sequitur quod esset ali-
quod accidens absque subjecto ; quod
^,st impossibile. The second is, that
if there is space within the surface
of the body, as all the parts of the
body are in the volume of the same,
so will the places of all the parts be
in the place of the whole ; and con-
sequently, there will be as many
places conipenetrated with one an-
other as there can be divisions in
the dimensions of the body. But
these dimensions admit of an infi-
nite division. Therefore, infinite
places will be compenetrated to-
gether : Sequiiur quod sini infadta
loca stmul ; quod est impossBiU.
These two reasons could not bat
have considerable weight in a time
when material continuity formed
the base of the physical theory of
quantity, and when space without
matter was considered a chimera :
but in our time the case is qaitc
different. To the first reason we
answer, that the space within the
surface of the body will not be "an
accident without a subject." In
fact, such a space can be understood
in two manners, viz., either as the
foundation of the intervals, or as
the intervals themselves ; and in
neither case will there be an acci-
dent without a subject. For, the
spac'e which is the foundation of
the intervals is no accident ; it is
the virtuality of God's imraensicy,
as we have proved ; and, therefore,
there can be no question about its
subject. Moreover, such a space
is indeed within the limits of the
body, but it is also without, as it is
not limited by them. These limits,
as compared with space, are ex-
trinsic terms; and therefore they
do not belong to space, but to the
body alone. Lastly, although with-
out space there can be no place,
yet space is neither the material
nor the formal constituent of place,
but only the extrinsic ground of
local relations, just as eternity is
not an intrinsic constituent of time,
but only the extrinsic ground of
successive duration. Whence it is
manifest that the entity of space is
not the dimensive quantity of the
body, but the eminent reason of
its dimensions.
If, on the other hand, space is
understood in the popular sense as
meaning the accidental inter^•4ls
between the limits of the body, then
it is evident that such intervals will
Spact.
797
not be without their proportionate
subject. Relations have a subject
of predication, not of inhesion ; for
relation is a thing whose entity, ac-
cording to the scholastic definition,
consists entirely of a mere conno-
tation ; cuius iotum esse est ad aliua
se Aabere, Hence all relation is
merely ad aliud^ and cannot be in
alio. Accordingly, the intervals
between the terms of the body are
betu»een them, but do not inhere in
them; and they have a sufficient
subject — the only subject, indeed,
which they require, for the very
reason that they exist between resil
terras, with a real foundation.
Thus the first reason objected is
radically solved.
To the second reason we answer,
that it is impossible to conceive an
infinite multitude of places in one
total place, unless we admit the ex-
istence of an infinite multitude of
limiting terms—that is, unless we
assume that matter is mathemati-
cally continuous. But, since mate-
rial continuity is now justly consid-
ered as a baseless and irrational
hypothesis, as our readers know,
the compenetration of infinite
places with one another becomes
an impossibility.
Yet, as all bodies contain a very
great number of material terms, it
may be asked : Would the exist-
ence of space within the limits of
place prove the compenetration of
2i finite number of places .> Would
it prove, for instance, that the
places of different bodies existing
in a given room compenetrate the
place of the room ? The answer
depends wliolly on the meaning
attached to the word ** space." If*
we take " space " as the foundation
of the relations between the terms
of a place, then different places will
certainly be compenetrated, inas-
much as the entity of space is the
same, though differently terminat-
ed, in every one of them. But,
if we take "space " as meaning the
system of relative intervals between
the terms of a body, then the place
of a room will not be compenetrat-
ed with the places of the bodies it
contains; because neither the in-
tervals nor the terms of one place
are the intervals or the terms of
anotlier, nor have they anything
common except the absolute entity
of their extrinsic foundation. Now,
since place is not space properly,
but only a system of correlations
between ubications marking out the
limits of the body in space, it fol-
lows that no compenetration of one
place with another is possible so
long as the terms of the one do not
coincide with the terms of the
other.
S. Thomas remarks also, in the
same place, that if a recipient full
of water contains space, then, be-
sides the dinrensions of the water,
there would be in the same recipi-
ent the dimensions of space, and
these latter would therefore be
compenetrated with the former.
Quum aqua est in vase, prater dimen-
siones aqua sunt ibi alia dimensiones
spatii penetrantes dimensiones aqucc.
This would certainly be the case
were it true that the dimensions of
the body are materially continuous,
as S. Thomas with all his contem-
poraries believed. But the truth is
that the dimensions of bodies do
not consist in the extension of con-
tinuous matter, but in the extension
of the intervals between the limits
of the bodies, which is greater or
less according as it requires a
greater or less extension of move-
ment to be measured. The volume
of a body — that is, the quantity of
the place it occupies — is exactly the
same whether it be full or empty,
provided the limiting terms remain
798
SpacL
the same and in the same relation
to one another. It is not the mat-
ter, therefore, that constitutes its
dimensions. And then there are,
and can be, no distinct dimensions
of matter compenetrating the di-
mensions of place. But enough
about the nature of place. Let us
proceed to its division.
Division of Place, — Place in gene-
ral may be divided into real and
imaginary^ according as its limiting
terms exist in nature or are only
imagined by us. This division is
so clear that it needs no explana-
tion. It might be asked whether
there are not also /V/^ra/ places. We
answer, that strictly ideal places
there are none ; for the ideal is the
object of our intellect, whilst place
is the object of our senses and
imagination. Hence the so-called
*' ideal " places are nothing but
" imaginary " places.
Place, whether real or imaginary,
is again divided by gerometers into.
linear, superficial^ and cubic or solid,
according to the nature of their lim-
iting boundaries. A place limited
by surfaces is the place of a volume
or geometric solid. A place lim-
ited by lines is the place of a sur-
face. A place limited by mere
points is the place of a line.
The ancients, when defining
place as " the surface of the sur-
rounding body,'* connected the no-
tion of place with the quantity of
volume, without taking notice of
the other two kinds just mentioned.
This, too, was a necessary conse-
quence of their assumption of con-
tinuous matter. For, if matter is
intrinsically extended in length,
breadth, and depth, all places must
\ be extended in a similar manner.
But it is a known fact that the word
" place " (locus) is used now, and
was used in all times, in connection
not only with geometric volumes.
but also with geometric surfaces and
with geometric lines ; and as the
geometric quantities have their
counterpart in the physical order,
it is manifest that such geometric
places cannot be excluded from
the division of place. Can we no:
on any surface draw a line circum-
scribing a circle or any other close
figure ? And can we not point out
the " place " where the circle or
figure is marked out 1 There are
therefore places of which the boun-
daries are lines, not surfaces. And
again, can we not fix two points on
a given line, and consider the in-
terval between them as one of the
many places which can be desig-
nated along the line } The word
" place " in its generality applies to
any kind of dimensive quantity in
space. Those who pretend to limit it
to " the surface of a volume " should
tell us what other term is to be used
when we have to mention the place
of a plane figure on a wall, or of a
linear length on the intersection of
two surfaces. It will be said that
the ancients in this case used the
word Ubi. But we reply that 6'W and
Locus were taken by them as syno-
nymous. The quantities bounded
by lines, or terminated by points,
were therefore equivalently admit-
ted to have their own " places " ;
which proves that the definition of
place which philosophers left us in
their books, did not express all that
they themselves meant when using
the word, and therefore it was not
practically insisted upon. With us
the case is different. The Ubiy as
defined by us, designates a single
point in space, and is distinct from
locus ; hence we do not admit that
our ubi is a place ; for there is no
place within a point. But the phi-
losophers of the old school could
not limit the real ubication of mat-
ter to a mere point, owing to their
Space.
799
-opinion that matter was contin-
uous.
Thus we have three supreme
k inds of place — the linear, wiih one
.'iiiiiension, length; the superficial,
with two dimensions, length and
breadth ; the cubic or solid, with
three dimensions, length, breadth,
and depth. The true characteristic
tiiflference between these kinds of
place is drawn from their formal
constituents, viz., from their boun-
daries. The cubic place is a place
terminated by surfaces. The su-
perficial place is a place terminated
l>y lines. The linear place is a place
terminated by two points.
These supreme species admit of
further subdivision, owing to the
'Afferent geometrical figures afiect-
L-d by their respective boundaries.
Thus the place of a body may be
letrabedric, hcxahedric, spherical,
eic, and the place of a surface may
he triangular, polygonal, circular,
jtc.
Place is also divided into absolute
and relative. It is called absolute
when it is considered J<f^w/;////;// se —
that is, as to its entity, or as consist-
ing of a system of correlation with-
in a definite limit. It is called re-
lative when it is considered in con-
nection with some other place or
places, as more or less distant from
them, or as having with respect
to them this or that position or
situation.
The absolute place of a body,
whatever our imagination may sug-
j;est to the contrary, is always the
^ame as long as the body remains
under the same dimensions, be it at
rest or in movement. In fact, when-
ever we speak of a change of place,
we mean that the place of a body
acquires a new relation to the place
of some other body — that is, we
mean the mere change of its rela-
tivity. When the world was be-
lieved to be a sphere of continuous
matter with no real space outside
of if, the absolute place of a body
could be considered as correspond-
ing to one or another definite por-
tion of that sphere, and therefore
as changeable; but since the reality
of infinite space independent of
matter has been established, it is
manifest that absolute place has no
relation to the limits of the material
world, but only to the infinity of
space, with respect to which bodies
cannot change their place any more
than a point can change its ubica-
tion. Hence, when a body moves,
its relative place, or, better, the re-
lativity of its place to the places of
other bodies, is changed; but its
absolute place remains the same.
Thus the earth, in describing its
orbit, takes different positions round
the sun, and, while preserving its
absolute place unchanged, it under-
goes a continuous change of its re-
lativity.
Lastly, place is also divided into
intrinsic and extrinsic. Omitting
the old explanations of this division,
we may briefly state that the intrin-
sic place is that which is deter-
mined by the dimensions and
boundary of the body, and there-
fore is coextensive with it. The ex-
trinsic place of a body is a place
greater than the body which is
placed in it. Thus Rome is the ex-
trinsic place of the Vatican Palace,
and the Vatican Palace is the ex-
trinsic place of the Pope ; because
the Vatican Palace is in Rome, and
the Pope in the Vatican Palace.
Ocatpation of Place. — We have
now to answer a few questions
about the occupation of place. The
first is, whether bodies fill the
space they occupy. The second is,
whether the same place can be sim-
ultaneously occupied by two bodies.
The third is, whether the place
doo
space.
limits and conserves the body it
contains. The fourth is, whether
the same body can be miraculously
in two places or more at the same
time.
That bodies fill place is a very
common notion, because people do
not make any marked distinction
between filling and occupying. But
to fill and to occupy are not synony-
mous. To fill a place is to leave
no vacuum within it ; and this is
evidently impossible without con-
tinuous matter. As we have proved
that continuous matter does not
exist, we cannot admit that any
part of place, however small, can
be filled. Place, however, is occu-
pied. In fact, the material elements
of which bodies are ultimately com-
posed, by their presence in space
occupy distinct points in space —
that is, take possession of them,
maintain themselves in them, and
from them direct their action all
around, by which they manifest to
us their existence, ubication, and
other properties. This is the mean-
ing of occupcUiotu Hence the for-
mal reason of occupation is the
presence of material elements in
space. Therefore, the place of a
body is occupied by the presence
in it of discrete material points,
none of which fill space — that is to
say, the place is occupied, not filled.
The common expression, "a place
filled with matter," may, however,
be admitted in this sense, that when
the place is occupied by a body, it
does not naturally allow the in-
trasion of another body. This
amounts to saying, not that the
place is really filled, but that the
resistance offered by the body to
the intrusion of another body pre-
vents its passage as effectually as if
there were left no occupable room.
So much for the first question.
The second question may be an-
swered thus : Since space b dc!
filled by the occupying bodies, tbr
reason why bodies exclude one
another from their respective places
must be traced not to a want of
room in them, but only to their
mutual opposite actions. These ac-
tions God can neutralize and over-
come by an action of His own ; and
if this be done, nothing will remain
that can prevent the compentration
of two bodies and of their respec-
tive places. It is therefore possible,
at least supematu rally, for two
bodies to occupy the same place.
Nevertheless, we must bear in mind
that, as the elements of the one
body are not the elements of the
other, so the ubications of the first
set of elements are not the ubica-
tions of the second, and conse-
quently the correlations of the fin:
set are not identically the corre
lations of the second. Hence, i:
one body penetrates into the place
of another body, their places wiL
be intertwined, but distinct from
each other.
The third question must be an-
swered in the negative, notwith-
standing the contrary opinion of all
the Peripatetics. The place does
not limit and conserve the body by
which it is occupied ; it is the body
itself that limits and conserves its
own place. For what \& it that
gives to a place its formal determi-
nation, and its specific and numeric
distinction from all otlier places,
but its extreme boundary } Now.
this boundary is marked out by the
very elements which constitute t).c
limits of the body. It is, therefore,
the body itself that by its own limits
defines the limits of its own place,
and constitutes the place formally
such or such. There is the sawe
connection between a body and its
place as between movement and it>
duration. There is no movemen:
Space.
8oi
without time, nor time without
movement ; but movement does not
result from time, for it is time itself
that results from movement. Hence,
the duration of the movement is
limited by the movement itself. In
like manner, there is no body with-
out place, and no place without a
body ; but the body does not result
from the place, for it is the place it-
self that results from the presence
of the body in space. Hence, the
place of the body is formally deter-
mined by the body itself. There-
fore, it is the body that limits and
conserves its place, not the place
that limits and conserves the body.
This conclusion is confirmed by
the manner in which our knowledge
of place is acquired. Our percep-
tion of the place of a body is caused,
not by the place, but by the body,
which acts upon our senses from
different points of its surface, and
depicts in our organs the figure of
its limits. This figure, therefore, is
the figure of the place only inas-
much as it is the figure of the body ;
or, in other terms, it is the body it-
self that by its limits determines^ the
limits of its place.
From this it follows that, when a
body is said to be in a place circum-
scripiively^ we ought to interpret the
phrase, not m the sense that the
body is circumscribed by its place,
as Aristotle and his followers be-
lieved, but in this sense, that the
body circumscribes its place by its
own limits. And for the same rea-
son, those beings which do not exist
circutnscripiively in place (and which
are said to be in place only defim-
tivdy^ as is the case with created
spirits) are substances which do not
circumscribe any place, because
they have no material terms by
which to mark dimensions in space.
The fourth and last question is a
very difficult one. A great number
VOL. XXI. — 51
of eminent authors maintain with
S. Thomas that real bilocation is in-
trinsically impossible; others, on
the contrary, hold, with Suarez and
Bellarmine, that it is possible.
Without pretending to decide the
question, we will simply offer to our
reader a few remarks on the argu-
ments adduced against the possi-
bility of real bilocation.
The strongest of those arguments
is, in our opinion, the following.
The real bilocation of a body re-
quires the real bilocation of all its
parts, and therefore is impossible
unless each primitive element of
the body can have two distinct,
real ubications at the same time
the one natural and the other su-
pernatural. But it is impossible for
a simple and primitive element to
have two distinct, real ubications at
the same time, for two distinct, real
ubications presuppose two distinct,
real terminations of the virtuality
of God's immensity, and two dis-
tinct, real terminations are intrinsi-
cally impossible without two dis-
tinct, real terms. It is therefore
evident that one point of matter
cannot mark out two points in
space, and that real bilocation is
impossible.
To evade this argument, it might
be said that it is not evident, after
all, that the same real term cannot
correspond to two terminations.
For to duplicate the ubication of
an element of matter means to cause
the same element, which is here
present to God, to be there also
present to God. Now this requires
only the correspondence of the ma-
terial point to two distinct virtuali-
ties of divine immensity. Is this ii
contradiction } The correspond-
ence to one virtuality is certainly
not the negation of the correspond-
ence to another; hence it is not
necessary to concede that there is a
802
space.
contradiction bet\reen the two. It
may be added that the supernatural
possibility of bilocation seems to be
established by many facts we read
in ecclesiastical history and the
lives of saints, as also by the dogma
of the Real Presence of Our Lord's
Body in so many different places in
the Sacrament of the Eucharist.
Lastly, although real bilocation is
open to many objections on ac-
count of its supernatural character,
yet these objections can be suffi-
ciently answered, as may be seen in
Siiarez, in part. 3, disp. 48, sec. 4.
These reasons may have a certain
degree of probability ; nevertheless,
before admitting that a point of
matter can mark two points in
space at the same time, it is neces-
sary to ascertain whether a single
real term can terminate two virtu-
alities of God's immensity. This is
a thing which can scarcely be con-
ceived ; for two distinct ubications
result from two distinct termina-
tions ; and it is quite evident, as we
have alrea4y intimated, that there
cannot be two distinct terminations
if there be not two distinct terms.
For the virtualities of divine im-
mensity are not distinct from one
another in their entity, but only by
extrinsic denomination, inasmuch as
liiey are distinctly terminated by
distinct extrinsic terms. Therefore,
a single extrinsic term cannot cor-
respond to two distinct virtualities
of divine immensity; whence it fol-
lows that a single material point
cannot have two distinct ubications.
As to the facts of ecclesiastical
history above alluded to, it might
be answered that their nature is not
sufficiently known to base an argu-
ment upon them. Did any saints
ever really exist in two places 1 For
aught we know, they may have exist-
ed really in one place, and only
phenomenically in another. Angels
occupy no place, and have no
bodies ; and yet they appeared in
place, and showed themselves in
bodily forms, which need not have
been more than phenomenal. Dis-
embodied souls have sometimes ap-
peared with phenomenal bodies.
Why should we be bound to admit
that when saints showed themselves
in two places, their body was not
phenomenal in one and real only
in the other i
The fact of the Real Presence of
Christ's body in the Blessed Sacra-
ment, though much insisted upon
by some authors, seems to have no
bearing on the present question.
For, our Lord's body in the Eu-
charist has no immediate connec-
tion with place, but is simply de-
nominated by the place of the sac-
ramental species, as S. Thomas
proves; for it is there ad nwdum
subsianticBy as the holy doctor inces-
santly repeats, and not ad modum
corporis locati* Hence, S. Thomas
himself, notwithstanding the real
presence of Christ's body on our
altars, denies without fear the pos-
sibility of real bilocation properly
so called.
Though not all the arguments
brought against real bilocation
are equally conclusive, some of
them are very strong, and seem
unanswerable. Suarez, who tried
to answer them, did not directly
solve them, but only showed that
they would prove too much if they
were applied to the mystery of the
Real Presence. The inference is
true ; but S. Thomas and his fol-
lowers would answer that their ar-
guments do not apply to the Eu-
charistic mystery.
One of those arguments is the
* Corpus Chrisd non est in hoc sacramaito sicot
in locOf sed per modum substantiae. . . Unde nifio
modo carpus Christ! est in hoc sacnuneato locaii-
tet.—Summ. Thtol,^ P- 3« <!• A «• 5*
bface.
803
following : If a man were simulta-
neously in two places, say, in Rome
and in London, his quantity would
be separated from itself; for it
•vould be really distant from itself,
and relatively opposed to itself. But
this is impossible. For how can
there be real opposition without
two real terms?
Some might answer, that a man
bilocated is one term substantially^
but equivalent to two locallyy and
that it is not his substance nor his
quantity that is distant from itself,
but only one of his locations as
compared with the other. But we
do not think that this answer is
satisfactory. For, although dis-
tance requires only two local terms,
• we do not see how there can be
local terms without two distinct
beings. One and the same being
cannot be actually in two places
without having two contrary nK)des :
and this is impossible; for two con-
traries cannot coexist in the same
subject, as S. Thomas observes.*
Another of those arguments is
based on the nature of quantity.
One and the same quantity cannot
occupy two distinct places'. For
quantity is the formal cause of the
occupation of place, and no formal
cause can have two adequate for-
mal effects. Hence, as one body
has but one quantity, so it can oc-
cupy but one place.
This argument cannot be evaded
by saying that the quantity which
is the formal cause of occupation
is not the quantity of the mass, but
the quantity of the volume. In fact,
the duplication of the volume
would duplicate the place ; but the
* Sed contra : omnia duo loca ditdnguantur ad
invtcem tecundum aliquam loci contrarietatem,
\\xm sunt sunum et deorsam, ante, retro, dextrnm
=c sinistrum. Sed Deus non potest facere quod duo
rootraria sint nmul ; hoc enim implicat contradic-
uonem. Mr%Q Deus non protest facere quod idem
corpus localiter sit simul in duobus lod^^QuoMib
J, 4. I, a. a
volume cannot be duplicated un-
less each material term at the sur-
face of the body can acquire two
ubications. Now, this is impossi-
ble, as a single term cannot corre-
spond to two extrinsic terminations
of divine immensity, as already re-
marked. Hence, the quantity of
volume cannot be duplicated in
distinct places without duplicating
also the mass of the body — that is,
there cannot be two places without
two bodies.
A third argument i% as follows :
If a body were bilocated, it would,
be circumscribed and not circum-
scribed. Circumscribed, as is ad-
mitted, because its dimensions
would coextend with its place ; not
circumscribed, because it would
also exist entirelv outside of its
place.
This argument, in our opinion,,
is not valid; because it is not
the place that circumscribes the
body, but the body that circum-
scribes its own place. Hence, if a
body were bilocated, it jvould cir-
cumscribe two places, and would
be within both alike. It will be
said that this, too, is impossible.
We incline very strongly to the
same opinion, but not on the
strength of the present argument.
A fourth argument is, that if a
thing can be bilocated, there is no
reason why it could not be trilo-
cated and multilocated. But, if so,
then one man could be so repli-
cated as to form by himself alone
two battalions fighting together;
and consequently such a man might
in one battalion be victorious, and
in the other cut to pieces ; in one
place suffer intense cold, and in an-
other excessive heat ; in one pray,
and in another swear. The absur-
dity of these conclusions shows the
absurdity of the assumption from,
which they follow.
804
Space.
This argument is by no means
fonnidable. Bilocation and multilo
cation are a duplication and multi-
plication of the place, not of the
substance. Now, the principle of
operation in man is his substance,
whilst his place is only a condition
of the existence and of the move-
ments of his body. Accordingly,
those passions of heat and cold,
and such like, which depend on lo-
cal movement, can be multiplied
and varied with the multiplication
of the places, but the actions which
proceed from the intrinsic faculties
of man can not be thus varied and
multiplied. Hence, from the multi-
location of a man, it would not fol-
low that he, as existing in one place,
could slay himself as existing in an-
other place, nor that he could
pray in one and swear in another.
After all, bilocation and multiloca-
tion would, by the hypothesis, be
the effect of supernatural interven-
tion, and, as such, they would be
governed by divine wisdom. Hence
it is unre^isonable to assume the
possibility of such ludicrous con-
tingencies as are mentioned in the
argument ; for God does not lend
his supernatural assistance to foster
what is incongruous or absurd.
To conclude. It seems to us
that those among the preceding
arguments which have a decided
weight against the possibility of
real bilocation, are all radically
contained in this, that one and the
same element of matter cannot have
at the same time two modes of
being, of which the one entails the
exclusion of the other. Now, the
mode of being by which an element
is constituted in a point, A^ excludes
the mode of being by which it
would be constituted in another
point, B. For, since the ubicatioii
in A is distant from the ubication
in B^ the two ubications are not
only distinct, but relatively op-
posed, as S. Thomas has remarked :
Disiinguuniur ad invictm secundum
aliquam loci corUrarieiaiem ; and
therefore they cannot belong both
together to the same subject. On
the other hand, we have also
proved that a single element can-
not terminate two distinct virtu-
alities of God's immensity, because
no distinct virtualities can be con-
ceived except with reference to
distinct extrinsic terms. Hence,
while the element in question has
its ubication in A^ it is utterly in-
capable oi any other ubication.
To admit that one and the same
material point can terminate two
virtualities of divine immensity,
seems to us as absurd as to admit
that one and the same created
being is the term of two distinct
creations. For this reason we
think, with S. Thomas, that biloca-
tion, properly so called, is an im-
possibility.
An Episode.
80s
AN EPISODE.
The caption " episode " is ad-
visedly y^dopted, inasmuch as we
are going to transcribe only one
short chapter from a large manu-
script of several hundred pages con-
taining " The Life of Sixtus V."
However, it is to be regretted that
such a life is not published. For
it would reveal unto us the man^
whereas Ranke and HUbner de-
scribe only i\\t prince,
Sixtus V. fell into that mistake,
which has proved disastrous to
many popes, and has afforded a
weapon, however silly and easily
broken, yet a real weapon to the
enemies of the Papacy — nepotism.
The charge is exaggerated of course :
in fact, what our enemies assert to
have been the universal failing of
all the popes, the true historian
avers to have been the mistake of a
few, whereas the examples of heroic
detachment from kindred given by
the vast majority of the Pontiffs are
wonderful. S. Gregory the Great
says, "better there should be a
scandal than the truth were sup-
pressed"; and surely the church
needs no better defence than the
truth. For the present purpose, suf-
fice it to quote the Protestant Ranke,
who, after a thorough investigation
of the subject, gave it as his honest
opinion that only three ox four popes
are really liable to the charge of
nepotism. It is.pleasant to be able
to quote such an opinion of an emi-
nent non-Catholic writer against
scores of wilful men, who sharpen
their weapons and discharge their
shafts, not after honest study and
investigation, but merely on the
promptings of blind hatred.
Pope Sixtus V. was the second
son of Piergentile Peretti of Mon-
talto.
His eldest brother was Prospero,
who married Girolama of Tullio
Mignucci, and died a.d. 1560, with-
out issue.
Camilla was his only sister. She
was led to the altar by Gianbattista
Mignucci, brother to Girolama. To
an exquisite correctness of judg-
ment, and great generosity of heart,
she joined a quick apprehension
of the importance of circumstances
by which she might find herself
suddenly encompassed. The Anon-
into of the Capitoline Memoirs says
that when Camilla was unexpectedly
raised from the obscure life of a
coniadino*s wife to the rank of a Ro-
man lady, she was not stunned, but
felt perfectly at ease, whilst her so-
ciety was coveted by the choicest
circles of the nobility. Cardinal
d'Ossat, in his Letters^ informs us that
she was greatly esteemed and dear-
ly beloved by Louise de Lorraine,
queen-dowager of the gifted but
perverse Henry IIL of France.
The works of her munificence and
public charity in her native Grot-
tamare are many, and enduring to
our day.
Father Felix Peretti had already
mounted all the rounds but one
of ecclesiastical preferment — the
cardinal's hat was almost within his
reach. He was a bishop, and oc-
cupied some of the highest offices
in the Curia Romana, He thought
the time had come to satisfy a long-
felt desire — the ennoblement of his
family. Hence, in 1562, he called
his sister to Rome, having obtained
8o6
An Episode.
a sovereign's rescript by which his
brother was allowed to change his
name, Mignucci, into thatof Peretti.
On the 17th day of May, 1570,
Pius V. raised Mgr. Felix Peretti
to the dignity of cardinal. Thence-
forward he is more generally known
in history as Cardinal Montalto,
from the place of his nativity.
Thus, even previous to his bro-
tlier-in-law's elevation, Gianbattista
Mignucci enters Rome transformed
into Peretti, to join his wife and their
two children Francis and Mary.
O fallaces cogiiationes nostras!
The friar hopes his name, made il-
lustrious by himself, will not be-
come extinct ; but he is mistaken ;
if recorded on the tablets of time it
will not surely be by a worldly alli-
ance, which is doomed to a dishon-
ored extinction. The church will
inscribe the Peretti name and fame
on the adamantine records of her
immortality.
Verily, if we understand aright
the professions of recluses, the Fran-
ciscan friar should have done away
with his relations for ever ; at least,
so far as not to allow himself to be
blinded by human affection. He
should have remembered that he
was under no obligation to them,
that from his earliest boyhood he
had been taken in hand by church-
men, and that only through scien-
tific and moral resources acquired
in a friary he had received strength
to climb up so high in the ecclesias-
tical hierarchy. The world is keen
in its observations, and Peretti did
not escape its strictures, seldom
erring when established on princi-
ples and facts universally admitted,
and moreover sanctioned by divine
teaching. And has not the exam-
ple been set for those who profess
the perfection of evangelical coun-
sels of how they should behave to-
wards their kindred ?
Be that as it may, Fra Felice paid
dearly for his ambition.
His niece. Donna Maria Pereit*,
was soon married, and a down
granted her from the revenues ui
her uncle of three thousand crowns
a year. Mary's children, two boy^
and two girls, became allied to
some of the most distinguished fam-
ilies of Italy, and the plebeian
blood of Peretti mingled with tha:
of the simon-pure aristocracy. Out
of this issue arose eminent men
who did honor to cross and sword.
But enough of this branch of the
friar's adoption.
About the time of Mgr. Felix
Peretti's elevation to the cardinal-
ate, his nephew Francesco was
wedded to Donna Vittoria Acco-
ramboni of Gubbio, in Umbria.
praised by the Gentilitottto^ Aquitano
(vol. ii., b. vi.), as "a woman of
high mind, of great beauty of sou:
and body." Her family still exists
in Italy, and a lineal descendant
occupies important posts in the
household of Pius IX. Her suitors
had been many and of princely
caste ; among the rest Paolo Gior-
dano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano.
formerly married to the sister ot
the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Fran-
cesco Medici. Paolo, ?iomo rupius
disruptusqucy stands charged in his-
tory with the murder of this his
former wife, the accomplished Isa-
bella, daughter of Cosmo, whom he
strangled on the i6th of July, 1576.
But Vittoria's father cut short all
suits, and gave her in holy wedlock
to Francesco Peretti, nephew of the
mysterious cardinal, whose future
elevation to the papal throne was
held in petto by every discerning
Roman.
However, Vittoria's mother gave
her consent reluctantly ; for wear-
ing the ducal coronet seemed pre-
ferable to being the prosi^eciive
An Episode.
807
x^iece of the sovereign — uccdlo in
t€isca I megUo che due in ftasca^ the
shrewd Italian lady thought. But
whereas Lady Accoramboni forgot
that the Orsini family owed their
power to Nicholas III. (a.d. 1277-
So), an Orsini by birth, who, by the
lever of nepotism, had raised an
a.lready celebrated family to the
highest standing of European no-
L>ility, her husband, on the other
hand, said to her: ** Can't you see?
Vittoria will be the head of a new,
powerful family ! " Still Lady Ac-
coramboni did not see it, and the
loss of the coronet rankled for ever
in her breast.
Indeed, in these days when tales
of fiction are the almost exclusive
reading of the youth of both sexes,
an accomplished writer might weave
out of the following events a story
of stirring interest; not sensational,
indeed, but freighted with most sa-
lutary lessons.
Vittoria Accoramboni Peretti had
three brothers :
Ottavio was, through the recom-
mendation of Cardinal Peretti, no-
minated by the Dilke of Urbino
for, and by Gregory XIII. appoint-
ed to, the bishopric of Fossombrone.
He adorned his see with all the
virtues becoming a scholar, a gen-
tleman, a patriot, and a true apos-
tolic prelate.
Giulio became one of the private
household of Cardinal Alessandro
Sforza, by whom he was held in
great favor, and employed as con-
fidential secretary.
Marcello was outlawed for his
misdeeds, and a price set on his
head. But Cardinal Peretti ob-
tained his pardon ; yet leave to re-
turn to Rome was not granted to
him.
" A wise woman buildeth her
* A bird in hand, etc.
house : but the foolish will pull
down with her hands that also
which is built,** saith the Wise Man.
The house of Francesco and Maria
Peretti was built, and it was the
home of comfort and honor, enclos-
ing within its walls the choicest
gifts of the world ; and of its bright-
est ornament, the Lady Vittoria
Peretti, it might be said she was
the cynosure of Roman society.
The evening conversazioni drew the
Hite of Rome, graced as they were
by the presence of the cardinal,
who, with his proverbial regularity,
would attend them for a definite
length of time. His wise sayings,
dignity of deportment, and agreea-
bleness of manners, mingled with
an independence of character that
made him almost redoubtable at
the Roman court, enhanced the
charm of the family circle. Young
prelates prized highly the privilege
of being admitted amongst the visi-
tors. The spacious halls of the
Villa Negroni were adorned with
paintings and statuary, and the no-
blest specimens of the art of paint-
ing; the gardens were reckoned
the most tasteful of those of any
princely family in Rome. While
he was scrupulous in his attention
to consistorial meetings, and the
affairs of the Curia Romana over
which he was appointed. Cardinal
Peretti never gave his time to wliat
he would consider frivolous eti-
quette. His library, his gardens,
afforded him all the relaxation he
needed; his life was most exem-
plary and devout. Happy, indeed.
was the home built by such hands;
but a foolish woman pulled it down !
At the depth of night, not niany
months after Vittoria had been
wedded, a note is hurriedly carried
by a chambermaid to Francesco ;
it had been left at the entry by a
well-known friend, and the messen-
8o8
An Episode.
ger had left immediately. It was
written by Marcello, who at times
entered the city under protection
of night, or of some leaders of po-
litical factions, with which the city
swarmed — barons and princes who,
under the mild government of Gre-
gory XIII., had everything their
own way.
The letter summoned Francesco
to repair at once to the Esquiline
hill, there to meet some gentlemen
on a business the nature whereof
could not be entrusted to paper,
and admitted of no delay. Hur-
riedly does the devoted man dress
himself, and, his sword under his
arm, forces his way through the
servants who beseech him to halt,
disentangles himself from his wife
and mother, who, prostrated before
him, cling to his* knees, begging of
him not to trust himself to the out-
lawed Marcello. In vain ! Pre-
ceded by a servant with torch in
hand, no sooner had he reached the
brow of the Quirinal than the con-
tents of three arquebuses were
lodged in his breast ; whereupon
four men fell upon him, and fin-
ished him with their stilettos.
** Thus," says an old historian, " fell
a youth whose only crime was to
be the husband of a most beautiful
woman." Another chronicler calls
Francesco Ca/e e di gran corrctiezza
di costumi.
The commotion in the family
when the ensanguined and ghastly
corpse was carried home can easily
be imagined. The lamentations of
the women and the uproar of the
servants awoke the cardinal, who
slept in a distant apartment — his
])?.lace, the Villa Negrone, as men-
tioned above, and by that name
known to modem tourists, extend-
ing from the Esquiline (Santa Ma-
ria Maggiore) to the Piazza de' Ter-
mini. It is said that on hearing
the dreadful news Montalto £eil
upon his knees, and prayed God to
grant rest to the soul of his nephew,
and to himself fortitude, such as
became his character and dignity.
His presence not only brought, but
forced calm on the distracted
household. On the next day the
Holy Father was to hold a Con&is^
tory, and, contrary to the expecta-
tion of all, Cardinal Montalto was
at his post, as usual, among the
first. His colleagues offer their
condolence, which he accepts with
a resignation almost akin to stoicism.
But when he approaches the throoe
to give his opinion on the matters
debated, and the pope, with moist
eyes and greatly moved, expresses
a heartfelt sympathy in the cardi-
nal's affliction, pledging his word
that the perpetrators shall be visit-
ed with summary and condign pun-
ishment, Montalto thanks the Pon-
tiff for his kind sympathy, protests
that he has already forgiven the
murderers, and begs that all pro-
ceedings may be stayed, lest the
innocent should be punished for the
guilty. Having thus disposed of
the matter, he proceeds with his
wonted calmness to discuss that
which was before the Consistory.
Referring to this impassiveness
of Peretti, the pope remarked, with
an ominous shake of the head, to
his nephew, Cardinal San Sisto,
" Indeed, Montalto is a great friar!"
And those of Peretti s own times,
and subsequent historians, seem to
have had an insight of his mind
and motives. In the sober lan-
guage of Ranke, " His character
does not appear to have been so
guileless as it is occasionally repre-
sented. As early as 1574 he \s de-
scribed as learned and prudent, but
also crafty and malignant. He was
doubtless gifted with remarkable
self-control. AVhen his nephew was
An Episode.
809
assassinated, he was himself the
l>erson who requested the pope
to <iisc6ntinae the investigation.
This quality, which was admired
by all, very probably contributed
to his election " to the papal throne.
Those among our readers who
have resided among Italians, and
especially in Rome, need not be
told of the tremendous excitement
which seized the holy city as it
awoke on that dreadful morning.
Cardinal Peretti of Montalto be-
came the observed of all observers ;
nobles and prelates thronged the
avenues to his villa to assure him
of their loyalty and condolence;
very few, indeed, as the world goes,*
honestly and sincerely; many sim-
ply from custom; almost all, how-
ever, moved by a motive of curios-
ity to see how the ** Picenian pack-
horse " bore the great calamity,
and, above all, what feelings he
would betray towards Paolo Gior-
dano Orsini, to whom the finger of
public opinion already pointed as
the raurderer of Vittoria*s husband.
By some manoeuvre of the " gossip-
ing committee" the day and the
hour on which even Giordano
would present himself at the palace
became known, and the throng at
the drawing-rooms was exceedingly
great. When the murderer stood
face to face before his victim's best
friend and only avenger, not the least
twitch in the cardinal's nerves, not
a falter in the voice, nor the slight-
est change of color betrayed the
conflict in his soul. He received
Orsini's treacherous sympathy as he
had received the truest expressions
of condolence. Peretti stood there,
the prince, not the avenger. Even
the accursed soul of Giordano was
lost in wonderment; he became
embarrassed and disconcerted, and
he was reported to have exclaimed
as he re-entered his carriage —
'' Montalto is a great friar ; no mis-
take about it!" (Montalto h, un
gran frate ; chi ne dubita !)
Vittoria had no children. Hence,
after the funeral, the cardinal sent
her home to her mother, bestowing
upon her costly gifts, and giving
her the jewels, plate, and precious
articles of furniture and apparel,
which had been the bridal presents
of husband and friends. Ora H
credo^ said Pasquino to Marforio, in
allusion to Montalto's forbearance
and disinterested magnanimity.
The sequel to this tragedy is so
thrilling in interest, so characteris-
tic of the times about which we
write, and must have taxed the
feelings of the future pope so much,
that a succinct account thereof can-
not but prove interesting to our
readers.
Gregory XIH. urged with energy
and perseverance the necessary in-
quests to ferret out the murderers
of Francesco Peretti. But wily old
Giordano Orsini (he was on the
other side of fifty) knew how to
baffle the requisitions of justice, by
no means a difficult task in those
lawless times. He sent the wait-
ing-maid to Bracciano, to be pro-
tected by the feudal immunities of
the Orsini castle. Vittoria and hei
mother were sheltered in Rome in
the Orsini palace. The feudal
power was still great in those days,
and often a franchise was secured
to the premises of Roman nobles by
foreign princes, to the infinite an-
noyance of the local sovereign, and
often clogging the workings of jus-
tice. One Cesare Pallentieri, an
outlawed ruffian, was then bribed
to write to the governor of Rome
avowing himself the plotter of
Peretti's death to revenge himself
for personal injuries received at that
gentleman's hands. Nobody be-
lieved the story ; and the verdict of
8io
An Episode.
public opinion was sanctioned when,
in February, 1582, Mancino, the
bearer of the fatal note, declared,
under oath and without compulsion,
that the whole plot had been woven
by Vittoria's mother; that the ser-
vant-maid had been made privy to it;
and moreover revealed the names of
two of the emissaries, it being well
known in whose pay they bore
arms, although he stated no employ-
er's name.
At this stage of the proceedings
Cardinal Montalto, with persever-
ing endeavors with the pope and
the interposition of friends, stayed
all prosecutions, and on December
13, 1 5 S3, obtained fVom the sover-
eign pardon for Mancino, who was,
however, banished from Rome, and
relegated — inttrrudy in modern par-
lance — to Fermo, his native city,
being forbidden to quit it under
penalty of death. But it was too
evident that there was a trifling
with justice, and in the uncertain-
ties between which public opinion
seemed to fluctuate, wiser counsels
attempted to vindicate the necessity
of a just retribution. Hence, at the
instance of several cardinals and
of the Spanish ambassador, Gre-
gory was prevailed upon to confine
Yittoria to the castle Sant* Angelo,
and by a special decree forbade her
marr>ing Paolo Giordano Orsini,
unless by a reserved dispensation
!rom himself or his successor,
under attaintment of felony. How-
ever, atter two years of imprison-
ment she was declared innocent of
any share in or knowledge of the
plut» and discharged. This hap-
pened on the very day of Gregory's
death, April 10, 1585. Still Orsini
could not wed her, because of the
forbidding clause in the pope's
order. But some accommodating
casuist came to the rescue, and
averred that the defunct pope's
brief was binding no more. Where-
upon the duke hastened, by special
couriers on post-horses, to notify
the good Bishop of Fossombroneoi
his intended alliance with Vittoria,
and to solicit his gracious consent.
Mgr. Ottavio refused his assent de-
cidedly, nor would he allow him-
self to change his refusal, although
Orsini despatched messenger after
messenger, anxious, as he was, to
accomplish his purpose ere a new
pope was elected. But the new
pope was elected far sooner thaa
the duke or any one else expected,
and in defiance of the express com-
mand of the defunct pontifi^ and in
• shameless disregard of the feelings
of the new sovereign, the very
morning on which Cardinal Peretti*
Vittoria's uncle, was proclaimed,
she was wedded to Paolo Orsini,
Duke of Bracciano. Rome was be-
wildered at the announcement ; and
although no one could guess what
the consequences of the rash act
might be, or how the pope would
show his displeasure, because Fra
Felice never made any one the
confidant of his thoughts, yet the
general impression was that sooner
or later the duke would be made
to pay dearly for his daring and
reckless disregard of the common-
est principles of decency.
Rome was on the alert. Duke
Orsini is admitted to offer his obei-
sance to the Pontiff Sixtus V. amid
the solemn assembly of cardinals,
foreign envoys, and Roman princes
and senators; the expression of
his liege words, his prostration at
the sovereign's throne, and his
courtly homage meet with the simple
response of a look from Sixtus
That look gave rise to the i i >:
clashing interpretations in the olv
serving minds of the beholders; 1:
was a look of benignity, weighty
with authority, crushing with power,
An Episode.
8ii
such as to subdue at once the
Haughty and defiant princely ruj£an.
From that moment Paolo Orsini
never raised his head ; his day was
gone. Within a few days a sovereign
decree, worded as only Sixtus V,
luiew how to pen them, in terms at
wliich no one would dare to cavil,
Orsini was forbidden to shelter out-
laws. The duke solicited an au-
dience ; of what occurred at that
meeting no one could ever surmise ;
"but Orsini found no more charm in '
^rhat he could heretofore call his
Rome. Accordingly, within two
xnonths after the inauguration of
Sixtus' pontificate, he left the papal
city. In sooth, he was an exile,
voluntary, as if by courtesy. Great
vras the bitterness galling Vittoria's
heart, and she was pitied by all —
the victim of a mother's rash ambi-
tion, she had to flee that Rome
where she could still have reigned
the queen of society for her beauty,
her great gifts, and close relation-
ship to the sovereign. Donna Ca-
milla reigned in her stead. Nor was
this all. The handsome, youthful,
accomplished niece of Sixtus was
then the slavish, unhappy wife of a
cumbrous quinquagenarian prince,
covered with loathsome blotches
from the sole of his feet to the
crown of his head, the penalty of
his dissipations ; one of his legs so
ulcered with cancer that it had
swollen to the size of a man's waist,
and had to be kept bandaged (the
chronicler says), with slices of
same other animaCs meat^ that the
acrid humor would not eat into his
own live flesh — a fretful old debau-
chee, overbearing, universally loath-
ed for his lecherous habits, hated
for his cruelties, and made intracta-
ble by a conscience gnawed by
despair.
Poor Vittoria ! On their way to
Sal6, near the lake of Garda in
Lombardy, her husband, consumed
by ulcers and tortures of soul, died
suddenly whilst being bled in his
arm !
Forlorn Vittoria! the first par-
oxysm of grief being over, raised a
pistol to her head, but it was hap-
pily snatched from her in time by
her brother Giulio, and she was
spared a violent, unprepared, and
cowardly death ! Thus left alone,
unprotected in her beauty and
youth, she was at the mercy of
Ludovico Orsini, her husband's
cousin, who despised her on ac-
count of the great disparity of
their birth. Her late husband had
indeed bequeathed to her one hun-
dred thousand crowns, besides sil-
ver plate, horses, carriages, and
jewelry without stint. All this
Ludovico coveted, and stepped for-
ward under pretence of protecting
the rights of Flaminio Orsini, Gi-
ordano's son by his former wife ;
but unable to break the will, he
summoned one Liverotto Paolucci
of Camerino to come to Padua —
whither Vittoria had repaired im-
mediately, and, aided by such as he
might chose, to murder Vittoria
and her brother ! The bloody ruf-
fian answered the summons, and
entering the princess' apartment
through a window, in the depth of
the night, his men fell at first upon
Giulio, and Into his breast dis-
charged the contents of three
muskets. The victim crawled to
his sister's room and crouched un-
der her bed. There he was finished
with seventy-three thrusts of white
arms, encouraged all the time
by Vittoria, anxiously repeating —
" Forgive, Giulio ; beg God's mer-
cy, and willingly accept death for
his sake."
It is recorded in the life of her
sainted brother, the Bishop of Fos-
sombrone, that, upon the death of
8l2
An Episode.
the duke, he without delay wrote to
his sister, exhorting her to amend
her life, and devote herself to
works of atonement and piety;
for, said he, " your days will not
be many." And we have it from
authenticated records of those times
that she did tnily repent of her
worldliness, and, having placed her-
self under the protection of the Re-
public of Venice, retired to Padua,
where she lived in great retire-
ment, dividing her time between
practices of devotion in the church,
deeds of charity, and protracted
orisons at home. She also begged
of the Pope leave to repair to
Rome, the asylum of the wretched,
and spend the remainder of her life
in a convent, for which purpose
her generous uncle had signed a
remittance of five hundred gold
crowns on the very day he re-
ceived the sad account of her
death. Her brother, the bishop,
had so strong a presentiment, some
say a revelation from above, of the
impending catastrophe, that on the
2 2d of December he ordered spe-
cial prayers to be offered by the
clergy of his diocese in her be-
half.
And she did fall a victim to Lu-
dovico's dagger on the 2 2d of that
month !
After Giulio had breathed his
last, bathed in his own blood.
Count Paganello, one of Live-
rotto's band, took hold of the de-
voted woman by both arms, and
holding her in the kneeling posture
in which she had been- found at
her prayers, bade one of his bra-
voes to tear open her dress on the
right side, whereupon she indig*
nantly protested that she should be
allowed to die in her dress, as it
became an honest woman and the
wife of Giordano Orsini! The
brute plunged a stiletto into her
bosom, and kept trepanning to-
wards the left side in search of the
heart. She offered no resistance,
but during the horrid butchery of
her form she ceased not repeating,
" I pardon you, even as I beg ^
God to forgive me. .... Jesas!
. . . Jesus! . . Mercy and for-
giveness !'* And with these words
of forgiveness dying on her lips slie
fell lifeless on the floor.
Thus ended, by a cruel death,
yet heroically met, one of the most
remarkable women of her time— a
woman renowned for her admira-
ble beauty, talents, and mbguided
ambition. Having been the pet oi
European society, she died almost
an outlaw ; the niece of Pope Six-
tus v., she died without a home of
her own ; a lamentable instance of
the ignominious end awaiting those
who have been endowed by a kind
Providence with the noblest of
gifts, but have made a wrong use
of them.
The Cross in the Desert.
813
THE CROSS IN THE DESERT.
Some few years ago a pilgrim
sailed across the blue waters of the
Mediterranean, smitten with the love
of the cross, and bearing in his hand
"the banner with the strange device."
It was a lovely summer's eve-
ning. The fierce African sun was
sinking to his rest behind the hill
on which the ruins of the old city
of Hippo stand ; and as the pilgrim,
who had climbed to its summit,
stood gazing around him, the glow
of the western sky bathed his dusty
garments in a golden light, touch-
ing the ruins with a splendor of its
own, and lighting up the sea, that
heaved gently down below, with
the brightness of amber and gold.
This, then, was all that remained
of the proud old city whose name
Augustine had made famous to the
end of time !
These crumbling walls were once
the school where he taught, the
halls where his youthful eloquence
fired the hearts of the great scho-
lars of the day ; here were the baths
where he lounged in his idle hours
with pleasure-loving companions ;
here the streets where every day he
came and went from Monica's quiet
home to the busy haunts of learn-
ing, of sophistry, and science ; here
was the place where she had wept
so bitterly over him, the spot where
that salutary fountain of a moth-
er's tears had had its source ; here
he had sinned ; hence he had gone
forth in search of truth, and, hav-
ing found it, hither he had come
back, transformed into a confessor
and a doctor of the church ; here,
finally, he died, full of years,
leaving behind him a name great
amongst the greatest saints whom
the church has raised to her altars.
And what now remained to Afri-
ca of this light which had shed
such glory on her church ? Where
did his memory live } And the faith
that he had practised — whither had
it fled ?
The pilgrim sat down upon a
stone, and, after indulging in reflec-
tions such as these for some time.
he rose and descended slowly to-
wards the plain.
Was it a fancy born of recent
musings, or did he hear a voice is-
suing from the massive fragment
of a wall which still supported a
majestic dome, once probably the
thermae of the luxurious and
wealthy citizens of Hippo? Did
he really see a light burning, or
was it an hallucination born of the
mystic hour and the suggestive
surroundings.^ He drew closer,
looked in, and beheld two white-
bearded Arabs placing each a light
on the highest point of the wall.
Was it some idolatrous rite, a spell,
or an incantation they were per-
forming?
"What are you doing?" inquired
the pilgrim.
" We are burning lights to the
great Christian," was the reply.
"Who is that? What is his
name ?"
"We do not know it; but we
honor him because our fathers
taught us to do so."
So, then, the memory of Augus-
tine survived in the land, though
his name had perished !
8i4
Thi Cross in the Desert.
The pilgrim murmured a prayer
to the great Christian, as the Arabs
called him, and turned away, car-
rying in his heart a hope that he
had not known an hour ago — z.
hope that Augustine was still
watching for the resurrection of
the cross in the land of his birth,
and hastening its advent by his in-
tercession at the throne of Him
whom he described as " patient be-
cause he is eternal."
It is a fact, as striking as it is
consoling, that within the last few
years the faith has been making rapid
conquests amidst the barbarous na-
tions, where in the days of S. Au-
gustine, and long after, it flourished
so magnificently. Perhaps it is
more surprising that this result
should not have been universal af-
ter nearly half a century of the
rule of a Catholic power; but the
mistaken policy of the French gov-
ernment, and, alas ! we must add,
t!ie evil example of the French
themselves, instead of breaking
down existing barriers, have rais-
ed new and insurmountable ones
ai'ainst the spread of Christianity
amongst the conquered tribes.
France proclaimed her intention
of not alone tolerating, but pro-
tecting, Islamism throughout her
African dominion. She carried
this policy so far for many years
til at it was made punishable by
French law to convert a Mussul-
man to the Catholic faith, whilst,
on the other hand, it was perfectly
lawful for any number of Catholics
to turn Mussulmans. The priests
who went out as missionaries were
thwarted at every step by the
French authorities. ** Our adver-
saries, the men who worry us and
stand in the way of our making
converts, are not the Arabs or even
their marabouts," said one of
these devoted men to us only a
few days ago ; " it is our own coun-
trymen, Frenchmen calling them-
selves Catholics, whom we kart
chiefly to contend against." And
he went on to describe how, during
the famine of 1867, when the Arabs
were dying like flies all over the
country, the French authorities
were constantly on the alert to
prevent the missionaries baptizing
them, even in extremis* They ac-
tually sent detachments of spahees
to the various place^ where the
poor famine-stricken creatures con-
gregated in greater numbers to die;
and when the priest was seen ap-
proaching them, as they lay gasp-
ing in their agony, the soldiers
rushed forward to stop him from
administering the sacrament of re-
generation. One little missionary
father contrived to outwit the au-
thorities, however, and, in spite of
the lynx-eyes that were fixed on him,
he managed to baptize numbers
from a little bottle of water hid
under his burnose.
No wonder the Arabs make small
account of men who set such piti-
ful store by their religion. They
call the French " sons of Satan,"
and the French priests and good
Christians among the seculars will
tell you themselves that the nam*
is well deserved ; that the employees
of the government, military and
civil, make the most deplorable im-
pression on the natives, and by
their lives present a practical exam-
ple of all the vices which it is the
boast of civilization to destroy.
They are so untruthful that the
French missionaries declare they
surpass even the Arabs in lies.
The Arab is abstemious by nature,
and the law of the Koran compels
him to tl>e most rigid sobriety; the
Christians give him an example of ex-
cesses in eating and drinking which
excite his disgust and contempt.
The Cross in the Desert.
815
There is a legend current amongst
the Arabs in the French dominions
tliat on a certain day Mahomet will
ntise and precipitate the sons of
Satan into the sea. When a French-
man* in answer to this prophecy,
]>oints to the strength of his gov-
ern na en t, its enormous resources,
the power of steam, and the monu-
ments he has built in Algeria, the
Mussulman with grim contempt
replies in his grave, sullen way:
'' Look at the ruins of the old Ro-
man monuments! They were might-
ier than any you have raised ; and
yet, behold, they lie in ruins through-
out the land, because Allah so will-
ed. It is written : Allah will cast
vou into the sea as he did the Ro-
p.ians."
All those who can speak from
experience agree that there are no
people so difficult to evangelize as
ilie Mussulmans; the pure idolater
is comparatively an easy conquest
to the missionary, but it requires
almost the miraculous intervention
of divine grace to make the light
of the Gospel penetrate the stolid
fatalism of the Mahometan.
One of the greatest obstacles to
the reception of truth in the Arab
is the intuitive pride of race which
arms him against the idea of receiv-
ing religious instruction from a race
of men whom he despises with a
scorn which is actually a part of
his religion, and who in their turn
look down on the children of the
desert, and treat their manners and
customs with contempt. In order
to overcome this first obstacle to-
wards the success of their ministry,
the missionaries conceived the idea
of identifying themselves, as far as
])ossible, with the natives, adopting
their dress, their manner of eating
and sleeping, and in every way
assimilating outwardly their daily
lives to theirs.
They tried it, and the system has
already worked wonders. How, in-
deed, could it be otherwise? If
faith can move mountains, cannot
love melt them ? Lgve, the irre-
sistible, the conqueror who subdues
all hard things in this hard world —
why should it fail with these men,
who have human souls like our
own, fashioned after the likeness
of our common God ? Just ^\^
years ago a handful of priests,
Frenchmen, gone mad with the
sweet folly of the cross, heard of
how these Arabs could not be per-
suaded to receive the message of
Christ crucified, but repulsed every
effort to reach them. They were
seized with a sudden desire to go
and try if they could not succeed
where others had failed; so they of-
fered themselves to the Archbishop
of Algiers as missionaries in his
diocese. The offer was gladly ac-
cepted ; but when the first present-
ed himself to obtain faculties for
saying Mass in the villages outside
Algiers and in the desert, the arch-
bishop signed the permission with
the words visum pro martyrio^ and,
handing it to the young apostle,
said : " Do you accept on these con-
ditions V
" Monseigneur, it is for that I
have come," was the joyous reply.
And truly, amongst all the perilous
missions which every day lure brave
souls to court the palm of martyr-
dom, there is not one where the
chances are more in favor of gain-
ing it than in this mission of Sahara,
where the burning sun of Africa,
added to material privations that
are absolutely incredible, makes
the life of the most fortunate mis-
sionary a slow and daily martyr-
dom. His first task, in preparation
for becoming a missionary, is to
master the language and to acquire
some knowledge of the healing art,
The Cross in the Desert.
8i6
/
of herbs and medicine; then he
dons the dress of the Arabs, which,
conforming in all things to their
customs, he does not quit even at
night, but sleeps in it on the ground ;
he builds himself a tent like theirs,
and, in order to disarm suspicion,
lives for some time in their midst
without making the least attempt
at converting them; he does not
even court their acquaintance, but
waits patiently for an opportunity
to draw them towards him ; this
generally comes in the form of a
sick person whom the stranger of-
fers to help and very frequently
cures, or at least alleviates, cleanli-
ness and the action of pure water
often proving the only remedy re-
quired. The patient, in his grati-
tude, offers some present, either in
money, stuffs, or eatables, which
the stranger with gentle indignation
refuses. Then follows some such
dialogue as this : " What ! you re-
fuse my thank-offering ? Who, then,
pays you ?"
" God, the true God of the Chris-
tians. I have left country and
family and home, and all my heart
loves best, for his sake and for his
service ; do you think you or any
man living can pay me for this V*
** What are you, then V* demands
the astonished Arab.
"I am a marabout of Jesus
Christ." And the Mussulman re-
tires in great wonder as to what sort
of a religion it can be whose mara-
bouts take neither money nor goods
for their services. He tells the sto-
ry to the neighbors, and by degrees
all the sick and maimed of the dis-
trict come trooping to the missiona-
ry's door. He tends them with un-
tiring charity. Nothing disgusts him;
the more loathsome the ulcers, the
more wretched the sufferer, the more
tenderness he lavishes on them.
Soon his hut is the rendezvous
of all those who have ailments or
wounds for miles round ; and though
they entreat him, sometimes or.
their knees, to accept some toker
of thanks for his services, he re-
mains inexorable, returning always
the same answer : " I serve the God
of heaven and earth ; the kings of
this world are too poor to pay me."
He leads this life for fifteen
months before taking his vows as a
missionary. When he has bound
himself to the heroic apostleship.
he is in due time ordained, if not
already a priest, and goes forth, in
company with two other priests, to
establish a mission in some ^n :
spot of Sahara or Soodan, these dc
ohited regions being ihe appoitiirii
fitrld of their labors. The little
community follows exactly the
same line of conduct in the beg^o-
ning of its instanation as above 4:-
scribed ; they keep strictly aloof
until, by dint of disintetesiedftctt
and of devotion and sktlfol care of
the sick, thcfy have disarrawi tlie
fierce mistmsl of the ^*irue bciic>
erSj*' and convinced them that thr^
are not civil functionaries or i
any way connected with the f©'^
em men t. The Arab's horror os
everybody and of everythirtg etna*
nating from French headquarten
partakes of the intense charict<"
of his fanaticism in religious mat-
ters. By degrees the natives be-
come passionately attached to the
foreign marabouts, who have now to
put limits to the gratitude which
would invest them with semi-divine
attributes. The great aim of the
missionaries is of course to get pos-
session of the children, so as to fomi
a generation of future missionaries.
Nothing short of this will plant the
cross in Africa, and, while securin;:
the spiritual regeneration o( iht
country, restore to that lu.xuriant
soil its ancient fertility. Once recon-
The Cross in tlu Desert.
817
ciled to civilization by Christianity,
those two millions of natives, who
are now in a state of chronic sup-
pressed rebellion against their con-
querors, would be disarmed and
iheir energies turned to the culti-
vation of the land and the devel-
opment of its rich resources by
ineans of agricultural implements
and science which the French could
iropart to them. Nor is it well to
treat with utter contempt the no-
tion of a successful rebellion in
Algeria. At the present moment
such an event would be probably
impossible; but there is no reason
why it should be so in years hence.
The Arabs are as yet not well pro-
vided with arms and ammunition ;
but they are making yearly large
purchases in this line at Morocco
and Tunis, and the study of Euro-
pean military science is steadily
1> regressing. The deep-seated ha-
tred of the Mussulmans for the
yoke of the stranger is moreover as
intense as in the first days of their
bondage; and if even to-morrow,
unprepared as they are materially,
the *' holy war ** were proclaimed, it
would rouse the population to a man.
The marabouts would get upon
the minarets, and send forth the
call to every son of Mahomet to
arise and fight against the sons of
the devil, proclaiming the talisma-
nic promise of the Koran : ** Every
true believer who falls in the holy
war is admitted at once into the
paradise of Mahomet." The num-
ber who would call on the prophet
to fulfil the promise would no doubt
be enormous, and the French would
in all human probability remain
masters of the desert ; but a king-
dom held on such tenure as this
state of feeling involves is at best
but a sorry conquest. If the Gospel
had been, we do not even say enforc-
ed, but simply encouraged and zeal-
VOL. XXI. — ^52
ously taught, by the conquerors, their
position would be a very difierent
one in Algeria now. After all, there
is no diplomatist like holy church.
** Our little systems have their day '*
and fall to pieces one after another,
perishing with the ambitions and
feuds and enthusiasms that gave
them birth, and leave the world
pretty much as they found it ; but
the power of the Gospel grotvs and
endures and fructifies wherever its
divine policy penetrates. No human
legislation, be it ever so wise, can
cope with this divine legislator;,
none other can take the sting out
of defeat, can make the conquerors-
loved by the conquered, and turn
the chains of captivity from iron to
silk. Even on the lowest ground,
in mere self-interest, governments
would do well to constitute them-
selves the standard-bearers of the
King who rules by love, and sub-
dues the stubborn pride of men
by first winning their hearts. The
supremacy of this power of love is
nowhere more strikingly exempli-
fied than amidst these barbarous-
Arab tribes.
The story of every little dark-
eyed waif sheltered at the Orphan-
age of S. Charles, lately established
outside Algiers, would furnish a
volume in itself; but an incident
connected with the admission of
one of them, and related to us a
few days ago by a missi6nary just
returned, is so characteristic that
we are tempted to relate it. The
archbishop was making a visitation
in the poor villages sixty miles be-
yond Algiers ; the priest presented
to him a miserable-looking little
object whose parents still lived in a
neighboring desert tribe, but who
had cast ofi" the child because of its
sickliness and their poverty. Could
his lordship possibly get him taken
in as an orphan? The thing was-
Si8
The Cross in tlie Desert.
not easy ; for every spot was full,
and the fact of the parents being
still alive militated against the
claim of the little, forlorn creature.
But the archbishop's heart was
touched. He said he would arrange
it somehow; let the boy be sent
on to Ben-Aknoun at once. This,
however, was easier said than
done; who would take charge of
him on such a long journey ? His
grace's carriage (a private convey-
ance dignified by that name) was
at the door. " Put him in ; I will
take him," he said, looking kindly
at the small face with the great
dark eyes that were staring wistfully
up at him. But the priest and every
one present exclaimed at the idea
of this. The Arabs are proverbial
for the amount of light infantry
which they carry about with them
in their hair and their rags; and
the fact of their presence in myriads
on the person of this little believer
was evident to the naked eye. The
archbishop, however, nothing daunt-
ed, ordered him to be placed in
the carriage ; then, finding no one
would obey him, he caught up the
little fellow in his arms, embraced
him tenderly amidst the horrified
protestations of the priest and
others, carried him to the carriage,
seated him comfortably, and then
got in himself and away they drove.
A large crowd had assembled to see
the great marabout depart, and
stood looking on the extraordinary
scene in amazement. A few days
later several of them came to see
the priest, and ask tc \)e instructed
in the religion which works such
miracles in the hearts of men, and
to offer their children to be brought
up Christians.
This Orphanage of S. Charles is
the most precious institution which
Catholic zeal has so far established
in Algiers. It comprises a school
for boys, and one for girls condact-
ed by nuns. The description of the
life there sounds like some beauti-
ful old Bible legend. It is a life o!
constant privation, toil, and suffer-
ing, both for the fathers and for the
sisters; but the results as regards
the children are so abundant and
consoling that the missionaries are
sometimes moved to exclaim,
"Verily, we have had our reward ! "
The full-grown Arab is perhaps
as wretched a specimen of unre-
generate human nature as the
world can furnish. Every vice
seems natural to him, except glut-
tony, which he only acquires witL
the spurious civilization imponed
by his conquerors. He is relentless
and vindictive; false, avaricious,
cruel, and utterly devoid of any idea
of morality; yet the children of
these men and women are like vir-
gin soil on which no evilseed has
ever fallen. Their docility is mar-
vellous, their capacity for gratitude
indescribably touching, and their
religious sense deep, lively, and af-
fective. They accept the teachini;
of the missionaries and the nuns as
if piety were an inherited instinct
in them ; and the truths of our hoi y
faith act upon their minds with the
power of seen realities.
One of the fathers told us, as an
instance of this, that the children
were allowed to play in the fruit
garden once when the trees were in
full bearing ; and not a single fig.
orange, or any other fruit being
touched, some visitor asked the
children in surprise if they never
pulled any when their superiors
were not looking; but they an-
swered in evident astonishment :
" Oh ! no ; God would see us, and
he would be angry!" We quite
agreed with the narrator that such
a general example of obedience
and self-denial from such a princi*
The Cross in tlie Desert.
819
pie might be vainly sought for in
our most carefully- taught schools
in Earope and — would it be a
cralumny to add ? — America. The
ehildren also show a spirit of sacri-
£ce that is very striking, the girls
esi>ecialiy. If they are ill and
some nauseous medicine is pre-
sented to them, the little things
seize the cup with avidity, and
with a word, such as "For thee,
dear Jesus !" drain it off at once.
They realize so clearly that every
correction imposed on them is for
their good that it is nothing rare to
see them go to the presiding fa-
ther or sister and ask to be punish-
ed when they have committed some
little misdemeanor unobserved.
One little mite of six felt very
sulky towards a companion, and,
after a short and vain struggle to
overcome herself, she went to the
nun and begged to be whipped,
*• because she could not make the
devil go away." Their vivid Orien-
tal imaginations paint all the terri-
ble and beautiful truths of the faith
in colors that have the living glow
of visible pictures. They have the
tenderest devotion to our Lord in
the Blessed Sacrament, and no-
thing pleases them more than to be
allowed to spend their hour of re-
creation in prayer before the tab-
ernacle. Their sense of gratitude
for the blessing of the faith makes
them long with an indescribable
yearning to share it with their peo-
ple. All their prayers and little sac-
rifices are offered up with this in-
tention. Those among therai who
were old enough to remember the
wretchedness they were rescued
from, speak of it continually with
the most touching gratitude to God
and their instructors. One of their
greatest pleasures is to count over
the good things they have received
from God. A sister overheard two
of them one day summing them up
as follows:" He gives us bread and
the sunshine and a house; he has
preserved us from dying in the
night-time; he prevents the sea
overflowing and drowning us; he
has given us monseigneur and our
mammas [the nuns] ; he came on
earth to teach us to be obedient ;
he brought us the Gospel ; he has
given us the Blessed Virgin to be
our mamma, and then our angels,
and then the Holy Father ; he for-
gives us our sins ; he has given us
sacraments for our soul and body;
he stays always with us in the cha-
pel; he is keeping our place in
heaven ; he looks at us when we
are naughty, and that makes us
sorry, and then he forgives us.**
And so they go on composing can-
ticles out of their innocent hearts
that must make sweet music in His
ears who so loved the little ones.
The deaths of some of these lit-
tle barbarians are as lovely as any
we read of in the lives of the
saints. One of them, who was
baptized by the name of Amelia,
has left a memory that will long
be cherished in Ben-Aknoun. She
was dying of a lingering, terrible
disease; but her sufferings never
once provoked a murmur. She was
as gay as a little bird and as gentle
as a lamb ; her only longing was to
see God. "And what will you do
besides in heaven ?'* asked one of
her companions. " I will walk
about with the angels,'* she replied,
" and be on the watch to meet our
mammas when they come to the
beautiful gates." In her sleep she
used to pray still ; many a time
the nuns found her muttering her
rosary with clasped hands while
sleeping the sound sleep of a tired
child. She fought against death
as long as she could, insisting on
getting up and going to the chapel,
820
The Cross in tlu Desert.
where sometimes she would lie ex-
hausted with pain and weakness on
the step of the altar, breathing her
prayers softly until she dropped
asleep. Her only fear was lest she
should not make her First Commu-
nion before she died; but her ex-
treme youth (she was not quite
eight years old) was compensated
for by her ardent piety. They
gave her our Blessed Lord after
giving her Extreme Unction. The
expression of her face was seraphic
in its joy and peace. All her little
companions were kneeling round
her bed, their eyes fixed in admira-
tion on the beaming countenance
of the dying child. One of them,
called Anna, who was her chosen
friend, an orphan from a remote
desert tribe like herself, drew near
to say good-by. The two children
clasped each other in silence ; but
when they parted, the tears were
streaming down Amelia's cheeks.
" Why did you make her cry, my
child V whispered the nun to Anna
reproachfully. " I did not do it on
purpose,'* was the reply. "I only
said, * O Amelia ! you are too
happy ; why can't you take me with
you V and then we both cried."
The happy little sufferer lingered
on in great pain for another day
and night, constantly kissing her
crucifix, thanking those around her
for their kindness and patieace.
Towards the evening of the se-
cond day the pains grew rapidly
worse, and she entreated to be car-
ried to the chapel, that she might
look once more upon the taberna-
cle. The nun took her in her
arms, and laid her on the step of
the altar, when her sufferings in-
stantly ceased, and she sank into a
sleep which they thought was the
last one. She was carried back and
laid on her bed, but soon opened
her eyes with a look of ecstatic
joy, and cried out, gazing upwards,
*• See ! how beautifully it shines.
And the music — do you hear ? Oh I
it is the Gloria in ExeeUis^ No
one heard anything; only ^r ears
were op)ened to the heavenly har-
monies that were sounding through
the half-open doors of Paradise.
She continued listening with the
same rapt expression of delight,
and then, clasping her little bands
together, she cried, "Alleluia 5 al-
leluia!" and fell back and spoke
no more. She had passed the
golden portals ; the glories of hea-
ven were visible to her now.
What wonder if the apostolic
souls who reap such harvests as
these count their labors light, and
rejoice in the midst of their pov-
erty and self-imposed martyrdom!
But there are homelier and less
pathetic joys in the Orphanage
every now and then than these
blessed deaths. When the boj-s
and girls have learnt all they need
learn, and have come to the age
when they must leave the fathers
and the nuns, they are perfectly
free to return to their native tribes;
and it is a convincing argument in
favor of the strength of their new-
ly-acquired principles and affec-
tions that they almost invariably
refuse to do so. The proportion
of those who go back to the old
life is one in every hundred. The
next thing to be considered is what
to do with those who refuse to go
back. The plan of marrying the
orphans amongst each other sug-
gested itself as the most practical
method of securing lasting results
from their Christian education. The
chief difficulty in the execution of
this plan was the reluctance of the
Arab girls to marry men of their
own race; they had learned the
privileges which women owe to
Christianity, and they had no mind
The Cross in the Desert.
821
to forego their dignily and equality,
and sink back into the degraded
position of an Arab's wife. "We
will not marry to be beaten," they
argued. ** Find us Frenchmen, and
we will marry them and be good
wives." No doubt they would, but
the Frenchmen unfortunately could
not be induced to take this view
of the case; and it required all
the influence of their superiors
to make the girls understand that
Christianity, in raising woman from
the condition of a slave to that of
man's equal, compels him to re-
spect and cherish her.
The way in which the courtship
and marriage proceed between the
sons and daughters of the great
marabout (as the archbishop is
called) is curious in its picturesque
simplicity.
A band of fifteen couples were
lately married from the Orphanage
of Ben-Aknoun. The fathers in-
formed the archbishop they had
fifteen excellent boys who were
about to leave, and whom they wish-
ed to find wives for and settle in
the nearest Christian village. The
archbishop asked the superior of
the girls* school if she could supply
fifteen maidens who would go and
share the humble homes of their
brother orphans.
The superior replied that she
had precisely the number required —
girls who must leave the shelter of
the convent in a few months, and
whom she was most anxious to see
provided for. The grapes were ripe,
and the vintage, which was close
at hand, would furnish an oppor-
tunity for a meeting between the
parties. So one morning, in the
cool, sweet dawn, they set out to the
vineyard, the maidens conducted
by a sister, the youths by one of
the priests; the latter took one
side and culled the grapes, while
at the other side the maidens gath-
ered up the branches and bound
them into bundles. As they
went they sang hymns and can-
ticles to lighten their labor; and
when the day's task was done, they
left the vineyard in two distinct
bands, as they had come, and re-
turned to their separate convents.
" Well," said Mgr. de la Vigerie
to the presiding father next day,
" have the young men chosen each
his maiden, and is the choice ap-
proved V*
" Alas ! monseigneur, they did
not even look at each other," re-
plied the disconsolate matchmaker.
" They never raised their eyes from
their work. Sister C and I
watched them like lynxes."
** You have brought up the chil-
dren too well, my good father,'*
cried the archbishop in despair.
" What is to be done with them
now Y*
** Have a little patience, my lord,
and it will come in good time," re-
plied the father encouragingly.
Next day the two bands of maid-
ens and youths sallied forth again
to the vineyard, and so every day
for a week.
Then the father came in triumph
to the archbishop to announce the
successful issue of the scheme.
One by one the youths had pluck-
ed up courage and peeped through
the tendrils of the vine, and, thanks
to some magnetic sympatiiy, two
dark eyes had been simultaneously
raised to meet theirs, and they
smiled at each other. A little fur-
ther on the green leaves were flut-
tered by a whisper asking the fair
one's name ; she told it, and another
whisper told her his. So the flow-
er blossomed in the thirty young
hearts, and the priest and the sister
who watched the gentle growth
looked on delighted.
822 The Cross in the Desert.
But what WT.T d'.plonuitists they and serve them humbly, the SLTch-
are. i-^^seb. Ct=:.ss; Dearies! How bishop undertook to intercede for
t-tv tT:v le " - - M? heart, and them. The fair ones, being of the
- ▼ ci.-:: t::-» :':-;t cxz play upon race of Eve, were a trifle coy at
: > c 1 ▼ ;-i i'i ti*T s::y ; but, first ; but soon the truth was elicited,
•-^':i-: rn: -t^t : :: r^icss to the and each confessed that, since she
--— ; -.'i : ■Tr-f^T. n2r^ai!ed needs must many some one, Bcn-
r -- rtr^ I me s jfrrtVinghad Alssa, or Hassan, or ScherifT, wouW
. ^ — 1 :,:,=:.r; -i« 5t_. current be less distasteful than another
. . r - ir^: : rs^ A =3n:h So the great affair was settled, and
T -. -. ^T 1 ::-T*Tiin i^ thne soon came the day of the weddings.
. - r :-- -'Ills ^: liix- the The archbishop himself was to per-
- :„ :^:.jr ,T■:IIr•^f-▼::h form the ceremony.
-_ r- -- - : u--^ri:-z':r The fathers and sisters were
z jzr ^- ^.^ :" afoot before sunrise, you may ht
—" n r-^ r-ij:^i X irst sure; for what an event was this!
: „i .---TT^^ -:; rr-rs- Fifteen Christian marriages cele-
..rr .- — i^z^ :■:- ^i^' irrrr- brated between the children of this
. — -r : TTs E.. i^Ts fallen Hice of idolaters ! And now
: --„ . " r :- ..=r-/rrrw see! the two processions are ap-
. - —-rv-r.^T'*. k: -c rroaching the church, the bride-
.. : _ - -— ^r-i iT^"- rrDoms draped in the native white
" . -:TtT I JiTBosc, with the scarlet turban on
.-'.„:' ,-^zL^,l- t-eir heads; the brides clad in
- - • .- ^t n sroiless white, a soft white veil
— .^ ^ -:,i crowned with white flowers cover-
. J ? - r » : w :nz them from head to foot» Slow-
... ^^ ^ .^ ;^ ^jf |j jhe simple majesty inherent
^ -• i r t r~ m tiieir race, they advance to the
— :- .-^ n iU-r and kneel side by side before
. . : r r~ lie archbishop, who stands await-
■ -- T r^ TT^ them, robed in his gala vest-
' . :. i stents. He looks down upon the
• - .', *- r: rtr young souls whom his love
T • - 1.15 brought here to the foot of the
- - ^ i.^.ir — the altar of the true God ;
■zz.T^ souls whom he has had the
- ■ - > i:T>"ejiable joy and happiness of
- ^ r -r<c.i,ra: from misery in this life
irrii — may he not hope? — ^in the next
. ^ . y^r mast speak a few words to
.: -!!eta- He tries; but the father's
-, -^ vrart is too full. The tears start to
i.s eyes and course down those
.^ ■ » 1 careworn cheeks ; he goes from one
- ^ '^ r»> the other, and silently presses
.. ■ *-* :-> >i^ hands on the head of each.
^ - . ; • • ..: r!ie marriage rite begins ; the bless-
• . - >:i i-^ of the God of Abraham is call-
. . T-.-r-" •*•, e%i down upon this new seed thit
The Cross in the Desert.
823
has sprung up in the parched land
of the patriarch, once so fertile in
saints ; the music plays, and songs
of rejoicing resound on every side
as the fifteen hrides issue from the
church with their bridegrooms.
And now do you care to follow
them to their new homes, and to
see where their after-life is cast ?
The earthly providence which has
so tenderly fostered them thus far
follows them still into the wide
world where they have embarked.
The archbishop's plan from the
start was to found Christian vil-
lages in the desert, and to people
them with these new Christians
educated by the missionaries. The
cost of founding a village, includ-
ing the purchase of the land, the
building of twenty-five huts, fur-
nishing the inhabitants with Euro-
pean implements of labor, building
a little church and a house for the
fathers and one for the sisters, an
enclosure for the cattle, a well to
supply that first element of life and
comfort— pure water in abundance
— amounts to forty thousand francs
(or say eight thousand dollars), and
this only with the utmost economy.
The Society for the Propagation of
the Faith — that glorious institution,
to which Christendom owes a debt
that can only be paid in heaven —
comes nobly to the assistance of
Mgr. de la Vigerie. He supplies
the rest himself out of the resources
of his apostolic heart, so inexhausti-
ble in its ingenious devices of char-
ity ; he prays and begs, and sends
his missionaries all over the world
hegging.
One of them has lately come
over to Paris on that most heroic
of Christian enterprises — a begging
tour — and has brought with him a
little black boy from Timbuctoo,
who had been bought and sold
seven times before falling into the
hands of these new masters for the
sum of three hundred francs. He is
not yet ten years old — a mild-faced
little fellow, who, when you ask him
in French if he likes the father, an-
swers by a grin too significant to
need further comment, as he turns
his ebony face up to P^re B
and wriggles a little closer to him.
Pfere B-^ — told us the child be-
longed to a man-eating tribe, and
turned up the corner of his lip to.
show some particular formation of
the teeth peculiar to that amiable
race of gourmands. He says that
the same charming docility which
marks the young Arabs is observa-
ble in most of the savage tribes ;
they are far more susceptive and
easily moulded and impressed than
the children of the civilized races.
The capture and purchase of
these unhappy little slaves all along
the coast and in the northern parts of
Africa is part of the mission which
brings the fathers the greatest con-
solation. It is of course attended
with immense risk, sometimes dan-
ger even to life; but the human
merchandise which they thus ob-
tain '* is worth it all and ten times
more," the P^re B declared
emphatically, as he dilated on the
fervor of these poor children's faith
and the intensity of their gratitude.
The great and constant want for
the carrying on of the mission is —
need we mention it in this XlXth
century, when we can scarcely save
our own souls, much less our neigh-
bors', without it ? — money. People
say money is the root of all evil ;
but really, when one sees what pre-
cious immortal goods it can buy,
one is tempted to declare it the
root of all good. The archbishop
has recently sent one of his mis-
sionaries, the P^re C , to beg in
America, and we are heartily glad
to hear it. A French priest, speak-
824
The Cross in tlu Desert.
ing about begging for good works
the other day, said to the writer :
" I wish I could go to America and
make the round of the States with
my hat in my hand. They are a
delightful people to beg of. Some-
how they are so sympathetic to
the Catholic principle embodied in
begging for our Lord that they
take all the sting out of it for one ;
but, oh ! what a bitter cud it is to
chew in Europe." We hope the
good father's experience did not
represent the general one on the
latter point, but is well founded as
to the generous spontaneity of our
American fellow- Catholics towards
those who have " held out the hat"
to them in the name of our blessed
Lord. Sweet bond of charity!
how it welds the nations together,
casting its silver nets and drawing
all hearts into its meshes ! It
matters not whether the fisher come
from a near country united to us
by ties of blood or clanship, or
from some distant clime where the
very face of man is scarce that of
a brother whom we recognize ; he
comes in the name of our common
Lord, and asks us to help in the
saving of souls that cost as dear to
ransom as ours. He may labor
sometimes all the night, and take
nothing ; but the dawn comes, when
he meets Jesus in the persons of
those generous souls who love him
and have his interests at heart, and
are always ready to befriend him ;
and then the net is cast into deep
waters, and the draught is plentiful.
Can we fancy a sweeter reward to
stimulate our zeal in helping the
divine Mendicant who holds out
his hand to us for an alms than
the scene which at this moment
many multitudes of these faithful
souls may contemplate in imagina-
tion as they have helped to create it.
A gathering of small, low houses
—huts, if you like— set in smiling
patches of garden round a central
building whose spire, pointing like
a silent finger to the skies^ tells us
at once its character and destina-
tion. Thetimeis towards sundown;
the bell breaks the stillness of tht
desert air, and with its silvery tongue
calls the villagers to prayer. The
entire population, old and young,
leave their work and rise obedient
to the summons ; the children quit
their play and troop on together,
while the elders follow with grave
steps. The priest is kneeling before
the altar, where the lamp of the
sanctuary, like a throb of the Sacred
Heart within the tabernacle, sheds
its solemn radiance in the twilight
The father begins the evening pray-
er ; pardon is asked for the sins and
forgettings of the day, thanks are
offered up for its helps and mercies.
blessings are invoked on the family
assembled, then on th 2 benefactors
far away. One who assisted at this
idyl in the desert declares that
when he heard the officiating priest
call down the blessing of the Most
High on " all those dear benefactors
whom we do not know, but who
have been kind and charitable to
us"; and when the voices of the
Arabs answered in unison, rei>eating
the prayer, he felt his heart burst-
ing with joy at the thought that
he was included amongst those on
whom this blessing was nightly in-
voked.
The Litany of Our Lady is then
sung, and the assistants quietly dis-
perse and go home. The cattle are
lowing in the park. The stars, one
by one, are coming out in the lorely
sapphire sky. Angels are flying to
many of the white huts with gifts
and messages. Some are speeding
afar, eastward and westward, bear-
ing graces just granted in answer to
those grateful prayers ; for who can
Origin mid Progress of the Mission of Kentucky
825
tell the power of gratitude with God,
or his loving inability to resist its
wishes — he who was so lavish in his
thanks for the smallest act of kind-
ness, nay, of courtesy, when he lived
amongst us, and who declared that
even a cup of cold water should
not go without its reward ?
ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF THE MISSION OF KENTUCKY.
FROM THB PRBNCH.*
The Diocese of Bardstown, Ken-
tucky, is a part of that vast extent
of country known in our ancient
geographies by the name of Louisi-
ana. It is situated in the centre
of the United States of North
America, and is bounded on the
north by the Ohio, on the west by
the Mississippi, on the south by the
State of Tennessee, and on the east
by Virginia.
When, m 1792, it was admitted
into the Union as a State, its popu-
lation was about seventy thousand;
but it has since then increased ten-
fold.
About twenty poor Catholic fami-
lies from Maryland, descendants of
the English colonists, came here to
reside in 1785, as then good land
could be procured here almost for
nothing. \
* Full title of the original publication : Origim
tt fr0fris dt la Mutton du Kentucky (Etatft-
Unis dMm^rique). Par un T^moin Oculaire.
Prix, X fr. au profit de la Mission. A Paris: chet
Adricn Le Clere, Imfmineur de N. S. P. le Pape,
et de S. E. Mgr. le Cardinal Archeveque de Paris.
Quai des Augiutins, No. 35. 1821.
t And even now, for oait or two dollars an acre,
fertile land can be purchased in the vast extent of
country watered by the Mississippi, the Missouri,
the Arkansas, etc.— that land which Bonaparte sold
to the United States in i8ox for ten million dollars.
Kentucky produces in abundance all sorts of grain,
especially corn, and also sweet potatoes, tobao-
CO, cotton, flax, hemp, and indigo. In the month o^
February the inhabitants tap the maple tree, in or^
der to procure a liquid which they boil until it is re-
duced to syrup or sugar. The wild grape-vine
grows to the height of thirty or forty feet, but the
grapes are small and the wine acrid ; moreover,
Americans do not understand the culture of the
Their number rapidly increased,
and in the year 1788 Father Whee-
lan, an Irish Franciscan, was sent to
them. As they were then at war
with the natives, and as this was
continued until 1795, ^^^^^ mission-
ary, two of his successors, and the
colonists were compelled to cross
the hostile country to arrive at the
mission, even on reaching which
their lives were sometimes expos-
ed to imminent dangers. Besides
being at a distance from a priest,
they had also to struggle against
poverty, heresy, and vulgar preju-
dices with regard to the pretended
idolatry of Catholics, etc. Finally,
Father Wheelan, at the expiration
of two years and a half, abandoned
a post so difficult to hold, without
even the satisfaction of seeing a
single chapel built. It was then
impossible to find another mission-
ary to succeed him, and the faithful
" were afflicted because they had
no shepherd" (Zach. x. 2). Fi-
nally, Holy Orders were conferred
in 1793 for the first time in this
part of the world, where the Catho-
lics had but so recently suffered
under the penal laws of England.
The illustrious Bishop Carroll, first
bishop of Baltimore, there ordain-
ed a priest, M. Badin, from Or-
leans, whom he then sent to Ken-
tucky. Besides the difficulties
which his predecessor met, the in-
826
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky.
experience of the young ecclesias-
tic, his slight knowledge of the
English language and of the habits
of the country, made his task still
more difficult. One can easily
conceive how painful must have
been the situation of a novice thus
isolated and deprived of guidance
in a ministry the weight of which
would have been burdensome for
the angels even, say the holy fa-
thers of the church.
It is true he started from Balti-
more with another French priest
who was invested with the power
of vicar-general. But this priest
was soon discouraged by the wan-
dering habits of the people and their
style of life. Four months had
scarcely elapsed when he returned
to New Orleans. M. Badin was
thus in sole charge of the mission
during several years, which mission,
since the conclusion of peace with
the savage tribes, continually in-
creased by the influx of the Ca-
tholics who came here in large
numbers from Maryland and other
localities.
In addition to the fatigue of
travelling, to controversy with Pro-
testants, to his pastoral solicitude,
and to the frequent scruples of
conscience natural to one in a situ-
ation so critical, he had to exert
himself still more to form new pa-
rishes, prepare ecclesiastical estab-
lishments at suitable distances, and
finally to erect churches or chapels
in the different places where the
Catholic population established it-
self. Nevertheless, by the divine
mercy he obtained from time to time
profitable advice through the let-
ters which the charity of the neigh-
boring priest, who, though at a dis-
tance of seventy miles, found means
to write him. M. Rivet, formerly
professor of rhetoric in the College
of Limoges, in the year 1795 came
to reside as cur/ and vicar-genend
at Post Vincennes, on the Wabash,
in Indiana.
But the respective needs of the
two missions never permitted them
to cross the desert in order to
visit one another or to offer mu-
tual encouragement and consola-
tion in the Lord. Oh ! how much
anguish, how many prayers and
tears, arise from such isolation!
And did not our divine Saviour
send his disciples in couples to
preach the Gospel ? — misit UlosHwn
(S. Luc. X.)
Finally, two priests from the Dio-
cese of Blois — MM. Foamier and
Salmon — came successively, in the
years 1797 and 1799, ^^ ^^^ rescue
of the pastor and his flock.
Divine Providence rendered use-
ful to Kentucky and to several
other portions of the Diocese of
Baltimore the talents and virtues
of a great number of ecclesiastics
whom the French Revolution threw
on the shores of America. In the
same year, 1799, there arrived a
fourth missionary — M. Thayer, the
Presbyterian minister of Boston,
who was converted through the
miracles of blessed Labre. At iint
he ridiculed this humble servant of
God and the miracles which were
attributed to him, but afterwards
he investigated them with all the
prejudices of a sectarian. He
brought to bear upon them his
severest criticism, and finished by
becoming a Catholic at Rome, a
priest at Paris, and a missionary in
his own country, where he had for-
merly propagated error. He found
himself forced to write several En-
glish works of controversy, which
are lucid and deservedly appreciat-
ed. His conversion, his writings,
and his sermons excited either the
interest or the curiosity of all class-
es of society, and he hoped to ser\e
Origin and Progress of iJu Mission of Kentucky.
827
the cause of religion in multiplying
himself, if one may speak thus.
He travelled over the United
States, Canada, and a great part of
Europe, and died, beloved and re-
vered, at Limerick, in Ireland.
The missionaries of Kentucky are
obliged to ride on horseback nearly
every day of the year, and to brave
often alone the solitude of the for-
ests, the darkness of night, and the
inclemency of the seasons, to min-
ister to the sick and to visit their
congregations on the appointed
days.*
Without this exactitude it would
be difficult to assemble the families
scattered so far apart. M. Salmon
was without doubt an excellent ec-
clesiastic, though but a poor horse-
man. His zeal induced him, on the
9th of November, 1799, ^^ visit a
distant parish where he was in-
structing a Protestant who has since
then embraced the faith.
Being already feeble and just
convalescing from a severe illness,
a fall from his horse carried him to
the grave in less than thirty-six
hours. The accident happened
towards noon at a little distance
from a residence. A servant who
found him half-dead in the woods
went to solicit aid, which was denied
bim by an impious and cruel far-
mer, simply because the unfortunate
man was a priest. It was only to-
wards night that a good Catholic
of the neighborhood — Mr. Gwynn —
was informed of the fact. It must
nevertheless be admitted that this
fanner's revolting conduct is in
nowise American, and can but be at-
tributed to his individual hate for the
true religion. Perhaps, also, he was
• Wliea it is neccMary to cron « doert, or when
the guide loses his way io the forest— -which is of fre-
quent occurrence — then the missionaries are obliged
to spend the night in the woodst to sleep oa the
ground near a large firt, by the light of which they
read their Breviary.
ignorant of the extremity to which
M. Salmon was reduced. This fatal
event, the departure of M. Thayer
for Ireland, and the equally sudden
death of M. Foumier in Februa-
ry, 1803, left M. Badin for about
seventeen months in sole charge of
the mission, then consisting of about
a thousand families scattered over
a space of from seven to eight hun-
dred square miles. The death of
M. Rivet, which took place in Feb-
ruary, 1803, deprived him of the
comforting letters of this friend,
who expired almost in the arms of
the governor of the province, whose
esteem and affection he enjoyed.
At this unfortunate period the near-
est priest was a M. Olivier from
Nantes, an elderly gentleman, who
resided at a distance of one hundred
and thirty miles in an Illinois village
called Prairie du Rocher. More-
over, he ministered to Kaskaskia,
where the Jesuits had formerly in-
stituted a novitiate ; Cahokia, St.
Louis, capital of Missouri, St. Gene-
vieve, etc., on the banks of the
Mississippi. M. Richard, a zeal-
ous and pious Sulpitian, resided at
the same distance at Detroit, on
Lake St. Clair, in Michigan.
Finally, there were then but three
priests in an extent of country
larger than would be France and
Spain if united, and which country
constitutes to-day but one diocese,
called Bardstown, formed in 1808
by the reigning Pope, as will be
seen in the sequel.
• The dty of Detroit and the church were acci-
dentally burned seventeen years ago. The aty was
afterwards rebuilt and captured by the English^ as-
sisted by the savages, during the last war with the
United States. Since the condusioo of peace there
has been a cathedral built, to which the Sovereign
Pontiff has attached an episcopal seat in perpetui-
ty. The misuoos of Michigan, Illinois, Missouri,
aJad Post Vinoennes were then alnont entirely form-
ed of French Canadians. With regard to all the
territory nentioned in thb narrative, one can consult
M. Arrowsmith, an American geographer, whose
work can be found in Paris at Desauche's, Rue des
NoyerSfNo. 40.
828
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky.
It is true that the most distant
parishes can be visited but seldom,
and it is especially in these instan-
ces that the zeal of faith and the
fervor of piety are most evident.
One finds a great many persons
who undertake fatiguing trips in
order to fulfil their Christian du-
ties. They are seen at times to
spend the night in church, in order
to make sure of having access to
the sacred tribunal, where the mis-
sionaries are to be found from early
dawn.
They are obliged to say, and
sometimes even to chant, Mass at
noon, and occasionally several hours
afterwards, in order that all those
who are prepared for the tribunal
of Penance may also receive Holy
Communion. Neither the fast, nor
the late hour, nor the fatigues of
the morning exempt them from in-
structing the people; otherwise it
would never be done, as the faith-
ful are assembled but once a day.
A sermon, or at least an impromptu
exhortation, on controversy, morals,
or the discipline of the church, is
always in order. After divine ser-
vice there are the dead to be bu-
ried, the children to be baptized,
marriages to be performed, etc., and
then the departure for another sta-
tion, which being reached the next
day, the same services are to be re-
peated. Often it so happens that
there is not one day of rest during
the entire week, especially when
several sick persons who live far
apart are to be visited.
While the confessor is occupied
with his priestly functions the
catechists instruct the children and
the negroes, sing canticles, and re-
cite the rosary, etc. To in a man-
ner fill the vacancy caused by their
absence, the priests recommended
public prayer in families, catechism,
and nightly examination of con-
science; Mass prayers, devotions
of S. Bridget, the litanies, spiritual
reading on Sundays and feast-days.
Pious persons add to this the rosa-
ry, and their devotion to the Blessed
Virgin causes them every day to
recite some special prayer in her
Jhonor.
The fear of God, respect for the
priesthood, or filial piety often causes
good Christians to bend the knee
before their fathers and mothers,
their sponsors, and their priests, to
ask their blessing after prayer, in
the streets of the city or on the
highways. English books on con*
troversy are being rapidly muhi-
plied, and the majority of the coun-
try»people know how to read them,
and there are some persons in every
congregation who really study them
in order to render themselves capa-
ble of sustaining a discussion with
Protestants.
By this means, as also by their
piety and honesty, they assist from
time to time in gaining conversions
to the faith. The number of these
good works greatly increased when
Providence sent to us, in 1804, a
new missionary, M. N^rinckx, a
Flemish priest, who pursued his
apostolic labors unceasingly. He
instituted three monasteries, which
were of great benefit in educating
poor girls, either Catholics or non-
Catholics. These religious women,
who are called Friends of Mary at
the Foot of the Cross, remind us
of the days of the primitive church.
Their manner of life is exceedingly
laborious; they observe perpetual
silence, and are almost enveloped
in their veil.*
A short time after M. Nerinrk\
• ScTcral yean preyiom M. Badin, after ha>ii-
received the vows of a few pious penoos, and havinf
had donated to him a hundred acres of land, had ±
monastery built for the same purpose ; but as it v^
a frame building, it was, through the carele<s)?^< U
the workmen^ burnt before being completed.
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky.
829
arrived at the mission he was fol-
lowed there by a colony of Trap-
l>ists, and by two pious and learned
Knglish priests of the Order of S.
l>ominic. The one, Father Wil-
son, afterwards became provincial;
and Rev. Father Tuitc is at pre-
sent master of novices. The Trai>-
pists organized a school for gra-
tuitous education, but failed to find
anion g the poor Catholics of the
neighborhood sufficient means to
maintain this charitable institu-
tion. Father Urbain Guillet, their
superior, had conceived the idea of
rendering himself useful to the
savages by educating their children
for them, hoping in this way to fa-
cilitate their conversion.
In pursuance of this idea he
formed a new establishment near
Cahokia. These good religious
greatly edified the country by their
austerity, their silence, and their
:40od works ; but as missions were
not the objects of their order, they
returned to France at the Restora-
tion. We .must now speak of the
natives, and by so doing gratify the
very natural curiosity of our read-
ers. The majority of the savages
l)eUeve in the existence, in the
^spirituality, and in the unity of God,
whom they style the Great Spirit,
the Master of Life, or Kissernanetou.
They even appear to believe some-
what in his providence ; they offer
liim prayers, and sometimes even
sacrifices according to their fashion.
Here is an example, which is au-
thentic, as it was told the author of
I his work by Gen. Todd, one of
tlie leading men of Kentucky. A
native, annoyed by the extreme
drought, offered his pipe, or wam-
pum, his most valuable article, to
the Great Spirit ; then, seated pen-
sively on the banks of a river, he
supplicated him thus: "Kissernane-
tou ! thou knowest how highly the
Indian prizes his wampum; well,
then, give us rain, and I will give
thee my wampum." And as the
Indian said this, he threw his pipe in
the river, fully persuaded that the
Great Spirit would hear his prayer.
They also believe in a future state,
as with their dead they bury their
guns or cross-bows to enable them
to hunt in the next world ; also
their pipe and tobacco, meat, etc.
Those who were instructed by the
Jesuits, although deprived of mis-
sionaries for about fifty years, still
retain some idea of the true religion,
as will be seen from letters of M. Oli-
vier, from which letters we will
give a few examples ; the first, be-
ing dated the i6th of May, 1806, is
addressed to Father Urbain Guil-
let; the second, dated the 6th of
August, 1806; and the third, the 15th
of March, 1807, were written to M.
Badin :
1. " Among the savage tribes who
from the time of the Jesuits (whom
they called Black Gowns) had em-
braced Christianity and had erected
churches in which the greatest reg-
ularity existed, to-day, notwithstand-
ing I am their pastor, I do nothing
but baptize their children, although
among those of Post Vincennes
there are some who come to
confession; which leads me to think
that you might procure some of
their children.
2. "Since the banishment of the
Jesuit fathers religion has decreased
by degrees, until now there remain
but a few traces which would re-
mind one of extinct piety. I am
not forgetting the desire expressed
by Father Guillet, superior of the
Trappists — namely, to have in his
community some of the children of
these savages. The chief of the
nation, who is at Kaskaskin, prom-
ised to ask his brethren to send
some here.
830
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky.
3. '* The chief of those at Kas-
kaskia, in selling his lands to the
government of the United States,
required that it should build him a
church ; and there is a provision of
300 piastres and i03 piastres to be
paid yearly to the missionary priest
for seven years. Can these mis-
sions be revived ? The mercy of
God is greati etc. ..."
Yes, the mercy of God is great,
and it may be hoped that Mgr.
Dubourg and his missionaries, who
for some years have been living in
the vicinity of the Missouri and the
Mississippi, will have all desired
success, which they must undoubted-
ly obtain if they succeed, as did the
Jesuits, in procuring the assistance
of the French government.
The religious of S. Dominic
succeeded tolerably well in tlieir
establishments in Kentucky and
Ohio.
Father Edward Fenwick, born in
Maryland, had become a member
of this order, and professor at the
College of Bornheim, in Flanders,
where he had been educated. Up-
on his return to his native country
he spent his inheritance in founding
the Convent of S. Rose and a
school which is situated in Wash-
ington County. Two zealous mis-
sionaries, Father Fenwick and his
nephew, Father Young, were the
first to devote themselves, two years
ago, to preach the faith in the State
of Ohio, north of Kentucky, and
tliree churches have already been
built there.*
♦ We here submit an extract from an English let-
ter written the 15th of March, i8ao, by Father Fen-
wick to the author of this notice : '* I hope that thii
will iind you in good health and on the point of re-
turning to America. It will be a great pleasure for
me to see you again and to hear from your lips the
particulars of your trip. If possible, bring me home
some pictures. With gratitude would I receive
some for the altars of the blessed Virgin and S. Jo-
seph, as also any other church furniture or books,
such as the lives of the saints of the Order of S.
Dominic by Father Touron, the history of the
The congregations in the interior
are composed of Germans, Irish,
and Americans; but on the lakes
that separate the United States from
Canada they are formed of French
colonies. In the State and on the
right bank of the Ohio is situated
Gallipolis, principal seat of the
county of Gallia, where in 1791
some French colonists tried to es-
tablish themselves; but they were
victims of a miserable speculation,
and the majority of them left the
country.
MM. Barri^res and Badin bap-
tized in this place about forty chil-
dren in the year 1793, and then
went to Kentucky. The entire
village revived at tlie sight of these
two priests, their fellow-country-
men, at the singing of the sacred
canticles, and the celebration of the
Holy Mysteries. In this part of
America entire liberty of con-
science and religion are enjoyed.
One does not fear being molested
if Christian burial be refused to
those who have lived a scandalous
life. On the contrary, it is expected
that such will be tiie case, as it is
the rule of the church ; hence the
increased dread of dying with-
out the Last Sacraments. Mar-
riages according to the Catholic
rite are legal, and divorce and
polygamy are unknown among Ca-
tholics.
We march in procession around
our cemeteries ; we erect crosses on
them ; we preach in the hotels and
other public places, and even in
Protestant churches, for want of
chapels, and all the sects come in
crowds. During the Mass they be-
miracles of the holy fathers, or any other worlcs on
those subjects. If you saw my rebtiTe, M. J. F., I
flatter myself sufficiently to hope that ymi remem-
bered me to him, and that you laid before him the
needs of my miasion. We have boik three changes,
and only for one of these three do we possess suffi-
cient ornaments uid other articles necessary for
divine service."
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky,
831
have in a respectful and attentive
manner — some of them even bring
us their children to baptize, and en-
trust the education of their daugh-
ters to our religious — and some-
times we are greatly astonished to
see non-Catholics undertake to de-
fend our belief. We also meet
with great respect in social life ; for
the Americans are very fond of the
French, whose politeness and gayety
they try to emulate.
They remember with pleasure and
gratitude the services they receiv-
ed from the Martyr-King. Final-
ly, the government of Kentucky
has incorporated or commemo-
rated French names in its institu-
tions; hence we have Bourbon
County, of which Paris is the
principal town. We also find
a Versailles, a Louisville, etc.
In this last- place we built, with
the aid of the Protestants, the beau-
tiful church of S. Louis, King of
France.
Having the greatest esteem for
learned men, they received the
French priests with generous hos-
pitality, and our bishops are re-
vered by all sects. M. Carroll,
formerly professor of theology
among the Jesuits, bishop and
finally archbishop of Baltimore, was
one of the most distinguished men
in America, and he was universally
beloved and respected. He was
consecrated in England the 15th
of August, 1790. Two years after-
wards he convoked a synod in Bal-
timore, where he was successful
in assembling twenty-five priests.
His modesty and his piety were as
much admired as his learning. Fi-
nally, by his urbanity and his in-
exhaustible charity, he won all
hearts, even those of the Protestant
clergy.
His edifying death, mild and pa-
tient in the greatest sufferings, took
place the 3d of December, 1815 —
the day on which the church cele-
brates the Feast of S. Francis Xa-
vier, the glory of the Jesuits.
His death caused universal grief
in a country where his memory
has never ceased to be venerated.
It is incredible how he could have
been equal to all the tasks he had to
accomplish, besides all the mental
labor that fell to his share. He af-
terwards obtained from the Holy
See a coadjutor, M. Neale, like
himself an American and an ex-
Jesuit. • His Diocese embraced all
•the United States; and he was,
moreover, administrator of the dio-
cese of New Orleans. Our Holy
Father, the Pope, has since then
been entreated to create four new
bishoprics — namely, Philadelphia,
New York, Boston and Bards-
town. *
M. Flaget, a Sulpitian, arrived
in America with MM. David and
Badin in the year 1792, and was ap-
pointed to this last-named bishop-
ric. His humility was alarmed. He
thought he neither possessed the^
talent nor the other qualifications'
necessary to fill so high a position ;
and for two years he persisted in
his refusal, but he was finally oblig-
ed to submit to the express man-
date of the Pope, and undertook tir j
task, for which he was evidently
• We have to-day ia the United States five bish-
ops of French origin : Bishop Marshal, born at
Ingr^, in the Diocese of Orleans, third archbishop of
Baltimore ; Bishop Cheverus, of Pans, first bishop
of Boston ; Bishop Flaget, bom in Auvergne, bish-
op of Kentucky, and Bishop David, of the Diocese
of Nantes, his coadjutor ; and, finally. Bishop Du-
bourg, bishop of Louisiana and the Flotidas, who
resides in St. Louis on the Mississippi, in the Sute
of Missouri. The see of Philadelphia became va-
cant by the death of Bishop Egan, and that of New
York is occupied by Bishop Connelly, an Irishman
of the Order of S. Dominic. The number o'
American bishops is continually increasing. New
Orleans and the Floridas are too far from St. Louis ;
the Dioceses of Baltimore and Bardstown are too ex-
tensive ; and, moreover, the number of Catholics is
daily increasing, in consequence of the immigrations
from Europe and from conversions.
832
Origin and Progress of ike Mission of Kaitucky4
destined by divine Providence.
He is doubtless the poorest prelate
of the Christian world, but he is
none the less zealous and disinter-
ested.
" Blessed is the rich man that is
found without blemish ; and that
liath not gone after gold, nor put
his trust in money, nor in treasures.
Who is he, and we will praise him }
for he hath done wonderful things
in his life " (Ecclesiasticus xxxi.
* Bf his ■ iluu g * yoo can judge the man ; and we
cjtt frre yoa bo better idea of the mildness, humility,
oni BKxicsty of the Bishop of Bardstown than by
unrrtiac hese extncts firom several letters which he
wrote fron Bahimcire to his Ticar-fcneral in Ken-
tucky. Hb icaL, his disinterestedness, and his self-
aboej^tion are cqwaHed only by his confidence in
liiriae tVovidence : *^ God be my witness that I do
tvc desire riches; and I would a thousand times
rather die than be atuckcd by this craving. The
lc^<i we possess, the less worried will we be with re-
gard to it ; but there are some things necessary, and
it is upon you that 1 depend to procure them for
mc 1 miist rely upon the friendship which you
have for me to ask yoo, my dear M. Badin, hence-
forth to provide for my wants. After aB, you de-
sired it ; for if it had not been for you, I would never
have been made bbhop. We will have eight or nine
trunks filled with books and other articles. The di»>
Uncc is great and transportation very high ; the
trip and the transportation will cost more than 4,000
francs, and we have not a cent. We can only wait
until Providence comes to our rescue. To lessen my
expenses I will leave the servant who oflers me his
* services in Baltimore ; and I would even leave my
books there, did I not consider them essential to our
establishment In order not to increase your ex-
penses I will only bring with me M. Davjd, and we
will both be but too happy to share your mode of
life, however humUe it may be. If the bish<^c
had only presented difficulties of this nature, I
would not have hesitated so long before accepting
it. Providence calls me to it despite myself, and it was
useless for me to travel over land and sea in order to
evade this charge. All my trouble was lost. God
seems to exact it of me that I bow my head to this
weighty yoke, even though it should crush me.
Alas ! should I stop sufficiently long to consider my
weakness and my troubles, I would fall into despair,
and hardly would I dare take one step in the vast
career that is opening before me. To reassure my-
self it is necessary that I frequently recall to mind
that I did not install myself in this important post,
and that all my earthly superiors in a manner forced
me to accept it."
From Baltimore, where he had more than one
hundred miles by land and three hundred miles by
water over which to travel to arrive at Bardstown,
he writes thus : " Remember that for the use of
seven or eight we have but one horse, which I des-
tine for M. David, as he is the least active among
u^. For myself and the other gentlemen, we will go
on foot with the greatest pleasure, if there is the
least difficulty in travelling otherwise. This pil-
grimage will pleas; mt exceedingly, and I do not
think it derogatory to my dignity. I leave it all to
In a limited number of yean be
founded so many institutions, un-
dertook so many voyages, under-
went so much fatigue, both of mind
and body, and succeeded so well in
all his projects for extending the
kingdom of Jesus Christ, that we
must attribute his success and the
diffusion of religion to the special
blessing of God which accompanied
him unceasingly. M. David, supe-
rior of the seminary, consecrated
bishop-coadjutor the 15th of Au-
gust, 1819, co-operated with him in
his good works : in the founding of
the seminary, which has already
produced eight or ten priests; ia
the founding of several convents for
the Sisters of S. Vincent de Paul; in
your judgment, and I would be very gbd to \mn
sufficient money to join yon at Louisville ; the re-
munder of the journey will be entirely at yoiv ex-
pense. That the will of God be done, I woaU a
thousand times prefer gobg on fbot rather tliaa to
cause the slightest miumur ; and you did very vdl
to recall the subscription which had been started Ust
my benefit, as it would <mly have tended to ^teate
people from me. It was, however, but right tkai
people anxious to have a bishop among them (hoatd
fiirnish him means to reach them. There is kv
thing I would not do for the sanctificatkn <^ my iedL
My time, my work, my life even, is cooaecratcd eo
it ; and, finaUy, it wiU only remain for me to say tto
I am * an unprofitable servant, having done acly t^
which I ought to do.* "
Divide Providence, whose intenroitiaB he ^
merited by hi.«i feal and his resignation, sup|kfed,af
if by miracle, in some invisible way, the iweds (f tbe
prelate, who on the nth of June. iSrt, arrived atSc
Etienne, the residence of M. Badin, with two prierfs
and four scholastics. There he found the feithfc)
on their knees singing holy canticks, the vogo
nearly aU robed in white, and some of them stiH Cast-
ing, although it was then four o'clock in the after*
noon, as they hoped to assist at his Mass and rtxsan.
H dy Communion from his hands that very (hiy. As
altar had been erected under some shmU>ery to iS-
ford a shade where the bishop might rest his-
self. After the AspeT;ges he was conducted ia pn-
cesidon to the chapel, the Litany of the Blessed Vir-
gin b^ng sung meanwhile ; and then followed tk
ceremonies and prayers prescribed in the Ponti6caI
for such an occasion. M. Badin lived in a fittk
frame house, and, in ctmsequence of the expenses ia>
eurred to rebuild the burned monastery cf which wt
have already spoken, he with difficulty was abte X2
buill two miserable little huts, sixteen feet square, be
his illustrious friend and the ecclesiastics whoaccoo-
panied him. Finally, one of the miaaooaries skpt oa
a mattress in the attic of this whitewashed qiiscofnl
palace, whose sole furniture consisted of one bed,
six chairs, two tables, and the shelves far a Ufarary.
The bishop resided here one year, and he consideml
himself happy to live thus in the midst of aposto&c
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky.
833
the building of the cathedral of
Bardstown, etc.*
It is in this little village, situated
in the centre of the country, that
the episcopal seat has been fixed.
The smallest seed becomes a large
tree, said our Saviour in the Gos-
pel. This diocese embraces six
large States — Tennessee, Kentucky,
Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, and Illi-
nois. f
In all this country, where the
population, the sciences and the
arts, agriculture and commerce,
have in the last twenty years pro-
gressed wonderfully, fifty years ago
could be seen dense forests and
limitless prairies, inhabited only by
wild beasts or scattered Indian
tribes. But there are to-day in this
diocese twenty-five priests, seven
convents, two seminaries or colleges,
thirty-five churches or chapels, J
and about forty thousand Catholics
out of a population of two million
inhabitants of all denominations.
In all these States priests and
churches are found except in Ten-
nessee, which, owing to its great
distance and other drawbacks, has
been visited but four times by the
• The Dominican Fathers, assisted by their nty-
vioes, with their own hands performed a great deal
of the work on their monastery and the beautiful
chtircb of S. Rose. Like them, the scholastics after-
wards made bricks and lime, cut the wood, etc., to
build that of S. Thomas, the seminary, and convent
of Nazareth. The poverty of our establishment
forces them to devote their hours of recreation to
this work. Every day they spend three hours in
(•rdening, in working iii the fields or in the woods.
Nothing could be more frugal than their table,
orul that of the two bishops is no better ; pure
water from a spring is their ordinary drink. Neither
cotild anything be more humble than their clothing
— imagine fifty poor scholastics who are obliged to
cover themsehrea with rags, and to borrow decent
t:k>thes with which to appear in the town.
Bi^op Flaget hopes that pious and charitable
persons who are not able to send him money for his
cathedral will endeavor to send clothes or books
necessary for the studies and the ck>thing of his
boloved scholastics.
f Since the appointment of Buhop Dubourg to St.
Louis, the too dutant mission of UUnois, which was
p«rt of the Diocese of Bardstown, has been attended
by this prelate, whose residence \% in the vicinity.
X Eight of these boildlngBare brick and stone, and
ilMochen frame.
VOL. XXI.— S3
oldest missionary in Kentucky.
He gathered together a little flock
at Knoxville, the capital. With
regard to this place may these
words of the prophet be fulfilled :
" I will whistle for them and gather
them together; I have redeemed
them ; and I will multiply them as
they were multipled before. And
I will sow them among peoples,
and from afar they shall remem-
ber me." The bishop has been
trying to establish a free school for
the poor Catholics who have not
made their First Communion. Half
of their time is employed in culti-
vating Uie ground to defray their
expenses, and the other half is de-
voted to reading, writing, and in-
structions in Christian doctrine.
With fifty such schools we could
renovate the entire diocese, and
gather into the fold a great many
souls which otherwise would be de-
prived of the means of salvation.
Thus it is evident that what has
been done is nothing in compari-
son with what remains to be done.
Our institutions, besides the inci-
dental and the daily expenses of
the sanctuary, the voyage, etc., cost
more than 300,000 francs; and
the bishop, who receives but 600
francs of ecclesiastical revenue,
owes more than 25,000 for his
cathedral, which is not yet finish-
ed, much less decorated. Unfore-
seen events precluded the possi-
bility of the subscribers making
their payments ; and if to-day they
were forced to do so according to
the rigor of the law, it would be
of material injury to religion, and
would produce the most baneful
effect on the minds and the hearts
of both Catholics and Protestants,
who are also subscribers. The
church in Kentucky owns some land,
to be sure ; but to clear this Tand,
and then to cultivate it, laborers
834
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentutky,
are lacking, and consequently this
uncultivated property produces no
revenue. The majority of the stu-
dents, both at the seminary and the
monastery, pay no board. The mis-
sionaries receive no assistance from
the state ; they are entirely depen-
dent on their parishioners, who often
do not even defray their travelling
expenses, and perquisites are un-
heard of.
The spirit of religion obliges us
to make a great many sacrifices and
to endure innumerable privations
to avoid being considered avari-
cious, and frequently it is necessary
to make presents'. Sometimes they
ask us for prayer-books or books
<\{ controversy, sometimes for cate-
chisms, rosaries, etc., etc. More-
over, when the necessary expenses
for the support of two or three hun-
dred persons * are calculated and
contrasted with our limited re-
sources, that they suffice seems in-
credible ; and the mystery thereof
can only be solved by referring it
to that infinite Providence which
feeds the birds of the air and gives
to the lilies of the valley a glory
more dazzling than that of Solo-
mon.
This paternal Providence, after
having accomplished such wonders,
will not abandon us in our present
distress. Afler making use of his
ministers as means of operation, he
will also inspire religious souls with
the desire to co-operate in these
good wcrks, and crown his gifts in
crowning the merits of their charity.
The writer of this notice was a
witness to the greater number of '
events he relates — " Quod vidimus
et audivimus, hoc annuntiamus vo-
bis " (i Joan, i.) After wo/king
twenty-five years in this mission, he
* Besides the bishops and the missionaries, the
students and servants in the seminaries and con-
vents are included in this number.
returned to France to take a little
rest and to solicit aid from his
countrymen, according to the in-
structions of his bishop. Although
weakened by a serious illness which
he had undergone the preceding
fall, and which nearly exhausted his
means, he proposed, together with
M. Chabrat, a missionary from the
same country, to recross the ocean
and undertake a journey of neariy
four hundred miles to reach Ken-
tucky, where his services are still
required.
If some ecclesiastics felt them-
selves called to accompany him to
America, they will doubtless be per-
suaded from the perosal of this
truthful narrative that they will also
have to travel the way of the cross,
which we know to be the way to
heaven. It will also be expedient
that they procure all the books
cording to the rkualof Rome; i
logicn] and Biblical works in F;v
Engliijh, and Latin; chaJtccSf cibu-
riums, ^criicilixeB. vestments and
churcli ornaments, altar pictures^
in fact, everyLliing relating lo divine
service. Stirely they will be a*
.sifted through the piety of tbeif
friends and acquaintances. How
many persons in France pofje^
ect:lciii:iHtical or theological works
wluch are not printed in America,
US also sarrcd ornaments which ^rc
of no use to them; whereas these
articles could be employed in so
useful and so holy a manner in
these new missions, which are in
need of everything and possess no-
thing! We hope through the cha-
rity of pious and wealthy souls that
they will generously offer to tlie
service of God this small portion
of the gifts they have received from
him in abundance. Faith teaches
us that he will not allow himself to
be outdone in generosity, and what
they sacrifice to his glory will he
Origin and Progress of the Mission of Kentucky,
835
returned a hundred-fold. As for
us, our gratitude will cause us to
recommend our benefactors to the
prayers of the missionaries, of the
religious orders, and of the laity
who are thus benefited; and we pro-
mise to celebrate a solemn Mass of
thanksgiving, to which we will in-
vite all good Christians, to whom
we will suggest a general Commu-
nion to be offered to God for the
same intention.
S. T. Badin,
American Missionary,
Paris, February 7, xSax,
Seminary ofS. Nicholas, Rue S. Victor.
Extract of a letter from Bishop F la-
get to Father Badin,
St. Etibnnb, February 19, xSao.
Beloved Colaborer : Probably
this letter, written from a place with
which you are familiar, and to
which you are doubtless attached,
will be handed you by Father Cha-
brat. I earnestly desired to be in
Kentucky at the time of your de-
parture; that which I have often
said to you I repeat to-day — I have
always felt strongly inclined to love
you; let us love one another as
brothers.
I will give you none of the dio-
cesan details; Father Chabrat knows
them as well as I do, and he will
be greatly pleased to answer your
numerous questions. The depar-
ture of this young man, that of Fa-
ther N^rinckx, and yours cause a
great void in my diocese, and leave
a burden which would certainly
overpower me if God, who has sus-
tained me so far, did not continue
to shower his favors upon me. I
still feel all the vigor of youth to
buckle on my armor. I am to take
charge of Father Nerinckx*s reli-
gieusesy who to-day form quite a
little congregation. My coadjutor
will give his attention to the senior
seminary and to the college, which
I am to open to-morrow.
MM. D^rigaud and Coomes direct
the junior seminary and the parish
of St. Thomas, and their success
astonishes every one. M. Abell is
causing the " Barrens *' to prosper.
Thus, my dear friend, will the dio-
cese be managed during your ab-
sence, while you, I hope, will make
collections for our poor parishes,
which are in great want. I am going
to re-employ your brother, who is as
pious and studious as ever, at the
senior seminary in Bardslown. I
earnestly desire to see him a priest,
and I am sure that he is sufficiently
informed either to direct the chil-
dren in the boys* school or to take
charge of Father N^rinckx' reli-
gieuses. Bishop Dubourg is endea-
voring to have a bishop assigned to
New Orleans, another to Detroit,
and a third to Cincinnati. If he
succeeds, I will have less extent of
country to traverse, and as many
opportunities as I now have of
making priests.
Thus the prospects of my dio-
cese are daily becoming more pro-
mising. Hasten to return ; for God
has not bestowed upon you so per-
fect a knowledge of the language
and habits of this country to no
purpose.
Accept, I beg of you, sentiments
of the most sincere friendship.
BenoIt-Joseph,
Bishop of Bardstown,
836
Blessed Nicholas von der FlUe.
BLESSED NICHOLAS VON DER FLUE.
Of the many beautiful views from
the Rigi, none seemed so determin-
ed to imprint itself on our memo-
ries during our stay at Kaltbad as
that looking up the Valley of Sar-
nen. At whatever hour we wan-
dered to the Kanzli, early or late,
in bright weather or in dull, it was
all the same. Somehow the sun
was always lighting up the valley ;
either resting placidly on its vel-
vety pastures, shining broadly over
its small lake, and making it glitter
like a brilliant dewdrop amidst the
encircling verdure, or, at the very
least, darting shy gleams across its
waters from behind the clouds
which lowered on all else around,
'i'he lake of Zug was much nearer
to us, lying right beneath one angle
of the Rigi ; but it had not the like
powers of fascination. Moreover,
we noticed that exactly in the same
degree that Sarnen attracted the
sun Zug seemed to repel it. At
all events, the lasting remembrance
of Zug is dark, bleak, and unfriend-
ly ; that of Sarnen, on the contrary,
])caceful and sunny. It seemed,
too, as though it were tenderly
watched over by all its neighbors.
Mt. Pilatus guards the entrance to it
from Lucerne, hills enclose the val-
ley on three sides, while above and
beyond, as seen from Kaltbad, rise
those giants of the Oberland which
give such sublimity to these scenes,
and enhance their beauty by the
constant variety of their aspect. *
Undoubtedly the associations
connected with Sarnen had some-
thing to do with our love for it. In
the village of Sachslen, on the
borders of its lake. Blessed Nicho-
las von der FlUe was bom and lived,
and there his remains are now pre-
served.
And here, behind this promonto-
ry of the BUrgenstock, just opposite
the Kanzli, lies Stanz, the capital
of Nidwalden — as this division of
Unterwalden is now called — whith-
er Blessed Nicholas hurried, and,
by his influence with the Assembly,
succeeded in saving his country
from civil war.
A visit to Sachslen held a spe-
cial place in the programme sketch-
ed out for us by Heri H .
There were some days, too, still to
spare .before the feast at Einsie-
deln on the 14th ; so we determiBcd
to lose no further time in making
our pilgrimage to " Bruder Klaus,"
as my Weggis guide and all the
people hereabouts affectionately call
him.
It was easy to trace the route
when standing at the KSnzli,and to
perceive that, by crossing over to
Buochs, we might drive thence to
Sachslen. Dismissing, therefore,
all fears of the railway descent from
ouV minds, we started by the eleven
o'clock train from Kaltbad, which
it cost us many a pang to leave,
with its dear little church, its love-
ly views, and its bright, invigorating
air. Crossing then in the steamer
from Vitznau to Buochs, we speed-
ily engaged carriages to take us to
Sachslen, and to bring us back from
thence on the following day.
Our road led through Stanz, the
home of Arnold von Winkelricd,
where we lingered long, although
Blessed Nicholas von der FlUe.
837
detennined not to visit the Rathhaus
until our return from the sanctuarjr
of its hero. But we had two statues
of Arnold to admire — one, in fact,
a handsome white marble group
commemorating his noble feat at
Sempach, and erected by national
subscription — to catch a view of
Winkelried's house in a distant
meadow ; to see in the church sta-
tues of " Bruder Klaus " and Kon-
rad Scheuber — who also led a soli-
tary life of holiness in the Engel-
berg valley close by, and whose
highest honor it was to call himself
the ** Daughter's Son " of the great
hermit — to read the tablet in the
mortuary chapel in memory of the
four hundred and fourteen priests,
women, and children who had fal-
len victims to the French soldiery
in 1798 ; and to hear tales of the
desolation their unbridled ven-
geance caused all this country.
Pretty Stanz ! now looking so hap-
py, smiling, and prosperous* that it
is difficult to realize it ever could
have been laid in ashes some
seventy years ago. No district in
Switzerland is more fruitful at pre-
sent; cultivated like a garden, dot-
ted over with fine timber, and mak-
ing a beautiful picture backed by
the Engelberg line of mountains
stretching away behind.
An avenue of stately walnut-trees
leads to the little port of Stanzstadt,
and on the way we passed the
chapel of Winkelried, where an
annual fete is held, and close to
which the bodies of eighteen wo-
men were found, after the fight in
1798, lying beside toose of their
fathers, husbands, and brothers — so
completely had it then become a
war d outrance, in defence of hearths
and homes.
From Stanzstadt the road turned
abruptly westward, at first along
the edge of the small lake of AIp-
nach, the ruins of Rossberg Cas-
tle perceptible on the opposite
shore — the first Austrian stronghold
taken by the Rtltli confederates on
the memorable New Year's morn-
ing of 1308.
Thence the hills grew lower and
the landscape more pastoral than
Alpine, until we reached Sarnen,
above which formerly rose the cxs-
tle of Landenberg, the famous im-
perial vogt who put out the eyes
of old Anderbalben, of the Melch-
thal, in punishment for his son's
misdemeanors when the latter evad-
ed his^ pursuit. This barbarous
act was the immediate cause of the
Rtltli uprising ; but, like all the
others, the castle was taken by sur-
prise, and Landenberg's life was
spared. The terrace where it stood
is still called the Landenberg, and
there the cantonal assembly has
annually met since 1646. Of this
spot it is that Wordsworth speaks
in his desultory stanzas :
" Ne*«r shall ye disgrace
Voor noble birthright, ye that occupy
Your eoundl-aeals beneath the open »ky
On Samen*s mount ; there judge of fit and right,
In simple democratic majesty ;
Soft breezes fanning your rough brows, the might
And purity of nature spread before your sight.'*
The panorama thence is said to
be magnificent, and it was easy to
conceive it all-inspiring to a patri-
otic orator; but the evening had
closed in before we crossed the
Sarnen bridge, and it was hopeless
to attempt the ascent thitlier.
Whilst Mrs. C was inquiring
about rooms we hastened to a
church near where a bell had been
tolling as we entered the town.
** Only a chapel," answered an old
womiLn ; " for the Blessed Sacrament
is not kept there." But the ** cha-
pel " contained the cheering sight
of troops of children saying their
night prayers aloud, headed by
some of their elders. The inn is a
838
Blessed Nic/wlas von der FlUe.
modest, clean establishment, but in
any case it would have been dear
to us, all the rooms being full of
pictures of " Bruder Klaus " and
of every incident in his life. Herr
H had said that " no house in
Obwalden is without his picture,"
and this quick fulfilment of our ex-
pectations enchanted us. Instant-
ly we stormed the Kellnerinns with
(Questions; but, alas! they were Ber-
nese maidens, and, whether from
prejudice or stolid ignorance, they
only gave us the old stereotyped
answer that " they were * Reformed,'
from the other side of* the Bruning
pass, and knew nothing, nor ever
inquired about such matters."
Accustomed as we had been of
late to the large tourist hotels, every-
thing seemed preternaturally quiet,
when suddenly, late that evening,
a deep voice sounded in the dis-
tance, advancing steadily onwards.
We had scarcely time to reflect on
this singular intrusion on the peace-
ful village when it became evident
that it was that mediaeval institu-
tion, " the watchman going his
rounds," which none of us ever be-
fore had an opportunity of becom-
ing acquainted with j and as he
came along the streets he distinct-
ly sang :
*^ The clock has struck ten ;
Put out fire and light,
Pray God and his Mother
To save and protect us !"
And constantly during the night
the same appealing voice returned,
merely changing the hour as time
ran on.
Next morning the sun again be-
friended us, and Mass was " at the
convent hard by," said our hostess
— *' the convent of Benedictines,
who teach all our girls." And she
said truly; for not only did we
find their chapel crowded by the
villagers, men, women, and chil-
dren, while the nuns* choir was hid-
jden behind the altar, but High
Mass was being sung at that early
hour of half-past seven, with expo-
sition of the Blessed Sacrament,
ending by Benediction. Mr. C
and George visited the Rathhaus
and its portraits ; but we m*ere in
feverish haste to get on to Sachslen,
** two miles off," said a peasant wo-
man wc accosted on the road, and
who also said she was on her way
thither to pray at the shrine of
" Bruder Klaus." Immediately af-
ter breakfast, therefore, taking leave
of our comely hostess and of this
capital of Obwalden, still* so primi-
tively good, although in the close
vicinity of the ** great world," and
feeling an increased aversion to the
Bernese maidens, whose spirit is
unmoved by things supernatural,'
we drove along the flat borders
of the Sarnen lake, caught sight of
the Rigi and its Kanzli, and in
less than half an hour found our-
selves at Sachslen.
This village is very small, but at
once tells its own tale ; for the
church stands, according to the
fashion of " holy places," in a
large open space surrounded by
good-sized houses, that serve as
inns and resting-places for the
crowds of pilgrims who flock here
at stated periods. Now all was
quiet and the church nearly empty;
the Masses of the day — unfortunate-
ly for us — ^were long since over.
After paying our visit to the Blessed
Sacrament we wandered through
the edifice, admiring its size and
beauty, but ynable to discover any
sign of the shrine whose fame
had brought us hither. At length
George succeeded in finding the
sacristan, a wrinkled, toothless oc-
togenarian, who, as far as looks
went, seemed quite ancient enough
to l\ave been himself a contem-
Blessed Nicholas von der Flile.
839
porary of " Bruder Klaus." His
German, too, was so intensely local,*
and consequently, to us, obscure,
that we had the utmost difficulty in
understanding him. But he point-
ed to the altar in the centre with an
inscription in golden letters on its
black marble frontal. And cer-
tainly it was worth looking at; for
a more remarkable specimen of
phonetic spelling is seldom to be
found, exactly following the local
dialect, even in its total disregard
of grammar. On the other hand,
this earnest simplicity in such
strange contrast to the refined ma-
terial that perpetuates it is deeply
touching and in perfect keeping
with everything connected with
Blessed Nicholas and this pious
people. It ran thus :
** Atlhier Buwet die gebein des Seeligen
Bruder CUtis von FlQe— dahero gesetzt da
Man die Kirche gebtlwet anno 1679." *
As soon as the aged sacristan felt
satisfied that we had read the lines,
without another word he drew back
the picture over the altar as he
might a curtain, and disclosed
" Bruder Klaus " himself confront-
ing us ! Never shall I forget the
thrilling sensation of beholding the
hermit's skeleton in kneeling pos-
ture right above the tabernacle and
facing the congregation, clothed in
his coarse habit, his hands clasped
in prayer, the cavity of his eyes fill-
ed by two large emeralds, his nose
by one enormous long, yellow topaz,
while in the centre of the ribs,
neai his heart, hung a large jewel-
led cross, and round his neck a
number of military orders. It was
startling ! We had expected from
the word " gesetzt " to find him re-
posing in a shrine, and should have
preferred, it must be confessed, to
• Here retc the bones of Blessed Brother Claus
von der FlQe, placed here when thl» church was
boilt, anno 1679.
have seen more refinement and deli-
cacy shown in the use of those pre-
cious stones as ornamentation.
But were they not the precious
stones of simple, firm faith and true
love of God ? This peasant popu-
lation never had any pretension to
"high art or learning." Blessed
Nicholas himself had naught but
the refinement of that exalted piety
which in itself transcends even the
highest flights of human culture,
and is, after all, the " one thing
needful." With such thoughts to
guide us we could only admire and
respect the desire, albeit crudely
expressed, to show reverence to
one whose own simple nature de-
spised those "earthly treasures."
His countrymen, however, had that
deep "art and learning" which
taught them to appreciate Blessed
Nicholas* devotion to the Blessed
Sacrament ; for they could think of
no resting-place more dear to him
than that close to the dwelling
of his Lord. Tender piety, too,
prompted the offerings ; but no vo-
tive tablets recorded their stories, as
in the little church at Kaltbad, and
we longed in vain to know their
histories. The orders alone, we
discovered, had been won in differ-
ent countries by his descendants,
and have been offered up by them,
as well as various swords and tro-
phies by other Unterwaldeners, in
thanksgiving for the prayers and
protection of the saintly hermit.
A striking example of the enduring
value of a noble, self-denying, God-
fearing character it is thus to see
the aid of this simple peasant still
sought and the influence of his
memory so powerful on the minds
and better natures even of this
material age. It was impossible
not to pray that he may now more
than ever watch over his beloved
fellow-countrymen, and obtain for
840
Blessed NUliolas von der Fliie.
them that steadfastness in their
faith and principles which they so-
sorely need during the terrible
struggle they are now passing
through. There is little else be-
longing to Blessed Nicholas to be
seen — for was he not a hermit, and
the poorest of saints ? — but in a case
near the wall the old clerk display-
ed his rosary and another habit,
which we liked to fancy might
have been made from the piece of
stuff presented to him by the town
of Freyburg after his successful in-
tervention at the diet of Stanz.
Our thoughts now turned to his
hermitage at Ranft, but only to
meet with severe disappointment.
It was too far for " ladies to walk,"
said every one, and no horses could
be had without previous orders, of
which no one had once thought.
Had we only slept here, instead of
stopping at Sarnen, all would have
been easy, and we should, more-
over, have been able to have heard
Mass at the shrine. The ** Engel "
of Sachslen was larger than, though
scarcely so inviting as, the " Gold-
en Eagle " of Sarnen, yet he would
at least have watched over our spi-
ritual interests ; and " when one
undertakes a pilgrimage," exclaim-
ed George, " ladies should despise
comforts."
" It was Herr H 's plan," re-
torted Caroline, determined that we
should not be blamed, " and we
should not be ungrateful ; for re-
member that he had also to think
of us Protestants ! .All we can now
do is to warn other pilgrims, and
advise them to come on here
straight."
It was provoking beyond mea-
sure to be thus deprived by mis-
management of this point in our
visit. But Mr. C and George
were determined not to give it up ;
they would go on foot, and report
all to us, if only we would waft
patiently for a few hours. Where
was the use of further grumbling?
Like good children, we cried out,
"What can't be cured must be en-
dured," and, summoning all the
piety we could command to our
aid, w€ offered up the disappoint-
ment in the spirit of true pilgrims
in honor of " Bruder Klaus," and
bade our friends " God speed " and
depart.
Anna and the two young ladies,
soon discovering pretty points of
view, settled themselves to sketch,
while Mrs. C and I took a ram-
ble through the village. Though
without any pretension to an Al-
pine character, none is more genu-
inely Swiss than Sachslen. Leav-
ing the square, we wandered among
the detached houses, scattered here
and there in the most capricious
manner on the slope of a hill that
rises gently behind, and which, dot-
ted with limber throughout lis fcr^h
pastures, forms a niosl be^^titifitl
background to the picture. Tlir
wood-work, dL-licately, nay elabo-
nuely, carved, ihe windows glared
in many instances with bull'i^cye
glass, the low rooms with heavy
cross-beams, are all many ce«liirics
old, perhaps from the vcr)- days of
Blesi^ed Nicholas; but beyond aB
doubt the '• Holy Cross/* '* Engel**
and other lioslelries, of which^ the
place is chiefly composed, owe their
origin to his memory. Photographs
of the church and the hermitage
hung in the window of the ** libra-
ry " of the village, which was open-
ed for us, after some delay, by an
active, tidy matron. " These are
quiet days and few purchasers," she
said in an apologetic tone. " But
the ladies would find it very differ-
ent on feast days; on the 21st of
March above all. Then ten and
twelve thousand people often come
Blessed Nicholas von der FlUe.
841
from all quarters ; every house far
and near is full, stalls are erected
in the square, and the church is
crowded from morning till night.
This is the Litany chanted during
the processions,** she added, hand-
ing us a small book, which also
contained ** Prayers by Brother
Klaus,** collected from old writings
by a priest. Nothing could be
more beautiful or simple than the
latter ; but the Litany in particular
was a pre-eminently striking com-
position, every sentence showing
that remarkable union of patriotism
and piety which runs through the
whole being of every Swiss Catho-
lic. It begins by invoking the her-
mit, simply as ** Blessed Brother
Klaus,'* to " Pray for us,** and, go-
ing on through every phase of his
life, implores his intercession in a
more emphatic manner wherever
his love of country or of justice
had been most conspicuous. And
here it must be remembered that
Blessed Nicholas has as yet only
been beatified. Hence those who
style him " saint " transgress the
proper limits, which are never for-
gotten by the Swiss themselves.
For this reason it is that in no
prayer is he ever addressed except
as " Blessed Nicholas,** and in po-
pular parlance ranks no higher than
their "dear Bruder Klaus.** But
that he may some day be canonized
is the fond hope of every Swiss
Catholic, and one, it is said, which
can be justified by many miracles.
Mrs. C and I carried off the
Litany^ etc., and, sitting down on a
bench near the church, drew out
other books we had with us, deter-
mined to refresh our memories re-
garding this great servant of our
I^rd.
Of these, two small documents,
written during his lifetime, are the
{.iDSt interesting. One is a Memoir
by John von Waldheim, a gentle-
man from Halle in Germany, giv-
ing an account of his visit to Bro-
ther Nicholas in February, 1474, <
and found in the Wolfenbtittel
Library ; tbe other a similar report
of his pilgrimage to the Hermit of
Ranft, addressed to the clergy and
magistrates of the town of Nurem-
berg, by Albert von Bonstetten,
canon of Einsiedeln, whom the his-
torian, J. von Mllller, calls " the
most learned Swiss of his age,** and
found in the archives of the town
of Nuremberg in 1861, and wherein
he states that, " as so many fables
had been circulated about the her-
mit, he felt convinced they would
be glad to know what he had him-
self seen.** Other contemporaries
also allude to their visits ; but
these two, though short, bear such
internal evidence of truth in the
quaint freshness of their style and
language, place us so completely
face to face with all concerned, give
such a picture of Blessed Nicholas'
humility and unsophisticated na-
ture, and such an insight into the
habits of thought of that period,
that no others equal them, and we
can only regret that space does not
permit of more than merely a pass-
ing quotation.
All authorities agree that Blessed
Nicholas was born in this then ob-
scure hamlet on March 21, 141 7.
Zschokke, however, alone men-
tions that his family name was
Lowenbrugger — a fact ignored by
others, so completely had "Von
der FlUe,** or " of the Rocks,** be-
come his own, even during his
lifetime. Yet all his biographers
begin by explaining that this cog-
nomen "came from his living at the
rocks of Ranft.** Bonstetten also
naively asks " how any inhabi-
tant of this region can avoid com-
ing into the world except under
842
Blessed Nicltolas von der FUU.
some one rock or another." His
parents were very poor, and Nich-
olas labored hard, in the fields es-
])ecially, from his tenderest years.
Grown to manhood, he married
young, had ten children, and be-
came distinguished above his fel-
lows, in his public and private
capacity, as "a model son, husband,
father, and citizen." He even serv-
ed as soldier, like others, in the
Thurgau war^ where he was equally
noted for deeds of valor and for
compassion towards the sick and
wounded. So high was his repu-
tation amongst his neighbors that
they several times elected hici
Landamman and resorted to him
as arbitrator in their disputes.
" The virtues he displayed to all
around him," writes Bonstetten,
** were quite marvellous. For a long
time he continued to lead this
honorable existence, considerate,
affectionate, true to every one, im-
portunate to none." At length a
yearning for greater perfection be-
came stronger than all else, and at
fifty years of age he determined to
seek for closer union with his Lord.
Several of his children were already
married and settled in the neigh-
borhood. To those that remained
and to his wife he handed over the
house that he had built and the
fields he had cultivated from early
youth upwards, and, taking leave
of his family and of all that he held
most dear, he left his home for
ever. Von Waldheim states that he
at first intended merely to wander
as a pilgrim from one holy place to
another, but that, " on reaching
Basel, he had a revelation, which
made him choose a hermit's life in
preference, and in consequence of
which he turned back to Unter-
walden and to his own house. He
did not, however, allow himself to
be seen by wife, children, or any
one, but, passing the night in his
stables, he started again at dawn
penetrated for about a quarter of a
mile into the forest behind Sachs-
len, gathered some branches of
trees, roofed them with leaves, and
there took up his abode." At all
events, it was in this spot, known ai
" the solitude of Ranft," at the
opening of the Melchthal, that be
passed the remaining twenty years
of his saintly life.
But although he had withdrawn
from the world, that world soon
followed him. Before long the
fame of his sanctity spread abroad ;
above all, rumors were circulated
that he never tasted earthly food,
and that his life was sustained solely
by the Blessed Eucharist, which
some authorities say he received
once a month, others on every
Friday. This celestial favor, how-
ever, was at first the cause of great
suffering to Blessed Nicholas. Ca-
lumnies were heaped upon hira,
insults offered. Still, he remained
impassive, taking no heed of men.
Some would not doubt him. ** Wliy
should they suppose that a man
who had so long lived amongst
them, whose honor had been so
well tried and recognized, and who
had abandoned the world merely to
lead a hard life in the desert, would
now try to deceive them 1 " But
others declared that he only want-
ed to impose on the vulgar, and that
he had food brought to him secretly.
" What did the landamman and
elders do," says Bonstetten, "in
order to prevent their being accus-
ed of playing the part of dupes?
They selected trusty men, made
them take an oath to speak the
truth, and placed them as guards
round the hermitage, to watch
whether food was brought to Nich-
olas from any quarter, or whether
he procured any for himself." For
Blessed Nicholas von der FliU.
843
a whole month this severe surveil-
lance was maintained ; but in the
end it only proved in a most con-
vincing manner that the hermit
neither ate nor drank anything ex-
cept that nourishment with which
our Lord himself provided him.
Two Protestant writers, J. von
Mailer and Bullinger, give details
of this inquiry, of which they raise
no doubt ; and some years after it
took place, during the lifetime of
Blessed Nicholas, the following en-
try was made in the public archives
of Sachslen :
" Be it known to all Christians, that
in the year 141 7 was born at Sachslen,
Nicholas von der Fltte ; that, brought ujj
in the san^e parish, he quitted father,
mother, brother, wife, and children to
come to live in the solitude called
Ranft ; that there he has been sustained
by the aid of God, without taking any
f'X/d, for the last eighteen years, enjoying
all his faculties at this moment of our
writing, and leading a most holy life.
This we have ourselves seen, and this
we here affirm in all truth. Let us, then,
pray the Lord to give him eternal life
whenever he shall deign to call him from
this world.*'
As a natural consequence of this
investigation, a strong reaction at
once occurred. The villagers built
him a chapel with a cell adjoining,
and soon the Bishop of Constance
came to consecrate it.
But the bishop was also deter-
mined to test the fact of his total
abstinence, and ordered him to eat
in his presence. Various are the
versions concerning this event, the
majority asserting that Blessed Nich-
olas was seized with convulsions
the instant he swallowed the first
mouthful. But J. von Waldheim,
who seems to have experienced no
difficulty in asking direct questions,
gives us the hermit's own words
on the subject, brimful of truthful-
ness and humility. After stating
that he had been entertaining Nich-
olas by an account of his own
pilgrimages to holy places, and
amongst others to the sanctuary of
Blessed Mary Magdalen, in whose
honor the Ranft chapel was dedi-
cated, and having brought tears
into the eyes of the venerable her-
mit by the beautiful legends regard-
ing her which he told him, Wald-
heim proceeds :
" I said : * Dear Brother Nicholas ! in
my own country, as well as here, I have
heard it maintained that you have neither
eaten nor drunk anything for many years
past. What may I believe ?' * God
knows it !* he answered, and then con-
tinued : ' Certain folk asserted that the
life I lead proceeds not from God, but
from the evil spirit. In consequence my
Lord the Bishop of Constance blessed
three pieces of bread and a drop of wine,
and then presented them to me. If I
could cat or drink, he thought I should
be justified ; if not, there could no lon-
ger be any doubt that I was under the
influence of the devil. Then my Lord
the Bishop of Constance asked me what
thing I considered the most estimable
and meritorious in Christianity. * Holy
obedience,* I answered. Then he re-
plied : ' If obedience be the most es-
timable and meritorious thing, then I
command you, in the name of that holy
virtue, to eat these three pieces of bread
and to drink this wine.' I besought my
lord to dispense me from this, because
this act would grieve me to excess. I
implored him several times, but he con-
tinued inflexible, and I was obliged to
obey, to eat and to drink.' I then ask-
ed Brother Nicholas," continued Wald-
heim : 'And since that time you have
neither eaten nor drunk any thing ?' But
I could extract no other answer from
him save the three words, * God knows
it.'"
Numoerless were the reports con-
cerning his mysterious ways. He
often went to Einsiedeln,yet it was
said that no one ever met him on
the road !
" How does he get there V* asks
Waldheim. "God alone knows.**
844
Blessed Nicholas ven der FlUe.
His appearance, too, was said to be
unearthly.
Waldhetm had heard, too, that
his body was emaciated and devoid
of natural warmth, his hands icy,
and his aspect like that of a corpse.
He lays particular stress, * there-
fore, on the fact that NichoUs pos-
sessed a natural bodily heat, like
any other man, " in his hands es-
pecially, which I and my valet
Kunz touched several times. His
complexion was neither yellow nor
pale, but that of one in excellent
health ; his humor pleasant, his
conversation, acts, and gestures
those of an affable, communicative,
sociable, gay being looking at every
thing from the bright side. His
hair is brown, his features regular,
his skin good, his face thin, his
figure straight and slight, his Ger-
man agreeable to listen to."
A few years later P^re Bonstet-
ten heightens this picture by a
minuteness that rivals the signale-
mrnts of old-fashioned passports.
He describes Brother Nicholas as
being "of fine stature, extremely
thin, and of a brown complexion,
covered with freckles ; his dark
hair tinged with gray, and, though
not abundant, falling in disorder
on his shoulders ; his beard in like
manner, and about an inch long ;
his eyes not remarkable, except that
the while is in due proportion ; his
teeth white and regular; and his
nose in harmony with the rest of
his face."
And as we read this clear de-
scription, Mrs. C and I could
not help regretting that posterity
had not been satisfied with such
a recollection, without having en-
deavored by emeralds and precious
stones to fill up the voids which
nature had since created ; but when
the motives had been so pure and
loving, it was not for us to find
fault with the manner of their rev-
erence, nor do more than admire its
earnestness and simplicity.
There seems to have been a cer-
tain difficulty in obtaining admit-
tance to the hermit ; for even P^rc
Bonstetten had to be introduced
by the landamman, and Von Wald-
heim took with him the Cart
of Kerns. Brother Nicholas, it
must be remembered, though an
anchorite, was still not ordained;
hence a priest was to him always i
welcome visitor. His family, too.
seem at all times to have had fret
access to him. Both writers com-
menced their visits by heariog
Mass in his little chapel, where
Brother Nicholas knelt behind a
grating ; but after their introduction
he let them into his adjoining cell.
Here he impressed them deeply by
his humility, politeness, and gentie-
ness, and both remark his sweet-
toned voice and his kindliness \n
shaking hands with every one, '*not
forgetting a single person." P^rc
Bonstetten, more than Waldheini,
seems to have retained his self-pos-
session ; for he says : " I kept my
eyes wide open, looking right and
left aroun^ the room, attentively
considering everything. The cell
was not half warm. It had X'so
small windows, but no sleeping
place, unless a raised portion at
one end may be used for that pnr-
pose." Nor could he see a tabic,
nor furniture of any kind, nor sign
even of a mattress on which this
servant of God could ever repose.
But he dwells with emphasis on hi^
simplicity and truthfulness, saying
that he answered his many ques-
tions, " not in the fashion oi a hypo-
crite, but simply as became an un-
lettered man."
And like these visitors came oth-
ers from every quarter to see and
consult him — magistrates to ai
Blessed Nicholas von der Flue.
845
the advice of one who, in the words
of the Litany^ had been like that
'*just judge whose decisions were
altogether dictated by conscience
and justice," and that " wise states-
man who administered his offices
solely for the honor of God and
the good of his fellow-men" ; sol-
diers to see the " brave warrior who
look up arms fbr God and father-
land, and was a model of virtue to
the army" ; those in affliction to beg
the prayers of that "most perfect
follower of Tesus, who, by medita-
tion on the life and sufferings of
our Lord, had been so like unto
him"; sinners to implore that
'* pious hermit, who left the world
from desire of greater perfection,"
to teach them how to subdue their
passions. For all and each he had
sorne word of comfort and exhorta-
tion. One of these pilgrims was
so captivated by his heavenly ad-
monitions that he resolved to re-
main near Blessed Nicholas and
lead the same life. He built him-
self a chapel and cell close by, and
soon became remarkable for his
sanctity; but his antecedents are
veiled in mystery, and he has de-
scended to posterity simply as
'* Brothg: Ulrich, once a Bavari-
an gentleman." Blessed Nicholas,
however, evidently held him in
high regard ; for, after praising him
warmly, he urged both Waldheim
and P^re Bonstetten to visit him
before leaving Ranft. The naive
Waldheim takes no pains to con-
ceal that he was prejudiced against
poor Ulrich by reason of the mys-
tery surrounding him ; although " he
is educated," he says, " whereas
Brother Nicholas is a simple lay-
man who does not know how to
read." The learned monk of Ein-
siedeln, on the contrary, is at once
prepossessed in his favor by the
tincture of culture which he quick-
ly detects. He notes that Ulrich
" talks more and shows less dis-
like for the society of men than
Brother Nicholas. No doubt,"
he adds, "because he is more in-
structed. He is somewliat of a
Latin scholar. At the same time,
his books are in German. He
showed them to me. I tliink that
I perceived the Gospels and the
Lives of the Fathers translated into
German" — a fact which we may
further note as a remarkable proof
that such translations of the Gos-
pels into the vernacular, mentioned
thus incidentally by P^re Bonstet-
ten, were conlmon before the days
of printing, in the very midst of the
so-called "dark ages."
Amongst the many traits for
which Blessed Nicholas was distin-
guished, P^re Bonstetten records
that conformity to the will of God
and love of peace were pre-emi-
nent. " He preaches submission
and peace — tliat peace which he
never ceases to recommend to the
confederates." And a time was
coming when all his power and in-
fluence would be needed to pre-
serve it. Some years after these
two accounts were written, and
while Blessed Nicholas and Brother
Ulrich were praying and fasting in
their " solitude at Ranft," great
deeds were being done in other
parts of Switzerland. The battles
of Grandson and Morat were fought
and won, Charles the Bold driven
back into Burgundy, and the rich
spoils of his army became the pro-
perty of the Swiss. But what union
and heroism had gained victory
and prosperity well-nigh destroyed.
Soleure and Freyburg, in virtue of
their hard fighting, claimed admis-
sion into the confederacy, which
claim the older states disdainfully
rejected ; while the enormous Bur-
gundian booty likewise became a
846
Blessed Nicholas von dcr Flue.
fruitful source of discord. Numer-
ous diets were held, without avail,
for the settlement of these questions,
each only increasing the trouble.
At length a diet assembled at Stanz
purposely in order to come to a
final decision ; but the disputes
reached such a pitch that the depu-
ties were about to separate, although
the return to their homes would
have been the signal for civil war.
Blessed Nicholas, though so near,
knew nothing of these proceedings
until one morning, when one of his
oldest and most esteemed friends
unexpectedly arrived at the her-
mitage. It was the cur^ of Stanz ;
a worthy priest and a true patriot,
who, in despair at the state of affairs,
and mindful of Nicholas* patriotism
and love of peace, came to implore
his help. Without an instant's
delay the hermit took up his staff,
walked across the paths he knew so
well, and marched straight into the
hall at Stanz where the deputies
were assembled. Zschokke, the
Protestant writer, thus describes
the scene :
•* All with one accord rose from their
seats as they beheld in their midst this
old man of emaciated aspect, yet full of
youihful vigor, and deeply venerated by
every one. He spoke to them with the
dignity of a messenger from heaven, and
in the name of that God who had given
so many victories to them and to their
fathers, he preached peace and concord.
• You have become strong,' he said,
• ihrough the might of united arms. Will
voii now separate them for the sake of
nu^cuMe booty? Never let surrounding
cotiniiios hear of this! Ye towns! do
not giieve the older confederates by in-
sisting: on the rights of citizens. Rural
.\^ntons ! remember that Soleure and
Fie\l>iHj; have fought hard beside you,
at)d lev eive them into fellowship. Con-
lovleratcs I lake care, on the other hand,
not to enlaige your boundaries unduly!
A\^Md all transactions with foreigners!
IWwaie ol divisions ! Far be it from you
*ver to preier money to the fatherland.*
This and much more did Nicholas von
der Flfle say, and all hearts were sr*
deeply touched, so siirred, by Ae vord«
of the mighty hermit, that in one single
hour every disputed point was settled.
Soleifre and Freyburg were that day ad-
mitted into the confederacy ; old treaiiw
and compacts were renewed ; and at tfef
suggestion of the pious Nicholas it was
decided that in future all conqoered ter
ritory should be distributed amongst tbe
cantons, but booty diTi4pd amongst indi-
viduals ! Thisdone," continues Zschokke,
" the hermit returned to his vrilderness,
each deputy to his canton. Joy aboosd
ed everywhere. From all the chnrd)-
towers of the land festive peals annoaoc-
ed the glad tidings, from the furthest
Alps even unto the Jun^."
The cantons vied with each other
in the effort to express their grati-
tude to Blessed Nicholas. But in
vain; he would take nothing from
them except a few omametits for
his j^rnail chapci. i^"rc)'L;urg iiup?
was favored by his accepisnce rf
a piece of stuff to repali hU wor
out habit, wliich was then in S&ncd»
and this it was which irc liked t#
think identical with the relic shown lo
usb}' the old Siicristan in the chirftli
at Saclislcn. Bern, in a spirit vjde
ly different froni that of its degcm-
eratc iK>stcrit}% presented hifii wSlk
a clinlice, ^ich elicited from Vm
a lettLT full of patriotism and tciH
der r! ristiaii feeling : *' B,. , '' ' *
he writes in answer, "to maintain
peace and concord amongst you;
for you know how acceptable this
is to Him from whom ail good pro-
ceeds. He who leads a godly life
always preserves peace ; nay, more.
God is that sovereign peace in
whom all can repose. Protect thr
widows and orphans, as you have
hitherto done. If you prosper in
this world, return thanks to Goti.
and pray that he may grant you a
continuance of the same happiness
in the next. Repress public vice
and be just to all. Deeply iraprijit
in your hearts the remembrance of
Blessed Nicfwlas v$n der Flue.
847
the Passion of our Lord Jesus
Christ It will console and strength-
en you in the hour of adversity."
Then, as if in prophetic strain to
the proud town, he adds: "Many
people in our day, tempted by the
devil, are troubled with doubts on
faith. But why have any doubts ?
The faith is the same to-day that it
ever has been."
What wonder, after all this, that,
in spite of himself. Blessed Nicholas
became the arbiter of Switzerland
during the few remaining years of
his life ? Every dispute was re-
ferred to hirf, and, as one writer
adds, "In that solitude, where he
thought only of serving God, by
the simple fact of his sanctity he be-
came of all his compatriots the most
pleasing to God and the most use-
ful to liis neighbor." At length
the holy hermit lay down on the
bare ground, which had so long
been his couch, and, full of years
and honor, he "fell asleep in the
Lord " on the 21st of March, 1487 —
on the very day that he had fulfill-
ed seventy years of his most spot-
less and saintly life.
We had just reached this point,
when, looking up, we beheld Mr.
C and George advancing and ex-
claiming : " Such a pity you did not
come — such a pity ! " Breathlessly
ihey told us that the distance had
pr^'ed trifling; they found horses,
loo, on the way, and everything had
been deeply interesting. The road
had passed near " Bruder Klaus' "
fields, crossed the rushing stream
mentioned by Von Waldheim ; and
not only had they visited the
chapel and cell of Blessed Nicho-
las, but also that of Brother Ulrich,
exactly as described by the two
mediaeval pilgrims. The stone
used by Blessed Nicholas as his
pillow is there preserved ; both
places, kept in excellent repair and
attended by a priest who resides on
the spot, are much frequented and
full of votive offerings of various
kinds. At once it became a ques-
tion of our starting thither, even at
that advanced hour. Had Anna
and I been alone, we should have
upset all previous arrangements for
this purpose; but charity and for-
bearance are the virtues most need-
ed and most frequently brought
into play when travelling with a
large party. Smothering our an-
noyance, therefore, a second time,
as best we could, and making a
mental resolve to return some fu-
ture day and see with our own
eyes what our friends so vividly de-
scribed, we adjourned to the Engel,
and did full justice to the meal
which its pleasant-faced hostess had
prepared for us. In another hour
we were on the road back to Stanz,
but this time across the hills.
Kerns, now speaking to our minds
of Von Waldheim and P^re Bon-
stetten, was first passed, succeeded
before long by St. Jacob and its
plain, the scene of the terrible battle
with the French in 1798; and in
two and a half hours the comfort-
able cottages of Nidwalden had
gradually developed into, and ter-
minated in, the pretty houses of its
capital, Stanz. Here we now halt-
ed, in order to repair our omission
of yesterday by a visit to the Rath-
haus. It was opened for us after
some delay by a bluff Nidwaldener,
whose German was as unintelligi-
ble as that of the Sachslen clerk.
But, in like manner, he supplied the
defect by pointing to two curious
and very ancient paintings which
hung in the entrance lobby, one
representing Blessed Nicholas tak-
ing leave of his wife and family be-
fore he went to Ranft, the other his
appearance at the diet here. The
deputies in the painting have all
84S
The Assumption.
risen, whilst the emaciated hermit
is addressing them boldly and earn-
estly. As we proceeded into the
hall close by, it required no stretch
of imagination to fancy that the
scene had but just occurred in that
spot, so exactly is the room of the
same shape, the chairs and table of
the same pattern, and all placed in
the same position as in the old pic-
ture. Though not the same build-
ing, one may well believe that the
present is only a reproduction of
the former town-hall, simple and
unpretending as it is, and yet in-
vested with such deep interest.
Three sides of the hall are hung
with portraits of the landammans
since 1521, and the fourth is deco-
rated by various banners won on
different patriotic occasions. Of
these, we notice one that was taken
at the battle of Kappel, where
Zwingle met his death; another
sent to the Unterwaldeners by
Pope Julius II. ; and a third recent-
ly presented by Zschokke, a native
of these parts, representing William
Tell shooting the apple off his son's
head — thus giving the sanction of
this grave and graphic historian to
the story we all so much love.
Long did we linger in the hall, fall
of the day's impressions; but the
light was waning, and it was neces-
sary to depart.* Ere we reached
Buochs the sun had set»; it was dark
when the steamer came up to the
quay; and night had closed when
we arrived at Brunnen and entered
the brilliantly-lighted hall of the
Walstatter Hof.
THE ASSUMPTION.
Crown her with flowers ! She is the queen of flowers :
Roses for royalty and mignonette
For sweet humility, and lilies wet
With morning dew for holy purity.
Crown her with stars ! She is the queen of stars :
They sparkle round her maiden path in showers
And stretch their beams of light in golden bars.
Making a pavement for her majesty.
Crown her with prayers ! She is the queen of prayer:
With eager hands she gathers every one,
Wreathing them into garlands for her Son,
Holding them close with fond, maternal care:
Sweet flower — first planet in the realms above !
Crown her with love ! She is the queen of love.
The Scientific Goblin.
849
THE SCIENTIFIC GOBLIN.
By one of those freaks of fortune
rare even in fairyland, the small
people known as the Odomites had,
in order to escape being devoured
by a strolling giant named Goog-
lootn, made him their king. This
ogre was of so wonderful an ugli-
ness that babes died at the sight
of him, and men and maids had
gone into convulsions of merriment ;
but the majority of the Odomites,
blessed with a wholesome fear, dar-
ed no more than laugh in their
sleeves at bare memory of his face,
avoiding as much as they could to
see him. However, to make sure
that all his people were as sober as
himself, King Googloom* issued an
edict defining laughter as treason,
under any pretext to be punished
with death by slow torture. In
cases of young and pretty maids
this sentence was varied by the fact
that the giant himself ate them up.
Yet, spite of the terrors of his de-
cree, hundreds of his subjects per-
ished for want of self-control ; and
one man, whose fate became re-
nowned as that of a voluntary mar-
tyr *to free expression, died laugh-
ing involuntarily, notwithstanding
his tortures, the giant Googloom
being a witness of his execution.
When the realm of Odom was
thus rid of all rebellion in the shape
of quips, jokes, pranks, tricks, an-
tics, capers, smiles, laughs, carica-
tures, chuckles, grimaced, Goog-
loom yawned and rolled his eyes in
a manner fearful to see, and, leav-
ing his throne, made a tour through
his dominions. Not a soul dared
so much as smile in obeisance to
VOL. XXI. — 54
him. Though he made his ugliest
faces, to such a degree that the pass-
ing ravens were scared, not a single
Odomite lifted up his head to grin
for a moment. Over all the land
reigned the shadow of funlessness.
Googloom had become a dreadful
chimera, a nightmare. Hardly
knowing it, his people grew lean
and pined away.
Googloom himself began to be
weary of the prevailing dulness,
even while he boasted that the land
was never so sober and its popula-
tion so orderly. " When will the
old times return," asked his sages
of themselves, " when the land
laughed and grew fat ?" Goog-
loom eyed with contempt the bones
of the children that were served up
at his banquets ; and one day, see-
ing that the leanness of his people
liad extended to their crops, and
yet unwilling to alter his decrees,
mockingly proclaimed that any-
body who could make him laugh
at his own expense, or make any-
body else laugh on the same terms,
should have the privilege of laugh-
ing whenever he pleased.
There was at this time living in
one of the mountains of Odom a
famous goblin named Gigag. His
exceeding knowledge and invention,
assisted by good-nature, had made
him famous in the country round
about; and notwithstanding the
prejudices of some of the Od peo-
ple, he was permitted to benefit
them in various ways. For instance,
he made them a stove which gave
them both heat and light ; an in-
strument that produced exquisite
850
The Scientific Goblin.
melodies whether you could play it
or not; an accordeon that invented
tunes of its own accord, for tlie help
of composers; a portable bridge to
be flung over chasms at pleasure;
a drink that gave men's eyes the
power of microscopes, and another
that inspired them with the capa-
city of telescopes ; a fertilizer that
brought up crops in seven days
with care; a flying-machine to save
all who laughed ; and a pill to cure
headache, heartache, rheumatism,
dropsy, palsy, dyspepsia, epilepsy,
consumption — everything short of
death itself — and to cause lost hair,
eyes, teeth, legs, and arms to grow
again. There was also rumor that
the goblin Gigag had tunnelled the
whole kingdom through, and that
goblin steeds and people could now
travel at will an underground thor-
oughfare. But, for all these things,
the Odomites were no better than
before. Their taste in music was
bad; they were blind as bats to
their interests; they tumbled over
precipices ; they neglected their
crops, and were too stupid to fly. if
not too dull to laugh ; and head-
aches, heartaches, and palsies were
much the same as ever, because
they disliked to take a pill that was
not sugar-coated. In the end the
scientific Gigag was thought to be
a goblin of genius — one of those
fine spirits who are always doing
magnificent things to no purpose.
Had he relied upon the effect of his
mechanical or chemical exploits to
make his way in the world, the
well-meaning goblin would certain-
ly have made a mistake. What,
then, was the secret of that extra-
ordinary power which the goblin
Gigag exercised over the minds of
those who came in contact with
him } It was his expression.
All the variety of which the gob-
lin countenance is susceptible seem-
ed to be concentrated in that of
Gigag. But its peculiarity was
this : that his eyes grew piercing
and dazzling at will, while his teeth
enlarged, his mouth curved, and
his nose elongated and turned at
pleasure. It may well be supposed
that no Odomite could resist a
smile or survive the scorn of a
countenance so effective; and we
can only ascribe it to Gigag's known
forbearance that the so-called anti-
cachination laws of Googloora were
not a thousand times violated. But
patience has its bounds. The na-
tional dulness which made Goog-
loom yawn and sneer made Gigag
almost swear. The reigning con-
dition must be put an end to,
or science itself would be power-
less at length to amuse or to cure.
Accordingly, he sped through his
underground road, and came up at
court by a secret path. Wearing a
long, conical hat and a fanciful
jacket, with doublet and hose, and
elongating his features while he
stretched himself to his full height,
he stepped into the presence of the
king, knocking down by the way a few
insolent attendants who had excited
his gaze. Bristling the few hairs of
his upper lip, which resembled the
mustache of Grimalkin, and bow-
ing with the most obsequious of
smiles, the goblin Gigag stood be-
fore the giant Googloom.
Never had that ogre seen a figure
at once so lean and long, and a
face so bright and cunning. He
would have ordered it at once to
his darkest dungeons, were it not
for an unaccountable fascination
which forced him to listen to Gigag
while he proposed not only to make
Googloom laugh at his own ex-
pense, but to make everybody else
laugh at him on the same terms,
and to solve the problem of per-
petual motion by making the land
The Scientific Goblin.
851
of Odom merry ever afterwards.
" I presume," said he, " you have
heard the story of the pig's fiddle '*;
and he proceeded to tell a tale
which for wit and fun would have
made a thousand unicorns die laugh-
ing. But on the giant it had either
no effect at all or had only raised
his spirits to the point of being
serious. Gigag clearly saw that he
liad failed by trusting to the merits
of his story instead of using his
great weapon of expression. ** This
is no ordinary case," said the gob-
lin to himself. "The problem is
to make an immense creature laugh
who has nothing of the sort in him.
Perhaps the best thing to do is to
torture him till he laughs in de-
spair." Spite of the giant's dispo-
sition to put his visitor at once to
the torture, he agreed that the ac-
complished goblin should call next
day, and make him laugh, or else
die by slow boiling. This the gob-
lin heard with a mixture of scorn
and amusement, curling his nose
and showing his teeth in an aristo-
cratic manner.
As the cunning Gigag left the
king's chamber to go to his quar-
ters in a comer of the great palace,
he took good care to scatter about
two scientifically-prepared powders,
one of which dissolved in the air,
producing sleep, and the other by a
similar change entered the nostrils,
producing throughout the body
tickling sensations and a disposition
to low chuckling. When Gigag
again came before Googloom, it was
seen that none of the royal guards
were fit for duty, and that through-
out the palace and its grounds the
disposition among courtiers, retain-
ers, ser\*ants, pages, to laugh in
their sleeves at the smallest incite-
ment, was unmistakable. Even the
kitchen cats had caught the infec-
tion, and mewed dispersedly.
" Now, O great Googloom !" said
Gigag wlien all the court had as-
sembled, ** let me in three acts
essay to complete that transforma-
tion by wliich thy people's despair
shall be turned to joy, and thy
laughing face shall behold its own
merriment." At this moment the
giant shook like one who is tickled
all over, but cannot laugh, experi-
encing the greatest tortures without
knowing what to make of them. To
divert him the goblin related his
favorite story of the merry owl,
with such catcalls, crowing, minc-
ing, and mewing, and withal such
unearthly jest, that a thousand dogs
would have died if they did not
laugh. What wonder, then, that
long before the witty Gigag had
concluded a favorite page was so
wrought upon by chuckling that,
bursting his buttons, at length he
laughed right out, which had such
an effect upon all assembled that
they chuckled, and then roared.
"Ho, guards!" cried Googloom;
but Gigag easily drew his attention
to the second part of the pro-
gramme — for the goblin had actu-
ally brought the giant to the point
of complacency. " I propose now,"
he said, "to show you the most
ridiculous countenance that was
ever seen, except one." Hereupon
he diminished and heightened his
figure at intervals, while he curved
his nose by degrees, lengthened his
teeth as he pleased, and put upon
his mouth such an expression of
maddening humor that his specta-
tors gasped with laughing, to the
vast confusion of the helpless giant,
who vowed with a feeble smile that
the gifted Gigag was certainly the
most ingenious man he ever knew.
" Nothing will serve you, I per-
ceive, O beautiful Googloom! ex-
cept the light of science ; and now
I will show you the face of the
852
The Happy Islands.
most ridiculous man that ever was
bom." Accordingly, by means of
an instrument which he had in-
vented, Gigag reflected upon a
large canvas the features of Goog-
loom ! Unwittingly the giant
smiled, for he had never seen so
preposterous a' face before ; and
the more he smiled, the more ri-
diculous it grew, till at last, after
the giant himself had given way
to laughter, it was so horribly fun-
ny that the whole court shrieked
and shrieked again, and Goog-
loom, losing all control, roai-
ed with such a volume and pover
of merriment that he toppled off
his throne, and was crushed under
its ruins. The people, seeing the
faces of the courtiers and of each
other, caught an infectious laugh-
ter, which prevailed throughout all
Odom, and did not by any means
cease when the goblin Gigag was
called to the throne, and the reign
of science began.
THE HAPPY ISLANDS.
•
" Tell me, brother, dearest brother,
Why it is thou aye dost weep ?
Why thus, ever lisUess, sittest
Looking forth across the deep ?
** Thy impatient steed is wond'ring
Why his master doth not come,
On his perch thy hawk is sleeping,
E'en thy hound's deep voice is dumb.
" Yesternight there came a minstrel
With a glee-maid young and fair.
If mayhap their merry voices
Would beguile thy weary care."
" Hawk may sleep, and hound may slumber,
My impatient steed must wait,
Nor care I to hear the minstrel
Who is resting at the gate.
" E'en the keen breeze of the mountains
Would not cool my fevered brow.
E'en the shrill note of the trumpet
Would not serve to rouse me now.
Tlie Happy Islands. 853
** Dost remember, that our father
Told us how his wond'ring eyes
Once beheld the Happy Islands
Far off on the ocean rise ?
" Those fair Islands where no mortal,
As 'tis said, has ever been,
Though at evening in the westward
They at sunset oft are seen.
" Those blest Islands that so often
Were our aged minstrel's theme,
That surpass the fairest fancies
Of a poet's wildest dream.
"Where the Holy Grail lies hidden
Far from mortal quest or claim,
And the Tree of Life stands, guarded
By the Seraph's sword of flame :
** Where the Blessed Ones are dwelling
Till the dawning of the day
When this world and all upon it.
Like a dream, will pass away.
** And our sire sailed towards those Islands,
Till their shore he drew so near
That the strains of heavenly singing
Fell upon his raptured ear.
" And as that immortal music
O'er his ravished senses stole,
An intense and eager longing
Took possession of his soul.
" When, lo ! as entranced he listened,
Suddenly the mists of night,
Gath'ring round the Happy Islands,
Hid them from his anxious sight.
** Then all through that weary midnight
Stayed he waiting for the dawn.
But when day broke, lo ! the Islands
With the mists of night had gone.
** From that day thou know'st he languished,
And could take nor food nor rest,
For he aye was thinking, thinking
On those Islands of the Blest.
854 The Happy Islands.
** When he died, dost thou remember
We heard music from the sea,
That enchained us with the weirdness
Of its mystic melody ?
" Scarce three days ago at sunset
I was sitting, thinking here,
When I saw those Happy Islands
In the west there, bright and clear.
" Words would fail to tell their beauty.
They were wrapt in golden haze.
And they glowed with such a radiance
That on them I scarce could gaze.
" And since that resplendent vision
On my raptured senses fell.
It has haunted and enthralled me
With the magic of its spell.
I
" I must go and seek those Islands
That far to the westward lie.
I hear distant voices calling,
I must find those isles or die."
At the early dawn next morning
Young Sir Brian sailed away,
Mournfully his brother watchM
On the shore the livelong day.
Long kept guard the weary watchers,
*Mid the tempest and the rain.
But ah ! nevermore Sir Brian
To his home came back again.
It is said by some he perished
In the wild and stormy wave.
Where the sea-birds wailed the requiem
O'er his mist-enshrouded grave.
If perchance he reached those Islands,
Be ye sure that he stayed there ;
For what earthly joy or beauty
With those Islands can compare }
Where the sun is ever shining
And the blossom doth not fade.
Where from quest of mortal hidden
The most Holy Grail is laid.
New Publications.
855
Where with flaming swords the Seraphs
Stand around the Tree of Life,
Where the Blessed Ones are dwelling
Who have conquered in the strife.
XoTB. — This poem is founded on an ancient Irish legend, to the effect that the Happy Islands, as
they arc called— that is, the temporal resting-place ot the blessed, where yet stands the Tree ol Life gtiardcd
by the cherubim— are situated in the ocean somewhere to the far westward of Ireland.
1 1 b said they are sometimes to be seen at sunset from the coast o* Galway.
Many have sought to find them, and some even have come near them, but just as they were
approaching, either the night fell or a storm arose and drove them from the enchanted shores.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Lbs Droits de Dieu et les Idees
MoDERNKS. Par I'Abb^ Francois
Chesnel, Vfcaire-G^neral de Quimper.
Poitiers et Paris : Henri Oudin. 1875.
Every age has its special errors and its
special manifestations of the truth pre-
cisely opposite to those errors. The
special errors of the present age may be
well summed up under one formula,
which we find on p. 335 of the Abb6
Chesnel's work bearing the title placed
at the head of this notice: "The pre-
tended incompetence of God and his re-
presentatives in the order of human
things, whether scientific or social '* The
system which springs from this funda-
mental notion has received the name of
Liberalism. In contradiction to it, the
authority of God and the church over
those matters which are included in the
order of human things, is the truth
which in our day has been the special
object of inculcation, definition, explana-
tion, and defence on the part of the Ca-
tholic Church and her most enlightened
advocates. A great number of the very
finest productions of our contemporary
Catholic writers in books, pamphlets,
and periodicals, treat of themes and
topics connected with this branch of the
great controversy between Catholic truth
and universal error. The volume just
published by the Abb6 Chesnel is par-
ticularly remarkable among these for
simplicity, lucidity, and moderation in
its statements, and for its adaptation to
the understanding of the great mass of
intelligent and educated readers, who are
unable to profit by any treatises presup-
posing a great amount of knowledge and
thought on abstruse matters. The form
of dialogue helps the author and the
reader very much in respect to the
facility and simplicity of the work of
giving and receiving elementary instruc-
tion on the subjects contained within the
volume. The other topics besides the
particular one we are about to men-
tion are handled very much in the
same manner by M. Chesnel as by
other sound and able writers, and
require no special remark. Thank
God ! our instructed American Catho-
lics are not inclined to bury themselves in
what the author happily styles " the fog of
liberalism," in so far as this confuses the
view of the rights of the church and the
Holy See in respect to the usurpations of
the civil power and the rebellions of pri-
vate judgment. We have turned with a
more particular interest to that part of the
volume which treats of the nature, origin,
acquisition, and loss of sovereign rights
by the possessors of political power in
the state. This is one of the most diffi-
cult topics in the department of ethics,
and one seldom handled, in our opinion,
so well as by our author. To a certain
extent sound Catholic writers agree, and
the principles maintained are proved with
case to the satisfaction of right-minded
students. That political power is from
God, that human rights are from God,
that an authority certainly legitimate
cannot be resisted within its lawful do-
main without sin, are so many first prin-
ciples universally accepted and easily
proved. But when the sources and cri-
8s6
New Publications,
teria of legitimacy are in qnesUon, there
is far less agreement even among those
who reject liberalism, and much less fa-
cility of laying down and proving propo-
sitions in a satisfactory manner. The
ingenious and learned Dr. Laing, in his
little book entitled Whence do Kings De-
Hve the Right to RuUf in our opinion
sustains most extravagant theories re-
garding the divine right of monarchs.
On the other hand, we are not entirely
satisfied with the reasonings of the very
able and brilliant Dublin Reviewer on
the principles of legitimacy. In fact, we
have not seen the subject handled in a
perfectly thorough and satisfactory man-
ner by any author writing in the English
language. M. Chesnel is not exhaustive,
but, so far as his scope in writing permits
him to develop his subject, he seems to us
remarkably clear and judicious. The be-
ginning of sovereignty he traces to the
parental expanding into the patriarchal
authority. Acquisition of lawful sov-
ereignty he refers to inheritance, elec-
tion, and just conquest. The rehabilita-
tion of a sovereignty unjustly acquired
he refers to the accession of the right of
a nation to the possession of the goods
which have become dependent on the
peaceable maintenance of a if e facto sov-
ereignty, sanctioned by a common con-
sent. The possessor who has been un-
justly despoiled of his sovereignty de jure
by one who has become sovereign de facto
evidently loses his right as soon as it is
transferred lawfully to this spoliator or
his heirs in the manner indicated. The
author, as we think unnecessarily, resorts
to the supposition that he is supposed to
cede it, because he cannot reasonably
maintain it. He adds, however, that
if he does not cede it he nevertheless
loses it, whidi seems to us to make his
cession or non-cession wholly irrelevant
and without effect. It is lost by the pre-
valence of a higher right on the part of
the nation. Nevertheless, we think that
until a permanent and stable union of
the welfare of the nation with the right
of the new dynasty is effected, the former
sovereign right may in certain cases re-
main in abeyance, and therefore revive
again in the future. This appears to us to
be exemplified in the case of the rights
cf Don Carlos to the throne of Spain, and
of the Comte de Chambord to the throne
of France. Strictly, in themselves, their
rights have been in abeyance, and remain
imperfect, until the national welfare, sus-
tained by a sound and powerful part cf
the body politic, demands their restito-
tion and actually effects the same. In
such cases there is always more or less
doubt about the real sense of the better
and sounder part of the nation, and aboat
the best settlement of conflicting claims
for the common good. And hence it is
that the best men may differ, and consa-
entiously espouse opposite sides, when
a nation is in an unsettled and divided
state respecting its sovereignty.
In respect to the relation of the sute
to the church, the author has some very
just and sagacious remarks on the peco-
liar condition of things in oy own re-
public, quite in accordance with the views
which have been expressed by oar sound-
est American Catholic writers. We c<mi-
cludc our criticism by quoting a fev
passages :
"The religious system existing io i^
United States does not rc^embic^ cddier
in its origin or in its a^p] tcatjoos, thai
which the liberal sect imposes oa iIk
Cathol ic p t^op I c s of Eu ro pe- The Atttfi-
can populxition. ihe progeny of col octets
driven from England by persecution
never possessed religious unity. Wt^rfj
Presbyterians. Episcopalians, aod Cttlio^
lies, who had all fought in can3iiao& foor
indepenilcnce, asscfuLlcd In Co^ifss
and forruL'd their constitut ton. they ftcof*
nized the variciy of wor^litps a^ an aa^
cedent f.^cr^ and ciideavon&d to accomaitti
date themsch es to It in Ihe b^st wmy ib^
could. No false political tlicofy ^
turbed the good sense of these Icgfi^
tors. Governed by a necessity fiinnlJMltl
invincible, .irtd which still coiitJi3iscif»^?)r
secured to cricb worship a conipl&i« Ub^
erty ; proclaimed that which Jt a jmi
consequence from this principle; thattbe
state should have only a very restriaed
agency — that is, no more than what is
necessary for reconciling the liberty of
each one with that of all others. In &ct.
when separated from the true church,
the state is reduced to pure naturalism,
and in this condition the action of the
state, separated from the church, ooght
to be reduced to the minimum " (p. 179).
Memoirs of General Wiluam T.
Sherman. By Himself. New York.
D. Appleton & Co. 1875.
This book marks an epoch in the lite-
rary history of the war. Ten years of
reconstruction and of political spoil-
gathering, of slow and still incomplete
New Publications.
857
recuperation at the South, and of re-
luctant, painful subsidence to the mode-
rate profits and the quiet of peace at the
North, had dulled the excitement attend-
ing^ the events of the war, had corrected
many prejudices, had taken off many of
the prominent actors of both sides of the
contest, and had added to the literary
public many men and women who were
children when Sherman " marched to the
sea." And now comes one of the great
conquerors of the Rebellion, and tells
almost every word that an honorable
man would dare to tell of all that he
knows about the soldiers and the gene-
rals, the fighting and the plotting, of the
war, and with infinite frankness — not
stopping with facts, and dates, and fig-
ures, but detailing his remembrance of
conversations, frankly ofiering his opin-
ion of motives and his judgment of
character, as well adverse as favorable —
as readily giving names of those deserv-
ing blame as of those worthy of praise.
No wonder, therefore, that these Afemoirs
have set the whole country to thinking
about the war, and all the newspapers to
discussing it. We have already had
scores of es^planations and defences of
those attacked, or of friends in their be-
half, and we are promised the Memoirs,
Recollections, and Narratives of many
of the more prominent generals ; so that
we shall shortly be supplied with testi-
mony as to all the events of the late war,
given by the actors themselves or by eye-
witnesses.
The first six chapters are occupied
with General Sherman's life from the be-
S^inning of the Mexican war till the out-
break of the civil war. They are intense-
ly interesting. Many of those who
afterwards became leaders of great armies
are introduced to the reader as simple
captains or lieutenants in the old army.
Little incidents illustrative of their cha-
racters are continually related, and the
writer's own impressions, with his un-
flinching candor, continually ofiered,
every page glowing with good-humor
and sparkling with entertaining anec-
dotes. The domestic archives of more
than one household of Lancaster, Ohio,
must have been well ransacked to get
the letters written home by the young
artillery lieutenant, in order to secure
such exactness in date, and place, and
conversation. One learas from these
chapters about all that was done in
California during the Mexican war, and
who did it ; graphic descriptions of
many of the natural wonders of that
country, and a very interesting account
of the early gold excitement. Gen.
Sherman was on the stafi" of Col. Mason,
commanding United States forces in
California, when gold was found in Sut-
ter's mill-race ; was present when Sutter's-
messenger showed it to Col. Mason and
asked for a patent to the land ; went to
Sutter's place, and saw the first miners
at work there; wrote (August 17, 1848)
the official despatch of Col. Mason to
the Adjutant-General which gave the
world the first authentic information that
gold could be had in California for the
digging.
After peace was concluded with Mexi-
co, the author of the Memoirs returned to
the States ; but soon resigned his com-
mission, went back to Califoraia, and
opened a banking office in San Fran-
cisco — a branch of a well-known house
in St. Louis. His statement of the events
of the year 1856 in San Francisco is most
interesting, throwing much light on the
history of the famous Vigilance Commit-
tee. He was Militia General at the time,
and, in conjunction with the Governor,
treated with the leaders of the Commit-
tee, whom he undertakes to convict of
falsehood, positively asserting that, had
Gen. Wool given him the arms, he was
prepared to fight the Vigilantes with
militia, and would have suppressed them.
Hard times induced him shortly after to
wind up his banking business and re-
turn to the States, and in the autumn of
i860, after trying and giving up various
undertakings, he had organized and was
president of a flourishing military school,
under the patronage of the Suite of
Louisiana. When that State seceded,
Sherman at once resigned and went
North, and when war broke out vras
commissioned colonel in the regular
army, rising gradually in rank till finally
half the army and country was subject
to his command.
Now begins his story of the war. To
the most timid civilian there is an intense
lascination in that war — a deep interest
in every true narrative of it. Gen. Sher-
man takes us through some of its most
exciting scenes, and so frankly and so
familiarly that you feel as if you were
some invited stranger, sharing his mess,
discussing his plans, participating in his
hopes and fears, and rejoicing with him
in his nearly uniform success. His first
8;S
New Publications.
in.* was Ball Ran, ia which he com-
---'-'■' 1 :r-.r*ic Shortly after this he
r-^ rrLr-=i=rT-l \z tlie West, ^H^ere he
.r^jiri - — ■ Ji rie winxer of 1S64-5,
rt-.-T. i^— ^-T -.ic::: xi-i ccnqaered his
r^- I 31 _ :_r:;i^-:' ca ti Ar'.inta, then
H' :_- :— -3-i 5=.:i icuili Carolina, he
: .^- :z^'. : 1:1 > .-rsL Cirzl^na, in com*
;__ .. r_- .z=i- irui 3p en the com-
:■ ^ m: -r^ - i^ -nn i.«i- The Gene-
z.^—!^-!^ - 'Tir^ i.or jcars is
.iv.ct —.rrr^rrc Z-^rr iescription
. .^-. . r n-r-za. s nni — iitle and
• - .. "---r^ -iZi.rsEiii .i ::iui5 is clear.
1- . :- : 1 r*:- ^ s T:iiu*;r-\illT well
-. ^ ~t zr -z^ i-^ti*;s »:i^;'
n::^ ^le saaxc may
"rr-:.r 1 Jirt XzAIIis-
.jrt ^— .-nr i-ttiiis cf the
I X— .^er; w:^ ight
-Lju^ ^^'tn. ii^ji bock —
-v= n ne z^ar cass
».! -tn^i^•.a which
* r - -r -=i=c i^ tiie trst
* _= • -t: - ^ V rr:ir cc use
-: — : :^ c Jipiji in
;. - . :i -.-% -i^::t cf the
— - _-i j.'L -^-.cea ttnll
. -^.:.^z. * *i:e rush, or
r. r -ae ecstasr
* ^r.' •. . jace more
- . ^ ..: I ,:x OEiirya, the
- . ><, -ii-j '.vtrariaess
^ ^^.. i-vri. iie ti^tlioas,
. *.> -^*..it -i ii.>i«ital. And
-. . . •! . 'lu^ :i:"re teel sad as
t. ia-,T,5-x^a scenes of the
-i • '.iijues, Jnd will repeat
V i"»->a..-v..ii iQie uiii it was al-
- iL *.><. uti» *.*iio were killed.
M. 'ui^ti ,i :i-ici:vand barbarity
auiin diiu aiitr ihe war against
.. Mitii.u.ii ue nuicnantly denied.
•, , >. , u.aiiou at the town of Atlanta
: ^...n.N-1 n >u uir as the General clearly
V. ;» . .c .'uiity ui his motives and can
.%. a. , luval. ot both the civil and
..,v . u: lion ties ; yet the ugly fact re-
. ...ai .t was. Joac not for the instant
- .» 'ii-; liuiy ur the immediate injury
.^^ ^ ici^i* s -fut luousaiius of women
u..;''va wcie driven among stran>
. wv. .iv.ir 'k uics abandoned to the
. ^..-^ .i a .ivtl \vai to secure a tempK>-
.. .^iii».ace. As to the unautho-
^. *,..l^; V.U tile troops ifeneraUy,
,...*i ,'. .^otiinivd and often re-
.^ .^.uvicuiuevt it; though his
correspondence shows a secret satisfy-
tion at the devastation conuniited ic
South Carolina, except where it mtghi
result in permanent injury to private pro-
perty. His defence against Sccr«2rr
Stanton's charges of usurping civil pow-
ers in treating with Gen. Jos. Johnsioa
is simply complete. Gen. Sherman hert
had the honor to be the first after tbt
war to suffer abuse and persecution be-
cause a kind heart and chivalrous sym-
pathy with a gallant and beaten foe nmsec
the hatred and fear of a class of politi-
cians as malicious and vindictive as they
were ambitious.
The last chapter, " Military Lessons of
the War," is extremely interesting, espe-
cially to military men. It contains some
very important conclusions; for exaa-
ple, that infantry must hereafter fight is
skirmishing order ; that cavalry can do
longer be used against organized in-
fantry; that every night's camp in an ene-
my's vicinity should be covered by light
works ; and that good troops with the rifit
can beat ofif from trenches double their
numbers. All this and nearly all the
other opinions advanced in this chapter
had become truisms to even the common
soldier in our war, and the late Franco-
German war has made them such for the
whole world. But Gen. Sherman's tEio-
desty has hindered him from showing
that his own persistent adherence to this
new science not only gained him Atlanta,
but left him an intact and veteran arm}
with which to crush through the heart <rf
the South ; and that Gen. Grant's neglect
of it, and his adopting the " hammering-
away " method instead, not only did not
conquer Lee and take Richmond, but
positively buried the old gallant Army
of the Potomac between the Rapidan ai^d
the Appomattox.
It is a great injustice to the Army d
the Cumberland and its General to say so
glibly that at Chickamauga ** Bragg had
completely driven Rosecrans* army into
Chattanooga " ; it is notorious that at ibe
battle itself the key of the position was
never given up, and that the whole aroy
offered battle defiantly at Ross\ii!c be-
fore retiring to Chattanooga. Scch 2
mistake as this throws discredit upcr
Gen. Sherman's statements of orhT
events of which he was not an c\i-w:t
ness. It is also much to be rcgn-ned
that in matters wholly private he should
not have reserved the naircs of persons
whose conduct was reprehensible. Thas
Neu> Publications.
859
it adds nothing to the interest of his nar-
rative to give the name of the officer of
the ship whose incorrect reckoning so
inconvenienced the passengers on the
author's first voyage to California ; or to
give the name of the lawyer who swindled
him out of the proceeds of a note given
him to collect ; wife and children and
friends should not be made to share
public disgrace for private acts of which
they themselves are entirely guiltless.
The First Christmas : A Mystery
Play. By Albany James Christie, S.J.
London : Burns & Gates. 1875. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)
We wish we could say that the contents
of this small volume are worth its elegant
exterior.
A Politico-Historical Essay on the
Popes, as the Protectors of Popular
Liberty. By Rev. Henry A. Brann,
D.D. New York: D. & J. Sadlier
& Co. 1875.
In spite of the confident assurance
which every loyal Catholic has that
the rule of Rome, both temporal and
spiritual, is not, never has been, nor
e^^r will be, a despotism, it cannot
be denied that but few are well ac-
quainted with the facts of history which
prove that the Papal power has been the
only interpreter, defender, and protector
of their rights which the people ever had,
and that all the liberties nations now en-
joy are the result of the preaching and
defence of the doctrines which lie at the
basis of all civilization by the popes,
bishops, and priests of the Catholic
Church.
Just now the old howl against Rome is
being renewed — the howl of the wolves
against the shepherd ; and the sheep now
and again think it necessary to apologize
to the wolves for the care their ever-
watchful guardian keeps over them, and
also try to make them understand that it
is both convenient and necessary that he
should keep a dog and carry a crook.
It is little wonder that the wolves bark
and snarl in reply to the apologies, and
sec no force in our argument for either
the dog or crook. But the sheep of the
true fold, and also the " other sheep "
who are not yet of it, need, rather, plain,
straightforward instruction, which, by
the grace of God, they will receive to
their profit. Such is the essay before us,
which we heartily welcome as most op-
portune, and, although far from being ex-
haustive of the subject, is both pertinent
and forcible. We commend it as an ex-
cellent pamphlet to be freely distributed
both among Catholics and honest-minded
American non-Catholics
The Story of S. Stanislaus Kostka.
Edited by Father Coleridge, S.J. Lon-
don : Burns & Gates. 1875. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)
This is the thirteenth volume of the ad-
mirable Quarterly Series edited by the
Jesuit fathers in London. The " Stor\- "
is a brief one, but full of interest. We
confess that S. Stanislaus has always
seemed to us more charming than even
S. Aloysius. Both " angelic youths " are
among the greatest glories of the Catho-
lic Church and the Society of Jesus.
Father Coleridge tells us that the pre-
sent work vrzs at first intended to be a
simple translation from the Italian of
Father Boero, but thai he has taken the
pains to prepare an original narrative
instead. All who know his style will be
grateful for the exchange. He has also
confined himself to a narration of facts,
without digressing into "religious and
moral reflections." We think this, too,
makes the volume more attractive, par-
ticularly to the young.
Biographical Readings. By Agnes M.
Stewart. London ; Burns & Gates.
1875. (New York : Sold by The Catho-
lie Publication Society.)
It is somewhat aggravating to those
familiar with the larger biographical dic-
tionaries to take up a compilation like
this. Gne is reminded of the poet who
sent his MSS. to a learned editor to pre-
pare them for publication, and, after
nearing the judgment passed by the
critic, insisted that he had thrown out
the best pieces and retained the only
trash in the collection. The reader must
try to put himself in the place of the com-
piler who undertakes the invidious task
of determining who to speak of and what
to say in a book of the kind. Almost
inevitably, each reader has to regret the
absence of some subjects by him deemed
important. But, at least, the work will
serve as an introduction to more ex-
haustive ones, and Catholics have an
assurance in the editor that the stale as-
sertions against cherished names, lay or
86o
New Publications.
cleric, which have heretofore disfigured
most non-Catholic biographical sketches,
will not be found here.
The Young Ladies* Illustrated Rea-
der. New York : The Catholic Pub-
lication Society, 9 Warren St. 1875.
This is the last volume of the Young
Catholic's Illustrated Series of Readers.
We have read it with considerable care,
and are of the opinion that it is the best
book of the kind in the English lan-
guage. The selections, which embrace
a wide range of subjects, all bearing
more or less directly upon the mission
and work of woman, have been made
with discernment and taste. The most
important lessons are here taught in the
most agreeable style and in the pleasant-
est manner. It is a treatise on the duties
of Christian women without any of the
dulness of the moral essay.
We admire especially the biographi-
cal sketches of the foundresses of reli-
gious orders which are scattered here
and there through the book. Whatever
the vocation of a young girl may be, she
will be all the truer and nobler woman
for having been taught to reverence and
love the religious life.
The perusal of the several Readers of
the Young Catholic's Series has shown
us, in a light in which we have never
seen it before, the great educational
value of such books. We are not sur-
prised at the favorable manner in whkk
these Readers have been received, "oat
shall we be astonished to hear of tbeir
superseding all others in our Cathc^
Schools.
Annoiwcement. — In the October nam
ber of The Cathouc World we shall
begin a new serial story, entitled Sir Tiff-
mas More : A HutorUal Romanct,
Books akd PAMncLrrs Reckitcd.
From P. 0*Shea, New Yoirk : Not^ 00 the Rnbna
of the Roman RituaL By the Rev. Jiob
O^Kane. xamo, pp. ziv., 471.
—Lives of the Saints, with a F^actkal lutrectiaBa
the Life of each Saint. By Rct. F. X Wenage.
D.D., S.J. Part IIL 8vo, pi>. 144.
—Recollections of the Last Four Popes asd «f
Rome in their Times. By His Emineoce Caz^
nal Wiseman, xamo, pp. 487.
From ArrLBTON & Co., New Y<vlc: Jc^ Dooira
By Julia Kavanagh. zamo, pp. 500.
From the Oppicbbs : Proceediogs of the Gesoil
Theological Library for the year tsuSasi^KpA sfi,
1875. 8vo,pp.49.
From K. Tompkiks, New Yoric : ** RtghteonsMa'' .
The Divinely-Anminted Rnk of life. By Ph^a-
lethes. Paper, lamo, pp. 75.
From J. S. Whitb ft Ca, Maidiall, Mkh.: Masi
in C. with Accompaniment for P^uks or Oipa.
By Rev. H. T. Driessen.
From Gborcb Wiluc & Co., BaMmort: Peiex^
Celebrated Mass in D. Composed by W. C Fto>
ters. Pp. 3a.
From D*Augutin Cote et Cic.. Q^bec; AsBSiiic
de rUmrersit^ Laval pour TAim^ Acad<an|ae
1875-6. 8vo, pp. 97, scxviii.
From The Christian Brothers* College, yktss^i
Address to the Graduates, Jane 85, 1875. Bjr
Hon. Jacob Thompson, lamo, pp^ 8.
ITERARY
ULLETIN.
PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.
SPECIAL NOTICE.
This department was specially opened to keep the readers of The Catholic
World acquainted from month to month with all the new Catholic books published >
-a this country and in England, a list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin.
Hy 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
nricc of certain books, and the latter the lime lost in answering such letters. It is
.he publisher's intention to make the list as correct as possible.
^'The BluBtrated Catholic Pamily
Alxnanao for 1876 " is now in press. Those
winhlni; to a JvertUe In it ahoald send in their
Mlver;l9C3ient9 iltiring July and Angast. To dl-
r.'ciors of colleges and academies, no bi tier me*
vliam can be f jund in which to make known tbeir
institu lions.
Ws quoted in a recent Builttin an article frc.m
r Vnlta CcUtoIica which mentioned, incidentally,
ihat the Holy Father had received a letter from
Prettdeot Grant thanking him for elevating the
Archbishop of New York to the cardinalate,
This statement, it appears, was made on public
rumor, and proved to be nnfoandcd— a thing not
unheard of— even among American Protestant
} (lumals. The funny man of the Church Journal^
bowevff, waxed merry -perhapl wemlifht aay
witty -over the Item. We fa!led to eee anything
amuslog or lmpMb..b]G in the idea tbut one ad-
ministration ehould thank the head of the church
fbr doing what two other admlnietrations had
af-ked the Fope to do. (Vide Hnssard^s Life of
Archbiehop Uugfus, and Arcbblthop PurccU's let-
ter to the Cincinnati Trlcgraph.) But then peo-
ple are Uiilerently made np. Judging by Its re-
cent susceptibility, our contemporary ehould
have been convuleed over the exhibition the
functionaries of the American P:x>testant Eplsco-
pnl Church made of themselves when "on bend
ed knees *^ they presented an alms-basIn to the
Archbishop of Canterbury. We only saw in it a
piece of pitiable flnnkyism. There's the differ-
ence. .
The Tounff Catholic** Headers. We
have received the following letter from the Bi-
shop of Erie :
Literary Bulletin.
Erib, Jnly 29» 1875.
Mr. Lawrexce Kehoe :
Dear Sir : .The Toitnff Ladiett* Reader^ pub-
158hed at tljc establlthment of which you are the
general agent, ie. In my opitlon, the beat work
of the kind I have eeen.
Its lessons arc entertaining and instractlTe.
i<Dch of them as treat of . religious subjects are
not only interesting, but edifying, while the gen-
eral stylo in which all are written leaves nothinf^
10 be desired. Your FiiU CaUch^fsm of Uit
Catliolic Religion^ translated from the German
of Itev. J. Deharbe, 8.J , by Rev. John Fander,
I have examined, as yet, only in a very cursory
m.Hnner ; but what I have read of it convinces
me that the popn'arity it has enjoyed in Ger
ma'y, since its publication in 1847, is well de-
served. Yours sincerely,
»fi T. Mullen, Bishop of Erie.
The Ate Maria pays the whole scries the fol>
•lowing compliment :
*' We have on our'table a complete set of * The
7ouxiir Catholic's niuBtrated School Se-
ries,' edited by Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L.,
and published by The Catholic Publication 'So-
detY cf New York. The series comprises eleven
volnmcs, as fo.liws : Pleury's Short Catechism,
Fr. Dcbarb'c'a Full Catechihm, a Primer, Speller,
First Reader, Second Reatfer, Third Reader,
F.urih Reader, Fifth Reader, Sixth Reader, and
fli.ttlly The Young Caihoiic Ladies' High Class
Keader, just pub.i<hcd.
Fleury's Uutorical CaiechUm has been revis-
ed, cularg«»d, and brought down to the pontiflcate
of Pius IX. by Father Formby, and has the
impr:niatur of Cardinal Manning. Of Father
Dei ai he's Cattchkm we have already spoken in
a previous notice. The Speller of this series is a
model one ; it is simple, practical, and well ar-
ranged. We think, howtvtr, that a larger Spel-
ler, like Wm. T. Adams', Is needed to make the
yerl< 8 complete. (This is now in preparation.—
FuhlisJur.) The R.adcrs we cannot safflclenily
praise ; they are carefully graded, and compiled
wi'.h great taste and Judgment. The iUnstra-
liDHs, on the whole, arc good, and we are de-
liijlit- d at the number of religious subjects cho-
sen. Those who know anything about children
will readily understand the Impor ance of this.
The higher Readers are excellent; the selections
arc mostly new and well adapted to foster a taste
for solid reading. As to the mechanical part of
the series— binding, printing, paper, etc.— it Is
enough to say that it Is iu ketplrg with the
other books of the Catholic PublicatJon ^cdtAy
Other school-bocks— geographies, histories,
grammars, etc.— are to be added to the Ytiis;:
Catholic's Series in course of time, and we !u\«-
reason to think they will be np to the siaudari
of those already published.**
The Toons Catholic's Fifth scd Sixth
Headers are noticed as follows by the Cai^i^fr
AdvocaU^ Louisville:
*' The beat notice we can take of these valnaM'
publications wcu'd be to quote veibarlm wati
The Catholic World siys of them. It ii» jast :
and if one is in doubt who de^i^es to pcrctao^
such books, we hope they will read it. Bot vt
Buppoflo no critique is required. It is eixn^gt to
know that such books are at last to be had. Tbt
want of them has been long felt by Catholic pi-
rents and teachers. It has been a great hard-
ship in these days of schools that Catholic ckU-
dren are forced to learn their md^ments frotB
books poisoned with falsehoods and hatred to
God's holy church. The very title-pago H snfl-
cient warrant for these Readers. Parochitl
Schools and tutors in O&tholtc families vQI so
longer be at a loss. But a llttJe worldly witdcn
compels us to make one more rnnark, for the
benefit of the book-makers : What are oar miXHi
schools to do, such as those taught by Sfsterasiu:
Brothers, and some few of private enterprise by
Catholics? Troe, it lias been disagreeable la thes«
schools to find books containiag many tittnst&n
passages ; but, on the other hand, they h&xe mas^
Protestant patrons, acd Is it necessary to t6M
these away by having even our Readers filled mii'i
things they do not understand or whirii excite
their prejudices ?
•*We therefore need also another class oi
school books : one that will exhibit ths bcn-
tles of the language, and steer clear of the sbv
mosities of our race. Happily, our litentore u
rich enough to furnish an abundant supply.
"These Readers now before us are proof ol
that. We have not carefully read every scle^loc
of course, but turned over the titles of a.1, as£
read many of them ; and we have seen no pai^
sago at which a reasonable Protestaot cocM tskr
offence. Almost any of them might object I'l
prominence being given to lives of certain Caih-
olic dignitaries, and demard like honors kc
their Luthers and Wcelcys ; but, on tbe wtol'-.
wo think nothing beyond tbe title-page ccnld ck
really an obstacle to them.
** Of course, as they are, these books arc k< an
ily recommended to Catholic Schools."
LUtrary BuUetin.
FOREIGN BOOKa
TA^ Serrei y^arfare of Treemtttoniy
at/aifist Church and Stale. Translated
from the German, x toL ismo }i 50
rk€ Tr^ubiet of Our Cuthotie Fortfaihtrt,
K elated by Themselves. Edited by Rer. J.
Morriss. Second Series, i vol.Sro..... 7 OO
^if {''^'f JScctttia$iitat Secord, A
Monthly JournaL 6 vols., for ^69, '70, ^i, V*
73* 74 ^fO 00
Thm Smthariti and the Christian Life,
Translated from the French. Sf7S
Cniharine Grofrn Older. A Sequel to
" Caxharme Hamilton.*' ^f 25
Oratory ^ymnt ^f 25
TAe Seven Sacraments Explained and De-
fended in Question and Answer 00
Some Semper JSadem,
Michael O Mahony
By Denis Patrick
75
the SptHlof ratlh ; or. What Must I Do to
Believe ? Five Lectures delivered in S. Peter's,
Cardiff, by Bishop Hedley, O.S.B 75
dfe of rather Kenry Young. By Lady
Fullcrtoa ^/ ^-j
The f^ttbllo Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
By the Rev. H. J. Coleridge, S.J. Part I.
SS 25
Our Lady's f>owry; or. How Snfrlaod Gained
and Lost this Title. A Compilation by the
Ker. T. E. Brideett, C.SS.R. Crown 8vo,
486 pa^M. With four illustrations. By H. W.
Brewer, i£sq ^4 sO
^*^ f^*'^neroflhe Temple: or. Discrowned
and Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Morris.
^2 25
f^rgatop^ Surveyed i or, A Particular Ac-
count of the Happy and yet Thrice Unhappy
State cf the Souls There. Edited by Dr. An-
<*«^<*on ...Sf 50
By Felix Cum-
^2 25
Thff i^er feet Lay brother.
pledo
r.ives of the Irish Saints. By Rev. J. O'Han-
loa. N OS. 1, a, 3, 4, 5 6, 7, 8, 9 now ready. Price
PerNo •;.. ^^
Vireetoty for J^oriees of every fieligious
^**'» Parlicularlv those Ifevotedto the
Education of Youth ^^f 25
On Some Popular JS^rrors Concerning
politics and Setigion. By Lord Robert
Montagu, M. P. i vol. lamo ,fj oO
The Letter-JSooks of Sir Amias Toulet,
Keeper of Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited bv
John Morris, S.J. x vol. 8vo S5 25
of Anglican Ordinations
By E. E. Estcourt. M.A.,
of S. — • -> - -^
the dialogues of S. Gregory the Grea
Edited by Ucory James Colendge, S.J. .SS O
Jfqy Taper* ; or. Thoughts on the LiUnies
ot Loreao. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick,
S.J.
The Life of Luisa De Carvc^at. By Ladv
Fallerton S2 50
JfeditaOons of Si.*Anselm. A new Trans-
lation. BjrM.R, With Prelaceby His Grace
the Archbishop of Westminster $2 50
the Question
f>iscussed.
F,A.S., Canon of S. Chad's Cathedral, Bir-
mingham. With an appexidix of original doc-
uments and photograpnic fiicsimiles. i vol.
8vo ^7 00
The Life of the Jflessed John Serehmnns.
By Francis Golde. 1 vol. lamo ^2 50
The T\>pe and the Emperor. Nine Lee
tures delivered in the Church of S. John the
Evanfirelist, Bath. By the Very Rev. J. X.
Sweeney, O.S.B., D.D S/ OO
Ttho is Jesus Christ? Five Lectures deliv-
ered at the Catholic Church, Swansea. By the
Right Rev. Dr. Hedlev, O.S.B.. Bishop Auxil-
iary of Newport and Mene via 65 cis.
Life of Anne Catherine JPmmerich, Bv
Helen Ram. i vol. xamo ^2 50
f^aee through the truth ; or. Essays on
Subjects connected with Dr. Pusey's Eireni-
con. By Rev. T. Harper, S.J. Second Series.
—Part L— Dr. Pusey's First Supposed Papal
Contradiction ; or. The Levitical Krohibitions
of Marriage in their Relation to the Dispens-
ing Power of the Pope, x. The Prologue, t.
Fundamenul Principles. 3. The Issue, con-
taining a detailed examination of Dr. l^sey's
evidence respecting Marriage with a De-
ceased Wife's Sister. 4. Doctrinal Postil. ^.
The Epilogue, x voL 8vo Jf/0 00
First Part S7 50
Meditations on the Life and t)octrine of
Jesus Christ. By Nicholas Avancinus. S.J.
Translated by George Porter, S.J. a vols.
"Ojo ^s 25
The Formation of ChristendomT, Part
Third. By T.W. Allies SS 00
Headings from the Old Testament, for the
use of Students, x vol. xamo 75 els.
ffistoty of the Irish Famine of fSl7, By
Rev. J. O'Rourke. i vol. larao jf4 oo
Home and her Captors
lamo
Letters, x vol.
S2 00
Sossuet and his Contemporaries* i vol.
xatno SO 00
Essays on Catholicism, Liberalism, and
Socialism. Bv John Donoso Cortes. Trans-
lated by Rev. W. McDonald, i vol. xamo,
^S 00
AUGUST 10, 1675.
T7ii8 supersedes all previous Cataloaues. .SP
BOOKS PUBLISHED
BY
The Catholic Publication Society,
9 WAEEEN STEEET, NEW lORK.
.-#-•
p^ In consequence of the increase of postage on books, which look
effect in March this year, we must request all persons ordering
books by mail to accompany the order dy the retail price of the
book.
No books will be sent by mail to booksellers, or others entitled to
a discount, unless at least the money to cover postage accom-
panies the order. '
All the publications of the several Catholic Publishers, both in
this country and in England, kept in stock.
" A wonderful book."— J?<v/tf» Pilot,
Mv Clerical Friends, and their Rela-
tTons to Modem Thought. Content! : Chap.
I. The Vocation of the Clergy.— II. The
Clergy at Home.— III. The Clergy Abroad.
— rvT The Clergy and Modern Thought.
I vol. lamo, 1 oO
By the same author.
Church Defence: Report of a Conference
on the Present Dangers of the Church.
By the author of **My Clerical Friends."
The Comedy of Convocation in the
English Church. In Two Scenes. Edited
by Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D., and dedi-
cated to the Fan-Anglican Sjmod. 8vo,
cloth, 1 00
Biblio^raphia Catholica Americana.
A List of American Catholic Books published
up to the year i8as. By Rev. J. M. Finotti.
I vol. 8vo, 5 00
Nellie Netterville; or^ One of the
Transplanted. A Tale of the Times of Crom-
well in Ireland. By Miss CaddelL x vol.
xsmo. cloth, extra, .... 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
Virild Times, a Tale of the Days of Queen
Elizabeth. By Cecilia Mary CaddclU First
American edition, i vol. xamo, . 1 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
The ProsTOSsionists and Angrela.
From the German of Bolanden. i voL 8vo,
1 50
2 "
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
The NeshitS ; or, A Mother's Last Request,
and Other Tales, x vol. xamo, . . 1 25
Maggie's Bosary, and Other Tales.
(Contents : By the author of " Marion How-
ard." Maggie^s Rosary— The White Angel
— Alabel— Old Morgan's Rose-Tree. From
the French of Sou vcstre. translated by Emily
Bowles : The Sawyer of the Vosges— A Meet-
ing on the Alps— The Godson.) t vol. xamo,
1 00
The Honse of Torkoi A Stoij of
American Life. Cloth, extra, . . 2 00
Cloth, full gilt, 3 00
liittlo Piorre, the Pedlmr <i Ai'icf
Trar, slut erf from the French, tn^i
bv 37 fitsi-dsLSS vfoodcuts. iTJiis n
of thsi hiLTiiifiijintst pttmiuo Uo...»..i = ■ ef
issued In lb J 5 tounirv.) Clolh, exim, 1 ^
Clath. full glJt, . , , , .2 00
Fetcr*a Jaumeyj and Other ^*»Ii«
ami ^ViEfulnms and itSrCooflcq^ieacen- i ^'4
17 ci o, frontj apiece, , . . 1 SO
Cloth, gill, . . - . - 2 Off
Tbe Thredold ^of . the Catholic
L'huTchr A course OT pill Q instnidto^t iu
Iho-it: eatcriTTii* her coT&mtiniaTj By Fr.
Btcr^baw, Wiih preface tiy M%t. C*^
t ¥dL ii:mo, . ^ « , - 1 50
Scrm^Qi on EScclesiastiGal Salijecti.
\ I'L i. Hy ArcLbisbop Matsuiug. C^gj^e
e^^r», ^ SvO
Thft ii4r.ie. Vol, TL, . . . .flii
Tlic IxLtemal Mismoii of t^ BilF
iimii, . , . flOO
A Wmgrcd Wer^ and O^^m StoifA
H\' iht: auttiur of "Tdc HQiit« oi V^^f**^
e-r, , , 1$0
t loih pl^ - . . - . 2 od
Tbe Lifo f>f Saii^t John of tiie Cx««i, e£
the Unier pf dut L^J)- ot MijtiBii tlanit«l •
vol, itimOi^ . * , . * . 1 3S
Life ^iXid Doctrme of Saint C&thArlie
1 vol. iznio, . ^ * ^ * 2 00
Catherine Bamilton. A Tale fbrUitie
Girls. x8mo, 60 cSS.
The Farm of IVnicerOB, and Madamf
Agnes. Translated trom the b reach, t ypt
8vo, cloth, extra, ....
Cloth, gilt,
The French Prisoner^ in^Eteada.
i ranslated from the French by P. 5. One
illustration, z voL x6mo, cloth, extra, 1 M
Cloth, gilt, 1 90
The Spirit of Faith; or, What mwtX
■do to Beliere. By Bishop Head ley. CloCh
60<ti
f
Glory and Sorrow, and Selim the
Pasba of Salonique. Translated from the
French bjr P, S. i voL x6mo, cloth e«t»^»»
wiih two illustrations, . • 1 00
Cloth, gilt 1 qO
Only a Pin. Translated from the
French by a Graduate of St. Joseph's Aca-
demy, Emmittsburg;. i vol. i6mo, cloth
extra, X 00
Cloth, ^lt« . .... 1 50
The Gladstone Controversy. Man-
ning's and Newman » Reply, lamo, cloia,
X 50
The Gladstone Controversy. . Vaogh-
an'sand UUaiUornc's Keply,aud heSblei on
Infallibility, with Syllabus, lamo, cloth,
X 50
IMyrrha Lake $ or, Into the Li^ht of
Catholicity. By Minnie Mary Lee. i vol.
i6mo, X 00
Constance Sherwood t An Antobio-
eraphy of the Sixteenth Century. By Lady
Georgtana Kullerton. With lour illustra-
tions. I vol. 8vo, extra cloth, . . 2 00
Cloth, gilt, 3 00
The Betrothed. From the lulian of Man-
zoni. I vol. xamo, .... X 50
Cloth, gilt, 2 00
French BggM in an Enirludi Basket.
Translated by Emily Bowles, x vol. larao,
X 50
Two Thousand Miles onBorsebacIc
A Summer Tour to the Plains, the Rockv
MouMtains, and New Mexico. By James K.
Meline. i vol. xamo, ... 1 50
Mary Qneen of Scots and Her Lat-
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