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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bTco'sThe Veil Withdrawn, x8.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. 



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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 

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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 



New York, 

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iiitijf. I vol. i2*uo, f ' 



JUST PUBLISHED. 

Tlie Life of Fatlier Bernard, C.SS.R. Traiii*Ui**d from tbft 

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Tlie I4ln;(^l ilififltuay | or, TUe Catholic Churcti the Wiiy iif 8«lr«tiou. 

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The Taliean Deerees and CUil Alleglunee. In Answer > 

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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- 
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m THK DRPAUTKENT OP 

ready-made' clothing, 

Out Custom Rooms are sypplled with the 

IT Sjm BSST FABHiCS OF TBE ROMS AND FORSI0M 

MAUKRTS TO BB 

MADE TO ORDER. 

Wm 4JUC kXAO PHKPAHKD TO KBCBIVR AND BXXCXTTB OKDBBe VOB 

Cassocks and other Clerical Cloiaing, 

\ IHmmnm fui4 C^Oi* w»leb liave lb« vpfiroTia of the Blitiopt anil Clafxy of tbe Clisrete. 



ili' 






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PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD, 

'SBORG. FORT HYl, AND CHICAGO RAMAT 

AND PAN-HANDLE ROUTE. 

JEST, QUICKEST. AND BEST LINE TO CINCINNATI. IX>DISyiLLS, 
ST. LOUIS. CHICAGO, AND ALL PAKT8 OF THE 

West, Northwest, and Southwest. 

^- - ! , ,1 ,„ • ^ .,.;.. j., >^-^^y York at No. .V2(l Broiulwav ; No. 435 Broadwttf^ 

r H6uH© ; No, 8 Bftttt ry Plu<:e . iJepot, tool of Cortland 
, , , -t 8 Street Tickei Otfices in Principal Hotcla. 

SAMUEL CARPENTER. D. M. BOYD. Jr , 

Gen. Ejkiit«rQ Pasa, Ageot* Gen. Pabi* Agent. 



A J CASS ATT, 

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No. 40 Wall Street, 

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Buffalo City, Brooklyn City, Jersey City, Elizabeth City, 

AND OTllEK FIRST-CLASS BONDS. 

70BSIGIT SZCHANGE BOUGET AND SOLD. 

f^^mtmd AfteiitiOD f^n to lovestmi^ntn (m Sarinp fn^titntioTi^, TruHt uDtl Inpiuoiof 
"^^ Cuiupauiua. Coupons tinU Diriilenils coUectod. 



JVOir JtEADY 



CATHOLIC SCHOOL BOOKS 

'^"k Imi CaMe*: MtM M Series." 

The Citholk Fyblic«lion Socktv !u« nowr in presi*, and In Prtptntion, m Nrw SrT'*c 
Hook4, lo &e knowra by i^c Abovistile, whicli i« cupyriitlrud. The t^Unk^jiiff ^^.w^»kc «rc .._ 
for delivery ; • 



The Noting €afhoiic*3 lUni^rtited PHmir,^ 



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Thitul Jiemtei% 
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.ir< minlc 
>t»y« from t Mil 



What iH mvA cvf the '' Youii^ CuthoUe'H IMiistmt^ ReiidcM 

St. tcNATtv^ Coi.i,»tir, 413 1*". Tw* 
CHiCAtiiOs Jlu, Juljr «^, t 

L Kitiion. Esn.. N<*w York : 

theth«nki» of the I'tcuUy for ih« ihre^ 
C ricv '*— I'nmcf, Kif^i Header, >ccond H 

1 1j I : _ V- >4 our schools And my wihh ii ih«t ihr <i 

every C»t,huii«: M^tii^l m tlic States. In hntl«-« very rr«c»«€Hu(] ^« 

J OHM G. VCIlKKltMl, S 

/>wM Mi- Bos fan ** /*iUi,'* 
** Thr TtHftD RF.Ar»r A l« cerTtinly od« of the beitt «'4;boot ririiders we hmve ever •eeii* 
ttbly KrrAngcd. the msIcc Joas ere (niereiting. mid the eof rrnvtog^ e*'<'e Hfe tnd be^ucv tA tv 

/*>^/M B*mvtnon' s ** Krinew^" 
•^Tbe jicrie* U Terr li*f»d»omelv printed •nd dftne tip, n nil wc prcvmn? it'H 1»< • rr*^. - 
with both children end tcActici<i «f \\ will »ftve ihe one *• 
\\\ ^earmnt;, In a word, tUc xeneti 1^ prepared oti m tli 
the lewofiii I ■ the k'veafe^t possible iii m , s * its 10 inx 

» , , ^ ClIontslOTi aitU. Uul 

it<lftft //w, /Arr/ -I**- /*# /•' 

ftHdtve' , : t(m4 for n * v^" 



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nn'tTi"; flir * hi;; fiov 

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recouimtniT i nesc -titui- 



"" •rknowledfftd the rece'pt of the fiMt ibr^-^ "* 
pt of the Third a^id Fourth ReA^dcri.end 1' 
fit them. We can now Mifely aay that 
.^.: ,., i^i» country/' 

F*^m the Chu<ki9 '' PiUt" 



LUCy «1TC ■ 



every Cail»olic school. boy and etfi throughout the land/' «4f 

pr %iB t%4i tor BAtniktcs* Addre«« 

The Callifilii: ruWblion kiely, lamncc Kiihoe. GeDeral A^'iil, 9 Wamn Streri, N 




MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



OP 



'VTTTJAL Literature and Science. 

JUNE. 1875. 

COKTSNTS. 



rAcv 

106 
3^4 



Ri's. 



340 



Xlil Nirw PuMtcAUari», 



' 4' J 
•III 

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Br,.' 









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11, i- 






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CATHULI.C PUBLICATION HOUSE. 
(P. O. Box 5^96,) Ka 9 Wareik StURKT. 




V THE \Mt.RtCAS WPANV 

»i:kt look t« Ttica. t\- . , , „ i s. roR im i uj t/iTi 



Aiinoimcemeiit for 1875. 

The VnthiAw PuUVmitum Society hm m pn^ss tlic foHowitig works^j 
The I.HfHl «r file Cld, frmii iIh^ Frimcli of Frederick fJwitmm I T,a 

I (lino, illusirattnl, •.-••••• ^ ' ' 

Tlic Hiiiril <rr Fallto! or, Whatmnsi l do to B<JlieveT By BUliap 

The Y«HinjK l4i€llf>i* IHoMrmert ReHcU-r* l2inn.c1otl». 

I vnl. 12m'% dor Ik . . - 

Mmiual cif tlie Blenticd f^iic rumen t. 

JUST miKLTSnED. 

Adhemttr tie Belennlel ; or. Be TViil Ha*!) In JMdgl««- 

TninOfii^^l from lU*^ Firiah Uy P. S. Vlmo. illustrated. ^ 
Tlie ttilernnl !llii«»iofi of the Holy CJIiomI. Bv Aril.bi«bup M«n 

hiijir. I vrd l2mo, .Vutl»ori?x»<l tMlilton, 
Tiic l^irr <^f Fiilher BernttrtI, C.l^S.B. Tmn.lai*-d (r-m ... 

FrtMicU. \S'n\i WmtvkM. \ vuK, 

THe :fHfi|re»i* of ^oiiee^ eiilijfUteiii'd upon L^r Din let. C1«U., 
Tlie KUiiS'fi ■llsliWUl' i nr. The C«ibcaic Ci»i.rcl, ihe Way of g^irmiton. 

prnvt-d from Oie Sc.ipuires, Bj Rt-v, A, R Ut^wlt. 1 voK iemi>, , 
A l^efler to lUe OiiUc of !^orfiiik fui Hie Oeeimiott ^^J*; 

GU^latou,^'. Ur-Mil Expu.tulatv.n, Hy Join, t^ary N^wmno. 1).^ 

PMper» . ... 

PoM|i^eri|ft io lli** iilMivt\ inao^^tn I.. VMn<'ftiiiaui, 
Tlie Viilkaii Pieiee* and li%ll AlleBiaiiee. It> Att^w**r to 

Mr. 4lb'dstoiK*. By HU (irac*^ ArrhbihUop M*iuiiH»^-. I T«tL I2inci.piip«r, 
Kt. Rev. Bi«tio|i ¥aiif?liait'ii Reply to Ulr, CihuUloae, I 

vt*L Itliiio. jirtper 

BUIioit nialliortie'* Be|ily to Mr. caadMum. l v i ^^»- 

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Con.r.ver.ml U.ply lo Dr. Scl.uU.- By Dr. J..ei>U F.a.ler l^iu- Bmlit^ 
of St. Poh.^.. in Au*Tr.«,«nd Setr*^Ury.G*-n»^riil of the VnUcii* C011..C.1. 
TfKn^lat.a by AmiPro.*, St. Jolif.. MA , of iIih Oratory of 9u 1 liiMp 
Ner% Et^gV.)ih(.»f>. BiiiningViam. l2iiin, (»«per, 
The !i} llati»«i for the Feo|ile, uUh Coinmein*. By it Mook 

Beliarhe'fi Complete t ateehUm, Trrtn^luud by F.ind*T. • 
The \A,um lath€die> llliiMrated I IHh Reader, 12mo. cloib. 
^^ .. i. " jiiUih Reader. 12aio.elttih, 

The Veil Wltlidra%%n, By Mrs. Cravt- n, lyoLevcj, 
A Trael on Ba|tlUai, 25 cents; jwr 100 cin>ieF. 

The Catliolic Piiblicatiou Noriity, 

LAWRENCE KEHOE, Geo. Agent, g WA RREN ST.. 

~^Wthv iut^ »mml,*'rM of TRE rJTUOIJCmHarH'O^ri 
nt Ihr uHfifuuitton ofict\ \t mtrrm Strffct, Tr^w n/hj CrntM /irr «<o», 

mofoccQ #5. 



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»> 
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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 

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22 



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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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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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rerr cfi : - 


— - 


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= .Jr 


-.-:rti iri:t 


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^ ~ iT'Ll* "^ 


■ .^ " ^ 


T-ru-u 5;: 



_ -. - - - . -1- - ;:SfC -"' 

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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— ? — as- "" -^ X n Jocin?t. 

■- * ■ - - -— . 3l:>v, b«t hi* 

-_ -—, . jst. A IS tOttSii- 

1 -■- — ... •! ~r ae Jivss. OS K 

= ^- -sszaair n its nlc^ 

-^ ^ -"=- - -.- ■• = *H the Bess 

. r-. --.--: ?-■- *. - -J arrskn, iT b 

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— ; - - TT rims^BMi .s espcdai.^ 
... — ' _. -:. ..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 

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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 
feeling which a community of interests 
and dangers engenders, and which is 
drawing the members of the one fold ia 
different lands into closer relations and 
sjTnpathies. 



BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIYEr. 

From D. ft J. Sadubs & Co., New Vodt : Rott It- 
blanc. By Lady Georgiana FuDcrtoa. liac, 
pp. MO.— The Two Victories. By Rer. T. J. 
Potter. Third edition. z6mo, pp T70.— Cffirc's 
Rescue, etc. xSmo, pp. 149.— Tnic to the Ei^ 
z8mo, pp. 150.— The Little Crown of St. Joieph 
Compiled and translated by a Sister of St. JoKpl 
94*00, pp. 347. 

—The Doubk Triumph : A Drama. By R«t. A- 
J. O'Reilly. Paper, x6mo, pp. 66.— The Foiaifi}^ 
ofSebastopol: A Drama. By W. Tandy, D J>. 
Paper, itoo, pp. 70. 

—A PoUdco-Historical Essay oo the Pope* as tk 
Protectors of Popular Liberty. By Houy A 
Brann, D.D. 8vo, pp. 30, paper. 

From G. P. Putnam's Sons, New Vork : PWtoo 
phy of Trinitarian Doctrine. By Rer. A. J. 
Pease, zamo, pp. 183. 

From Lbi ft Shbpaju), Boston : Sodafistic, Coo- 
munistic, Mutualistic, axul Finaodal Fnfaesti. 
By W. B. Greene. z6mo, pp. 271. 

From Keixv, Pibt & Co., Baltimore: Endxc^ 
etc. i8mo, pp. 99.— Trouvaille, etc By L»^ 
Georgiana FuUertoo. xSmo. — Rcparatica, etc 
Same author. 

From the Author: Mansions in the Sb'cs: S^ 
Acrostic Poem on the Lord^s Prayer. By ^- ^' 
Chilton, Jr. zamo, pp. 27. 

From RoberU Brothers, Boston: Through ^ 
year : Thoughts Relating to the Seasons d NV 
ture and the Church. By Rer. H. N. Powi' 
x6mo, pp. 388. 

From Baicsr, Godwin ft Co.. New York; Re- 
ports of the Board of Directors and the Caami- 
tees of the Xavier Union, New Ytvk, etc ^EtS 

From J. W. Schbr.mexuoxx ft Co., New York : Tk 
Mosaic Account of the Creation, the Miruie <t 
To-day; or. New Witnesses of theOseie»« 
Genesis and Science. By Chas. B. Wsnssc- 
1875. 

From HsNRi Oudin, Paris > Les Droits de Pin <t 
les Id^ Modemes. Par VAhb6 Francois Lba- 
net 8vo, pp. xxxix., 394. 

From the Author : The Proposed Raihrty »«* 
Newfoundland: a Lecture. By Rer. Faikr 
Morris. 8to, pp. vi., 46, paper. 



%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. 



NEW AMERICAN BOOKS. 



From June zo to July zo. 



PUBLISHED BY P. F. CUNNINGHAM & SON, PHILADELPHIA. 

I French edition, by & Sister of St. Jcseph. 

zamo» cloth, bevelled V 5* 



Madams de Lavallk's Bequest ; Coun- 
sels to Young Ladies who have com- 
pleted their education. From the Fourth 



PUBLISHED BY THE CATHOLIt PUBLICATION SOCIETY,, NEW YORK. 

Manual of the Blj^ssbd Sacrament $x «» 



FOREIGN BOOKS. 



lk€ Irish SeeUtiaiiieat Record. A 

Monthly Journal. 6 vols., for '69, '70, '7*1 '7a* 
•73/74 ^/O 00 

The Euekariti and ike ,Cikritiian Life, 
Translated from the French ^f 76 

Caikmrine Grott^n Older. A Sequel to 
'' Catharine Hamilton." Sf 2S 

Oratory J^mns ^f 26 

Ike Seren Sacramentt Explained and De- 
fended in Question and Answer 60 

Some Semper Sadem* By Denis Patrick 
Michael UMahony 76 

Jke Spirit of I'aitk ; or. What Must I Do to 
Believe ? Five Leciures delivered in S. Peter's, 
Cardiff, by Bishop Hedley, O.S.B 76 

Life of Fatker Senty Young, By Lady 
Fullerton Jf/ 76 

Tke t^btio Life of Our Lord Jesus Ckrist, 
By the Rev. H. J. Coleridge, SJ. Part I. 

SS 26 

Our Lady** 1>owry; or, How B 'gland Gained 
and Lott this Title. A CompilMtion by the 
Rev. T. a. Bridgett, C.So.R. Crown 8vo, 

t86 paj^et. With four illustrations. By H. W. 
Irewer, i£sq ^J^ 60 

Tke prisoner of Ike Temple: or, Discrowned 
and Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Murris. 

S2 26 

fhtrgalovy Surrtyedf or, A Particular Ac- 
count of the Ha^'py and yet Thrice Unhappy 
Sute of the :>ouls There. Edited by Dr. An- 
derdon Sf 60 

Tke f^erfeet Lqy Srotker, By Felix Cum- 
pledo ^2 26 

Lipts oftkelrisk Saints, By Rev. J. O'Han- 
loa. N OS. I, 3,3, 4,56, 7, 8, 9 DOW ready. Price 
per No 00 

T>ireetory for Novices oferen^ Helipious 
Order y partieuhtrfy tkose Iferoted to tke 
I^dueation of Toutk Sf 26 

On Some f\>pular JBrrors Concerning 
f*ulitios and Tie Jig ion. By Lord Robert 
Montagu, M. P. x vol. lamo SS 00 

Tke Letter- Sooks of^ir simias P^ulet, 
Keeper of Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited by 
John Morris, S.J. i vol. 8vo.. S6 26 

Tke Viatogues of S, Gregory tke Great. 
Edited by Henry James Coleridge, S.J. .SS 00 

JK(W Papers : or. Thoughts on the Litanies 
of Loretto. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick, 
SJ. 

Tke Life •f Zuism T>e CarreUat* By Lady 
FuUerton /^ 60 



Meditations of St. Ansetm. A new Tram. 
lation. By M. R. With Pre&ce by His Gzact 
the Archbishop of Westminster 02 Se 

Tke Question of singlieem Ordi at aO m u 
THseussed, Bv £. K. Estcoort, lf.A., 
F.A.S., Canon of S. Chad's CathedraL Bir- 
mingham. With an appendix of origioal doc- 
uments and photograpnic fiicsimiles. i v«L 
8vo S7 00 

Tke Life of tke Blessed Jokn Bertksmmm. 

By Francis Golde. 1 vol. ismo S2 St 

Tke T\tpe and tke Mmperor, Nine Lee 
tures delivered in the Church of S. John tibc 
Evanselist. Bath. By the Very Rer. j. K. 
Sweeney, O.S.B. D.D #/«a 

}fko is Jesus Ckrist ? Five Lectures debv- 
ered at the Catholic Church, Swansea. By the 
Right Rev. Dr. Hedlev, O.S.B., Bishop Auxil- 
iary of Newport and Menevia 66 eis. 

Life of Anne Catkerine JSsmmeriek, Bv 

Helen Ram. x vol. ismo .02 Sv 

T^ace tkrougk tke Trutk ; or. Essays on 
Subjects connected with Dr. Pusey's ffireoi- 
con. By *" ^ — „ . . . - . 

— Patt J 
Contradiction ; 

of Marriage in their Relation to the Di»peo»- 
inR Power of the Pope. x. The Prologue. ». 
Fundamental Principles. 3. The Issue, coi»> 
taining a detailed examination of Dr. Posey's 
evidence respfecting Marriage with a De- 
ceased Wife's Sister. 4. Doctrinal PottiL 5. 

The Epilogue, x vol. 8vo SfO 00 

First Part 47 S9 

Meditations on tke Life and T>— trims ef 

Jesus Ckrist^ By Nicnolas Avancinos, S.J. 

Translated by George Porter, S.J. a volt 

lamo <fS2S 

Tke Formation of Ckristemdom, P»rt 

Third. By T. W. Allies ...$8 00 

Tteatlings from tke Old Testament, fv ikt 

use of Students, i vol. tamo 75 tts» 

ffistoty of tke Irisk Famine of f 817. By 

Rev. J. O'Rourke. x vol. tamo $i (tO 

Ttome and ker -Captors •• Letters, i voL 

tamo... Si 00 

Sossuet and kis Contemporaries, i roL 

tamo to 00 

Sssqys on Catkolieism, Liberalism, mmd 
Socialism, Bv John Donoao Cortes. Trsas- 
lated by Rtr. W. McDonald, s voL i**Oi 



;is connectea witn ux. rusey a ttirem- 
By Rev. T, Harper. S.J. hecond Series. 
: 1.— Dr. Pusey's First Sapposrd Phpal 
adiction ; or, The Levitical t'rohibitiMH 



JULY 10, 1875. 
Thi9 Buperaedes €M previima CfUalogues. JBBk 



BOOKS PUBLISHED 



The Catholic Publication Society, 

9 WARREN STREET, NEW YORK. 



In consequence of the increase of postage on books, which took 
effect m March this year, we must request all persons ordering 
books by mail to accompany the order by the retail price of the 
booM, 

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."— ^M/<m Pilot, 

MEy Clerieml Friendi, and th^ir ReU- 
Uont to Modem Thought Conteots : Chap. 
LThe Vocation of the Clergy.— II. The 
Clergy at Home —III. The Clergy Abroad. 
— rvT The Clergy and Modern Thought 
t Tol. lamo, ...... 1 oO 

By the same author. 

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CATHOLIC TRACrS. 

100 Tracts,' ---------- |0^ 



.«4« 
«5- 

i6. 

i8. 
«9- 



Religious Indifferentism and its Remedy. 

The Plea of Sincerity. 

The Night before the Forlorn Hope. 

The Pnsoner of Cayenne. 

What Shall I Do to be Saved 

'* The Plea of Uncertainty." 

What My Uncle said about the Pope 

How Shall We Find True Christianity? 

On Catholic Tradition. 

What is to be done in Such a Case ? 

The Senators of Sherburn. 

The Catholic Doctrine of the Real Presence. 

A Conversation on Union among Chris- 
tians. 

The Gospel Door of Mercy. 

What Shall I Do to Become a Christian ? 

The Church and Children. 

A Voice in ihe Night. 

The Gosp'l Church. 

Who is Jesus Christ? 

The Trinity. 

Control your Passions. 

Heroism in the^Sick-Room. 

Is the Sacrifice of the Mass of Human or of 
Divine Institution ? 

Why did God Become Man ? 

The Catholic Church. 



t6. 

ag. 
30. 
3«- 
3«- 
33. 
34. 

IJ: 

39- 
40. 

4«- 
4«. 
43- 
44- 

:i: 

11: 

49> 
50. 



Who Founded the CathoUc Ctarcb > 

The Bxclusaveness of the Cathobc C 

Children and Protestaotim. 

How to Keep Lent. 

Is it Honest? 

What Does the Bible Say F 

The Roman Gathering. 

The Religion I Want. 

How to Have a Happy Christmts. 

Progress and the Pope's Eacrdkal 

How's That? No. I. 

How's That? No. II. 

Popery and the Church. 

Convened by an InfideL 

What think ye of Mary ? Whoas M*t:« 

She^ 
(Bcumenical Cotincila. 
Devotion to Mary a Duty ot Jostict. 
The Dutyof Obeying the Pw. 
The School Question in its l<eUtioB id Q 

tholics. 
The Love ofTeaus Christ 
The PopeTTemporal Power. 
A Short Reading for the Sick. 
Is it True ? 

The Mission of the fresa. 
How to Utilise the Preaa. 



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». Sally Branch. 
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g: 

61. 
69. 

t 
II: 
U: 



How to Find the True Retigioi. ^ 

Saint Worship : The Mediatwa of S»b» 

An Appeal for Christian Ertocauoe. 

Saint Worship : Invocation o( Ssiati 

Practical Piety. 

The Last of the Pope.> 

Baptism. 

How to Make a Good Confesskn. 

Devotion to the Sacred Heart of i«n^ 

No Sect in Heaven. 

Ck»laaramaafce<C 



A MO!«THLY MAGAZINE OP 

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• « i* 



«» 






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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 \ 
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Seion Hall College, 



BOVTU OUANGE, JS.J. 



iriratiOlt Wflh tT«r r- ^.f^.tUi 



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^PPHOBA^TIO?^. 



Wo approvi?. and wish to comtut'ntl in a ii()^ri&I ruiiJii2C>r, tlji» "^ JlAicr Ji. or mi fit- 
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Xew York, AprU tl, l87\ 



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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. 



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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 



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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). 



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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. 



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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- 
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— Alabel— Old Morgan's Rose-Tree. From 
the French of Sou vcstre. translated by Emily 
Bowles : The Sawyer of the Vosges— A Meet- 
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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 
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Cloth, gill, . . - . - 2 Off 

Tbe Thredold ^of . the Catholic 
L'huTchr A course OT pill Q instnidto^t iu 
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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 
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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 
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Pasba of Salonique. Translated from the 
French bjr P, S. i voL x6mo, cloth e«t»^»» 
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Only a Pin. Translated from the 

French by a Graduate of St. Joseph's Aca- 
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extra, X 00 

Cloth, ^lt« . .... 1 50 

The Gladstone Controversy. Man- 
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IMyrrha Lake $ or, Into the Li^ht of 
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A Summer Tour to the Plains, the Rockv 
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Principal Events in the Life «f Mary Stuart. 
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The Lifb and Times of Sixtos the 

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Three Phases of Christian Love. 

The Mother, the Maiden, and the Religious. 
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James Jones. 34mo, cloth, . . 75 cts. 

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125 

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60 cts. 

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Manresai or, The Spiritoal Bzercises 

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POLLOWINO OP CHBXST. 

In Four Books. By Thomas k Kcmpis, with 
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PRAYER-BOOKS. 



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as other important things cot reneraJiy fcrf 

w prayer-books. 



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MOST COMPI.RTE pRAYER^BoOK . 
fUBLISHED. 

ITHOLICSVADB MfiOUllI. 

Manual of Prayers for Daily Use. 

ed from approved sources. New and 

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- edition, conuining Epistles and 

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nue, plain, 90 75 

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KEY OF PAKAPTSBi 

UK the Gate to Eternal Salvation, xamo 
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KTkree Litanies— The Complete Mass, in 
* I and English— Vespers— and the Epls- 

nd Gospels. 

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The Pica of Sincerity. 

The Night before the Forlorn Hope. 

The Prisoner of Cayenne. 

What Shall I Do to be Saved 

" The Plea of Uncertainty." 

What My Uncle said about the Pope. 

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