Full text of "The Catholic world"

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

Off. VOL. XXIV.

, 1876, TO MARCH, 1877.

;>**#* tt.

NEW YORK :
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

9 Warren Street.

1877.

Copyrighted by
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,

1877.

THE NATION PRESS, 2J ROSE STREET, NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

A Bird's-Eye View of Toledo,
A Glimpse of the Adirondacks,
Amid Irish Scenes, .... 384,

\.GK

786
261

59 1
411
136
155

523
490

122

3 22
829
490

3 22

777
657

198
577

843
49

136
131

677
245

799
59i

419
433

746

760
49

" Mary Tudor, 1 " De Vere's, ...
Mivart's " Contemporary Evolution " .
Mivart's " Lessons from Nature,"
Modern Melodists, ... . -03,
Modern Thought in Science, .
Monsieur Gombard's Mistake, . .-45,
Mystical Theology, Thoughts on, . . .

VC3
777
313

8 5 ?
533
667

735

122

677
213
829

245
7 2*

59
96

337

746

547
817

829

677
602

523
190

322
M5
616
786

289

657
735

459
433

56a

418
744
33a
486
173

Archbishop of Halifax, The Late, .
Avila,

Catacombs, Testimony of the, . . 371,
Chaldean Account of the Creation,
Christina Rossetti's Poems, ....
Christmas Gift, The Devil's, ....
Cities, Some Quaint Old, ....
Creation, Chaldean Account of, . . .

Devil's Christmas Gift, The, ....
De Vere's " Mary i udor," ....
Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church, .

Poems, Christina Rossetti's, ....
Poems, Jean Ingelow's,
Poets, The Home Life of,

Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel,
The, ....

Quaint Old Cities, Some, . . .

Rome Stands To-Day, How ....
Russian Chancellor, The, ....

Sainte Chapelle of Paris, The,
Sancta Sophia, ....

Egypt and Israel, The Pontifical Vestments
of,
Errickdale, The Great Strike at, .
11 Evolution, Contemporary," Mivart's, .

Flywheel Bob,

Seville,

Similarities of Physical and Religious Know-
ledge,
Sir Thomas More, ... 75, 270, 353,
Six Sunny Months. . 28, 175, 300, 469, 643,
Some Quaint Old Cities,
Some Eighteenth-Century Poets, The Home-
Life of,
Story of the Far West, A, ....

Great Strike at Errickdale, The,
Guilds and Apprentices, London,

Halifax, The Late Archbishop of, .
Highland Exib. 1 he,
Home-Life of ^ome Eighteenth-Century Poets,
The,
How Rome Stands To-day, ....

Ireland, English Rule in,
Irish Scenes, Amid, .... 384,

Jean Ingelow's Poems, .....
John Greenleaf Whittier, ....

Knowledge, Physical and Religious, Similari-

Testimony of the Catacombs, . . 371
Text- Hooks in Catholic Colleges,
The Devil's Christmas Gift, ....
Thoughts on Mystical Theology,
Three Lectures on Evolution,
Toledo, A Bird's-Eye View of, ...

Unitarian Conference at Saratoga, The,
Unity of the Church, Dr. Knox on,
Up the Nile, 633

What is Dr. Nevin's Position ?
Whittier, John Greenleaf, ....

Year of Our Lord 1876, The, .

" Lessons from Nature," Mivart's, .
Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister,
108, 226, 395, 512, 690,
London Guilds and Apprentices,

POE1

Advent, ' fr >
A Christmas Legend, 54 1
A March Pilgrimage, . 814

Echo to Mary, 129

^RY.

Light and Shadow, .*.

Evening on the Sea-shore, ...

107
iii

Contents.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

PAGE

Alice Leighton, 287

Almanac, Catholic Family, .... 427

Barat, Life of Mother, 432

Brown House at Duffield, The, . .860

Brute", Memoirs of Rt. Rev. S. W. G., . . 142

Catholic Family Almanac, .... 427
Catholic's Latin Instructor, The, . . . 424
Constitutional and Political History of the Unit-
ed States, 287

Creation, The Voice of, 143

Deirdre, ........ 715

Devotion of the Holy Rosary, The, . . 432

Ecclesiastical Discourses, .... 425
Essay Contributing to a Philosophy of Litera-
ture, 431

Every-day Topics, 426

Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, .... 576

Faith of our Fathers, The, .... 714
First Christmas for our Dear Little Ones,

The, 431

Frank Blake, 860

Githa of the Forest, 720

Jesus Suffering, The Voice of, . . .431

Latin Instructor, The Catholic's. . . . 424

Lectures on Scholastic Philosophy, . . .431
Life of Mother Barat, The, . . . .432

Life of Mother Maria Teresa, .... 720

Life and Letters of Sir Thomas More, The, . 428
Linked Lives, ....... 426

Little Book of the Martyrs, The, . . .576

Margaret Roper, ......

Maria Teresa, Life of Mother, . . '.
Memoirs of the Right Rev. Simon Wm. Ga-
briel Brute,

Missale Romanum,

More, Life and Letters of Sir 1 homas, .
My Own Child,

Normal Higher Arithmetic, The, .

Poems : Devotional and Occasional,
Preparation for Death , A,

PAGE
429
720

142
429
428
288

5/6
718

Real Life , 44

Religion and Education, 716

Sacraments, Sermons on the, .
Science of the Spiritual Life, The,
Sermon on the Mount, The, .
Sermons on the Sacraments, .
Short Sermons,

429

43 1
286
432

Silver Pitchers, 144

Songs in the Night, 430

Terra Incognita,
Theologia Moralis,

424

Union with Our Lord, ..... 14-}
United States, Constitutional and Political

History of the, 287

Voice of Creation, The, 143

Vcice of Jesus Suffering, 1 he, . . .431

Wise Nun of Eastonmere,
Wit, Humor, and bhakspeare, .

8fo
717

THE

ATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV., No. 139. OCTOBER, 1876.

MIVART'S "LESSONS FROM NATURE."*

THE condition of what is called
the scientific mind in England to-
day may be described as chaotic.
Its researches begin nowhere and
end nowhere. Its representative
men deny the facts of consciousness,
or misinterpret them, which is equiv-
alent to negation, and thus ignore
the subjective starting point of all
knowledge, while they relegate God
to the domain of the unknowable,
thereby removing from sight the
true end and goal of all inquiry.
Nothing, then, is the Alpha and Ome-
ga of their systems, and it is small
matter of surprise that theirs has
been called the philosophy of nihil-
ism. Yet it is sadly true that the
votaries of scientism (salvddignitate,
O scientia !) are on the increase, and
that Huxley, Spencer, Darwin, and
Tyndall usurp among the fashion-
able leaders of thought, or rather
the leaders of fashionable scientific
thought, to-day, the place lately

* Lessons from Nature as manifested in Mind
and Matter. By St. George Mivart, Ph.D.,
F.R.S.. etc. 8vo, pp. 461. New York : D. Apple-
ton & Co. 1876.

held by Mill, Renan, Strauss, and
Hegel. It is not quite the ton now
to content one's self with denying
the divine inspiration of Holy Writ
or with questioning the Divinity of
Christ. We must iterate our belief
that in matter are to be found the
" promise and potency of every form
and quality of life," or that all liv-
ing things sprang from a primor-
dial homogeneous cell developed in
a primitive plastic fluid eruditely
denominated "protoplasm"; nay,
we must join hands with Herbert
Spencer, and affirm of the First
Cause that it is unknowable and en-
tirely divested of personal attributes.
It is evident that scientism is more
rigorously sceptical than rationalism
or the materialism of the eighteenth
century in a word, that it is su-
premely nihilistic. Being such, it
is worth while to inquire through
what influence it has succeeded in
dominating over so many vigorous
minds, and winning to its standard
the rank and file of non-Catholic
scholars. It presents to the expect-
ant lover of truth a set of interest--

Mivart's "Lessons from Nature''

ing facts which fascinate as well by
their novelty and truth as by the
hope that the " open sesame " which
unearthed them cannot but swell
the list, and that whatever it pro-
nounces upon is irrevocably fixed.
No one can gainsay the value to
science of the brilliant experiments
and interesting discoveries of Prof.
Tyndall, nor underrate the pains-
taking solicitude of Darwin. In-
deed, we are all more or less under
the thraldom of the senses, and the
truths which reach our minds
through that channel come home
with irresistible force. Hence the
allurements of science for the ma-
jority of men, and their complete
subjection to the authority of scien-
tific discoverers. No wonder, there-
fore, that when a slur is cast upon
the supersensible order that order
with which they have neither sym-
pathy nor acquaintance that same
majority are ready to deride the
sublimest truths of Christianity, and
to devour the veriest inanities as
the utterances of sound philosophy.
No wonder that, captivated by the
fast-increasing array of fresh dis-
coveries in the field of physical sci-
ence, they pay to the dreamy specu-
lations of Spencer and Darwin the
homage which is due to their -solid
contributions to science. These
men forget that science is but a
grand plexus of facts which afford
to many a convenient peg on which
to hang a bit of shallow philoso-
phism. The truths of science are
so cogent and obvious that most
men, failing to discriminate between
those truths and unwarranted infer-
ences drawn from them, regard both
with equal respect, and so deem
those who question the latter to be
the sworn foes of the former. It
is this confusion of truth with error,
natural enough under the circum-
stances, that has imparted so much

popularity to the unphilosophic por-
tion of the teachings of Spencer,
Huxley, Tyndall, Proctor, et id genus
omne, and given to the guinea stamp
the value which belongs to the gold.
Moreover, our modern men of sci-
ence have not only introduced us to
the field of their legitimate labors
with a large knowledge of its varied
and interesting features, but have
invested the presentment of their
subject with a glamour which the
splendid rhetorical training of the
schools and universities of England
has enabled them to throw around it.

Such being the anomalous and
insidious blending of truth with
error which characterizes modern
scientific thought in England, we
should welcome the appearance of
any work aiming at the disentangle-
ment of this intricate web, especi-
ally if the ability and scientific cul-
ture of its author give earnest of its
success. Such a work do we find
in that whose title heads this arti-
cle, and whose author, Dr. Mivart,
has already fully attested, in many
a well-written page, his competency
for the task. In his Lessons from
Nature Dr. Mivart has undertaken
the* consideration of the more
salient errors of Herbert Spencer's
philosophy anfl Mr. .Darwin's theory
of descent and evolution. He has
wisely addressed himself in his
opening chapter to a refutation of
the errors which vitiate the sub-
structure of Spencerianism ; for the
basis having been proved to be rot-
ten, we are not surprised at behold-
ing the entire edifice topple to the
ground. This chapter he has enti-
tled " The Starting Point," and sets
out with this theorem for demon-
stration :

"Our own continue J existence is
a primary truth naturally made
known to us with supreme certain-
ty, and this certainty cannot be de-

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature."

nied without involving the destruc-
f ion of all knowledge whatever."

It will be seen from this state-
ment that Dr. Mivart regards his

other words, if we assert of our
knowledge that it is relative i.e.,
purely subjective we affirm an ol>
jective fact; for however much the

opponents as having laid the basis facts of the mind be subjective
of their systems on the quicksands relation to the objects represented,
of the most radical scepticism ; for they become objective in regard to
certainly, if the fact of a TO eyes the mind viewing them as the term
be called in question, all knowledge point of knowledge ; so that to af-
must go by the board, its containing firm of all knowledge that it is pure-
subject being no better than a myth, ly relative is equal to affirming
Those casting a doubt upon the that the knowledge we have of
truth of this proposition are by that knowledge is not the know-
themselves happily styled Agnos- ledge thereof, but a similar modifi-
tics, or know-nothings, and Dr. cation of the mind having no busi-
Mivart includes in the category
such distinguished names as Hamil-

ton, Mansel, Mill, Lewes, Spencer,
Huxley, and Bain. These writers,

ness to look for anything beyond
itself. This surely is a reductio ad
absurdum ; yet such threads and
thrums are made the warp and

one and all, have repeatedly assert- woof of so-called scientific philoso-

phy.

Professor Huxley is the most con-
spicuous champion of this universal

ed the relativity of our knowledge
i.e., its merely phenomenal charac-
ter. They do not deny that we
possess knowledge, but that we can nescience, and Dr. Mivart devotes
predicate nothing as to its absolute himself at greater length to a re-
truth. They claim, indeed, them- view of his principles. Huxley
selves to have sounded the whole says : " Now, is our knowledge of
diapason of human knowledge, but anything we know or feel more or
they regard it only as a mirage less than a knowledge of states of
which appears real to the eye whilst consciousness ? And our whole life
beholding it, but is none the less a is made up of such states. Some
mirage in itself. Dr. Mivart terse- of these states we refer to a cause
ly points out the absurdity of we call ' self,' others to a cause or
this principle of the agnostic phil- causes which may be comprehended
osophy by stating that either this under the title of 'not-self.'^ But
knowledge is absolute i.e., object- neither of the existence of / self
ively valid or has no correspond- nor of that of 'not-self have we,
ing reality outside of the mind, in or can we by any possibility have,
which case it represents nothing any such unquestionable and imm.
ie , is no knowledge at all. Those, diate certainty as we have <

then, who insist upon the relativity

states of consciousness which we

of all knowledge are "in the posi- consider to be their effects."
tion of a man who saws across the utterance is remar
branch of a tree on which he actu-
ally sits, at a point between him-
self and the trunk." For if our

curacies with which it abounds and
for the crudeness of its author's
philosophy. The fact that we im-

knowledge be purely relative, we mediately apprehend <

know it but relatively, and that in the light of passmg sta es FC

relative knowledge of it is in turn that, mediately or by reft

relative, and so on ad infinitum. In view it altogether differently, an,

Mivarts "Lessons from Natikre"

this latter mode certainly affords a
more certain and satisfactory know-
ledge. By reflection, then, or me-
diately, we regard those passing
states as the product of something
enduring and continuous of which
we are in reality conscious, while
experiencing those modifications de-
scribed by Huxley as "passing states
of consciousness." When conscious
of a state we are certainly conscious
of that by which consciousness is
had, or we would be forced to ad-
mit that nothing can be conscious,
than which there could be no great-
er absurdity. The direct conscious-
ness, therefore, which Huxley's
" passing states of consciousness "
would describe, presupposes the con-
sciousness of the organ of those
"passing states" a consciousness
which stands in an a priori relation
to these latter. The chief flaw in
Huxley's reasoning is that, as he
confines consciousness to a mere
modification, and admits no modi-
fied substance as an abiding es-
sence, he must regard mind, so far
as he knows it, as a modification of
nothing modified.

We have not here followed out
the exact line of argument pursued
by Dr. Mivart, whose strictures on
Huxley in regard to his absurd po-
sition must be attentively read in
order to be appreciated ; but we
hope to have indicated enough to
enable the reader to judge of the
fitness of our neoterists to become
the leaders of thought. Having es-
tablished, then, the implied exis-
tence of self in consciousness, Dr.
Mivart proceeds, in a chain of the
most solid reasoning, to marshal
around this central truth those hav-
ing a direct dependence upon it,
and from the admission of which
Huxley had fondly hoped to escape
by perverting the true data of con-
sciousness. Memory is the corner-

stone of all knowledge outside of
direct consciousness, and Dr. Mi-
vart clearly shows that its testimony
is constantly invoked by the most
outspoken nescients, so that, in re-
gard to its echoings, the choice is
absurd between what it attests gen-
erally and the circumscribed field
of operation to which Herbert Spen-
cer seems anxious to confine it.
But Dr. Mivart is satisfied in this
chapter with having demonstrated
the sufficiency of rightly under-
stood consciousness to be the "start-
ing point " of our knowledge of the
objective, and properly dismisses
the argument in these words :

" But it is hoped that the cavils of the
Agnostics have been here met by argu-
ments sufficient to enable even the most
timid and deferential readers and hear-
ers of our modern sophists to hold their
own rational convictions, and to main-
tain they know what they are convinced
they do know, and not to give up a cer-
tain and absolute truth (their intellectual
birthright) at the bidding of those who
would illogically make use of such ne-
gation as a ground for affirming the rela-
tivity of all our knowledge, and conse-
quently for denying all such truths as,
for whatever reason, they may desire to
deny."

To the casual thinker it may ap-
pear that the arguments of Dr. Mi-
vart are somewhat antiquated as
against the strongholds of modern
error ; but the fact additionally illus-
trates the slenderness of the re-
sources with which error comes
equipped to the fray, since, when-
ever there is question of first prin-
ciples, truth can with the same
weapons always assail the vulnera-
ble point in the enemy's armor.
It is true that in point of detail the
ground of conflict has shifted, and
that those who once successfully
opposed the errors of Voltaire, Di-
derot, or Volney, should they sud-
denly appear on the scene now,

Mivarfs "Lessons front Nature"

would have to count themselves out
of the fight ; but with respect to
principles and ultimate expressions,
we find the Agnostics of to-day
ranging themselves side by side
with the Gnostics and Manicheans
of old. So we believe that Dr. Mi-
vart has done well, before approach-
ing the details of the controversy,
to knock the underpinning from the
whole superstructure of modern
error by exposing the falsity of its
principles. At least the procedure
is more philosophical and more sa-
tisfactory to the logical mind.

In his second chapter, entitled
" First Truths," Dr. Mivart lays
down the following proposition :

" Knowledge must be based on
the study of mental facts and on
undemonstrable truths which de-
clare their own absolute certainty
and are seen by the mind to be
positively and necessarily true."
This proposition finds its counter-
part in every text-book of scho-
lastic philosophy from Bouvier to
Liberatore and 'Ton Giorgi, so that
there is no need to follow the
learned author through his very
excellent series of proofs in support
of it. The main points of interest
in the chapter are his arraignment
of Herbert Spencer's faulty basis
of certainty, and the disproof of
Mr. Lewes' theory of reasoning.

Mr. Spencer says (Psychology,
vol. ii. p. 450) :

" A discussion in consciousness proves
to be simply a trial of strength between
different connections in consciousness
a systematized struggle serving to deter-
mine which are the least coherent states
of consciousness. And the result of the
struggle is that the least coherent states
of consciousness separate, while the
mo-st coherent remain together ; forming
a proposition of which the predicate per-
sists in the mind along with its subject.
... If there are any indissoluble con-
nections, lie is compelled to accept them.

If certain states of consciousness abso-
lutely cohere in certain ways, he is ob-
liged to think them in those ways.
Here, then, the inquirer comes down to
an ultimate uniformity a universal law
of thinking."

We have quoted this passage of
Mr. Spencer's at some length, both
for the purpose of exhibiting the
misty, Germanic manner of his ex-
pression, and of calling attention to
Dr. Mivart's neat apd effectual un-
folding of the fallacy which it con-
tains. We presume that Mr. Spen-
cer means by " least coherent states
of consciousness " those proposi-
tions in which the subject and pre-
dicate mutually repel each other,
or, in other words, those which in-
volve a physical or a metaphysical
impossibility. Had he, indeed, stat-
ed his conception in those terms,
he might have avoided Dr. Mivart's
well-aimed shafts, to which his clou-
diness of expression alone exposed
him. A cannon-ball fired from
England to America is the typical
proposition which he offers of "least
cohering states of consciousness."
But every one perceives that the
terms of this proposition involve a
mere repugnance to actual and not
to imagined facts, causing it to
differ in an essential manner, ac-
cordingly, from such a proposition
as 2X2 = 5, against the truth of
which there exists a metaphysical
impossibility. The importance of
the distinction may be realized when
we reflect that there can be no ab-
solute truth so long as we make the
test thereof a mere non-cohering
state of consciousness; for if the
terms of a physically non-possible
proposition do not cohere in con-
sciousness, and if such non-cohe-
rence be the absolute test of non-
truth, that same non-truth must
end with such non-coherence. This
makes truth purely relative, and is

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature."

the legitimate goal of such philoso-
phic speculations as those of Mr.
Spencer, which would make all
knowledge purely relative.

Dr. Mivart distinguishes four sorts
of propositions: " i. Those which can
be both imagined and believed. 2.
Those which can be imagined, but
cannot be believed. 3. Those which
cannot be imagined, but can be be-
lieved. 4. Those which cannot be
imagined and are not believed, be-
cause they are positively known to
be absolutely impossible."

The third of these propositions
finds no place in Mr. Spencer's
enumeration, since, according to
him, it involves " a non-cohering
state of consciousness," or, as he
elsewhere expresses it, is " incon-
ceivable." That there are num-
berless propositions of the third
class described by Dr. Mivart the
intelligent reader may perceive at
a glance, and so infer the absurdity
of Herbert Spencer's " non-coher-
ing states of consciousness" viewed
as a "universal law of thinking."

Thus there is no absolute impos-
sibility in accepting the doctrine of
the multilocation of bodies or of
their compenetrability, though no
effort of the imagination can enable
us to picture such a thing to the
mind. The common belief that
the soul is whole and entire in
every part of the body is " unim-
aginable," but certainly not " incon-
ceivable," since many vigorous and
enlightened minds hold the doctrine
with implicit confidence.

In connection with this subject
Dr. Mivart takes occasion to allude
to Professor Helmholtz's method of
disproving the absoluteness of truth.
He supposes

" beings living and moving along the
surface of a solid body, who are able to
perceive nothing but what exists on this
surface, and insensible to all beyond it.

... If such beings lived on the surface
of a sphere, their space would be without
a limit, but it would not be infinitely
extended ; and the axioms of geometry
would turn out very different from ours,
and from those of the inhabitants of a
plane. The shortest lines which the in-
habitants of a spherical surface could
draw would be arcs of greater circles,"
etc.

We have quoted enough from
the professor to indicate the drift
of his objection. He concludes :
" We may resume the results of
these investigations by saying that
the axioms on which our geometri-
cal system is based are no necessary
truths." Such is the sorry mode of
reasoning adopted by an eminent
man of science in establishing a
conclusion so subversive of the
principles of science. Is it not
evident that, no matter what name
the inhabitants of the sphere de-
scribed by Helmholtz might be-
stow on the " arcs of great cir-
cles," these still would be " arcs,"
and as such those beings would per-
ceive them ? As showing the lack
of uniformity of views which pre-
vail among men of science when it
is question of super-sensible cogni-
tions, Mr. Mill rushes to the oppo-
site extreme from. Herbert Spencer,
and holds that there is nothing to
prevent us from conceiving 2 X 2=5.
In this arraignment of Spencer's
faulty view of the basis of certain-
ty, Dr. Mivart proceeds with care
and acumen, and adroitly pits his
antagonists against each other, or
invokes their testimony in support
of his own views as against them-
selves. *

The other point of interest in
this chapter is the author's refuta-
tion of Mr. Lewes' conception of
reasoning. In his Problems of Life
and Mind Mr. Lewes reduces the
process of reasoning to mere sensi-
ble associations, and entirely over-

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature.

looks the force and significance of
the ergo. He says : " Could we real-
ize all the links in the chain" (of
reasoning) "by reducing concep-
tions to perceptions, and percep-
lions to sensibles, our most abstract
reasonings would be a series of sen-
sation's." This certainly is strange
language for a psychologist, and for-
cibly demonstrates the hold Locke's
sensism still holds over the English
mind. If we can conceive of a
series of sensations in which the
form of a syllogism does not enter
and we experience such many times
daily then surely there is something
more in a train of reasoning than a
mere series of sensations, and that
is the intellectual act of illation de-
noted by ergo. Throughout this
strange philosophism there runs an
endeavor to debase man's intellect
and reduce it to the level of mere
brutish faculties. The dignity of
our common manhood is made the
target of Spencer's speculation and
Mill's subtle reveries, while the grand
work of the church which lifted us
out from the slough of barbarism is
being gradually undone. We must
indeed congratulate Dr. Mivart up-
on having led the way in grappling
with the difficulties with which scien-
tific transcendentalism bristles, and
on having rent the net in which er-
ror strives to hold truth in silken
dalliance.

We come now to the most diffi-
cult and important chapter in the
book viz., that pertaining to the
existence of the external world.
We would premise, before entering
upon an analysis of this chapter,
that nothing short of a slow and
careful perusal of it in the author's
language can convey to the reader
a full impression of the difficulty
and subtlety which attend the terms
of the controversy as waged tripar-
titely between Herbert Spencer, Mr.

Sidgwick, and the author. The
statement of the proposition is sim-
ple enough, viz. :

"The real existence of an external
world made up of objects possessing
qualities such as our faculties declare
they possess, cannot be logically denied,
and may be rationally affirmed."

The terms of this proposition
differ but little from those in which
argument is usually made in sup-
port of the reality of external ob-
jects, but with Dr. Mivart it serves
as the text of a refutation of Mr.
Spencer's theory of " transfigured
realism." Mr. Spencer stoutly pro-
fesses his belief in the realism of
the external world, but distinguishes
his conception of it from the com-
mon crude realism of the majority
as having been by him filtered
through the intellect, and based, not
on the direct data of the senses, but
on these as interpreted by the mind.
According to him, " what we are
conscious of as properties of matter,
even down to its weight and resist-
ance, are but subjective affections
produced by objective agencies
which are unknown and unknowa-
ble." Divested of an involved and
trying terminology, Mr. Spencer's
theory amounts to this : The mind
under the experience of a sensation
is irresistibly borne to admit that it
is not itself the active agent con-
cerned in its production ; for sensa-
tion as a " passing state of con-
sciousness " is not accompanied by
that other "passing state of con-
sciousness " which exhibits the mind
to itself as spontaneously generat-
ing the sensation in question.
Therefore that sensation is derived
ab extra ; therefore its cause, un-
known or unknowable, is something
outside of the mind i.e., has an ob-
jective reality. It is a sort of game
of blind man's buff between the

Mivarfs lt 'Lessons from Nature"

mind and the world, according to
Mr. Spencer we know something
has impressed us, but how or what
we cannot find out.

" Thus the universe, as we know it,"
says Dr. Mivart, ''disappears not only
from our gaze, but from our very thought.
Not only the song of the nightingale, the
brilliancy of the diamond, the perfume
of the rose, and the savor of the peach
lose for us all objective reality these
we might spare and live but the solidity
of the very ground we tread on, nay,
even the coherence and integrity of our
own material frame, dissolve from us,
and leave us vaguely floating in an in-
sensible ocean of unknown potentiality."

This is " transfigured realism "
with a vengeance, and leaves us
somewhat at a loss to know what
can be meant by idealism. It prac-
tically differs not from the doctrine
of Berkeley and Hume ; for it matters
little to us whether external objects
exist or not, if they are in and by
themselves something " unknown
and unknowable," altogether differ-
ent from what we consider them to
be. The radical fault of Mr. Spen-
cer's " transfigured realism " is that
he mistakes sensations themselves
for the act of the mind which is
concerned about them ; and when in
reality he speaks merely of the sen-
sations as such, he imagines he lias
in view purely speculative intellec-
tual acts. Such confusion is quite
natural in a philosopher who recog-
nizes no form of idea but transform-
ed sensation, no purely unimagina-
ble conceivability. This is evident
when he says :

" We can think of matter only in
terms of mind. We can think of mind
only in terms of matter. When we have
pushed our explorations of the first to
the uttermost limit, we are referred to
the second for a &nal answer ; and when
we have got the final answer of the
second, we are referred back to the first
for an interpretation of it."

Thus is he compelled to revolve
in a circular process which makes
the knowledge of mind depend on
the knowledge of matter, and vice ver-
sa. How admirably does the scho-
lastic theory of the origin of thought
dissipate the clouds which befog Mr.
Spencer throughout this discus'sion,
and prevent him from seeing to what
consequences he blindly drifts ! The
unseen, the unfelt, the unheard are
each and all absolutely nothing, so
that sense alone can determine re-
ality. Such is the philosophy of
Mr. Spencer ; and there can be no
wonder that upon an analysis of
premises he finds that, having set
out from nothing, he lands upon
the same unreal shore. Scholasti-
cism the philosophy which at the
present time is returning into un-
expected though much deserved
vogue, superseding in the high-
est intellectual circles the tenuity of
Kant's unrealism and the sensism
of Locke and Condillac proposes
an explanation of the relation of
the external world to the intellect
through the medium of the senses,
which cannot but elicit the endorse-
ment of every logical mind. Just at
the point where Spencer modifies
his subjective sensible impression
received from the external world,
in such a manner that he can find
nothing corresponding to it outside
of himself, the scholastic supposes
the active intellect to seize this
phantasm or sensible image, and,
having so far divested it of its sen-
sible qualities as to fit it to become
the object of pure cognition, offers
it to the mind cognitive for such
cognition, which, as the true cog-
nitive faculty, pronounces it to be
the type or exemplar of the object,
and this lie calls the verbum mentis,
or idea of the thing. The created
light of our intellect, which is itself
a participation in the uncreated di-

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature.

vine light, enables us to see and
judge of what is exhibited to it
through the organs of sense, sur-
veying it, measuring it, and pene-
trating its general essence so far as
to be able to perceive that it is the
spiritualized resemblance of the ob-
ject which primarily produced the
sensation.

We do not here propose to offer
any of the usual arguments in sup-
port of this system, apart from the
palpable fact that it appears to offer
to ea^h faculty, sensitive and intel-
lective, appropriate material for
operation, but to contrast its ade-
quacy with the confessed impotency
of Spencer's " transfigured real-
ism." And, indeed, not only is this
latter impotent but eminently falla-
cious. In endeavoring to prove
that the mind transfigures its sensa-
tions in such a manner that there
can exist no correspondence be-
tween the sensation and the object,
Mr. Spencer allows the decision to
rest on his test-case of sound. With
respect to the sensation produced
on the auditory nerve by aerial un-
dulations, he says that " the subjec-
tive state no more resembles its
objective cause than the pressure
which moves the trigger of a gun
resembles the explosion which fol-
lows." And again, summarizing the
argument, he says : " All the sen-
sations produced in us by environ-
ing things are but symbols of ac-
tions out of ourselves, the natures
of which we cannot even conceive."
The fallacy of this statement it is
not difficult to perceive; for Mr.
Spencer rules out the action of the
intellect, which can alone determine
the value and significance of a sen-
sation, and takes account only of
the sensation itself, deeming it able
to pronounce upon its own corre-
spondence with its exciting object.
Indeed, there can be no more corre-

spondence between a visual object
and the sense of vision than there
can be between sound and a vibra-
tion of the air, except in so far as
the mind pronounces this to be the
case after a due investigation of ilie
respective conditions pertaining to
both sensations. It is the mind
alone which can determine that the
sensation we call sound is the re-
sult of air undulations, just as it is
the mind which determines that the
color and outline of visual objects
are as represented in vision. The
fault, therefore, of Mr. Spencer's
view is that, having constituted sen-
sation the sole and sufficient judge
of its own objective validity and
correspondence with external ob-
jects, he is compelled at once to fly
to his chosen refuge and cherished
haven of the " unknown and the
unknowable." Again is he guilty
of another transparent fallacy when
he asserts that a series of successive
independent sensations are mis-
taken for a whole individual one,
which we accordingly speak of as
such. The instance he adduces is
that of musical sound, " which is,"
he says, " a seemingly simple feel-
ing clearly resolvable into simpler
feelings." The implied inference
is that, since experience proves this
not to be a simple feeling, but re-
solvable into simpler ones, there
can be no reciprocity between our
sensations and their exciting causes.
This reasoning might be accredited
with ingenuity, were it not so ex-
tremely shallow. For what is a
sensation but that which we feel ?
And if we feel it as one, it must be
one. It matters not if each sepa-
rate beat, contributing to produce
musical sound, should, when heard
alone, produce a feeling different
from that caused by the combina-
tion of beats, since it is none the
less true that the rapid combination

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature'

produces a sensation which is felt
as one, and necessarily is one in
consequence. Mr. Spencer seems
to forget that causes in combina-
tion can produce results entirely
different from those to which each
cause separately taken can give
rise ; or, as Dr. Mivart says, " All
that Mr. Spencer really shows and
proves is that diverse conditions
result in the evocation of diverse
simple perceptions, of which per-
ceptions such conditions are the
occasions." Mr. Spencer's posi-
tion, bolstered up as it is by the
minutest analysis of mental con-
sciousness and by a wealth of mar-
vellously subtle reasoning, is after
all but a prejudice. He is indis-
posed to admit aught but sensation,
and hence plies his batteries against
every other element which dares
obtrude itself into the domain of
thought. How suggestive of this
fact are the following words :

" It needs but to think of a brain as a
seat of nervous discharges, intermediate
between actions in the outer world and
actions in the world of thought, to be
impressed with the absurdity of suppos-
ing that the connections among outer
actions, after being transferred through
the medium of nervous discharges, can
reappear in the world of thought in the
forms they originally had."

With Dr. Mivart we ask, " Where
is the absurdity?" For surely He
who made the brain might, if he
saw fit, and as the facts prove, have so
made it that it would perform its
functions in this very identical
manner. The steps of the process
by which the results of nervous
action are appropriated by the mind
in the shape of knowledge will
necessarily remain an inscrutable
mystery for ever, but that is no
reason why they should not be ac-
complished in any manner short
of that involving a contradiction.

This ends what we wish to say con-
cerning Dr. Mivart's chapter on
the " External World." He has not
endeavored to shirk a single phase
of the discussion with his formidable
opponents, and we feel that if he
has worsted them in the encounter,
his triumph is as much the inevitable
outcome of the truth of the cause
which he has espoused as it is of
the undoubted abilities he has ex-
hibited throughout the course of the
hard-fought contest.

So pregnant with material for
thought are the different chapters
of Dr. Mivart's book that we have
thus far been unable to get beyond
the opening ones, nor do their di-
versified character allow of a kin-
dred criticism. Thus, from the
consideration of the " External
World " the author at once pro-
ceeds to a few reflections on lan-
guage in opposition to the Darwin-
ian theory of its progressive forma-
tion and development. We wish
we could bestow on the whole of
this chapter the same unqualified
praise which his previous chapters
merit; for, though partaking of the
same general character of careful-
ness and research which belongs to
all Dr. Mivart's writings, in it he
rather petulantly waves aside one of
the strongest arguments and most
valuable auxiliaries which could be
found in support of his position.
The proposition is to this effect :
" Rational language is a bond of
connection between the mental and
material world which is absolutely
peculiar tD man." He first con-
siders language under its twofold
aspect of emotional and rational,
the latter alone being the division
alluded to in the proposition. With
the view, however, of facilitating
his encounter with Darwin, he makes
six subdistinctions which, though
true, seem to overlap at times, or

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature"

at least are gratuitous, since they
are not needed for the purpose of
their introduction. Mr. Darwin
has exhibited, in his effort to make
language a mere improvement on
the gutturals and inarticulate sounds
of animals, less of his accustomed
ingenuity than elsewhere, so that
any amount of concession might
have been made to him, and yet
the orthodox view on the subject
have been left intact. And this we
deem the wiser procedure in such
cases ; for less expenditure of force
is required if the outer entrench-
ments can be passed by without a
struggle, and siege laid at once to
the inner fortress itself. In one
point of the argument Dr. Mivart
gets the better of Darwin so neatly
as to remind us of a carte blanche
thrust in fencing. Mr. Darwin re-
marks that man, in common with
the lower animals, uses, in order to
express emotion, cries and gestures
which are at times more expressive
than any words, thus asserting an
innate equality between both, if not
even the superiority of the emotion-
al over the rational language, and
thereby insinuating that, in point of
origin, there could not have been
any difference between them. Dr.
Mivart replies that certainly emo-
tional language is more expressive
when it is question of expressing
emotion. " But what," he asks,
" has that to do with the question
of definite signs intelligently given
and understood ?" The fact that
man uses emotional language in
common with other animals proves
nothing beyond the additional fact
that he too is an animal, which is
not the question ; the question be-
ing whether in addition he pos-
sesses exclusively another faculty
viz., that of rational language, sui
generis radically different from the
emotional. Mr. Darwin's argument

is thus representable : a and a (ani-
mality) -f x (rational language) =
a and a.

The passage in this chapter to
which we reluctantly take excep-
tion is the following : " I actually
heard Professor Vogt at Norwich
(at the British Association meeting
of 1868), in discussing certain cases
of aphasia, declare before the whole
physiological section : ' J?e ne com-
pr ends pas la parole dans unhommequi
ne parle pas ' a declaration which
manifestly showed that he was not
qualified to form, still less to ex-
press, any opinion whatever on the
subject." Now, we are of opinion
that, rightly understood and inter-
preted in the light of the most re-
cent researches, these words con-
vey a deep and significant truth.
Dr. Mivart is anxious, in the inter-
est of truth, to maintain intact
and entire the essential difference
between emotional and rational lan-
guage, and this we believe he might
best do by investigating and adapt-
ing the facts of aphasia. Apha-
sia declares that language-func-
tion is confined to some portion
of the anterior convolution of
the brain a source or centre
of nerve-power altogether distinct
from the vesicular or gray portion
of the cerebral substance which is
concerned in the production of
thought and all purely intellectual
processes. This being the case,
whenever we discover a lesion of
the anterior convolution, and find
it accompanied with impaired abi-
lity of speech, we also find inability
to conceive such thoughts as those
of which words are the sole symbol
and sensible signs. The researches
made by Trousseau, Hammond, and
Ferrier prove that the faculty of
language is thus localized, the ana-
tomical region being somewhere in
the neighborhood of the island of

Mivarfs "Lessons from Nature"

Reil ; and though Bro \vn-Sequard,
a physiologist whose opinion is en-
titled to great consideration, differs
from this view, the fact that more
than five hundred cases as against
thirteen favor the opinion is suffi-
cient guarantee of its probable
truth.

The distinction here is not suffi-
ciently kept in sight between ob-
jects of thought which are denoted
by some symbol besides the articu-
late word, and those which can be
represented in words alone. All
material objects, or such as are
found amid material environments,
belong to the former class, and of
course need no words to become
known. Their material outlines
and specific sensible qualities suffi-
ciently reveal them to the mind
without any spoken language ; for
these individualize, differentiate,
and circumscribe the object, and
that is the whole function of lan-
guage. When, however, it is ques-
tion of purely intellectual concep-
tions, such as obtain throughout the
range of metaphysics, these are so
bound up with their expression that,
this being lost, the thought disap-
pears with it. This theory, long
since broached by De Bonald, finds
unexpected support in the facts of
aphasia. There are two forms of
aphasia, the one amnesic, involv-
ing the loss of the memory of words,
the other ataxic, or inability to co-
ordinate words in coherent speech.
The latter form is met with often
separately, and under those condi-
tions the study of this phenomenon
becomes more interesting. We then
see that all idea of relation has dis-
appeared, because it being a purely
intellectual idea, having no sensible
sign to represent it, its expression
being lost to the mind, the thought
perishes at the same time. Hence
words are confusedly jumbled by

the patient without the slightest
reference to their meaning. The
researches of Bouillaud,Dax, Hugh-
lings, Jackson, Hammond, Flint,
and Seguin all tend to establish
the close dependence of thought
and language, and to justify the ut-
terance of Prof. Vogt which Dr.
Mivart quotes with so much disap-
probation, or to lend force to the
dictum of Max Miiller, that " with-
out language there can be no
thought." We have merely touch-
ed upon this interesting subject of
aphasia, as a lengthened considera-
tion of it would carry us beyond
our limits ; but we hope to have
stated enough to show that Dr.
Mivart was, to say the least, rash
in dismissing its teachings so sum-
marily. We will, however, do him
the justice of saying that he con-
clusively proves the essential differ-
ence between emotional and ra-
tional language, and the absurdity
of regarding the latter as a mere
development of the former. He
has done this, too, by citing authori-
ties from the opposing school, and
the labors of Mr. Taylor and Sir
John Lubbock are made to do yeo-
man's service against Mr. Darwin.

We have thus far followed Dr.
Mivart step by step through the
opening chapters of his book, and
have found at each point of our
progress abundant materials for re-
flection. The field he has surveyed
with close-gazing eye is varied and
extensive ; and though many glean-
ers will come after him laden with
fresh sheaves of toilsome gather-
ing, to him belongs the credit of
having garnered the first crop of
Catholic truth from the seeds which
modern science planted. He has
done this service, too, for philo-
sophy : that he has enabled us to
view modern speculations in the
light of the grand old principles of

Seville.

scholastic philosophy, and dispelled
the clouds of sophistry which filled
up and gilded over the cranks and
crannies of modern error. He has
appreciated au juste the drift and
meaning of that false science which
strives to make the beautiful facts
of nature the basis of a pernicious
philosophy. Not a few of our
orthodox friends have hitherto
failed to discern the real germ of
falsity in the speculations of such
men as Tyndall and Huxley and
Spencer. They felt that the con-
clusions arrived at by those writers
are false, subversive of reason and
morality, but, not being sufficiently
versed in the premises wherewith
those conclusions were sought to
be connected, they were obliged
either to hold themselves to a silent
protest or to carp and snarl with-
out proof or argument to offer.

We should remember that, though
principles rest the same, con-
sequences assume Protean shapes,
according as a sound or a perverse
logic deduces them; and such is
the invariable necessity imposed
upon the champions of truth that
they must, from time to time, cast
aside weapons which have done
good service against a vanquished
foe, and fashion others to deal a
fresh thrust wherever they find a
flaw in the newly-fashioned armor
of error. Catholic thinkers must
keep abreast of the times, and we
hope that henceforth the opponents
of scientism will abandon sarcasm
and invective, and, approaching their
subject with a fulness of knowledge
which will compel the respect of
their adversaries, proceed in their
work, even as Dr. Mivart has done,
with dignity and moderation.

SEVILLE.

Quien novisto a Sevilla
No ha visto a maravilla.

OUR first glimpse of the soft-
flowing Guadalquivir was a dis-
appointment a turbid stream be-
tween two flat, uninteresting banks,
on which grew low bushes that had
neither grace nor dignity. It need-
ed its musical name and poetic as-
sociations to give it any claim on
the attention. But it assumed a
better aspect as we went on. Im-
mense orchards of olive-trees, soft
and silvery, spread wide their
boughs as far as the eye could see.
The low hills were sun-bathed ;
the valleys were fertile ; moun-
tains appeared in the distance,
severe and jagged as only Spanish
mountains know how to be, to give

character to the landscape. Now
and then some old town came in
sight on a swell of ground, with an
imposing gray church or Moorish-
looking tower. At length we came
to fair Seville, standing amid orange
and citron groves, on the yerybanks
of the Guadalquivir, with numer-
ous towers that were once minarets,
and, chief among them, the beauti-
ful, rose-flushed Giralda, warm in
the sunset light, rising like a stately
palm-tree among gleaming white
houses. The city looked worthy
of its fame as Seville the enchan-
tress Encantadora Sevilla !

We went to the Fonda Etiropa,
a Spanish-looking hotel with a patio

Seville.

in the centre, where played a foun-
tain amid odorous trees and shrubs,
and lamps, already lighted, hung
along the arcades, in which were
numerous guests sauntering about,
and picturesque beggars, grouped
around a pillar, singing some old
ditty in a recitative way to the
sound of their .instruments. Our
room was just above, where we
were speedily lulled to sleep by
their melancholy airs, in a fashion
not unworthy of one's first night in
poetic Andalusia. What more, in-
deed, could one ask for than an
orange-perfumed court with a splash-
ing fountain, lamps gleaming among
the trailing vines, Spanish caballeros
pacing the shadowy arcades, and
wild-looking beggars making sad
music on the harp and guitar ?

Of course our first visit in the
morning was to the famed cathe-
dral. Everything was charmingly
novel in the streets to our new-
world eyes the gay shops of the
Calk de las Sierpes, the Broadway
of Seville, which no carriage is al-
lowed to enter; the Plaza^ with its
orange-trees and graceful arcades;
and the dazzling white houses, with
their Moorish balconies and pretty
courts, of which we caught glimpses
through the iron gratings, fresh and
clean, with plants set around the
cooling fountain, where the family
assembled in the evening for music
and conversation.

We soon found ourselves at the
foot of the Giralda, which still calls
to prayer, not, as in the time of the
Moors, by means of its muezzin,
but by twenty-four bells all duly
consecrated and named Santa
Maria, San Miguel, San Cristobal,
San Fernando, Santa Barbara, etc.
which, from time to time, send a
whole wave of prayer over the city.
It is certainly one of the finest towers
in Spain, and the people of Seville

are so proud of it that they call it
the eighth wonder of the world,
which surpasses the seven others :

Tu, maravilla octava, maravillas
A las pasadas siete maravillas.

The Moors regarded it as so
sacred that they would have de-
stroyed it rather than have it fall
into the hands of the Christians,
had not Alfonso the Wise threaten-
ed them with his vengeance should
they do so. Its strong foundations
were partly built out of the statues
of the saints, as if they wished to
raise a triumphant structure on the
ruins of what was sacred to Chris-
tians. The remainder is of brick,
of a soft rose-tint, very pleasing to
the eye. The tower rises to the
height of three hundred and fifty
feet, square, imposing, and so solid
as to have resisted the shock of
several earthquakes. Around the
belfry is the inscription :

NOMEN DOMINI FORTISSIMA TURRIS

the name of the Lord is a
strong tower. It is lighted by
graceful arches and ascended by
means of a ramp in the centre,
which is so gradual that a horse
could go to the very top. We found
on the summit no wise old Egyp-
tian raven, as in Prince Ahmed's
time, with one foot in the grave,
but still poring, with his knowing
one eye, over the cabalistic dia-
grams before him. No ; all magic
lore vanished from the land with
the dark-browed Moors, and no'.v
there were only gentle doves, soft-
ly cooing in less heathenish notes,
but perhaps not without their spell.
On the top of the tower is a
bronze statue of Santa Fe, four
teen feet high, weighing twenty-
five hundred pounds, but, instead
of being steadfast and immovable,
as well-grounded faith should be,
it turns like a weather-cock, veer-

Seville.

ing with every wind like a very
straw, whence the name of Giralda.
Don Quixote makes his Knight of
the Wood, speaking of his exploits
in honor of the beautiful Casilda,
say : " Once she ordered me to
defy the famous giantess of Se-
ville, called Giralda, as valiant and
strong as if she were of bronze, and
who, without ever moving from her
place, is the most changeable and
inconstant woman in the world. I
went. I saw her. I conquered her.
I forced her to remain motionless, as
if tied, for more than a week. No
wind blew but from the north."

At the foot of this magic tower
is the Patio de las Naranjas an
immense court filled with orange-
trees of great age, in the midst of
which is the fountain where the
Moors used to perform their ablu-
tions. It is surrounded by a high
battlemented wall, which makes the
cathedral look as if fortified. You
enter it by a Moorish archway, now
guarded by Christian apostles and
surmounted by the victorious cross.
Just within you are startled by a
thorn-crowned statue of the Ecce
Homo, in a deep niche, with a lamp
burning before it. The court is
thoroughly Oriental in aspect, with
its fountain, its secluded groves,
the horseshoe arches with their
arabesques, the crocodile suspend-
ed over the Puerta del Lagarto, sent
by the Sultan of Egypt to Alfonso
the Wise, asking the hand of his
daughter in marriage (an ominous
love-token from which the princess
naturally shrank) ; and over the
church door, with a lamp burning
before it, is a statue of the Oriental
Virgin whom all Christians unite
in calling Blessed- here specially
invoked as Nuestra Seilora de los
Remedios. The Oriental aspect of
the court makes the cathedral with-
in all the more impressive, with its

Gothic gloom and marvels of west-
ern art. It is one of the grandest
Gothic churches in the world. It
is said the canons, when the ques-
tion of building it was discussed
in 1401, exclaimed in full chapter:
" Let us build a church of such di-
mensions that every one who be-
holds it will consider us mad !"
Everything about it is on a grand
scale. It is an oblong square four
hundred and thirty-one feet long
by three hundred and fifteen wide.
The nave is of prodigious height,
and of the six aisles the two next
the walls are divided into a series
of chapels. The church is lighted
by ninety-three immense windows
of stained glass, the finest in Spain,
but of the time of the decadence.
The rites of the church are per-
formed here with a splendor only
second to Rome, and the objects
used in the service are on a cor-
responding scale of magnificence.
The silver monstrance, for the ex-
position of the Host, is one of the
largest pieces of silversmith's work
in the kingdom, with niches and
saints elaborately wrought, sur-
mounted by a statuette of the Im-
maculate Conception. The bronze
tenebrario for Holy Week is twelve
feet high, with sixteen saints array-
ed on the triangle. The Pascal
candle, given every year by the
chapter of Toledo in exchange for
the palm branches used on Palm
Sunday, is twenty-five feet high,
and weighs nearly a ton. It looks
like a column of white marble, and
might be called the " Grand Due
des chanddles" as the sun was term-
ed by Du Bartas, a French poet of
the time of Henry of Navarre. On
the right wall, just within one of
the doors, is a St. Christopher,
painted in the sixteenth century,
thirty-two feet high, with a green
tree for a staff, crossing a mighty

Seville.

current with the child Jesus on
his shoulder, looking like an infant
Hercules. These gigantic St. Chris-
tophers are to be seen in most of
the Spanish cathedrals, from a be-
lief that he who looks prayerfully
upon an image of this saint will
that day come to no evil end :
Christophorum irideas ; posted tutus
eas Christopher behold; then may-
est thou safely go ; or, according
to the old adage :

Christophori sancti, speciem quicumque tuetur,
Ista nemp die non morte mala morietur.

These colossal images are at first
startling, but one soon learns to
like the huge, kindly saint who
walked with giant steps in the paths
of holiness ; bore a knowledge of
Christ to infidel lands of suffering
and trial, upheld amid the current
by his lofty courage and strength
of will, which raised him above or-
dinary mortals, and carrying his
staff, ever green and vigorous, em-
blem of his constancy. No legend
is more beautifully significant, and
no saint was more popular in an-
cient times. His image was often
placed in elevated situations, to
catch the eye and express his
power over the elements, and
lie was especially invoked against
lightning, hail, and impetuous
winds. His name of happy au-
gury the Christ-bearer was given
to Columbus, destined to carry a
knowledge of the faith across an
unknown deep.

This reminds us that in the pave-
ment near the end of the church is
the tombstone of Fernando, the son
of Christopher Columbus, on which
are graven the arms given by Fer-
dinand and Isabella, with the
motto : A Castillo, y a Leon, mundo
nucvo dio Colon. Over this stone
is erected the immense monument o
for the Host on Maundy Thurs-

day, shaped like a Greek temple,
which is adorned by large statues,
and lit up by nearly a thousand
candles.

This church, though full of sol-
emn religious gloom, is by no
means gloomy. It is too lofty
and spacious, and the windows, es-
pecially in the morning, light it up
with resplendent hues. The choir,
which is as large as an ordinary
church, stands detached in the
body of the house. It is divided
into two parts transversely, with a
space between them for the laity,
as in all the Spanish cathedrals.
The part towards the east contains
the high altar, and is called the
Capilla mayor. The other is the
Coro, strictly speaking, and con-
tains the richly-carved stalls of the
canons and splendid choral books.
They are both surrounded by a
high wall finely sculptured, except
the ends that face each other,
across which extend re/as, or open-
work screens of iron artistically
wrought, that do not obstruct the
view.

The canons were chanting the
Office when we entered, and looked
like bishops in their flowing purple
robes. The service ended with a
procession around the church, the
clergy in magnificent copes, heavy
with ancient embroidery in gold.
The people were all devout. No
careless ways, as in many places
where religion sits lightly on the
people, but an earnestness and de-
votion that were impressive. The
attitudes of the clergy were fine,
without being studied ; the group-
ing of the people picturesque. The
ladies all wore the Spanish mantilla,
and, when not kneeling, sat, in true
Oriental style, on the matting that
covered portions of the marble
pavement. Lights were burning
on nearly all the altars like con-

Seville.

stellations of stars all along the
dim aisles. The grandeur of the
edifice, the numerous works of
Christian art, the august rites of
the Catholic Church, and the de-
votion of the people all seemed in
harmony. Few churches leave
such an impression on the mind.

In the first chapel at the left,
where stands the baptismal font, is
Murillo's celebrated " Vision of St.
Anthony," a portion of which was
cut out by an adroit thief a few
years ago, and carried to the
United States, but is now replaced,
It is so large that, with a " Bap-
tism of our Saviour " above it by the
same master, it fills the whole side
of the chapel up to the very arch.
It seemed to be the object of gen-
eral attraction. Group after group
came to look at it before leaving
the church, and it is worthy of its
popularity and fame, though Mr.
Ford says it lias always been over-
rated. Theophile Gautier is more
enthusiastic. He says :

" Never was the magic of painting car-
ried so far. The rapt saint is kneeling
in the middle of his cell, all the poor de-
tails of which are rendered with the vig-
orous realism characteristic of the Span-
ish school. Through the half-open
door is seen one of those long, spacious
cloisters so favorable to reverie. The
upper part of the picture, bathed in a
soft, transparent, vaporous light, is filled
with a circle of angels of truly ideal
beauty, playing on musical instruments.
Amid them, drawn by the power of
prayer, the Infant Jesus descends from
cloud to cloud to place himself in the
arms of the saintly man, whose head is
bathed in the streaming radiance, and
who seems ready to fall into an ecstasy
of holy rapture. We place this divine
picture above the St. Elizabeth of Hun-
gary cleansing the teigneux, to be seen
at the Royal Academy of Madrid ; above
the 'Moses'; above all the Virgins and
all the paintings of the Infant Jesus by
this master, however beautiful, however
pure they be. He who has not seen the
'St. Anthony of Padua' does not know
VOL. XXIV. /

the highest excellence of the painter of
Seville. It is like those who imagine
they know Rubens and have never seen
the ' Magdalen ' at Antwerp."

We passed chapel after chapel
with paintings, statues, and tombs,
till we came to the Capilla Real,
where lies the body of St. Ferdi-
nand in a silver urn, with an inscrip-
tion in four languages by his son,
Alfonso the Wise, who seems to
have had a taste for writing epi-
taphs. He composed that of the
Cid.

St. Ferdinand was the contem-
porary and cousin-german of St.
Louis of France, who gave him the
Virgen de los Reyes that hangs in-
this chapel, and, like him, added
the virtues of a saint to the glories-
of a warrior. He had such a ten-
der love for his subjects that he
was unwilling to tax them, and
feared the curse of one poor old
woman more than a whole army of
Moors. He took Cordova, and
dedicated the mosque of the foul
Prophet to the purest of Virgins.
He conquered Murcia in 1245 ;
Jaen in 1246; Seville in 1248; but
he remained humble amid all his
glory, and exclaimed with tears on
his death-bed : u O my Lord ! thou
hast suffered so much for the love-
of me ; but I, wretched man that I
am ! what have I done out of love
for thee ?" He died like a crimi
nal, with a cord around his neck and
a crucifix in his hands, and so ven-
erated by foes as well as friends
that, when he was buried, Mo-
hammed Ebn Alahmar, the founder
of the Alhambra, sent a hundred
Moorish knights to bear lighted
tapers around his bier a tribute of
respect he continued to pay him 1
on every anniversary of his death.
And to this day, when the body of
St. Ferdinand, which is in a re-
markable state of preservation, is

Seville*

exposed to veneration, the troops
present arms as they pass, and the
flag is lowered before the conquer-
or of Seville.

The arms of the city represent
St. Ferdinand on his throne, with
SS. Leander and Isidore, the pa-
trons of Seville, at his side. Below
is the curious device No 8 Do
.a rebus of royal invention, to be
seen on the pavement of the beau-
tiful chapter-house. When Don
Sancho rebelled against his father,
Alfonso the Wise, most of the cities
joined in the revolt. But Seville
remained loyal, and the king gave
it this device as the emblem of its
fidelity. The figure 8, which re-
presents a knot or skein madeja
in Spanish between the words No
and Do, reads : No madeja do, or
.No m'ha dejado, which, being in-
terpreted, is : She has not abandoned
me.

St. Ferdinand's effigy is right-
fully graven on the city arms ; for it
<was he who wrested Seville from
Mahound and restored it to Christ,
to use the expression on the Puerta
de la Came :

Condidit Alcides ; renovavit Julius urbera,
Restituit Christo Fernandus tertius Heros.

Alcides founded the city, Julius
Caesar rebuilt it, and Ferdinand
III., the Hero, restored it to Christ ;
a proud inscription, showing the
-antiquity of Seville. Hercules him-
self, who played so great a role in
Spain, founded it, as you see; its
historians say just two thousand
two hundred and twenty-eight years
;after the creation of the world. On
:the Puerta de Jerez it is written:
"Hercules built me, Julius Caesar
surrounded me with walls, and the
Holy King conquered me with the
aid of Garcia Perez de Vargas."
Hercules' name has been given to
^one of the principal promenades of

the city, where his statue is to be
seen on a column, opposite to an-
other of Julius Caesar.

The above-mentioned Garcia
Perez and Alfonso el Sabio are
both buried in the Royal Chapel.
Close beside it is the chapel of the
Immaculate Conception, with some
old paintings of that mystery, which
Seville was one of the foremost
cities in the world to maintain.
Andalusia is the true land of the
Immaculate Conception, and Se-
ville was the first to raise a cry of
remonstrance against those who
dared attack the most precious pre-
rogative of the Virgin. Its clergy
and people sent deputies to Rome,
and had silence imposed on all who
were audacious enough to dispute
it. And when Pope Paul V. pub-
lished his bull authorizing the fes-
tival of the Immaculate Conception,
and forbidding any one's preaching
or teaching to the contrary, Seville
could not contain itself for joy, but
broke out into tournaments and ban-
quets, bull-fights and the roaring of
cannon. When the festival came
round, this joy took another form,
and expressed itself in true Oriental
fashion by dances before the Virgin,
as the Royal Harper danced before
the ark. Nor was this a novelty.
Religious dances had been prac-
tised from remote times in Spain.
They formed part of the Mozarabic
rite, which Cardinal Ximenes re-
established at Toledo, authorizing
dances in the choir and nave. St.
Basil, among other fathers, approv-
ed of imitating the tripudium ange-
lornm the dance of the angelic
choirs that

" Sing, and, singing in their glory, move. 1 '

At the Cathedral of Seville the
choir-boys, called Los Seises the
Sixes used to dance to the sound
of ivory castanets before the Host

Seville.

on Corpus Christi, and in the cha-
pel of the Virgin on the 8th of
December, when they were dressed
in blue and white. Sometimes they
sang as they danced. One of their
hymns began : " Hail, O Virgin,
purer and fairer than the dawn or
star of day ! Daughter, Mother,
Spouse, Maria! and the Eastern
Gate of God !" with the chorus :
" Sing, brothers, sing, to the praise
of the Mother of God ; of Spain
the royal patroness, conceived with-
out sin!" There was nothing pro-
fane in this dance. It was a kind
of cadence, decorous, and not with-
out religious effect. Several of the
archbishops of Seville, however, en-
deavored to suppress it, but the
lower clergy long clung to the cus-
tom. Pope Eugenius IV., in 1439,
authorized the dance of the Seises.
St. Thomas of Villanueva speaks
approvingly of the religious dances
of Seville in his day. They were
also practised in Portugal, where
we read of their being celebrated
at the canonization of St. Charles
Borromeo, as in Spain for that of
St. Ignatius de Loyola. These,
however, were of a less austere cha-
racter, and were not performed in
church. In honor of the latter,
quadrilles were formed of children,
personifying the four quarters of
the globe, with costumes in accord-
ance. America had the greatest
success, executed by children eight
or ten years old, dressed as mon-
keys, parrots, etc. tropical Ame-
rica, evidently. These were varied
in one place by the representation
of the taking of Troy, the wooden
horse included.

The Immaculate Conception is
still the favorite dogma of this re-
gion. Ave Maria Purissima ! is
still a common exclamation. There
are few churches without a Virgin
dressed in blue and white ; few

houses without a picture, at least,
of Mary Most Pure. There are
numerous confraternities of the
Virgin, some of whom come together
at dawn to recite the Rosario de la
Aurora. Among the hymns they
sing is a verse in which Mary is
compared to a vessel of grace^ of
which St. Joseph is the sail, the
child Jesus the helm, and the oars
are the pious members, who de-
voutly pray :

1 ' Es Maria la nave de gracia,

San Jose la vela, el Nino el timon ;

Y los remos son las buenas almas

Que van al Rosario con gran devocion."

There is another chapel of Our
Lady in the cathedral of Seville, in
which is a richly-sculptured retable
with pillars, and niches, and sta-
tues, all of marble, and a balus-
trade of silver, along the rails of
which you read, in great silver let-
ters, the angelic salutation : AVE
MARIA !

At the further end of one of the
art-adorned sacristies hangs Pedro
de Campafia's famous " Descent
from the Cross," before which Mu-
rillo loved to meditate, especially in
his last days. Joseph of Arimathea
arid Nicodemus, in deep-red man-
tles, let down the dead Christ. St.
John stands at the foot ready to
receive him. Tire Virgin is half
fainting. Magdalen is there with
her vase. The figures are a little
stiff, but their attitudes are expres-
sive of profound grief, and the pic-
ture is admirable in coloring and
religious in effect, as well as inter-
esting from its associations. It
was once considered so awful that
Pacheco was afraid to remain before
it after dark. But those were days
of profound religious feeling; now
men are afraid of nothing. And
it was so full of reality to Murillo
that, one evening, lingering longer
than usual before it, the sacristan

Sc vilU\

came to warn him it was time to
close the church. " I am waiting,"
said the pious artist, rousing from
his contemplation, " till those holy
men shall have finished taking
down the body of the Lord." The
painting then hung in the church
of Santa Cruz, and Murillo was
buried beneath it. This was de-
stroyed by Marshal Soult, and the
bones of the artist scattered.

In the same sacristy hang, on
opposite walls, St. Leander and his
brother Isidore, by Murillo, both
with noble heads. The latter is
the most popular saint in Spain
after St. James, and is numbered
among the fathers of the church.
Among the twelve burning suns,
circling in the fourth heaven of
Dante's Paradiso, is "the arduous
spirit of Isidore," whom the great
Alcuin long before called " Hes-
perus, the star of the church
Jubar Ecdesice, sidus Hesperitz."
The Venerable Bede classes him
with Jerome, A than as i us, Augustine,
and Cyprian; and it was after dictat-
ing some" passages from St. Isidore
that he died.

St. Isidore is said to have been
descended from the old Gothic
kings. At any rate, he belonged
to a family of saints, which is bet-
ter; his sister and two brothers
being in the calendar. His saintly
mother, when the family was exil-
ed from Carthagena on account of
their religion, chose to live in Se-
ville, saying with tears : " Let me
die in this foreign land, and have
my sepulchre here where I was
brought to the knowledge of God !"
It is said a swarm of bees came to
rest on the mouth of St. Isidore
when a child; as is related of seve-
ral other men celebrated for their
mellifluence Plato and St. Am-
brose, for example. Old legends
tell how he went to Rome and back

in one night. However that may
be, his mind was of remarkable
activity and compass, and took in
all the knowledge of the day. He
knew Greek, Latin, and Hebrew,
and wrote such a vast number of
works as to merit the title of
Doctor Egregius. There are two
hundred MSS. of his in the Biblio-
theque Royale at Paris, and still more
at the Vatican, to say nothing of
those in Spain. His great work,
the Etymologies, in twenty books,
is an encyclopaedia of all the learn-
ing of the seventh century. Joseph
Scaliger says it rendered great ser-
vice to science by saving from de-
struction what would otherwise
have been irretrievably lost.

The account of St. Isidore's
death, celebrated by art, is very
affecting. When he felt his end
was drawing near, he summoned
two of his suffragans, and had him-
self transported to the church of
San Vicente amid a crowd of cler-
gy, monks, and the entire popula-
tion of Seville, who rent the air
with their cries. When he arrived
before the high altar, he ordered
all the women to retire. Then one
of the bishops clothed him in sack-
cloth, and the other sprinkled him
with ashes. In this penitential
state he publicly confessed his
sins, imploring pardon of God,
and begging all present to pray
for him. " And if I have offended
any one," added he, " let him par-
don me in view of my sincere re-
pentance." He then received the
holy Body of the Lord, and gave
all around him the kiss of peace,
desiring that it might be a pledge
of eternal reunion, after which he
distributed all the money he had
left to the poor. He was then ta-
ken home, and died four days after.*

* Roelas' masterpiece, the Transit o de San 1st-
doro y in the church of that name, represents this

Seville.

On the church in which this
touching scene occurred is repre-
sented San Vicente, the titular, with
the legendary crow which piloted
the ship that bore his body to Lis-
bon, with a pitchfork in its mouth.
Mr. Ford, whose knowledge of
saintly lore is not commensurate
with his desire to be funny, thinks
" a rudder would be more appro-
priate," not knowing that a fork
was one of the instruments used to
torture the " Invincible Martyr."
Prudentius says : " When his body
was lacerated by iron forks, he only
smiled on his tormentors ; the pangs
they inflicted were a delight; thorns
were his roses ; the flames a refresh-
ing bath ; death itself was but the
entrance to life."

Near the cathedral is the Alcazar,
with battlemented walls, and an out-
er pillared court where pace the
guards to defend the shades of
past royalty. As we had not then
seen the Alhambra, we were the
more struck by the richness and
beauty of this next best specimen
of Moorish architecture. The fret-
work of gold on a green ground,
or white on red ; the mysterious
sentences from the Koran ; the cu-
rious ceilings inlaid with cedar ;
the brilliant azulejos ; the Moorish
arches and decorations; and the
secluded courts, were all novel,
and like a page from some East-
ern romance. The windows look-
ed out on enchanting gardens,
worthy of being sung by Ariosto,
with orange hedges, palm-trees,
groves of citrons and pomegran-
ates, roses in full bloom, though in

solemn scene. The dying saint is on the steps of
the altar, supported by two bishops, who look all
the more venerable from contrast with the fresh
bloom of the beautiful choir-boys behind ; the mul-
titude is swaying with grief through the long, reced-
ing aisles ; and, in the opening heavens above, ap-
pear Christ and the Virgin, ready to receive him
into the glory of which we catch a glimpse. It is a
picture that can only be compared to Domenichino's
" Last Communion of St. Jerome."

January; kiosks lined with bright
azulejos, and a foil main in the cen-
tre ; fish playing in immense mar-
ble tanks, tiny jets of water spring-
ing up along the paths to cool tne
air, a bright sun, and a delicious
temperature. All this was the cre-
ation of Don Pedro the Cruel, aid-
ed by some of the best Moorish
workmen from Granada. Here
reigned triumphant Maria de Pa-
dilla, called the queen of sorcerers
by the people, who looked upon
Don Pedro as bewitched. When
she died, the king had her buried
with royal honors shocking to say,
in the Cap ill a Real, where lies Fer-
nando the Saint ! Her apartments
are pointed out, now silent and de-
serted where once reigned love and
feasting yes, and crime. In one
of the halls it is said Don Pedro
treacherously slew Abou Said, King
of the Moors, who had come to
visit him in sumptuous garments
of silk and gold, covered with jew-
els slew him for the sake of the
booty. Among the spoils were
three rubies of extraordinary bril-
liancy, as large as pigeons' eggs,
one of which Don Pedro after-
wards gave the Black Prince ; it is
now said to adorn the royal crown
of England.

Tli ere is a little oratory in the
Alcazar, only nine or ten feet square,
called the Capilla de los Azulejos,
because the altar, retable, and the
walls to a certain height, are com-
posed of enamelled tiles, some of
which bear the F and Y, with the
arrows and yoke, showing they were
made in the time of Isabella the
Catholic. The al':ar-piece repre-
sents the Visitation. In this cha-
pel Charles V. was married to Isa-
bella of Portugal.

No one omits to visit the hospi-
tal of La Caridad, which stands on
a square by the Guadalquivir, with

Seville.

five large pictures on the front, of
blue and white azulejos, painted
after the designs of Murillo. One
of them represents St. George and
the dragon, to which saint the build-
ing is dedicated. This hospital was
rebuilt in 1664 by Miguel de Ma-
fiara in expiation of his sins ; for he
had been, before his conversion, a
very Don Juan for profligacy. In
his latter days he acquired quite a
reputation for sanctity, and some
years since there was a question
of canonizing him. However, he
had inscribed on his tomb the
unique epitaph : " Here lie the
ashes of the worst man that ever
lived in the world." He was a
friend of Murillo's, and, being a man
of immense wealth, employed him
to adorn the chapel of his hospital.
Marshal Soult carried off most of
these paintings, among which was
the beautiful " St. Elizabeth of Hun-
gary," now at Madrid ; but six still
remain. " Moses smiting the Rock "
and the " Multiplication of the
Loaves and Fishes " are justly noted,
but the most beautiful is the picture
of San Juan de Dios staggering home
through the dark street on a stormy
night, with a dying man on his
shoulder. An angel, whose hea-
venly radiance lights up the gloom
with truly Rembrandt coloring, is
aiding him to bear his burden.

There is a frightful picture among
these soft Murillos, by Juan Valdes
Leal, of a half-open coffin, in which
lies a bishop in magnificent ponti-
fical robes, who is partially eaten
up by the worms. Murillo could
never look at it without compress-
ing his nose, as if it gave out a
stench. The "Descent from the
Cross " over the altar is exquisitely
carved and colored. Few chapels
contain so many gems of art, but
the light is ill-adapted for display-
ins: them.

This hospital was in part founded
for night wanderers. It is now an
almshouse for old men, and served
by Sisters of Charity.

Among other places of attraction
are the palace of the Duke de Mont-
pensier and the beautiful grounds
with orange orchards and groves
of palm-trees. Then there is the
house of Murillo, bright and sunny,
with its pleasant court and marble
pillars, still the home of art, owned
by a dignitary of the church.

The Casa de Pilatos is an elegant
palace, half Moorish, half Gothic,
belonging to the Duke of Medina
Celi, said to have been built by a
nobleman of the sixteenth century,
in commemoration of a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem, after the plan of Pi-
late's house. Perhaps the name
was given it because the public sta-
tions of the Via Crucis, or Way of
Bitterness, as the Spanish call it,
begin here, at the cross in the
court. The Pretorian chapel has a
column of the flagellation and burn-
ing lamps ; and on the staircase, as
you go up, is the cock in memory
of St. Peter. Beautiful as the pa-
lace is, it is unoccupied, and kept
merely for show.

It would take a volume to de-
scribe all the works of art to be
seen in the palaces and churches
of Seville. We will only mention
the Jesus Nazareno del Gran Poder
of great power at San Lorenzo,
a statue by Montanes, which is car-
ried in the processions of Holy
Week, dressed in black velvet broi-
dered with silver and gold, and
bearing a large cross encrusted with
ivory, shell, and pearl. Angels,
with outspread wings, bear lanterns
before him. The whole group is
carried by men so concealed under
draperies that it seems to move of
itself. We had not the satisfaction
of witnessing one of these proces-

Seville.

sions, perhaps the most striking in
the world, with the awful scenes of
the Passion, the Virgin of Great
Grief, and the apostles in their tra-
ditional colors ; even Judas in yel-
low, still in Spain the color of in-
famy and criminals.

Of course we went repeatedly to
the Museo of Seville; for we had
specially come here to see Murillo
on liis native ground. His statue is
in the centre of the square before
it. The collection of paintings is
small, but it comprises some of the
choicest specimens of the Seville
school. They are all of a religious
nature, and therefore not out of
place in the church and sacristy
where they are hung part of the
suppressed convent of La Merced,
founded by Fernando el Santo in
the thirteenth century. The cus-
todian who ushered us in waved
his hand to the pictures on the op-
posite wall, breathing rather than
saying the word Murillo! with an
ineffable accent, half triumph, half
adoration, and then kissed the ends
of his fingers to express their deli-
cious quality. He was right. They
are adorable. We recognized them
at a glance, having read of them for
long years, and seen them often in
our dreams. And visions they are
of beauty and heavenly rapture,
such as Murillo alone could paint.
His refinement of expression, his
warm colors and shimmering tints,
the purity and tenderness of his
Virgins, the ecstatic glow of his
saints, and the infantine grace and
beauty of his child Christs, all
combine to make him one of the
most beautiful expressions of Chris-
tian art, in harmony with all that
is mystical and fervid. He has
twenty-four paintings here, four of
which are Conceptions, the subject
for which he is specially renowned.
Murillo is emphatically the Pain-

ter of the Immaculate Conception.
When he established the Academy
of Art at Seville, of which he and
Herrera were the first presidents,
every candidate had to declare his
belief in the Most Pure Conception
of the Virgin. It was only three
months before Murillo's birth that
Philip IV., amid the enthusiastic-
applause of all Spain, solemnly
placed his kingdom under the pro-
tection of the Virgen concebida sin
peccado. Artists were at once in-
spired by the subject, and vied with
each other in depicting the

u Woman above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast."

But Murillo alone rose to the full
height of this great theme, and he
will always be considered zs,par ex-
cellence, the Pintor de las Conceptions.
He painted the Conception twenty-
five times, and not twice in the
same way. Two are at Paris, seve-
ral in England, three at Madrid,
and four in this museum, one of
which is called the Perla a pearl
indeed. Innocence and purity, of
course, are the predominant expres-
sions of these Virgins, from the
very nature of the subject. Mary
is always represented clothed in
flowing white robes, and draped
with an azure mantle. She is
radiant with youth and grace, and
mysterious and pure as the heaven
she floats in. Her small, delicate
hands are crossed on her virginal
breast or folded in adoration. Her
lips are half open and tremulous.
She is borne up in a flood of silvery
light, calmly ecstatic, her whole
soul in her eyes, which are bathed
in a humid languor, and her beau-
tiful hair, caressed by the wind, is
floating around her like an aureola
of gold. The whole is a vision as
intoxicating as a cloud of Arabian
incense. It is a poem of mystical

Seville.

love the very ecstasy of devo-
tion.

Mtirillo's best paintings were
done for the Franciscans, the great
defenders of the doctrine of the
Immaculate Conception. From
the Capuchins of Seville perhaps
he derived his inspiration. They
were his first patrons. He loved
to paint the Franciscan saints, as
well as their darling dogma. Such
subjects were in harmony with his
spiritual nature. He almost lived
in the cloister. Piety reigned in
his household. One of his sons
took orders, and his daughter,
Franc isca, the model of some of
his virgins, became a nun in the
convent of the Madre de Dios.

Among his paintings here is one
of " St. Francis at the foot of the
Cross," trampling the world and its
vanities under his feet. Our Sav-
iour has detached one bleeding
hand from the cross, and bends
down to lay it on the shoulder of
the saint, as if he would draw him
closer to his wounded side. St.

one stormy night to beg for the
poor brethren of his convent, and
met a child radiant with goodness
and beauty, who gave him a loaf
and then disappeared. This pic-
ture is the perfection of what is
called Murillo's vaporous style.
The Spanish say it was painted con
leche y sangre with milk and blood.

The Serviettd) so famous, is
greatly injured. It is said to
have been dashed off on a nap-
kin, while waiting for his dinner,
and given to the porter of the con-
vent. If so, the friars' napkins
were of very coarse canvas, as
may be seen where the paint has
scaled off. The Virgin, a half-
length, has large, Oriental eyes, full
of intensity and earnestness.

Opposite is St. Thomas of Villa-
nueva, giving alms to the poor,
with a look of compassionate feel-
ing on his pale, emaciated face, the
light coming through the archway
above him with fine effect. The
beggars around him stand out as
if in relief. One is crawline up

Francis is looking up with a whole to the saint on his knees, the upper
world of adoring love in his eyes, part of his body naked and brown

of self-surrender and abandon
his attitude. Though sombre in
tone, this is one of the most ex-

from exposure. A child in the
corner is showing his coin to his
mother with glee. Murillo used

pressive and devotional of pictures, to call this his picture, as if lie pre-
and, once seen, can never be forgot- ferred it to his other works,
ten.
Then

there is St. Felix, in his
brown Franciscan dress, holding
the beautiful child Jesus in his
arms. When we first saw it, the
afternoon sun, streaming through
the windows, threw fresh radiance
over the heavenly Madonna, who
comes lightly, so lightly ! down

St. Thomas was Archbishop of
Valencia in the sixteenth century,
and a patron of letters and the arts,
but specially noted for his exces-
sive charity, for which he is sur-
named the Almsgiver. His ever-
open purse was popularly believed
to have been replenished by the
angels. When he died, more than

through the luminous ether, borne eight thousand poor people follow-
by God's angels, slightly bending ed him to the grave, filling the air
forward to the saint, as if with
special predilection. A wallet of

bread is at his feet, in reference to
the legend that St. Felix went out

with their sighs and groans. Pope
Paul V. canonized him, and order-
ed that he should be represented
with a purse instead of a crosier.

Seville.

Murillo's SS. Justa and Rufina
are represented with victorious
palms of martyrdom, holding be-
tween them the Giralda, of which
they have been considered the spe-
cial protectors since a terrible
storm in 1504, which threatened
the tower. They are two Spanish-
looking maidens, one in a violet
dress and yellow mantle, the other
in blue and red, with earthen dishes
around their feet. They lived in
the third century, and were the
daughters of a potter in Triana, a
faubourg of Seville, on the other
side of the river, which has always
been famous for its pottery. In the
time of the Arabs beautiful azulejos
were made here, of which speci-
mens are to be seen in some of the
churches of Seville. In the six-
teenth century there were fifty man-
ufactories here, which produced
similar ones of very fine lustre, such
as we see at the Casa de Pilatos.
Cervantes celebrates Triana in his
Rinconete y Cortadillo. It is said to
derive its name, originally Trajan a,
from the Emperor Trajan, who was
born not far from Seville. It has
come down from its high estate,
and is now mostly inhabited by gyp-
sies and the refuse of the city.
The potteries are no longer what
they once were. But there is an
interesting little church, called
Santa Ana, built in the time of
Alfonso the Wise, in which are
some excellent pictures, and a curi-
ous tomb of the sixteenth century
made of azulejos. It was in this
unpromising quarter the two Chris-
tian maidens, Justa and Rufina,
lived fifteen hundred years ago or
more. Some pagan women coming
to their shop one day to buy vases
for the worship of Venus, they re-
fused to sell any for the purpose,
and the women fell upon their stock
of dishes and broke them to pieces.

The saints threw the images of
Venus into the ditch to express
their abhorrence. Whereupon the
people dragged them before the
magistrates, and, confessing them-
selves to be Christians, they were
martyred.

There are two St. Anthonies here
by Murillo, one of which is specially
remarkable for beauty and intensity
of expression. The child Jesus
has descended from the skies, and
sits on an open volume, about to
clasp the saint around the neck.
St. Anthony's face seems to have
caught something of the glow of
heaven. Angels hover over the
scene, as well they may.

There are several paintings here
by the genial Pacheco, .the father-
in-law of Velasquez; among others
one of St. Peter Nolasco, the tutor
of Don Jayme el Conquistador, go-
ing in a boat to the redemption of
captives. The man at the prow is
Cervantes, who, with the other
beaux esprits of the day, used to as-
semble in the studio of Pacheco, a
man of erudition and a poet as
well as a painter. Pacheco was a
familiar of the Inquisition, and in-
spector of sacred pictures. It was
in the latter capacity he laid down
rules for their representation, among
which were some relating to paint-
ings of the Immaculate Conception
(he lias two paintings of this sub-
ject in the museum), which were
generally adhered to in Spain. The
general idea was taken from the
woman in the Apocalypse, cfothed
with the sun, having the moon
under her feet, and upon her head
a crown of twelve stars. The Vir-
gin was to be represented in the
freshness of maidenhood, with grave,
sweet eyes, golden hair, in a robe
of spotless white and a blue man-
tle. Blue and white are the tradi-
tional colors of the Virgin. In the

Seville.

unchanging East Lamartine found
the women of Nazareth clad in a
loose white garment that fell around
them in long, graceful folds, over
which was a blue tunic confined at
the waist by a girdle a dress he
thought might have come down
from the time of the patriarchs.

But to return to Pacheco. It
was he who, in the seventeenth cen-
tury, took so active a part in the
discussion whether St. Teresa, just
canonized, should be chosen as the
Compatrcna of Spain. Many main-
tained that St. James should con-
tinue to be considered the sole pa-
tron, and Quevedo espoused his
cause so warmly that he ended by
challenging his adversaries to a
combat en champ clos, and was in
danger of losing his estates. Pa-
checo, as seen by existing manu-
scripts, wrote a learned theological
treatise against him, taking up the
cause of St. Teresa, which proved
victorious. She was declared the
second patron of Spain by Philip
III. a decision re-echoed by the
Spanish Cortes as late as 1812. All
the prominent men of the day took
part in this discussion, even artists
and literary men, as well as politi-
cians and the clergy.

The place of honor in the mu-
seum is given to Ziirbaran's " Santo
Tomas," a grand picture, painted for
the Dominican college of Seville.
In the centre is St. Thomas Aqui-
nas, in the Dominican habit, rest-
ing on a cloud, with the four doc-
tors of the church, in ample flowing
robes, around him. He holds up
Ins pen, as if for inspiration, to
the opening heavens, where appear
Christ and the Virgin, St. Paul and
St. Dominic. Below, at the left,
is Diego de Deza, the founder of
the college, and other dignitaries;
while on the right, attended by
courtiers, is Charles V., in a splen-

did imperial mantle, kneeling on a
crimson cushion, with one hand
raised invokingly to the saint. The
faces are all said to be portraits of
Ziirbaran's time; that of the empe-
ror, the artist himself. The coloring
is rich, the perspective admirable,
the costumes varied and striking,
and the composition faultless.

Zurbaran has another picture
here, of a scene from the legend
of St. Hugo, who was Bishop of
Grenoble in the time of St. Bruno,
and often spent weeks together at
the Grande Chartreuse. Once he
arrived at dinner-time, and found
the monks at table looking despair-
ingly at the meat set before them,
which they could not touch, it be-
ing a fast-day. The bishop, stretch-
ing forth his staff, changed the fowls
into tortoises. The white habits
and pointed cowls of the monks,
and the varied expressions of their
faces, contrast agreeably with the
venerable bishop in his rich epis-
copal robes, and the beauty of the
page who accompanies him.

The masterpiece of the elder
Herrera is also here. Hermene-
gildo, a Gothic prince of the sixth
century, martyred by order of his
Arian father, whose religion he had
renounced, is represented ascend-
ing to heaven in a coat of mail,
leaving below him his friends SS!
Leandro and Isidore, beside whom
is his fair young son, richly attired,
gazing wonderingly up at his saint-
ed father as he ascends among a
whole cloud of angels. This pic-
ture was painted for the high altar
of the Jesuits of Seville, with
whom Herrera took refuge when
accused of the crime of issuing
false money. It attracted the ar-
tistic eye of Philip IV. when he
came to Seville in 1624. He ask-
ed the name of the artist, and,
learning the cause of his reclusion

Seville.

sent for him and pardoned him,
saying that a man who had so
much talent ought not to make a
bad use of it.

There is no sculpture in the gal-
lery of Seville, except a few sta-
tues of the saints the spoils of
monasteries, like the paintings.
The finest thing is a St. Jerome,
furrowed and wasted by penance,
laying hold of a cross before which
he bends one knee, with a stone in
his right hand ready to smite his
breast. This was done for the
convent of Buenavista by Torrigi-
ano, celebrated not only for his
works, but for breaking Michael
Angelo's nose. He was sent to
Spain by his protector, Alexander
VI., who was a generous patron of
the arts. Goya considered this

statur superior to Michael Ange-
.'o's Mcs.es.

Cur last hours at Seville were
spent before all these works of -a-
cred art, each of which has its own
special revelation to the soul; and
then we went to the cathedral.
The day was nearly at an end.
The chapels were all closed. The
vast edifice was as silent as the
grave, with only a few people h-re
and there absorbed in their devo-
tions. The upper western win-
dows alone caught a few rays of
the declining sun, empurpling the
arches. The long aisles were full
of gloom. We lingered awhile, like
Murillo, before "Christ descending
from the Cross," and then went back
to the Fond.i Europa with regret in
our hearts.

Six Sunny Months.

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE," "GRAPES AND THORNS, ' 3TC.

CHAPTER IV. CONTINUED.

MR. BAILEY had finally, after some
management, got Bianca quite to
himself, and, discovering that they
had mutual friends, and that she
liked those parts of his writings
which he considered the best, the
two were quite over the threshold
of a ceremonious acquaintance, and
talking together very amicably.

" You may stay to supper, if you
will," the Signora whispered to him.
" But don't say so, because I shall
not ask any one else. Get yourself
out of sight somewhere."

" Fly with me !" he said tragical-
ly to Bianca. "May we go to the
loggia, Signora?"

She nodded.

" If you will watch the windows,
and come in the instant I call you;
and if that child will get something
on the way to put over her head
and shoulders."

The two stole out of the draw-
ing-rooms with all the merry pleasure
of children playing a prank.

" Stop a moment !" the young
man said when they reached the
sala. " See how this room, almost
encircled by brightly-lighted cham-
bers, looks like the old moon in the
new moon's arms. Isn't it pretty ?"

They passed the dining-room, tra-
versed the long western wing, went
up a little stair, and found them-
selves on the roof of a building
that had been added to the house
and used as a studio for sculptors.
A balustrade ran across one side,

and at the side opposite a door en-
tered an upper room of the studio.
The two connecting sides, the one
toward the west and that next the
house, had trellises, over which
morning-glory vines were running.
A few pots of flowers and a chair
or two completed the furniture of
the place. Below, the garden and
vineyard pressed close against its
walls, breathing perfume, and just
stirring the evening air with a deli-
cate ripple of water and a whisper
of leaves.

Bianca leaned on the balustrade
and wished she were alone. The
silent beauty was too solemn for
talk ; and, besides, it was the hour
when one remembers the absent.
Her companion was too sensitive
not to perceive and respect her
mood. " Only keep the shawl well
about you," he said, as if in reply
to some spoken word, then left her
to herself, and paced to and fro at
the most distant part of the loggia,
drinking in the scene, which would
some day flow from his pen-point
in glowing words. It seemed not
ten minutes when the Signora's
voice was heard across the silence,
" Children, come in !"

Both sighed as they left the
charmed spot, and had half a mind
to disobey the summons. " But,
after all, it will only be exchanging
one picture for another," the author
said. " And, ecco /"

He pointed to the foot of the lit-

Six Sunny Months.

tie stair that led from the loggia
down to the passage. Adriano stood
there in the shade, like a portrait
framed in ebony, holding in his
hand one of the long-handled brass
lamps of Italy, the light from whose
three wicks struck upwards over his
handsome dark face peering out
sharply, but not at first seeing them.

" Strong light and shade will make
a picture of anything," Bianca said.
/; And there is a companion."

He glanced at the dining-room
window, and saw through the open
half of a shutter Isabel standing
under the chandelier, with face and
hand uplifted to examine some pen-
dants that had just caught her at-
tention. The light poured over her
face, and filled her beautiful, undaz-
zled eyes, and the hand that held
the crystal looked as if carved out
of pink transparent coral.

Going in, they found the supper-
table set, and Mr. Vane entertain-
ing the ladies with a story of two
politicians, of opposite parties, who
were so candid they were always
convincing each other, and, conse-
quently, were never of the same
opinion, except when they were
each half convinced ; and even
then they were not of the same
opinion, for their minds turned dif-
ferent ways, like two persons who
meet on the threshold of a house,
one going in and one coming out.
They went on year after year in
this way, arguing, and trying to ar-
rive at the truth, till at last they
both went crazy and were locked
up in separate mad-houses. At
length both returned to their first
opinions, and so were restored to
reason. But when they were set at
liberty, they became as great bigots
as they had before been liberals,
and each was so determined not
only not to yield to the other, whom
he regarded as the cause of his

misfortunes, but even to own that
he could be sincere in his opinions,
that they never met without fight-
ing. Their rancor went on increas-
ing, till they finally challenged each
other at the same moment ; and, in
disputing as to which was the chal-
lenged and which the challenger,
flew into such a fury that at last
they killed each other, without
ever having had time to fight a
duel.

" The moral of it is," Mr. Vane
concluded, " that when a man has
once chosen his opinions, he has no
more right to hear them abused
than he has to hear his wife abused,
no matter what she may be ; and
the cream of the moral is that all
arguments are not only useless but
dangerous."

" I know now what is meant by
espousing an opinion or a cause,"
the Signora said. " I had supposed
the word was used merely for vari-
ety of phrase. It means, then, * for
better or for worse.' Poor Truth !
how many buffets she gets ! Not
from you!" she added hastily, and
blushing as she saw that her
words had made Mr. Vane sud-
denly serious, and that he was look-
ing at her with an expression al-
most reproachful. " No matter
what you may say, I am sure you
would never see Truth standing on
your threshold without bidding her
welcome."

He looked down, and a faint
smile rather shone through his face
than parted his lips. Pie seemed to
thank her so.

" I fancy she comes often est ir;
silence and by herself," he said \\\
a very quiet tone.

Something in his voice and look
made Clive Bailey regard him wkh
a momentary keenness. He felt
that they indicated an almost femi-
nine delicacy, and a depth of senst-

Six Sunny Months.

tive sweetness he had not looked to
find in Mr. Vane.

The Signora begged to call their
attention to the minestra that was
steaming on the table. " Annun-
ciata deserves that we should at-
tend to it at once," she said; "for
she has given her best thoughts to
it the whole afternoon. I couldn't
tell how many things have gone to
its composition. I do hope it is
good, so that we can consistently
praise it. I should feel less disap-
pointment in having a book fall
dead from the press, than she will
if we take no notice of her cooking.
Don't let the vacant chair injure
your appetites ; it is not for a ghost,
but for Signer Leonardo, your Ita-
lian teacher. I told him to come
to supper, and he is just five min-
utes too late a wonder for him.
He is the soul of promptness."

The door opened as she spoke,
and Signer Leonardo stood bowing
on the threshold a dark, circum-
spect little man, who gave an im-
pression of such stiffness and dry-
ness that one almost expected to
hear him crackle and snap in mov-
ing. He recovered from his low
bow, however, without any acci-
dent, and, with some excess of
ceremoniousness, got himself down
to the table, where he sat on the
very edge of his chair, looking so
solemn and polite that Isabel, as
she afterward declared, longed to
get up and shake him. u He would
have rattled all to pieces, if I had,"
she said.

This wooden little body contain-
ed, however, a cultivated mind and
a good heart, and he was one of
the most faithful, modest, and pa-
tient of men.

He had been at the Vatican that
morning, he said, in answer to the
Signora's questions, and had seen
the Holy Father in good health and

spirits, laughing at the cardinals
who were with him, all of whom
carried canes. " * I am older than
any of you,' he said, ' and, see ! I
can walk without my cane. Oh 1 I
am a young man yet.' '

"I saw Monsignor M ," the

professor added, " and he requested
me to give you this," presenting a
little package.

The Signora opened it in smiling
expectation, and held up a small
half-roll of bread out of which a
piece had been bitten. " See how
we idolaters love the Pope!" she
said to Mr. Vane. " I begged Mon-
signor to get me a piece of bread
from his breakfast-table. Let me
see what he has written about it,"
reading a card that accompanied
this singular gift.

" My dear Signora," the prelate
wrote, " behold your keepsake ! I
stood by while the Holy Father
breakfasted, like a dog watching for
a bone, and the moment I saw the
one bite taken out of this bread I
begged the rest for you. 'What!'
said the Pope, * my children take
the very bread from my mouth!'
and gave it to me, laughing plea-
santly."

" The dear father," the Signora
said, kissing her treasure, as she
rose to put it away in safety.

This little incident led the talk
to the Pope, and to many incidents
illustrative of his goodness and the
affection the people bore him.

" A few years ago, in the old
time," the Signora said, " the price
of bread was raised in Rome, for
some reason or other, or for no
reason. Some days after the Holy
Father passed by here on his way
to his favorite church, and ours.
Bianca. He was walking, and his
carriage following. I can see him
now, in his white robe, his hands
behind his back, holding his hat,

Six Sunny Months.

and his sweet face ready with a
kind glance for all. A poor man
approached, asked to speak to him,
and was allowed. * Holy Father,'
he said, kneeling down, ' the price
of bread is raised, and the people
are hungry, for they cannot afford
to buy it.' The Pope gave him an
alms and his benediction, and pass-
ed on. The next day the price of
bread was reduced to its former

" ' Such grace had kings when the world began.' "

One anecdote led to another;
and then there was some music,
Isabel playing rather brilliantly on
the piano in the sala, a group of
candles at either hand lighting up
her face and person and that part
of the room. Afterward, when the
rest of the company had gone into
the drawing-rooms, Bianca, sitting
in a half-dark, sang two or three
ballads so sweetly that they almost
held their breaths to listen to her.

Her singing made them feel quiet,
and as if the evening were over ;
and when it ended, Mr. Bailey and
the signore took leave. The family
sat a while longer in the sa/a, with
no light but a lamp that burned be-
fore a Madonna at the end of the
long room. Outside, a pine-tree
lifted its huge umbrella against the
pure sky, and a great tower showed
in the same lucid deep. The streets
in front were still and deserted, the
windows all dark and sullen. The
moon had long since set, and the
stars were like large, wide-open
eyes that stare with sleepiness.
Some Campagna people, who had
been in the city, and were going
home again, passea by, and stirred
the silence with the sound of an
accordeon, with which they enli-
vened their midnight walk ; then
all was still again.

" The night-sounds of Rome are

almost always pleasant," the Sig-
nora said. " Sometimes the coun-
try people come in with a tambo-
rine and singing, but it is not noisy,
and if it wakes you it is only for a
few minutes. Sometimes it is a
wine-cart, with all its little bells."

The clock of Santa Maria Mag-
giore was heard striking twelve.
"My bells!" she exclaimed; then
added : " I wish I could tell you all
their lovely ways. For one, when
they have the Forty Hours at the
basilica, only the great bell strikes
the hours, instead of three small-
er ones, as now; and for the Ange-
lus the four bells ring steadily
together their little running song,
while the great bell strikes now and
then, but so softly as to be only a
dream of a sound, as if Maria As-
sunta were talking to herself. It is
delicious !"

" I hear a bell now a little bell,"
Mr. Vane said.

They listened, and found that his
keen hearing had not deceived him.
There was a sound of a little bell
in the street, faint, but coming slow-
ly nearer. What could it be ? They
looked out and saw nothing but the
long, white street, stretching its
ghostly length from hill to hill.
The sound, however, was in the
street, and at a spot where they
looked and saw nothing, and it
came constantly nearer. At length,
when it was almost under their win-
dows, they perceived a motion, slow
and colorless, as if the paving-
stones were noiselessly turning over
and rolling off toward the Quirinal,
and then the paving-stones became
a tide of pale water tossing a black
stick as it flowed ; and, at last, it
was sheep, and the stick was a man.
The whole street was alive with
their little bobbing heads and close-
pressed, woolly bodies. Soft and
timid, they trotted past, as if afraid

Six Sunny MontJis.

of waking the terrible lion of a city
in whose sleeping jaws they found
themselves. The dogs made no
sound as they kept the stragglers
in bounds, the men spoke not a word
as they moved here and there
among their flocks ; there was only
the small trotting of a multitude of
little feet, and bell after bell on the
leader of flock after flock. It seem-
ed as if the world 'had turned to
sheep.

" I didn't know there were so
many in the world !" Isabel whis-
pered.

And still they came, stretching a
mile, from beyond the Esquiline to
beyond the Quirina.1 an artery full
of tender and innocent life flowing
for an hour through the cruel, un-
conscious town.

The Signora explained that the
flocks were being taken from one
pasture-ground to another, their
shortest way being through the
city. " I once saw a herd of cattle
pass," she said. "It was another
thing, as you may imagine. Such a
sense of the presence of fierce,
strong life, and anger barely sup-
pressed, I never experienced. It
was their life that called my atten-
tion, as one feels lightning in the
air. Then I heard their hoofs and
the rattling of their horns, and then
here they were ! They were by no
means afraid of Rome, but seem-
ed, rather, impatient and angry that
it should be here, drying up the
pleasant hills where they would
have liked to graze, reposing under
the trees afterward, and looking
dreamily off to the soft sea-line
How sleepy sheep make one !"

The soft procession passed at
length, and the family bade each
other good-night.

The next morning Isabel resolv-
ed not to be outdone by the other
two ladies, and accordingly, when

she heard the door shut softly after
them as they went out to early
Mass, she made haste to dress and
follow. They, meanwhile, walked
slowly on, unconscious of her in-
tention, which would scarcely have
given them the pleasure she im-
agined ; for they were bound on
an errand which would have ren-
dered her society particularly un-
congenial.

Isabel went scrupulously to Com-
munion three or lour times a year,
on certain great festivals, and at
such times, according to her light,
strove to do what she thought was
required. She made her con-
fession, but with scarcely more
feeling than she would have reckon-
ed up her money accounts, scrupu-
lous to pay every cent, and, when
every cent was paid, having a satis-
fied conviction that the account
was square. Of that generous,
higher honesty which, when cast-
ing up its accounts with God, blush-
es and abases itself in view of the
little it has paid, or can pay, and
which would fain cast itself into
the balance, and, by an utter annihi-
lation of every wish, hope, and plea-
sure that was not penitence, strive
to express its gratitude at least for
the ever unpayable debt of this
she knew nothing. She acknow-
ledged freely that she was a sinner.
"Of course I am a sinner!" she
would say. " We are all sinners " ;
as if she should say, " Of course I
am a biped !" but all as a matter
of course. If anything decidedly
offensive to her human sense of
honor lay on her conscience, she
certainly had a feeling of shame for
it, and resolved not to transgress
in that manner again ; but there
was no tremulous self-searching, no
passion of prayer for illumination,
unless at some odd time when sick-
ness or peril had made death seem

Six Sunny Months.

near. The confession over, she
went to church quietly, not talk-
ing much, and read respectfully the
prayers in her prayer-book, which
were, indeed, far warmer on her lips
than in her heart. She tried not to
look about, and, while her face was
buried in her hands, shut her eyes,
lest she should peep in spite of her-
self. Then, the whole over, she
left the church, feeling much re-
lieved that it was over, hoping that
she had done right, and remaining
rather serious for several hours
after. Ordinarily, too, since the
merciful Lord accepts even the
smallest gift, and answers even the
most tepid prayer,, if they are sin-
cerely offered, she felt some faint
sweetness as she turned away, a ten-
der touch of peace that brushed her
in passing, and, moved by that
slight experience of the rapture of
the saints, as if a drop of spray
from one of their fountains had fal-
len on her, she was conscious of an
inexplicable regret that made her
renew her good resolutions, and say
a tiny prayer in her own words far
more fervent than any she had breath-
ed through the words of her book.
For two days after her prayers
were usually longer and more
attentive, and she went to Mass ;
then Richard was himself again.

Knowing all this, then, as we
know things without thinking of
them, or allowing ourselves to know
tl at we know them, both the Signora
aid Bianca would far rather have
been by themselves in going to
church, especially when going to
Holy Communion.

They walked through the morn-
ing, already hot, though the hour
was so early, with a sultry, splendid
blue over their heads, and the air
too sweet as it flowed over the gar-
den-walls. The orange-trees seem-
ed to be oppressed by the weight

of their own odors, and to thro.v
them off in strong, panting respira-
tions. The sun was blazing directly
behind one of the cupolas of the
basilica, as they went up the hill,
seeming to be set in the lantern;
and then a light coolness touched
them in the shadow, and they en-
tered the beautiful church, where
perpetual freshness reigns, rivalling
the climajie of St. Peter's.

The bells were just dropping off
for the last fifteen minutes' tolling,,
and the canons were coming in for
choir, one by one, or two by two.
One or two of the earlier ones, in,
their snow-white cottas and ermine
capes, were kneeling before a shrine
or strolling slowly across the nave
toward the choir-chapel. Here and
there a Mass was being said, with a
little group of poor people gathered
about the altar, kneeling on the
magnificent pavement of involved
mosaic work, or sitting on the bases
of the great columns. A woman
with a white handkerchief on her
head received communion at one
altar, two little children playing
about her, and clinging to her skirts-
as she got up to go to her place,,
her hands folded, her face wrapt in
devotion, as undisturbed by the
prattling and pulling of the little
ones as St. Charles Borromeo over
his altar by the winged cherubs that
held up and peeped through his
long scarlet train.

Our American ladies knelt near
the door, by the side of the tribune,
facing the chapel of the Blessed
Sacrament at the other side of the
church. The morning light enter-
ing this chapel set all its marbles
glittering, and made the gilt taber-
nacle in the centre brighter than
the lamps that burned before it, and,
shining out into the church, set the
great porphyry columns of the cano-
py in a glow. One might fancy that

VOL. xxiv. 3

Six Sunny Months.

the blood of the martyrs whose
bodies and relics reposed beneath
was beginning to rise and circulate
through the rich stone, above which
the martyr's crown and palm stood
out in burning gold.

Having finished their prayer to
"" His Majesty," as the Spaniards
beautifully express it, the two knelt
-at the prie-dieu before the entrance
to the gorgeous Borghese Chapel,
to salute Our Lady in sight of St.
Luke's portrait of her. The face
was doubly covered by its curtain
of gold-embroidered silk and gates
of transparent alabaster; but their
eyes were fixed on the screen as
they prayed, and these needed no
more than they saw. Of this pic-
ture it has been said that sometimes
angels have been found chanting
.litanies about it.

There was no Mass in this chapel,
and our friends went down the ba-
silica to the ,chapel of the Sacred
Heart, where a Mass was just be-
ginning. The celebrant was an old
man with hair as white as snow, and
a face as peaceful and happy as a
child's. The Signora often encoun-
tered him in the church, and al-
ways felt like touching his robe in
passing.

" I am glad we shall receive com-
munion from his hands," she whis-
pered to Bianca. " I always feel as
if he were an angel only half dis-
guised."

Half an hour afterward they left
the chapel, but still lingered in the
^church, loath to go. There was no
-one in sight, but the strong, manly
chorus of voices from the canons'
'cho^r came out to them, now faintly
heard as they moved out of its
range, now clear and strong as they
went nearer.

" We really must go. They will
be waiting for us at home," the
Signora said.

Turning back for one more glance
at the door, they saw the procession
coming from the sacristy for the
canons' Mass, the vestments glitter-
ing brightly as they passed a streak
of sunshine coming into the middle
of the nave.

" It is a constant succession of
pictures," sighed Bianca, who seem-
ed hardly able to tear herself away.

They stopped a few minutes on
the steps.

" Whatever else is injured by
these new people, this basilica has
certainly profited," the Signora said.
" The tribune front was a little low
for the breadth. By digging down
the hill, and, consequently, adding
so many more steps to this superb
flight,, they have made the propor-
tion perfect. Then they have also
had to make a deeper pedestal to
the obelisk, which is an improve-
ment. The new white stone shows
now in harsh contrast with the soft-
toned old, but time will soon mel-
low it. And, moreover, they are
doing their work well. They really
seem to take pride in it. The piazza
was formerly muddy or dusty. Now
they have made a solid foundation,
and it will be all covered, when
done, with that gold-colored gravel
you see in patches. Fancy a golden
piazza leading up to my golden ba-
silica!"

She led her young friend along
to the other end of the steps, and
pointed up to where beautiful spikes
of pink flowers were growing in in-
terstices of the carving, and love-
ly plants made a fine fringe high
in the air. Flights of birds came
and went, brushing the flowers with
their wings, and alighted, singing
and twittering, all about the cupola
over the Blessed Sacrament, going
away only to return.

''The little wild birds come to
our Lord's cupola," she said, <% and

Six Sunny Months.

there are always flocks of doves
about Our Lady's. I wonder why
it is?"

Going home, they found Isabel
sitting with her bonnet on, taking
coffee, and talking to her father,
who seemed amused.

"Here they are at last!" she
exclaimed. " I have been to Santa
Maria Maggiore, hoping to find you,
and you weren't there."

"Indeed we were there!" she
was told.

" You were hiding from me, then,"
she went on. " No matter, I had a
very pleasant morning, though rather
a peculiar one. I searched and
searched for you, and saw nothing
of you ; finally, seeing a movement
of clergy toward a chapel at the
right side as you go in, half-way
down the church, I thought that
must be the proper place to go.
Accordingly, I went in and took a
seat. Some clergymen seated them-
selves on the same bench, lower
down, and I thought it more modest
to move up. Then more clergy
came, and I kept moving up to-
ward the altar. I began to wish
that some woman would come in,
if it were only a beggar-woman ;
even the sight of a poor man or of
a child would have been a relief.
But there was no one but me besides
the clergy. Well, I stood my ground,
hoping that when the services should
begin some people would come,
and, on the whole, rather congratu-
lating myself that I had secured so
good a post. I kept moving up
till at length I found myself close
to the altar, and with a great stand
before me on which was a great
book. It was one of those turning
lecterns, aren't they ? set on a post
about six feet high, and having five
or six sides at the top. After &
while I began to feel myself get-
ting in a perspiration. Not a soul

came but priests. I looked in their
faces to see if they were astonished
at my being there, but not one
seemed to be even conscious of my
presence. They sat in two rows,
facing each other, part of them in
ermine -capes, part in gray squirrel,
and with the loveliest little white
tunics all crimped and crimped. I
didn't enjoy the crimping much,
though, for I perceived at last that
I was the right person in the wrong
place. The bell stopped ringing, a
prelate took his place before the big
stand and opened the big book,
and there was I in the very highest
place in the synagogue,

" Canons to right of me,
Canons to left of me,
Canons in front of me,"

and, at length, one of them smiling,
1 caught sight of a sidelong glance
from him, and saw that he was
shaking with laughter. He was a
young man, and I forgive him."
Isabel paused to wipe the perspira-
tion from her flushed face, then ad-
dressed the Signora solemnly : " My
dear Signora, that choir-chapel is a
mile long!"

" I dare say you found it so," was
the laughing response. " But, also,
I do not doubt that you made the
best of the matter, and came out
with deliberate dignity. Don't cry
about it, child. They probably
thought you were a Protestant
stranger. Protestants are expect-
ed to commit almost any enormity
in Roman churches, and they do
not disappoint the expectation. Last
Christmas two women, well dressed
and genteel-looking, went into the
tribune during the High Mass, one
of the assistants having left the gate
open, and coolly took possession of
a vacant seat there, in the face, not
only of the assembled chapter and
officiating prelate, but of a large
congregation. I wonder what they

Six Sunny Months.

would say if a stranger should walk
into one of their meeting-houses
and take a seat in the pulpit ? I
will explain to you now what I
thought you understood. The ca-
nons always sing their office to-
gether in choir, morning and after-
noon, while other clergy say it pri-
vately, and the public have nothing
to do with it. There is no harm in
assisting, but it is not usual to do
so. I like to listen, though, and
there are certain parts that please
me very much. When you hear
them again, mark how the Deo
gratias comes out ; and once in a
while they will respond with an
Amen that is stirring. However, it
is merely the office rapidly chanted
by alternate choirs, and is not in-
tended as a musical feast. They
have a High Mass a little later, and
then one can enter, if there should
be room. I never go. There is
always a Low Mass in the basilica
or the Borghese."

" Doesn't the Borghese Chapel
belong to the basilica?" Mr. Vane
inquired.

" Yes, and no. The Prince Bor-
ghese is at the head of it, and, I

think, supports it. It has its own
clergy, and its separate services
sometimes; for example, there is
always the Litany of Our Lady
Saturday evening, and they have
their own Forty Hours. On some
other festas the chapter of the ba-
silica go there for service as Our
Lady of Snow, Nativity of Our
Lady, and the Immaculate Con-
ception. Now I must leave you
for an hour or two, and take my
little baroness to see Monsignore.
And, if you wish, I will at the
same time arrange for an audience
for you at the Vatican. Some time
within a week, shall I say ? It will
have to be after Ascension, I think."

" How beautiful life begins to
be!" said Bianca . softly, after the
three had sat awhile alone.

Mr. Vane smiled, but made no
reply.

Isabel sighed deeply, buried in
gloomy reflections. " I wish I
knew," she said, " what they call
the man who stands at the desk
and sings a part of the office alone ;
because that is the name by which
the canons are calling me at this
minute. I feel it in my bones."

CHAPTER VI.

CARLIN S NEST.

YES, life was beginning to grow
beautiful to them beautiful in the
sweet, natural sense. Here and
there a buckle that held the bur-
den of it was loosed, here and there
a flower was set. That uneasy feel-
ing that one ought to be doing
something, which often haunts and
wearies even those who do nothing
and never will do anything, began
to give place to a contentment far
more favorable to the accomplish-
ment of real good. A generous

wish to share their peacefulness
with others made them practise
every little kindness that occurred
to them. Not a hand was stretch-
ed to them in vain, no courtesy
from the humblest remained unac-
knowledged, and thus, accompanied
by a constant succession of little
beneficences, like a stream that
passes between flowery banks its
own waters keeping fresh, their lives
flowed sweetly and brightly on from
day to day.

Six Sunny Months.

Of course they had the reputa-
tion of being angels with the poor
about them. It is so easy for the
rich and happy to be canonized by
the poor. A smile, a kind word,
and a penny now and then that is
all that is necessary. But the kind-
ness of these three women was
something more than a mere good-
natured generosity ; for no one of
them was very rich, and all had to
deprive themselves of something in
order to give.

Life was indeed becoming beau-
tiful to them ; for they had not yet
settled, perhaps were not of a na-
ture to settle, into the worse sort
of Roman life, in which idle people
collected from every part of the
world gradually sink into a round
of eating, visiting, gossip, and in-
trigue, which make the society of
the grandest city of the world a
strange spectacle of shining saintli-
ness and disgusting meanness and
corruption moving side by side.

There is, indeed, no city that
tries the character like Rome ; for it
holds a prize for every ambition,
except that of business enterprise.
The Christian finds here primitive
saintliness flowering in its native
soil, and can walk barefoot, though
he have purple blood in his veins,
and not be wondered at ; the artist,
whether he use chisel, brush, or
pen, finds himself in the midst of a
lavish beauty which the study of a
life could not exhaust ; the lover
of nature sees around him the frag-
ments of an only half-ruined para-
dise ; the tuft-hunter finds a confu-
sion of ranks where he may ap-
proach the great more nearly than
anywhere else, and, perhaps, chat
at ea'se with a princess who, in her
own country, would pass him with-
out a nod of recognition ; the idle
and luxurious can live here like Syb-
arites on an income that, in an-

other country, would scarcely give
them the comforts of life ; the lover
of solitude can separate himself
from his kind in the midst of a
crowd, and yet fill his hours with
delight in the contemplation of
that ever-visible past which here
lies in the midst of the present like
an embalmed and beautiful corpse
resting uncorrupted in the midst
of flowers. But one must have an
earnest pursuit, active or intellec-
tual ; for the dolce far niente of Italy
is like one of the soulless masks
of women formed by Circe, which
transformed their lovers into beasts.
" I have heard," the Signora said,
"of a man who, lying under a tree
in summer-time and gazing at the
slow, soft clouds as they float.ed
past, wished that that were work,
and he well paid for doing it. My
life is almost a realization of that
man's wish. What I should choose
to do as a pleasure, and the great-
est pleasure possible to me, I have
to do as a duty. It is my business
to see everything that is beautiful,
and to study and dream over it,
and turn it into as many shapes as
I can. If I like to blow soap-bub-
bles, then it becomes a trade, and
I merit in doing it. If a science
should catch my fancy, and invite
me to follow awhile its ordered
track, I go in a palace-car, and the
wheels make music of the track for
me. And what friends I have,
what confidences receive ! The
ugliest, commonest object in the
world, scorned or disregarded by
all, will look at me and whisper a
sweet word or reveal a hidden beau-
ty as I pass. You see that log,"
pointing to the fire-place, where
a mossy stick lay wreathed about
by a close network of vine-twigs
clinging still in death where they
had clung and grown in life. " '1 he
moment my eyes fell on that it

Six Suiinv Months.

sang me a song. In every balcony,
every stair, every house they are
cutting down to make their new
streets, every smallest place where
the wind can carry a feathered
seed, the seed of a story has lodged
for me, and, as I look, it sprouts,
grows, blossoms, and overshadows
the whole place. But for the pain
of bringing out and putting into
shape what is in my mind, my life
would be too exquisite for earth.
If I could give immediate birth to
my imaginings, I should be like
some winged creature, living for
ever in air. I'm glad I work in
words, and not in marble, like Car-
lin here. And, apropos, suppose we
should go in there."

Carlin was the sculptor whose
studio was attached to Casa Ottanf-
Otto. He was a great friend of the
Signora, who had permission to see
him work when she liked, and to
go and come with her friends as it
pleased her.

" We may as well take our work,"
she said. " It is pleasanter there
than here this morning. When Mr.
Vane and Isabel come in from their
visit, we shall hear them ring the
bell."

The two went out to the loggia,
where the morning sun was blazing
hotly on the pink and purple morn-
ing-glories, and, passing an ante-
room where two marble-workers
were chipping away, each at his
4nowy block, tapped at the door
of an inner chamber.

A loud " Avanti !" answered the
knock.

"Welcome!" said a voice when
they entered. " Make yourselves
at home. I'm busy with a model,
you see."

Bianca glanced about in search
of the source of this salutation,
and perceived presently a large
head looking at them over the

top ol a screen. The rest of the
body was invisible. This head
was so colossal and of such a
height that for a moment she
doubted if it might not be a col-
ored bust on a shelf. But its eyes
moved, and in a second it nodded
itself out of sight, leaving on the
gazer an impression of having seen
a large, kind Newfoundland dog.
Poor Carlin was very shaggy, his
hair almost too profuse, and con-
stantly getting itself tangled, and
his beard growing nearly to his
eyes. But the eyes were bright,
dark, and pleasant, the nose super-
latively beautiful, and, by some un-
explained means, every one was
aware at once that under this mass
of shadowy beard there were two
deep dimples, one in the cheek and
another in the chin.

Before they had well shut the
door, the screen was swept aside
and the sculptor's whole form ap-
peared. It was so large as to re-
duce the head to perfect propor-
tion, and was clad in a suit of dull
blue cotton worn with a careless
grace that was very picturesque.
One hand held a bit of clay; the
other pulled off his skull-cap in
reverence to his visitors. He said
nothing, but immediately replaced
the cap, and began rolling the clay
between his hands.

He was modelling a group, and
his model, a beautiful young con-
tadina, stood before him with her
arms up, holding a copper water-
vase on her head. Her mother sat
near, a dark, bilious, wrinkled Lady
Macbeth, who wore her soiled and
faded clothes as if they had been
velvets and embroideries, and re-
clined in an old leather chair as
superbly as if she sat on a gilded
throne with a canopy over her head.
A pair of huge rings of pure gold
hung from her ears, and two heavy

Six Sunny Months.

gold chains surrounded her dark
neck, and dropped each its golden
locket on her green bodice.

"We won't mind them," the Sig-
nora said to her friend. " Come
and be introduced to the bird of
our country."

" He's been behaving badly to-
day," the sculptor said, " and I had
to beat him. Look and see what
he has done to my blouse ! The
whole front is in rags. He flew at
me to dig my heart out, I suppose,
with his claws, and screamed so in
my face that I was nearly deafened.
It took both the men to get him off."

This contumacious eagle was
chained to his perch, and had the
stick with which he had been beat-
en so placed as to be a constant re-:
minder of the consequences attend-
ing on any exhibition of ill-temper.
He was greatly disconcerted when
the two ladies approached him,
changed uneasily from foot to foot,
and, half lifting his wide wings,
curved his neck, and seemed about
to hide his head in shame. Then,
as they still regarded him, he sud-
denly lifted himself to his full
height, and stared back at them
with clear, splendid eyes.

"What pride and disdain!" ex-
claimed Bianca. " I had no idea
the creature was so human. Let's
go away. If we stay much longer,
he will speak to us. He considers
himself insulted."

Three walls of the room and a
great part of the central space were
occupied by the usual medley of
a sculptor's studio busts, groups,
masks, marble and plaster, armor,
vases, and a hundred other objects;
but the fourth side was hung all
over with fragments of baby con-
tours. Single legs and crossed legs ;
arms from the shoulder down, with
the soft flattening of flesh above the
elbow, and the sustained roundness

below; little clenched fists, and
hands with sprawling, dimpled fin-
gers ; chubby feet in every position
of little curled toes, each as expres-
sive of delicious babyhood as if the
whole creature were there the wall
was gemmed with them. In the
midst was a square window, with-
out a sash, and just then crowded
as full as it could be. A vine, a
breeze, and as much of a hemi-
sphere of sunshine as could get in
were all pressing in together. The
breeze got through in little puffs
that dropped as soon as they enter-
ed ; the sunshine sank to the tiled
floor, where it led a troubled exist-
ence by reason of the leaf-shadows
that never would be still ; and the
vine ran over the wall, and in and
out among the little hands and feet,
kissing them with tender leaf and
bud, which seemed to have travelled
a long distance for nothing else but
that.

Bianca put her face to this win-
dow, and drew it back again.
"There is nothing visible outside,"
she said, "but a fig-tree, half the
rim of a great vase, a bit of wall,
and a sky full of leaves."

She seated herself by the S-ignora,
and they made believe to work,
dropping a loop of bright wool or
silken floss now and then, and
glancing from time to time at the
artist as he punched and pressed
a meaning into the clay before him.

" I never see a sculptor make a
human figure in clay without think-
ing of the creation of Adam and
Eve," the Signora said. " The Mo-
hammedans say that angels first
kneaded the clay for I don't know-
how many years. How beautiful
they must have been ! ' In His own
image' Did you observe in the IJar-
barini gallery Domenichino's j.io
ture of \\dam and Eve driven out
of Paradise ? You were too much

Six Sunny Months.

occupied with the Cenci. Every-
body is at first. I was thinking,
while I looked at that representa-
tion of the Creator, reclining on his
divan of cherubim, what a pity it is
that artists should have tried to do it,
or, trying, should not have been able
to do more. How that eagle does
fret ! It requires all my friendship
for Carlin to prevent my cutting the
leather thong that holds the chain
to its leg some fine day. Wouldn't
it be pleasant to see him shoot like
a bomb out through the window,
tearing the vines away like cobwebs
with his strong wings, and carrying
off little green tendrils clinging to
his feathers ! The sunlight would
be shut out a moment, there would
be a rush as of waters, then the
room would be light again. But,
in such an event, the only gain
would be a change of personality
in the prisoner, and thirty lire out of
my pocket. That is what Carlin
paid for this unhappy wretch, and
what I should be bound to pay him
to buy another unhappy wretch to
languish in his place. How do you
like Carlin ?"

" I don't know," Bianca answer-
ed slowly. " Isn't he a sort of sav-
age? a good one, you know."

" Precisely ! All the polish he
has is inside. Fortunately, how-
ever, he is transparent, and the
brightness is bright enough to shine
out through him. He is full of good-
nature and enthusiasm. Once lik-
ing him, you will like him always,
and better and better always.
None but dishonest people dislike
him, though there are some very
good people who say he is not to
their taste. Dear me ! he is mak-
ing a mistake in that group. O
Carlin!" she called out, "do let
me say something. Your water-
carrier is going to look like a tea-

pot if you place her so. Let hei
put the other arm out for a spout,
and the thing will be perfect."

It was a group of a girl and her
lover at a fountain.

He was just knitting his brows
over the hand that held the handle
of the vase, rolling bits of clay be-
tween his palms and arranging
them for fingers. He threw the
last one away. " I know it's a stupid
thing," he said discontentedly ;
" but what can I do ? It struck me
as a pretty subject ; but now I have
begun to work it out, it seems tc
me I remember having seen a hun-
dred like it, each one as stupid as
mine. I was this instant thinking
my grandmother must have had a
cream-pitcher of this design."

" Why don't you make her stoop-
ing a little to lift the vase to her
head, and looking up at the fellow ?"
the Signora suggested. " It will
bring out your knowledge of anato-
my a little more, and it will wake
her up. Don't you see her face is
as dull as her sandal ?"

This conversation, being in Eng-
lish, was not understood by the
model, who stood stupid, and
straight, and tired, trying to look
picturesque.

The artist considered a minute,
then said abruptly : " Put down the
vase, not on the floor, but in a
chair."

She obeyed.

" Now take it up slowly and
stop the instant I tell you."

She bent her strong and supple
figure a little, and began lifting the
vase.

" Stop there !" he called out, " and
look up at me. Look as pretty as
you can. Think that I am some
giovanotto who is going, perhaps, to
ask you of your mother."

Half shy, half saucy, she looked

Sir Sunny Months.

up as commanded, gratified vanity
and friendly regard uniting to give
her face as much expression as it
was capable of.

Carlin seized his pencil and began
sketching rapidly.

" He hasn't a particle of imagi-
nation," the Signora said in a low
tone, "but he has excellent eyes
and much humor. I sometimes
think that humor and imagination
never go together. Indeed, I don't
believe they ever do in any super-
lative degree."

A little bell sounded timidly at
her side, pulled by a cord that she
perceived now by its vibration com-
ing in at the window, the bell itself
being quite hidden by the vine-
leaves, where it was held between
two large nails driven into the win-
dow-frame.

" Would you be so very kind
as to throw that loaf of bread
out of the window, Signora?" the
artist asked, abstractedly dropping
one word at a time between the
strokes of his pencil and glances
at his model, whose fire was begin-
ning to fade. " I can't stop."

The lady looked at him in wonder.

" It's a beggar," he explained after
a moment, scratching away rapidly.
" I can't be bothered with them in
here."

She looked out of the window as
well as she could for the leaves,
and saw an arm in a ragged coat-
sleeve, and a hand stretching to-
ward the wall, and, at the same in-
stant, the bell rang in her very ear
with a force that made her start
back. The bread was on a little
shelf near by, an old knife beside
it. She prudently cut the loaf in
two, and dropped half to the un-
seen mendicant.

"That's just like Carlin!" she
exclaimed. " I don't suppose any

one else would think of rigging up
a beggars' bell."

"I shall know where to go when
I want bread," she said aloud, see-
ing him pause in his work. " It
will be only to come under your
window, pull a string, and hold up
my apron."

" Oh ! by the way, please to pull
in the string," he added. " I never
let it hang out, except when I have
made an appointment. I told him
to come if he didn't get anything for
dinner. Said he hadn't eaten any-
thing for twenty-four hours. It's a
disagreeable thing to go twenty-four
hours without eating."

Carlin knew what it was well.
He had come to Rome fifteen years
before without a dollar in his pock-
et, except what had paid his pas-
sage, and, without patronage, al-
most without friends, had climbed,
step by step, through all the dark,
steep ways of poverty, suffering
what no one but himself knew, till
at length a modest success reward-
ed his efforts. He never to4d his
experiences, seemed to choose to
forget them ; but never a pitiful tale
of suffering from poverty was told
him without the ready answer, "Yes,
yes, I know all about it," springing
as if involuntarily to his lips.

There was a knock at the door,
which immediately opened without
a permission, and a young man en-
tered one of those odious, well-
dressed, rather handsome, and easy-
mannered men who repel one more
than rags, and ugliness, and stu-
pidity.

"Good-morning!" he said with
confident politeness. " Don't let
me interrupt you. I only want to
see Mrs. Cranston's bust. Prom-
ised her .1 would take a look at it."

His coming produced the effect
of a slight frost in the air The

Six Sunny Months.

Signora grew dignified, and made a
little sign to Bianca to take a seat
which would turn her back to the
new-comer. Carlin frowned slight-
ly and bent to his work ; the old
contadina glared from the man to
her daughter, and the daughter
blushed uneasily.

The young man seemed to be
entirely unconscious of not hav-
ing received a welcome, sauntered
across the studio, pausing here
and there, and at length, stopping
under the pretence of examining a
bust, fixed his eyes on the model.

"Look here, sir!" said Carlin,
after five minutes of silence, " you'd
better come in some other time,
when I'm not busy."

" Oh ! don't mind me," was the
careless reply.

Carlin waited a minute longer,
then swung the screen round be-
tween his model and her tormentor.

The young man smiled slightly,
gave his shoulders the least possi-
ble shrug, and began to saunter
about the studio again, pausing
finally at a spot that gave him a
still better view of the girl.

The pencil quivered in Carlin's
hands, but his voice was gentle
enough when he spoke again. " I
don't care to have visitors in the
morning," he said. " Come in in
the afternoon, when I am working
in marble. I work in clay always
in the morning."

" My dear fellow, I don't want
you to trouble yourself in the least
about me. I can amuse myself,"
the visitor replied.

Carlin seemed to be galvanized
so suddenly he started upright, with
anger in every nerve of him.
" Confound you !" he cried out,
" do you want me to pitch you out
of the window ? Go about your
business."

He had no cause to repeat the
request. Coolly and disdainfully,
but with a paleness that showed
both fear and anger, the young ex-
quisite walked out as leisurely as
he had come in.

A laugh as sharp and bright as a
blade shot across the old woman's
face, but she said not a word.

" You are getting acquainted
with him rapidly," the Signora
whispered to her friend. " Isn't he
refreshing? It is so beautiful to
see a man whose first impulse is to
protect a woman from annoyance,
even when the woman doesn't be-
long to him. Carlin is truly a
manly, honorable fellow."

" I hear a faint little song, sweet
and low," said Bianca, listening
with her pretty head aside and her
eyes lifted.

"It is Carlin's bird," said the
Signora.

The girl glanced about, but saw
no cage.

" It is a soft, cooing sound," she
said.

" It is Carlin's dove," the Signora
replied.

Bianca looked at her inquiringly,
her lips still apart, and her head
turned to listen to the melody.

" He doesn't keep it in a cage,
but in a nest," the Signora went on,
smiling. " Come, and I will show
you. Step lightly, and do not speak.
He is too busy to notice, and this
great tapestry will hiSe us. You
must examine this some time, by
the way. It is all in rags, but very
precious. See that foot on it !
Doesn't it look as if it were just set
on the green ground after a bath,
too? It is so fresh and perfect."

She led the way to an alcove of
the studio hidden from the other
rooms by this tapestry, and pointed
to the inner wall, where a small, low

Six Sunny Months.

door showed, half hidden by dra-
peries and armor. " Some day we
will go in ; but to-day I will give
you a peep only."

She went to the door, and noise-
lessly pushed away a little slide in
the panel, then motioned Bianca to
look through. The girl obeyed,
and found herself looking in-to a
square room whose one great arch-
ed window had a snow-white fring-
ed curtain waving slowly in the
slight breeze, alternately giving
glimpses of, and hiding, a loggia
full of flowers and the green but-
side curtain of a grape-vine. Only
tiny glints of sunshine entered
through this double drapery, mak-
ing the white curtain look as if it
were embroidered with spots of gold.
From the centre of a vaulted white
ceiling hung a brass lamp, swinging
slowly on its chain, and catching
a point of light in place of the ex-
tinguished flame. On the white
wall opposite the door hung high up
an ebony crucifix, with a blue niche
below, in which stood a marble
statue of the Madonna. A tiny
lamp burned before the two, and a
branch of roses was twisted about
the statue's feet. In the centre of
the room a green-covered table stood
on a large green cloth that cover-
ed nearly the whole of the stone
floor, and two or three cane-seated
chairs were visible. The bird still
sung her low, cooing song, an im-
provised melody set to inarticulate
murmurs that now and then broke
softly into words a word ot hu-
man love and blessing, a word of
prayer, or a word of happiness. As
when a gentle brook flows with only
its waters now, and now with a
flower or leaf, and now a little boat
on its tide, and now a break of
foam, and then a clear reflection as
vivid as a tangible object, so the

song flowed, with its word here and
there.

Carlin's dove was a younjj wom-
an with a sweet, motherly face, and.
as she sang, she swung to and fro
a hammock that was hung directly
under the blue niche of the Virgin ;
and her eyes were raised from time
to time to the statue or the crucifix,
with an Ave or a Gesii mio j or drop-
ped to the baby she hushed to
sleep with a word as tender. All
the room seemed to swing with the
hammock, as if it were in a tree-top ;
to float in an atmosphere of love
and happiness with the mother and
her child. Slowly the white lids of
the little one dropped, like t\\jp
rose-petals that cover two stars,
and a dimpled hand clinging to the
mother's loosened its hold, as the
angel of sleep unclasped it gently,
finger by finger. Silence settled
over the song, the hammock ceased
to swing, and the mother, shining
with love and happiness, bent over
her sleeping babe, gazing at it as if
her eyes were gifted to see through
its white and rosy flesh, and behold
the resting, folded soul hidden there
like a sleeping butterfly in a shut
flower.

The Signora closed the slide as
noiselessly as she had opened it,
and the two, exchanging a smile of
sympathetic pleasure, turned away
from Carlin's nest.

The sculptor had made his
sketch, and was just sending his
model away. He turned imme-
diately to his visitors, and began to
show them his latest works, half a
dozen things in clay, some finished,
some requiring still a few touches.
One group was especially pretty.
It represented a family scene in
one of the little Italian towns where
all the business of life goes on in
the street. On the rude stone

Six Sunny Mont/is.

steps outside a door sat a mother
winding a skein of yarn held for
her by a pretty girl of ten years or
thereabouts, whose small arms were
stretched to their utmost extent in
the task. A little chubby boy lean-
ed on the mother's lap, and put up
his finger to pull at the thread.
At the front of the steps sat the
father cobbling shoes.

" I found that at Monte Compa-
tri," he said; "and the figures are
all portraits. I was afraid I couldn't
do it, for it is better adapted for
canvas than marble ; but the walls
hold them together, you see."

" We must go to Monte Compa-
tri, Bianca," the Signora said. " It's
one of the most primitive places in
die world a Ghetto perched on a
mountain-top, as filthy and as pic-
turesque as can be imagined. The
air is delicious, the view superb,
and the salads beggar description."

All Carlin's best groups and fig-
ures were, like this, copies from na-
ture. When he attempted anything
else, he unconsciously copied the
works of others or he failed.

"I'm so glad you made that sug-
gestion about the water-carrier," he
said, taking up his sketch. " I find
it is always better for me to put
considerable action into my figures.
If I give them a simple pose, they
are stupid. Would you have her
looking up or down ?"

" Let the little minx look up, by
all means," the Signora said. " She's
a good girl, enough, as a butterfly
or a bird may be good. There isn't
enough of her for a down look ; but
that saucy little coquettish up-look
is rather piquant. Besides, it is
true to her nature. ]f she thought
any one were admiring her, she
wouldn't have subtilty enough to
look down and pretend not to see,
and she wouldn't have self-control
enough, either. She would wish to

know just how much she was ad-
mired, and to attitudinize as long
as it paid her vanity to do so. Ili-
anca, my dear, there is our bell.
Your father and Isabel must have
come home."

They went down again through
the complicated passages and stairs,
where arched windows and glimpses
into vaulted rooms and into gar-
dens crowded with green made
them seem far from home.

" How beautiful orange-trees
are!" Bianca exclaimed, stopping
to look at one that filled roundly a
window seen at the end of a long
passage. " It has the colors of Pa-
radise, I fancy. I don't like yellow
to wear, not even gold ; but I like
it 'for everything else."

" Wait till you see the snow on
an orange- tree, if you would see it
at its perfection," was the reply.
" Perhaps you might wait many
years, to be sure. I saw it once,
and shall never forget. A light
snow came down over the garden a
few winters since, and dropped its
silvery veil over the orange-trees.
Fancy the dark green leaves and
the golden fruit through that glit-
tering lace ! I had thought that
our northern cedars and pines, with
their laden boughs, were beautiful ;
but the oranges were exquisite.
Would you believe that our kitchen
door was so near?"

Isabel ran to meet the two, all in
a breeze.

" Hurry on your things in two
minutes to go to the Vatican," she
said. " Here are the cards. Mon-
signor forgot to send them, and has
only now given them to us. The
carriage is at the door."

Off came the summer muslins in
a trice, and in little more than the
time allowed the three ladies tripped,
rustling, down the stairs, in their
black silk trains and black veils.

Six Sunny Months.

" I am constantly going to the
Vatican in this breathless way," the
Signora said, as they drove rapidly
through the hot sunshine. "With
the usual sublime ignorance of men,
and especially of clergymen, of the
intricacies of the feminine toilet,
my kind friends always give me ten
minutes to prepare. One needs to
keep one's papal court dress laid
out all ready for use at a moment's
warning. Fortunately, it is very
simple. But Bianca has found time
to mount the papal colors," she
added, seeing a bunch of yellow jas-
mine tucked into her friend's belt.

"Is it allowed?" the girl asked
doubtfully. " I can leave it in the
carriage. But I always like to have
a flower about me."

"Oh! keep it," her friend re-
plied, and smiled, but suppressed
the words that would have followed.
For while Bianca Vane carried that
face about with her, she never lack-
ed a flower.

They were just in time for the
audience, and an hour later drove
slowly homeward through the silent
town. Bianca was leaning back in
the corner of the carriage with her
eyes shut. The audience had been
especially pleasant for her ; for the
Holy Father, seeing her kneel with
her hands tightly clasped, and her
eyes, full of delight, raised to his
face, had smiled and laid his hand
on her head, instead of giving it to
her to kiss. The others said but
little. The languor of the hour
was upon them.

" Does any one say, Signora, that
the Pope has a shining face ?" Mr.
Vane asked.

" Certainly," she replied.

" Then I am not original in think-
ing that I found something lumin-
ous about him," the gentleman went
on. " It is as if I had seen a lamp.
And what a sweet voice he has !

He said l la Chiesa ' in a tone that
made me think of David mourning
over Absalom."

Mr. Vane had been much im-
pressed by the beautiful presence of
the reverend Pontiff, and had behav-
ed himself, not only like a gentleman,
but like a Catholic. The Signora
had seen how he blushed in kissing
the Pope's hand, not as if with
shame at paying such an act of
homage, but as if some new senti-
ment of tender reverence and hu-
mility had just entered his heart.
It had been very pleasant to her to
see this, both on account of the
love she bore the object of the ho-
mage, and the respect she had, and
wished to retain, for him who paid it.

The driver held in his panting
horses, and walked them on the
side of the streets where a narrow
strip of shadow cooled the heat of
the burning stones ; tne pines and
cypress in the gardens they passed,
which in the morning had been so
full of silvery twitterings that the
fine, sweet sounds seemed almost to
change the color of them and make
them glisten with brightness, were
now sombre and silent. The birds
were all hid in their dark green
shadows, or perched in cool, sunless
angles and nooks of vases, balus-
trades, statues, and cornices of
church or palace. Here and there
a workman lay stretched at length
on the sidewalk or on steps, sleep-
ing soundly.

At length they reached home.
The porter sat sleeping in his chair
at the great door, and a family of
beggars, four or five women and
children, lay curled up outside on
the curbstone.

Inside all was deliciously cool and
tranquil. Dinner was on the table ;
for the servants had been watching
for them, and had brought the soup
in directly, and they sat down with

Six Sunny Months.

appetites improved by the delay.
The Signora poured out some wine
for herself.

" The people here say that you
should take a little wine before
your soup," she said. " My former
padrona told me the nuns in the
convents she knew always did. I
don't know why it is good for the
stomach, but bow to their superior
wisdom."

" Doesn't the hair on the top of
ray head look unusually bright?"
Bianca asked after a while. She
was still thinking of the sacred hand
that had rested there, still feeling
its gentle pressure.

The others looked, not under-
standing.

" Why, your veil covers it," Isa-
bel said. " But there's a bright
garnet and gold pin at the top."

Bianca lifted her arms to loosen
the veil, took the gold hairpin out
and kissed it. " He must have
touched it," she said, " and so it
has been blessed. Do you know,
Signora, what thought came into
my mind at the moment? I thought
as he touched me, ' It is the hand
that holds the keys of purgatory
and of heaven !' "

"My own thought!" her friend
exclaimed. " I had the same bene-
diction once, and it set me rhyming.
I do not set up for a poet, you
know, but there are feelings that
will sing in spite of one. This was
one, and I must show you the lines
some time soon, to see if they ex-
press you. I don't know where
they are."

" I know where something of
yours is," Bianca said eagerly. " I
saw it in your blotting-book, and
had to call up all my honesty not
to read it. Reward me now ! I
will bring it."

She looked so bright and coax-
ing, and the others so cordially

joined in her request, that the Sig-
nora could not but consent, though
usually shy of reading her unpub-
lished productions to any one.

"How I like hot noons!" she
sighed through a smile of languid
contentment, leaning back in her
chair, and dropping in her lap the
folded paper Bianca had brought
her. "I found out the charm of
them when I was in Frascati. At
this early season the heat of the
city, too, is good a pure scorch and
scald. In August it is likely to be
thick and morbid. That first noon
in Frascati was a new experience
to me. I went to see Villa Tor-
Ionia, which was open to the public
only between the hours of eleven
and five a time when scarcely any
one, especially any Italian, wants^ to
go out in hot weather. I wished to
see the villa, however, and I went,
stealing along the shadowy edges
of streets, and down a long stairway
street that is nearly or always
shaded by the tall houses at either
side and the hill behind, catching
my breath as I passed through the
furnace of sunshine in the open
piazza, finally, with my face in a
flame, stepping under the great
trees inside the gate, and pausing
to refresh myself a little before go-
ing on. There was still the open
terrace to pass, and the grand un-
shaded steps to ascend ; but it was
easier to go forward than back, for
a few minutes would bring me to
avenues as dim as Ave Maria time.
I stood a little and dreaded the
sun. The casino and the gravel of
the terrace and the steps were re-
flecting it so that one might almost
have fancied the rays clashed on
each other in the midst of the
opening. The rose-trees in the
flower-garden looked as if they bore
clusters of fire-coals, and some sort
of flowering tree in the green spaces

Six Sunny Months.

between the stairs seemed to be self alone in that beautiful cr re en.
breaking out into flame with its red walled drawing-room, with the foun-
and yellow blossoms,
bered Mrs. Browning's

remem- tain leaping all to itself in the cen-
tre, and the forty masks of the bal-

" 'The flowers that burn, and the trees that aspire, UStrade about the basin each telling

And the insects made of a song or a fire.'" its different story. Beside the tail

She paused to lay a laurel leaf central Jet there used to be, per-
over a carafon of cream that a fly ha P s ma y now be > a jet from each
was buzzing about, then exclaimed: of these masks that are carved on
"Why wasn't that woman a Catho- the great P osts of the balustrade,
lie, and why isn't she alive now, no tvvo allke - l made a cir cuit of
that I may kiss her hand, and her the P lace to assure m Y self that no
cheek, if she would let me ? Fancy one else was there J looking down
such a genius consecrated to reli- each P ath that led awa 7 through
gion ! You know the other stanza the over-arching trees. Not a soul

was in sight. There was no danger
of Italians being there ; and as for
forestieri, there were none in Fras-
cati. How delicious it was simply
to sit on one of the stone benches
and live ! A spider's web glistened

of that poem I have just quoted :

" ' And, oh ! for a seer to discern the same,'

Sighed the South to the North ;
' For the poet's tongue of baptismal flame,
To call the tree and the flower by its name,'
Sighed the South to the North.

It seems to me that not one across the place, starting straight

person in a thousand Italians no from a tree behind me. Where it

more than strangers would know was fastened at the other end I

there were anything remarkable could not guess; for the nearest

here, if a small, small number of
persons hadn't told them there is.

object in that line was the tossing
column of foamy water, fifty feet,

How they all repeat the same words, maybe more, distant, then an equal

from the teeth out, and talk learn-
edly of what they know nothing
about ! They don't one of them
find a beauty that isn't in the guide-
books."

She sighed impatiently, and re-
turned to her subject.

" I was telling you about noon in

distance to the trees at the other
side. There was no sound but
that of falling water, that seemed
to carry the chirp of the cicali and
the whisper of the trees, as the
waters themselves carried the dry
leaves and twigs that fell into them.
All around the sun searched and

Villa Torlonia: I stood under the strove to enter through the thick

great solid trees awhile, then took green, so near that his fiery breath

courage and walked into the sun touched my face. How my chains

again, across the terrace, with only melted off! How pure the heat

a glance at the vast panorama visi- was, and how sweet ! One bird

ble from it, up the steps that were sang through it now and then sang

hot to my feet, and then plunged for me : he the only lark abroad at
the

into

upper avenues as into

that hour, as I was the only signora.

cool bath. There was another I answered him with a little faint

opening to cross, for I wanted to song, to which again he replied,

go to the upper fountain; but here never was so happy, never felt so

the cascade cooled the eyes, at least, free from all that could annoy.

I went up the cascade stairs as the Probably Adam and Eve had some

waters came down, and found my- such delight in the mere feeling

Six Sunny Months.

that they were alive. And so I
sat there, hour after hour, half
asleep, half fainting with the heat,
in which I seemed to float. If I
had been called on then to say
what God is, I should have said,
He is a fire that burns without con-
suming. Fire and its attendant
heat were the perfection of all
things, and coldness was misery
but a pure, clear fire which an ane-
mone could pass through unscath-
ed."

The Signora drew a breath that
was half a sigh, and took up the
folded paper from her lap. " How
happy I am in Italy in the sum-
mer!" she said, half to herself.
" I can work in the cool months,
but I live in the hot ones."

" Bianca wants me to read this
rhyme ? It is a summer rhyme,
too, and commemorates a little in-
cident of my first summer here a
visit to Santa Maria della Vittoria.
You have not been there yet. It
is very near, just out on the Via
della porta Pia, which the new peo-
ple call Venti Settembre, because the
invaders came in that way on the
20th of September. They try to
keep the anniversary, and to make
the city look as if the people cared
for it, but it is a dreary pretence.
A military procession, a few flags
hung out -here and there from
houses of government officials and
foreigners, chiefly Americans that
is all."

She read :

Never so fair a rose as this, I think,

E'er bloomed on a rose-tree ;
So sweet a rose as this, I surely know,

Was never given to me.
Like the reviving draught to fainting lips,

The gentle word to strife,
Cool, fresh, and tender, in a bitter hour,

It dropt into my life.

Hid in the silence of a darkened room,

With sleepless eyes I lay,
And an unresting mind, that vainly strove

To shut its thoughts away.

When through the \oosenca fersiane slipped

A sunbeam, sharply bright,
That cleft the chamber's quiet duskiness,

And put my dreams to flight.

Before the windows, in a dusty square

Fretted by restless feet,
Where once a palace-garden had unrolled

Its alleys green and sweet,
Men rooted up a fountain-base that lay

Whitened like bleaching bones,
Or into new walls piled, with a weary care,

The weary, ancient stones.

And all about the slowly-growing work,

In warlike mantles drest,
Disputing with the spade for every sod,

The angry poppies prest.
And when I thought how fate uproots always

My gardens, budding sweet,
The hot sciroccooi an angry pain

Blew me into the street.

The unveiled heights of sapphire overhead

Dazzled the lifted eyes ;
The sun, in lovely splendor, blazed from out

The keystone of the skies ;
And Rome sat glowing on he- seven hills,

Yellow with fervid heat.

And scorched the green Campagna, wh. k re it
crept

And clung about her feet.

The ways were silent where the sunshine poured

Its simmering, golden stream ;
For half the town slept in its shaded halls,

Half worked as in a dream ;
The very fountains dropt from sleepiness,

Pillowed in their own foam.
I only, and the poppies, it would seem,

Were wide awake in Rome.

There were the gray old ruins, in whose nooks

Nodded each wild flower-bell,
Where San Bernardo's fane is hidden, like

A pearl within its shell.
There marched the Piedmont robber and his host

In through the long, long street ;
And there the open portal of a church

Drew iii my straying feet.

Silence and coolness, and a shade so deep,

At first I saw no more

Than circling clouds and cherubs, with the
dome's

Bright bubble floating o'er ;
Wide flocks of milk-white angels in the roof,

The hovering Bird divine
And, starring the lower dusk, the steady lamps

That marked each hidden shrine.

Then marble walls and gilded galleries

Grew slowly into sight;
And holy visions peered from out the gloom

Of chapels left and right;
And I perceived a brown-robed sacristan,

With a good, pleasant face,
Who sat alone within an altar-rail

To guard the sacred place.

He showed me all their treasures the dead saint

Within her altar-shrine ;
Showed where the Master sat, in gilded bronze,

Blessing the bread and wine;
Unveiled the niche whose swooning marble form

'Tis half a sin to see
Bernini's St. Teresa and betrayed

Her dying ecstasy ;

London Guilds and Apprentices.

Then led me to the sacristy, where hung,

Painted the glorious field
Lepanto's and he told the ancient tale,

How, like a magic shield,
Our Lady's sacred picture, borne aloft

In the dread battle's shock.
Had sent the scattered Paynim flying far,

Like foam from off a rock.

When all was seen and said, my parting foot

A soft - k Aspetti !" stayed
Just where a tiny garden 'mid the walls

Its nook of verdure made.
And while I waited, was broke off for me

A bright geranium bloom,

And this blush-rose, whose richly-perfumed
breath

Has sweetened the whole room.

" O Rosa Mystica .'" I thought, and felt

Consoled, scarce knowing why ;
It seemed that in that brief hour all my wrong

Had righted silently,
As when, new-shriven, we go forth to tread

The troubled ways of men.
Folded in peace, and with no need, it seems,

Ever to speak again.

Lady invincible ! Her grander fields

Are praised 'neath every sun ;
But who shall count the secret victories

Her gentler arms have won ?
Hers are the trumpet and the waving flag;

But there is one who knows
That on a certain summer day in Rome

She conquered with a rose.

LONDON GUILDS AND APPRENTICES.

THE halls of the old London
guilds or companies are still among
the most interesting sights of Lon-
don. They are not only interest-
ing as the relics of by-gone times
and manners, but as living and ac-
tive representatives of the influen-
tial bodies whose names they bear.
Many of the companies give an
annual dinner to the members of
the Cabinet (of no matter which
of the two great political parties),
and all are wide awake and progres-
sive. They bestow the honorary
membership of their various crafts
upon outsiders as a very great dis-
tinction and favor, and with many
of the proudest names of the no-
bility this or that company has a
hereditary connection. Their ac-
tual halls are none of them of
great antiquity, as they can date
no further back than 1666, the
year of the great fire of London,
when every building of any conse-
quence in the city was destroyed ;
and many are far more modern
than that, having been rebuilt in
our own century. The Company
of the Goldsmiths, which at pre-
sent ranks fifth in the order of
precedence among the London
VOL. xxiv. 4

guilds, boasts of being one of the
oldest of all, its first charter dat-
ing from 1327 (before its rivals pos-
sessed a similar royal license), and
its records prove that it existed
more than two hundred years pre-
vious to that date, and was even
fined in 1180 for its irregular and
independent being. This was un-
der Henry II., and it is presumable
that it was not even then in its in-
fancy. The craftsmen of the capi-
tal were obliged to protect them-
selves by associations of mutual
comfort and defence, and the gold-
smiths especially, as they were most
often liable to taxation and forcible
levies for the benefit and at the
caprice of the king. They were
the earliest bankers, both in Eng-
land and in other countries. Their
power and organization, before they
obtained the charter of incorpora-
tion under Edward III. in 1327,.
is shown by the following account
given by Maitland, the historian of
the city of London, and copied by
him from an old chronicler, Faby-
an no doubt a witness of the fray :

" About the same time (1269) a great
difference happened between {he Com-
pany of Goldsmiths and that of the Mer-

London Guilds and Apprentices.

chant Tailors [or, as it was written, ' Tay-
lors'] ; and other companies interesting
themselves on each side, the animosity
increased to such a degree that on a cer-
tain night both parties met (it seems by
consent) to the number of 500 men, com-
pletely armed ; when fiercely engaging,
several were killed and many wounded
on both sides ; and they continued fight-
ing in an obstinate and desperate man-
ner, till the sheriffs raised a great body
of citizens, suppressed the riot, and ap-
prehended many of the combatants, who
were soon after tried by the mayor and
Laurence de Brooke, one of the king's
justices ; and thirteen of the ringleaders
being found guilty, they were condemned
and hanged."

The goldsmiths stood, both to in-
dividuals and to the government, in
the relation of agents in the trans-
fer of bullion and coin, in making
payments and obtaining loans, and
in the. safe custody of treasure.
This branch of their business has
not been relinquished so very long
' ago ; for we find a statement made
in a book called A General Descrip-
tion of all Trades, and published in
1747, to the effect that

" Goldsmiths, the fifth company, are,
strictly speaking, all those who make it
their business to work up and deal in all
sorts of wrought gold and silver plate ;
but of late years the title of goldsmith
has been generally taken to signify one
who banks, or receives and pays running
cash for others, as well as deals in plate ;
but he whose business is altogether cash-
keeping is properly a banker."

To distinguish such of the craft
as did not bank, the name silver-
smith was used; and these again
were sub-divided into the working
silversmiths, who fashioned the pre-
cious metals, and the shopkeepers,
who only sold them. This statement
has been preserved by Malcolm in
his work on the city, called Londi-
nium Redivivum. The distinction
is practically obsolete in our day,
and theVhole craft goes more gen-

erally by the name of jewellers. It
would be difficult at present to find
one jeweller who is still a banker,
though there is no doubt that pri-
vate negotiations of the sort de-
scribed may sometimes take place ;
but as to the safe-keeping of jewels
and plate, the London jewellers do
a very extensive business. Full as
many people keep their family heir-
looms at the great, jewellers' Han-
cock, Emmanuel, Garrett, Tessier,
Hunt, and RoskelJ, etc., etc. as they
do at banks ; and, again, the secret
loans on valuable jewels, and the
sale of some, to be replaced by cun-
ningly-wrought paste, constitute, as
of old, an important though private
branch of their traffic. The great
goldsmiths of old times were pawn-
brokers on a magnificent scale, as
well as bankers, and even church
plate often came for a time into
their keeping. Royal jewels and
the property of the nation were not
seldom in their hands as pledges,
and through their aid alone could
war be carried on or clamoring,
mercenaries paid.

Italy was more liberal towards
her goldsmiths than England. Here
they Avere artists and ranked as
such ; in England they were artifi-
cers and traders. In the latter
country they were powerful, but
only through the wealth they con-
trolled ; in Italy they were admired,
courted, and flattered in society,
but politically their power was less.
The English at all times excelled
rather in manual skill than in de-
sign; and to this day the designers
of jewellers, lamp-makers, furniture-
makers, house-decorators, and even
silk, ribbon, and cotton merchants,
in England, are generally not Eng-
lish.

In ancient times the London
goldsmiths all lived in or near
Cheapside, or, as it was often called,

London Guilds and Apprentices.

West Cheap, to distinguish it from
the other Cheap Street, more to the
east. " Cheap " was the same as
market. Close by was the Royal
Exchange, where the bullion for the
coinage of the realm was received
and kept, and the street in which
stood this building is still called the
Old Exchange. Whether by law or
custom, only goldsmiths were al-
lowed to have shops in this neigh-
borhood; but even if the right was at
first but a prescriptive one, the com-
pany soon contrived to have laws
passed to forbid any other craft from
encroaching on their domains. This
localizing of various crafts was
common all over Europe in the
middle ages, and in many in*
stances was really a convenience to
purchasers, as well as a means of
defence for the members of the
guilds. In the case of the gold-
smiths the government had an ob-
ject of its own. It might have been
thought that the concentration of
other turbulent companies would
have been rather a danger and a
provocation to the royal authority;
but it was obviously the policy of
the king to make the services of
this wealthy company as accessible
as might be, in case of any sudden
emergency requiring a loan or a
tax. It was not politic to let any
of the fraternity escape contribution
by hiding himself in some obscure
part of the city; so that not only
were other tradesmen prohibited
from opening shops among the
goldsmiths, but the latter were
themselves forbidden from setting
up their shops elsewhere. Although
neither law nor custom now inter-
feres with them, the majority of the
great jewellers have their glittering
shops in Bond Street, London, while
in other countries the same rule,
on the whole, still prevails. The
Rue de Rivoli and the Palais Royal

are the chief emporiums for these
precious goods in Paris ; in Vienna
they are mainly sold in the Graben,
and one street leading out of it ;
Rome has its Via Condotti, throng-
ed with jewelry shops and those
selling objects of virtu; Venice
has its Procurazie, an arcade be-
neath which nearly all the jewel-
lers in the city are congregated;
and in many old Italian cities the
Strada degli Orcfici (goldsmiths'
street) still fully deserves its name.
This is particularly the case at
Genoa, where this old, crooked
lane, bordered by the booths and
dens that we moderns would take
for poor cobblers' shops, is still one
of the most surprising and pictu-
resque sights of the city. Gold-
smiths' Row is thus described in
Maitland's History :

11 The same was built by Thomas
Wood, goldsmith, one of the sheiiffs of
London in the year 1491. It containc i
in number ten dwelling-houses and
fourteen shops, all in one frame, uni-
formly built, four stories high, beautified
towards the street with the goldsmith's
arms and the likeness of woodmen, in
memory of his name, riding on mon-
strous beasts, all of which were cast in
lead, richly painted over and gilt. The
said front was again new painted and
gilt over in the year 1594, Sir Richard
Martin being then mayor, and keeping
his mayoralty in one of them."

The Row, however, before this
embellishment, had existed in the
same place, and covered adjoining-
parts of Cheapside, betwixt Bread
Street end and the Cross in Cheap.
This beautiful monument is now
gone, but it stood at the west end
of the street, in the middle of an
open space from which St. Martin-
le-Grand (still one of the London
parishes) branches out on the one
hand, and St. Paul's churchyard on
the other. The " churchyard," still
retaining its name, is now filled

London Guilds and Apprentices.

with gay shops, mostly for the sale
of silks, feathers, and other female
gear, and quite equal to the re-
splendent shops of the West End' of
London. The Cross in Cheap was
one of a series which Edward I.
built at every place where the body
of his wife, Queen Eleanor, rested
on the way from Herdeley in Lin-
colnshire to Westminster, where she
was buried.

In 1629 the appearance of the
goldsmiths' shops is thus described :

" At this time the city greatly abound-
ed in riches and splendor, such as former
ages were unacquainted with ; then it
was beautiful to behold the glorious ap-
pearance of goldsmiths' shops in the
South Row of Cheapside, which in a
continued course reached from the Old
'Change to Bucklersbury, exclusive of
four shops only of other trades in all
that space."

Another reason that had been
early alleged for the concentration
of the guild was that " it might be
seen that their works were good
and right"; for as early as 1327
complaints were made of the sub-
stitution of paste for real gems, and
of plated ware for genuine metal.
Some of the fraternity were wont
to hide themselves in by-lanes and
obscure turnings, and buy stolen
plate, melt it down, and resell it
secretly to merchants about to put
to sea.

" And so they made also false work
of gold and silver, as bracelets, lockets,
rings, and other jewels ; in which they
set glass of divers colors, counterfeiting
real stones, and put more alloy in the
silver than they ought, which they sold to
such as had no skill in such things. And
that the cutlers in their workhouses
covered tin with silver so subtilly, and
with such slight,* that the same could
not be discerned and severed from the
tin ; and by that means they sold the tin

* Sleight or skill.

so covered for fine silver, to the great
damage and deceit of the king and his
people."

All this was very distasteful to
the respectable members of the
company, from whose petition the
above words are quoted, and hence-
forward the law did all it could to
protect both the public from deceit
and the guild from dishonor. Yet,
since human law never yet reached
an abuse upheld by obstinate men
interested in law-breaking or law-
evading, the ordinances had to be
constantly renewed. As years went
on the law was more and more dis-
regarded. One order was passed
in 1629 to confine the goldsmiths
to Cheapside and Lombard Street ;
another in 1635, another in 1637,-
and two in 1638. Summary pro-
ceedings were taken against the in-
trusive shopkeepers who paraded
their " mean trades " among the
privileged goldsmiths. For instance,
' k if they should obstinately refuse
and remain refractory, then to take
security of them to perform the
same by a certain day, or in default
to commit them to prison until they
conform themselves." The arbi-
trary Star Chamber, whose rule
under the later Stuarts became a
real " Reign of Terror," threatened
that if such shops were not forth-
with shut up, the alderman of the
ward, or his deputy, should be com-
mitted to prison. But these were
the last among the despotic threats
of the terrible tribunal, which was
soon after abolished, and the twen-
ty-four common shops which were
enumerated in 1638 as spoiling the
fair appearance of Goldsmiths'
Row were soon reinforced by
many others. The prohibitory or-
dinances ceased, and custom alone
was not strong enough to expel in-
truders. Besides, the greit fire
soon came to sweep away almost

London Guilds and Apprentices.

the whole city, and the plague that
preceded it did much to break up
all local customs and attachments.
The tide of fashion afterwards car-
ried the jewellers with it, setting
every year more and more to the
west of the city, and the old land-
marks and restrictions died a natural
death. Lombard Street, however,
originally named from the Lombard
refugees who settled in London as
bankers and pawnbrokers as well
as jewellers, is still distinguished
by the number of banks and impos-
ing warehouses it contains, and by
the comparatively stately architec-
ture of some of its great commer-
cial buildings.

The Goldsmiths' Company, by
letters-patent of Edward III., was
granted the privilege of assaying
(or testing) all gold and silver plate
before it could be exposed for sale.
But this was probably only a re-
newal of a right already exercis-
ed by them ; for it is mentioned in
the document that all work as-
certained to be of the proper fine-
ness shall have upon it " a stamp
of a puncheon with a leopard's
head, as of ancient time it hath
been ordained." The company
also has the privilege of assisting at
what is called " the trial of the pyx"
that is, the examination of the coin-
age of the realm, with a view of as-
certaining whether it is of the ster-
ling weight and purity. The pyx is
the box in which the coins to be
weighed and analyzed are contain-
ed. The jury of goldsmiths sum-
moned on this occasion usually
consists of twenty-five, and they
meet with great formalities and
ceremonies in a vaulted chamber
on the east side of the cloisters at
Westminster, called the Chapel of
the Pyx.

Since the great fire the company
has built two halls, the present one

dating only from 1829, when the
old one was pulled down. It stands
immediately behind the new post-
office, and is an Italian building,
more worthy of examination inside
than out. The hall which preced-
ed the present one was celebrated
for a court-room elaborately deco-
rated and possessing a richly-sculp-
tured marble chimney-piece and a
massive bronze grate of the value
of a hundred pounds, in days when
that sum meant thrice as much as
it does now. Like all the compa-
nies, that of the goldsmiths pos-
sessed some valuable pictures, chief-
ly portraits of distinguished mem-
bers or protectors. Hawthorne
mentions the hall of the Barber-
Surgeons' Company, in Monkwell
Street, which boasted of a picture
by Holbein, representing the com-
pany of barber-surgeons kneeling
before Henry VIII. , receiving their
charter from his hands, and for
which the company very rightly
refused $30,000, and even $6,000
for a single head of a person of
the name of Pen, which the late
Sir Robert Peel wished to cut out
from the canvas and replace by a
copy which should rival the origi-
nal in fidelity and minuteness. The
heads in this picture were all por-
traits, and represent grave-looking
personages in dark, sober costumes.
The king is in scarlet. Round the
banqueting-room of this hall were
other valuable pictures of the dis-
tinguished men of the company,
and notably one, by Vandyke, of
an elderly, bearded personage, very
stately in demeanor, refined in fea-
ture, and dressed in a style of al-
most courtly though chastened ele-
gance. The company also trea-
sures its old vellum manuscript
book of records, all in black let-
ter, and in which there has been no
entry made for four hundred years.

London Guilds and Apprentices.

The hall has a lofty, carved roof
of wood, and a sombre, rich ap-
pearance from its antique furniture
and numerous old portraits. There
is a sky-light in the roof, which may
have served to cast light on bodies
dissected on the great table below.
In old times the barbers and sur-
geons formed but one company ;
but we believe that the latter alone
now claim the possession of this
hall (one of the oldest now stand-
ing in London, and the work of
Inigo Jones), although, in official
nomenclature, they still retain the
double title of barber-surgeons.
Close by Monkwell Street is shown
a dilapidated Elizabethan row of
almshouses, erected by a pious and
charitable alderman for six poor
men. Their successors and repre-
sentatives still enjoy the founder's
bounty, but the almshouses are now
choked up by a network of un-
wholesome streets, and the funds
of the institution, which have enor-
mously increased in relative value,
remain in the hands of the trustees.
The number of those who, under
different names, belong to the fra-
ternity of goldsmiths, is, at a rough
calculation, nearly eight hundred,
exclusive of watchmakers who are
also jewellers. Indeed, in the coun-
try these two trades are always
joined, and even many shops of
this mixed kind are found in Lon-
don.

The Fishmongers were the fourth
of the incorporated companies, rank-
ing just before the goldsmiths. At
one time they were the wealthiest
and most powerful; but although
they existed and flourished as a
civic association long before they
obtained a regular charter, they re-
ferred the latter privilege to no ear-
lier date than 1433. The inherent
spirit of division and local jealousy
which seems to animate all bodies

corporate, whether political, com-
mercial, or artistic, caused the fish-
mongers punctiliously to keep asun-
der and form two separate compa-
nies that of the salt-fishmongers
(which had the earliest charter),
and that of the stock-fishmongers,
whose letters-patent were not grant-
ed till 1509. In Catholic times, of
course, the consumption of fish was
great among all classes, and its sale
a very important business. The
salt-fishmongers naturally had the
largest trade, and at one period so
great was the influence of their
company that it gave to the city
six lord-mayors in the space of
twenty-four years. The last and
most famous of these was Sir Wil-
liam Wai worth, who in 1381, under
Richard II., slew the rebel Wat
Tyler with his own hand, in the
market-place at Smithfield, when
that leader was at the head of
thirty thousand rebels. The king
knighted him for this act of prow-
ess a far different cause for the
honor from that which is so in-
dulgently thought sufficient now,
t.e. t the accident of a royal visit
during a mayor's term of office, ir-
respective of any merit in the hold-
er of the office.

The glory and power of the fish-
mongers stirred up the envy and
ill-will of their fellow-citizens, and
Wahvorth's successor, John of
Northampton, a draper of an im-
perious and turbulent character,
well known in his day by the
popular titles of Troubletown and
Cumbertown, was able to array the
interest of several rival companies
against the too prosperous fishmon-
gers, and to procure from the crown
leave for foreigners (meaning stran-
gers or persons not i'reemen) to
sell fish in London, in violation of
the company's right of monopoly.
Maitland even records that he

London Guilds and Apprentices.

made the company acknowledge
that its occupation was " no craft,
and was therefore unworthy of be-
ing reckoned among the other mys-
teries." It was also enacted that
for the future no lord-mayor should
be chosen from among the fishmon-
gers. But the credit of the fish-
mongers revived as soon as John
of Northampton's term of office
ended, and the company was soon
restored by Parliament to all its
old rights and privileges, except the
right of holding courts for the trial
of complaints. This was transfer-
red to the supreme city court, that
of the lord-mayor himself. In
1536 the two companies of salt
and stock fishmongers we,re incor-
porated into one by Henry VIII.
under the title of " The Wardens
and Commonalty of the Mystery
of Fishmongers."

After the Reformation the sale
of fish diminished so as to endanger
the trade of the company, and a
curious act of Parliament was pass-
ed in 1563, under Elizabeth, enjoin-
ing the exclusive use of fish on
Wednesdays and Saturdays, " as
well for the maintenance of ship-
ping, the increase of fishermen and
mariners, and the repairing of port-
towns, as for the sparing and in-
crease of the flesh victual of the
realm." The cases excepted, of
course, were those of sickness, and
of ability and willingness to pay for
a license to eat flesh-meat on those
days. The fine for disobeying the
law was ^3 for each offence, and
the licenses of exemption cost for a
peer i 6s. and 8d., for a knight
and a gentleman 13$. and 4<i., for
the commonalty 6s. and 8d. Even
the license, however, only authoriz-
ed the eating of mutton and fowl,
not beef; but that there might be no
mistake as to the motive of this odd,
restrictive law so like the sump-

tuary laws, and almost as unavail-
ing this clause was added :

" But because no person shall mis-
judge the intent of this statute, be it en-
acted that whoever shall, by preaching,
teaching, writing, or open speech, notify
that any eating of fish, or forbearing of
flesh, mentioned in this statute, is of
any necessity for the soul of man, or
that it is the service of God, otherwise
than as other politic laws are and be,
then such persons shall be punished as
spreaders of false news ought to be."

It is probable that this regulation
failed of its effect, for a subsequent
statute again renewed the prohibi-
tion, though limiting it to Saturdays
only ; still, the concession was but
partial, for the sale of flesh was for-
bidden on Fridays and Saturdays
and during all Lent.

There were three streets in the
city named after the Fishmongers'
Company Old Fish Street, New
Fish Street, and Fishmonger Row,
now called Thames Street. In each
of these the two original companies
had each one hall, making no less
than six halls for the whole guild ;
but on their fusion they chose one
in Thames Street for their common
hall, since which time there have
been three successive buildings on
or about the same spot. The first,
a very old one, originally the gift
of Sir John Cornwall, Lord Fran-
hope, was destroyed in the great
fire of 1666, and soon after Sir
Christopher Wren built them an-
other, famed for a magnificent
double flight of stone stairs on the
wharf. According to old historians,
those were the times when the
Strand was an open road, bordered
sparsely with pleasant houses, hav-
ing large gardens down to the
river's edge. This hall was taken
down about 1830 to make room for
the approaches of the new London
Bridge,' and the present hall was
built just a little to the west of the

London Guilds and Apprentices.

site of its predecessor. This is an-
other of those heavy, would-be-
palatial buildings which attest the
bad architectural taste of the first
half of the present century.

It has long been customary to
enroll as honorary members of the
civic companies many royal and
noble personages; and when, in 1750,
Frederick, Prince of Wales, was
admitted as a freeman, the clerk
of the Fishmongers' Company, Mr.
Tomkyns, proudly reminded him
that " this company, sir, is famous
for having had near threescore
lord-mayors of the city of London,
besides many of the most consid-
erable merchants and eminent citi-
zens, free of it."

King James I. incorporated him-
self with the guild of cloth-workers
in 1607, and Stow's Chronicle, con-
tinued by Howes, gives the following
description of the occurrence :

" Being in the open.hall. he [the king]
asked who was master of the company,
and the lord-mayor answered, ' Sir Wil-
liam Stowe,' unto whom the king said :
' Wilt thou make me free of the cloth-
workers?' 4 Yea,' quoth the master, ' and
think myself a happy man that I live to
see this day.' Then the king said :
" Stowe, give me thy hand ; and now I
am a cloth-worker.' "

Sir Samuel Pepys was master of
the company seventy years later,
and presented them with a rich
loving-cup, which is still used on
solemn occasions. The Winthrops.
ancestors of the famous governor
of the Massachusetts Company, were
hereditarily connected with this
cloth-workers' guild, several of them
becoming members by regular ap-
prenticeship to the trade ; and Adam
Wyritrope, the governor's grand-
father, is mentioned as master of
the company in 1551, having previ-
ously held all the minor offices
leading to that dignity.

Intimately connected with the
system of the companies was the
status of the London apprentices.
Both have been materially modi-
fied, and their representatives have-
ceased to exercise the tangible power
they once possessed. But when
the system was in full operation,
every trade having its separate guild ;
and when, in order that any one
might exercise a trade, it was neces-
sary he should have the freedom of
the guild, this freedom could only
be obtained by serving an appren-
ticeship to a member of the com-
pany. In old times the apprentices
were a superior class of men, and
it was not permitted to every one
to exercise the chief trades. Under
Henry IV. an act was passed con-
taining a clause to the effect that
no one should put his son or
daughter apprentice to a handi-
craft trade, "except he have land
or rent to the value of 205. by
the year," which in those days
would be a fair competency. The
regulations of the city of London
forbade any to be admitted to be
bound apprentice except such as
were "gentlemen born," by which
was understood freeborn, and not
in a state of villeinage the son of
a free-holder or a yeoman. In the
days of the Tudors and Stuarts
even the. younger sons of gentle-
men often served in the commercial
establishments of rich citizens. The
chronicler Stow attributes to this
cause their "costly apparel, their
wearing weapons, and frequenting
schools of dancing, fencing, and
music."

But this very pretension to " gen-
tility " it was which Ben Jonson
rebuked in his Eastward Hoe, a
comedy, the counterpart of Ho-
garth's subsequent caricatures in
pencil. The old goldsmith boasts
that he made his wealth by " hiring

London Guilds and Apprentices.

me a little shop ; bought low ; took
small gain ; kept no debt-book ; gar-
nished my shop, for want of plate,
with good, wholesome, thrifty sen-
tences, as, * Touchstone, keep thy
shop, and thy shop will keep thee ' ;
' Light gains make heavy purses,'
etc."

The apprentices were very clan-
nish, and ready to defend each
other to the death, and this spirit
often led to riots and serious dis-
turbances, but a curious poem pub-
lished in 1647, called The Honor
of London Apprentices, mentions that
this bravery had led them to distin-
guish themselves in a nobler field
tha.n a city brawl namely, in the
Crusades and on the field of Crecy.

Their duties, it seems to us, cor-
responded in their way to the ser-
vice required from youths of good
birth as pages and esquires in the
house of a knight, before they them-
selves could aspire to the honor of
knighthood. These waited at table,
served the ladies, and performed
many offices now termed menial ;
and, as a tract published in London
in 1625 avers, so too did the ap-
prentices :

" He goes bare-headed, stands bare-
headed, waits bare headed, before his
master and mistress ; and while as yet he
is the youngest apprentice, he doth per-
haps, for discipline's sake, make old
leather over-night shine with blacking
for the morning ; brusheth a garment,
runs of errands, keeps silence till he have
leave to speak, follows his master or
ushereth his mistress, and sometimes
my young mistresses their daughters
<among whom some one or other of them
doth not rarely prove the apprentice's
wife), walks not far out but with permis-
sion, and now and then, as offences hap-
pen, he may chance to be terribly chidden
or menaced, or [for ?] what sometime must
be worthily corrected."

Stow, in his Survey of London,
says that " when apprentices and

journeymen attended upon their
masters and mistresses at nignt,
they went before them carrying a
lantern and a candle in their hands,
and a great long club on their
necks ; and many well-grown, sturdy
apprentices used to wear long dag-
gers in the daytime on their backs
or sides." All this the master in his
young days had done for his master,
and all this the present apprentice
had the prospective right of claim-
ing for himself in the future ; so in
this inequality for the nonce there
was no element of caste and no
room for foolish murmuring. The
turbulence of these young fellows
was turned now against the city
authorities, now against foreign or
unlicensed traders and artificers,
now against their masters. From
the thirteenth to the seventeenth
century times when all classes were
turbulent enough these occasional
riots went on and were punished ; but
what chiefly Jed to their cessation was
the gradual falling to pieces of the
old system, and the more effectual
police force which patrolled the
city after 1688. But the peculiarity
of the apprentices' privileges and
of the influence of the companies in
England was that, no matter how
low a man began, his industry and
good behavior could raise him to
high public honor. This was not
the case in most other European
countries. Wealth and domestic
happiness, of course, attended virtue
and application to business, but such
advancement as the English Consti-
tution offered existed nowhere, un-
less, perhaps, in the Low Countries.
This has been significantly comment-
ed upon by Lichtenberg, an admirer
and critic of Hogarth, and professor
of natural history at the Universi-
ty of Gottingen. " In Hogarth's
country," says he, "it is not imfre-
quent that the son of a weaver or a

London Guilds and Apprentices.

brewer may distinguish himself in
the House of Commons, and his
grandson or great-grandson in the
House of Lords. Oh! what a land,
in which no cobbler is certain that
the favors of his great-grandson
may not one day be solicited by
kings and emperors. And yet they
grumble !"

Although there are no restrictive
laws as to trade in the London of
our day, and though much of the
state of the companies has dwin-
dled into formalities, and is more
interesting from a historical than a
political point of view, still the
foundations on which the system
was built are unalterable. In these
days, as in centuries gone by, the
pride in one's work, the personal in-
dustry, and the esprit de corps of
tradesmen are the real steps by
which they mount to civic and po-
litical success. They were once
embodied in the close system of
alliance and defence encouraged by
the guilds ; times and customs have
changed, and each man stands
more or less on his own merits alone,
but the underlying principle is the
same. It is not every tradesman
or merchant who, because he is
honest and thrifty, becomes lord-
mayor of London, is knighted, or
elected M.P.; but these prizes are
within the reach of all. The city re-
cords for the latter half of the eigh-
teenth century, for instance, wit-
ness to the perseverance of many
men born in the lowest and most
hopeless circumstances, and that,
too, when the ancient prestige of
the companies had somewhat faded.
Sir James Sanderson, sheriff and
lord-mayor of London, was the son
of a poor grocer of York, who died
young, leaving his widow to, manage
the business till his son should be
old enough to carry it on. The
son left the shop to his mother for

her support, and went to London,
entered the service of a hop-mer-
chant, and throve so well through
his industry that he attained great
wealth and position. He was after-
wards made a baronet. Alderman
Boydell came to London on foot,
from Shropshire, and worked as an
engraver. After great trials, he too
succeeded and became lord-mayor,
besides being a great patron of the
arts. Skinner was apprenticed to
a box-maker and undertaker, and,
through obscure local influence, be-
gan a small business of auctioneer-
ing; he ended by becoming lord-
mayor, and the first auctioneer of the
kingdom. Sir William Plomer be-
gan life in an oil-shop in Aldgate, a
dingy old part of the city. Brooke
Watson, M.P. for the city 'of Lon-
don,* was the son of a journeyman
tailor, and served his apprenticeship
to that trade. Sir John Anderson,
lord-mayor and member for the city,
was the son of a day laborer. Ma-
cauley was the son of a captain of
a coasting vessel, who died leaving
nine children unprovided for. Sir
William Staines and Alderman
Hamerton were both working pa-
viors and stone-masons. Aldermen
Wright and Gill were servants in a
warehouse of which they afterwards
became masters ; they lived for
sixty years in partnership as station-
ers, and never disagreed, although
the latter married the former's sis-
ter. Wright made ^400, ooo. The
two old friends died the same year,
beloved and regretted by many who
had experienced their kindness and
generosity.

To point out contrary instances
would not be so easy they are

* The members for the city have the right to wear
scarlet gowns on the first or opening day of every
Parliament, and sit all together on the right hand
of the chair, next the speaker. No other members,
except the speaker and the clerks, have the right oi
wearing robes.

The Sainte Chapellc of Paris.

legion ; but the typical idle ap- and inordinate love of so-called

prentice of Hogarth is a fair spe- enjoyment. These we have under

cimen of those who wreck their our eyes every day, in every coun-

lives through weakness of resolve try.

THE SAINTE CHAPELLE OF PARIS AND THE CROWN OF

THORNS.

IN the very heart of Paris, to the
northwest of Notre. Dame, and as
if a flower detached from her gar-
land, or a graceful sapling from the
majestic parent tree, sprang up,
more than six centuries ago, the
Sainte Chapelle.

It almost seems as if Heaven had
extended a special protection to
the sanctuary raised to enshrine
the precious relics of the Passion
of our Lord ; for although injured
and despoiled by evil hands in the
time of the First Revolution, it was
subsequently restored to all the
splendor of its pristine beauty ; and
again, when the conflagrations kin-
dled by the Commune were rag-
ing around it, the Sainte Chapelle,
with its fearless fleche, its protect-
ing angel, and its golden crown,
stood unharmed in the very midst
of the flames, and so remained
when they had died out, amid the
heaps of ashes and the crumbling
ruins left around its unscathed
walls.

Since the time of St. Louis
France has possessed the crown
of thorns of our Lord Jesus Christ,
and there is great interest in trac-
ing the vicissitudes through which
t'nis priceless treasure has passed,
and in learning the circumstances
under which the saintly monarch
obtained it. In the year 1204 the
French and the Venetians, having
captured Constantinople, establish-

ed there as emperor Baldwin, Count
of Flanders. On the division of
the booty this prince requested
for his share the sacred crown of
our Saviour, which was found
among the treasure of the empe-
rors of the East, offering, if it were
adjudged to him. to give to the
Doge of Venice a large portion of
the true cross in exchange.

His successor, Baldwin II., find-
ing his empire, in the year 1238,
threatened by the Greeks on the
one side, and on the other by the
Bulgarians, came into the West to
seek aid and protection against his
enemies. Whilst at the court of
France, whither he had gone to
entreat the assistance of St. Louis,
tidings reached him that the nobles
whom he had left at Constantinople,
finding their resources completely
exhausted, were on the point ot
pledging the holy crown to the
Venetians for a sum of money.
The young emperor, strongly dis-
approving of this measure, offered
as a free gift to St. Louis the pre-
cious relic which the lords ot
Byzantium were wishing to sell.
"For," said he, "I greatly desire
to bestow it upon you, my cousin,
who are my lord and benefactor, as
well as upon the realm of France,
my country."

St. Louis eagerly accepted s'lefi
a gift as this, and immediately, at
the same time that Baldwin de-

The Sainte Chapelle of Paris.

spatched one of his officers with
letters-patent commanding that the
holy crown should be sent to him,
the French monarch sent two of
the Friars Preachers, named James
and Andrew, to receive it in his
name. Journeys in those days,
however, were by no means expe-
ditious, and on the arrival of the
messengers at Constantinople they
found the sacred relic gone from
the treasury, and pledged to the
Venetians for 13,075 hyperperia, or
about ,157,000 sterling. It had
been deposited by their cham-
berlain, Pancratius Caverson, in
the church of Panta Craton, that
of his nation at Byzantium. On
receiving the emperor's orders the
Latin lords rearranged the matter
with the Venetians, and it was
agreed that, if within a reasonably
short time the latter did not receive
the reimbursement of the sum they
had paid, the sacred crown should
become their undoubted property.
Meanwhile, it was to be carried to
Venice, accompanied by the envoys
of the King of France, one of whom,
Father Andrew, had formerly been
guardian of the convent of his
order at Constantinople, and, hav-
ing on several occasions seen the
crown, knew its appearance per-
fectly well. It was this circum-
stance which had determined St.
Louis to send him as one of his
messengers.

Every possible precaution was
taken to secure the identification
of the holy crown, which was en-
closed in three chests, the first of
gold, the second of silver, on which
the Venetian lords affixed their
seals, the third of wood, which was
sealed by the French nobles.

The season, being Christmas, was
unfavorable for the voyage by sea,
but the envoys had no hesitation in
embarking, secure in the conviction

that the crown of Jesus would be
their protection in the tempest and
the perils of the wintry seas. Nor
was their trust disappointed. They
escaped unharmed from other dan-
gers also ; for the galleys of Vataces,
the Greek pretender to the imperial
throne, having started in pursuit of
their vessel, were unable to over-
take or even to discover them, and
they reached Venice in safety.

The holy crown was at once
borne to St. Mark's, and there plac-
ed among the treasures in the
Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,
where reposed the body of the
Evangelist, between the two co-
lumns of alabaster which are said to
have been brought from the Temple
of Solomon. At the same time one
of the Dominican Fathers set out
for France to acquaint St. Louis
with the terms agreed upon.

These were approved of by the
king, who directed the French mer-
chants to repay the Venetians the
sum they had advanced. The sa-
cred relic was then delivered into
the hands of the French envoys,
who, after assuring themselves that
the seals were intact, started home-
wards with their treasure on the
road to France. No sooner had
the king heard of the arrival of the
holy crown at Troyes, in Champagne,
than he immediately set out, with
the queen-mother, Blanche of Cas-
tile, the princes his brothers, and
several of the chief prelates and
nobles, to receive and accompany
it to the capital. The meeting took
place at Villeneuve 1'Archeveque,
five leagues from Sens, on the lotli
of August, 1239. The seals were
then broken, and in the midst of
an indescribable emotion the sacred
relic was displayed.

The king and his brother, the
Comte d'Artois, both barefooted and
wearing a simple tunic of wool.

The Saint e Chapcllc of Paris.

taking it upon their shoulders, bore
it in great pomp to the metropolitan
church of Sens, where it remained
exposed for the veneration of the
faithful until the following day,
when the march towards Paris was
resumed, and they reached the
capital in eight days' time. A
platform had been raised at St. An-
toine des Champs, where the crown
was placed; and when everyone had
contemplated it with an inexpressi-
ble joy, the king and his brother,
taking it, as before, upon their shoul-
ders, carried it in procession to the
palace chapel, at that time dedi-
cated to St. Nicholas, where it was
deposited.

Besides all the precautions taken
to render any substitution impossi-
ble, we may add that Baldwin, on
being required to examine and iden-
tify the relic, declared its authenti-
city in a document written on parch-
ment, which was in existence until
the Revolution of 1793, signed with
his own hand in Greek characters,
traced in cinnabar, and having his
own seal, of lead covered with
gold, affixed. On one side of this
seal the emperor was represented
enthroned, with the inscription :
" Balduinus Imperator Romania sem-
per Augustus.'" On the other he was
on horseback, with the inscription
in Greek letters : " Baudot '/?, Empe-
reur, Comte de Flandre" It must
also be borne in mind that the Ve-
netians, before lending so consi-
derable a sum for such a pledge,
would be certain to satisfy them-
selves beyond all doubt as to ics
authenticity, and that, even had he
been so minded, Baldwin could not
in this matter have imposed upon
the credulity of St. Louis, as some
modern writers have asserted, but
that he did really receive that which
the whole Christian world regarded
as the crown of thorns of our Lord

Jesus Christ. Still, some additional
proof may be required, and for this
we must go back to an earlier pe-
riod. We must also consider the
nature of this crown; for many
churches affirm, and with good rea-
sons, that they possess thorns or
fragments of the same, and yet these
portions frequently do not resemble
that which is at Paris.

In the first place, it' is certain
that a century and a half before
the reign of St. Louis, at the time
of the First Crusade, all the world
admitted that a very large portion
of the crown was preserved at Con-
stantinople, in the chapel of the
Greek emperors. When Alexis
Comnenus wished to induce the
Christian princes to go to his assis-
tance, he spoke to them of the very
precious relics which they would
help to save, amongst which he es-
pecially designated the crown of
thorns.

Also, in the time of Charlemagne,
all the West had the certainty that
Constantinople possessed this trea-
sure, of which a considerable part
was equally known to be at Jeru-
salem. Towards the year 800, ac-
cording to Aimoin, the Patriarch
of Jerusalem had detached some
of the thorns, which he sent to
Charlemagne, who deposited them
at Aix-la-Chapelle with one of the
nails of the true cross, and it was
these relics which were afterwards
given by Charles le Chauve to the
Abbey of St. Denis.

The existence of the crown is a
fact constantly alluded to in the
sixth century, by St. Gregory of
Tours amongst others ; and about
the year 409 St. Paulinus of Nola
knew of its preservation. He writes :
"The thorns with which the Saviour
was crowned, and the other relics
of his Passion, recall to us the liv-
ing remembrance of his presence."

The Sainte Chapelle of Paris.

No written testimonies of an ear-
lier date remain, but these appear
to be fully sufficient, as they are
the expression of an oral tradition
well known to every one. As for
the idea that such a relic as this
could have been invented in those
ages of conscience and of faith, it
is wholly inadmissible.

The crown was not found with
the cross and nails on Mount Cal-
vary, nor is it probable that it was
there buried with them, but that,
when Joseph of Arimathea took
down the body of Jesus from the
cross, he would have preserved it
apart. That no mention of this re-
mains to us is easily accounted for
by the silence and the exceed-
ing precautions necessary so long
as the persecutions by Jews and
pagans continued. During this
time the relics of the Passion which
had been in the custody of the
Blessed Virgin, or by her entrusted
to others, could not, for reasons of
safety, have been distributed to the
various churches, but were honora-
bly preserved in private dwellings,
to be brought forth and publicly
acknowledged when peace was
granted to the church by the con-
version of Constantine. Then it
was that St. Helena sought with
pious eagerness for every memorial
that could be found of the Cruci-
fixion, and distributed them chiefly
among the churches of Jerusalem,
Constantinople, and Rome.*

An apparent difficulty still re-
mains, which obliges us to inquire
into the nature and form of the
sacred crown, with respect to which
ancient authors differ from one an-
other, some asserting that it was
formed of reed (j'uncvs palustris],

A branch from the crown of thorns was pre-
sented to the church at Treves. Two of the thorns
also are in that of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme
at Rome.

about which, however, there are n<
points of any gr?at sharpness ; while
others maintain it to have been
made from the branches of a shrub
belonging to the genus Rhamnns.
several species of which, especially
the Zizyphus Spina Christi, or the
thorn of Christ, are furnished with
exceedingly long, hard, and sharp-
ly-pointed thorns, exactly similar to
those venerated in several churches,
but bearing no resemblance what-
ever to the holy crown at Paris,
which is, in fact, of reed.

How is this diversity to be ac-
counted for? Thanks to the learn-
ed researches of M. Rohault de
Fleury,* it is fully explained. The
crown at Paris is a circle formed
of small reeds bound together, and
from which only a small number
of particles have been taken. The
opening is large enough to encircle
the head and to fall rather low
over the brow. But this circle is
only the support or foundation, so
to speak, of the painful crown of
our Lord. The branches of those
thorns of which we have been
speaking were twined alternately
within and without, and twisted
across in such a manner as to form
of these sharp spines not only a
circlet but a cap, as it were, of tor-
ture, which covered the Redeemer's
head.

The year 1241 added new trea-
sures to those already acquired by
St. Louis. These were also from
Constantinople, and sent as ex-
pressions of the homage paid by
the Emperor Baldwin to the " Most
Christian King." These relics were
accompanied by a parchment do-
cument to establish their authenti-
city, and which especially desig-
nated three remarkable portions of
the true cross : the first and largest,
Cnicem Sanctain ; the second, Mag-

* Mtmoire sur les Instruments de la Passion.

The Sainte Chapclle of Paris.

nam partem Cruets; and the third,
which was smaller, and known as
the Cross of Victory, because it
had been borne before the armies
of Constantine and his successors,
AlicDii cruceui mediocrem quam Cru-
cem Triumphalem veteres appellabant.
With these was sent also the point
of the lance which had pierced our
Saviour's side, and which, from the
beginning of the seventh century,
had been kept in the chapel of the
Martyrion, raised by Constantine
on Mount Calvary over the very
place of the Crucifixion. Hera-
clius, fearing lest the lance should
fall into the hands of the Persians,
sent it to Constantinople, from
which the greater part of it was
later taken to Antioch, where the
Crusaders found it in 1097, but the
point had been retained in the
former city, and was sent from
thence f?) Paris.

It was also in the palace of the
Bucoleon at Byzantium that were
for a long period preserved a por-
tion of the purple robe, the reed,
and the sponge of the Passion.
Baldwin I., by means of certain
concessions made to the other cru-
sading princes, obtained that the
chapel in this palace should remain
undisturbed, and thus secured for
himself the greater part of its trea-
sures, which were so largely drawn
upon by his successor for the bene-
fit of St. Louis and of France.

On their arrival the king imme-
diately prepared to erect an edifice
that should be as worthy as possible
to receive relics so precious ; nor
were there wanting at that time great
artists well able to furnish the design.
The middle of the thirteenth cen-
tury was perhaps the best and pur-
est period of religious architecture.
Churches and cathedrals then arose
the majesty of whose beauty has
never been surpassed or even equal-

led. For the execution of his work
Louis chose his own architect,
Pierre de Montereau, the most re-
nowned master-worker in stone of
the great school of Philippe Au-
guste, whom he % charged to con-
struct, in place of the chapel of St.
Nicholas, which was old and ruin-
ous, another which should be not
so much a church as a delicate re-
liquary in stone, with open-worked
carving like a filigree of gold, pav-
ed with enamel, and lighted by win-
dows filled with richly-colored glass.

The artist was no less ready to
enter into the ideas of the king
than he was competent to realize
them. A plan, wonderful in the
beauty of its proportions and the
gracefulness of its design, was soon
ready and submitted to the mo-
narch's approval, who found it so
excellent that his one desire was to
see it carried out as expeditiously
as possible.

The legendary spirit of the mid-
dle ages, which did not easily allow
that a too perfect work could be
the result of a man's own thought
and labor, has, as usual, embroider-
ed facts with fancies, and attributed
the conception of so exquisite a-de-
sign to supernatural and magical
means. It is not difficult to under-
stand that the simple imagination
of the people may have had some
scope in the colossal construction
of the ancient cathedrals, which
required centuries for their com-
pletion, and which often left no
name of the master who conceived
the design or of those who execut-
ed it; but the Sainte Chapclle was
not to have such dimensions as to
require time and labor either very
great or prolonged, and, moreover,
he who cut this jewel would en-

grave on

it his name.'

* Until the Revolution the tomb of Pierre de
Montereau still existed in the abbey church of St.

6 4

The Saint e Chape lie of Paris.

It is evident that the chief inten-
tion of the architect was to give to
his work as spiritual a character as
it is possible to impress upon mat-
ter, and to translate into stone the
sursum cor da of religious aspira-
lion.

The first stone was laid by the
king in the year 1245. The pro-
portions of the plan are consider-
ed perfect by competent judges.
It forms a lengthened parallelogram,
terminated at the east end by an
apse, and formed of two chapels,
one above the other, without aisles
or transepts. The edifice measures
outside 36 metres 33 centimetres
in length, by 17 in widtli ; the ex-
terior elevation from the ground of
the lower chapel to the front gable
is 42111. 5ocm. ; the spire* rises
33111. 25cm. above the roof. The
interior elevation measures 6m*
6ocm. in the lower chapel, and from
20111. to 50111. in the upper. The
king's desire for the speedy com-
pletion of the building was so great
that, notwithstanding the conscien-
tious care bestowed upon every de-
tail, the work went on with such
rapidity that in three years the
whole was finished, and the fairy-
like beauty of the edifice excited
the most enthusiastic admiration,
tempered, however, by serious ap-
prehensions as to the stability of
the fabric apprehensions which
raised a tempest of reproaches
against the daring architect. Pierre
de Montereau was himself for a
time dismayed at the possible con-
sequences of his boldness. How
could he be certain that a church
so slight, so delicate, and, in com-
parison with its area, so lofty, would

Germain des Prs, where he had built an exqui-
sitely beautiful chapel to the Blessed Virgin, and
where he was buried, at the age of fifty-four.

* The present spire was erected by M. Lassus,
who has faithfully followed the character of the
rest of the building.

stand securely, almost in defiance
of possibilities ?

Sebastien Rouillard declares that
scarcely was the Sainte Ckapellt
erected when it was seen to oscil-
late in the wind, and the spire to
sway to and fro in the air when its
bells were rung. Thus, Quasimodo
or " Low " Sunday of the year of
grace 1248, on which the church
was consecrated, far from being a
festival or triumph for the hapless
architect, was to him a day of an-
guish. So effectually had he hidden
himself that, though everywhere
sought for, he could nowhere be
found; and, to quote the words
of Paul de St. Victor, " The very
workmen had all fled, fearing that
they might be taught the laws
of equilibrium from the top of
a gibbet. But time has prov-
ed that the seeming rashness of
the mediaeval master was vpell rea-
soned, and that this fair flower
of his planting has the roots of
an oak."

The proportions had been so care-
fully drawn, and the laws of mathe-
matics so exactly observed, the ma-
terials so well chosen and shaped
with such precision, that the aerial
structure could not fail to consoli-
date itself in settling firmly upon
its foundation. "One cannot con-
ceive," writes M. Viollet-le-Duc,
** how a work so wonderful in the
multiplicity and variety of its de-
tails, its purity of execution, its
richness of ornamentation, could
have been executed in so short a
time. From the base to the roof-
ridge it is built entirely of hard
freestone, every layer of which,
cramped together by iron hooks
run into the lead, is cut and placed
with perfect exactness ; the com-
position and carving of the sculp-
ture likewise give evidence of the
utmost care. Nowhere can one

The Sainte Chapdle of Paris.

find the least indication of negli-

gence or hurry '"

Nor was it the Sainte Chapelle
ilone that was completed by the
end of these three years, but also
the beautiful sacristy adjoining,
which was in itself a masterpiece
of Gothic architecture, with a touch
of peculiar refinement about it sug-
gestive of some influence from the
East.

The upper and lower chapels
corresponded with the two divisions
of the palace. The lower one,
which is less a crypt than a splen-
did church, with its sparkling win-
dows, its paintings, its slender pil-
lars with sculptured capitals, was
destined lor the officers and domes-
tics of the royal household. Over
the principal door was placed the
image of the Blessed Virgin, which,
according to a graceful legend, bent
its head to Duns Scotus, in sign of
thanks to that learned theologian,
who had defended the doctrine of
the Immaculate Conception, and
which ever afterwards retained this
attitude. The upper chapel was
reserved for the king and court,
and the cell which was the oratory
of St. Louis, may still be seen adja-
cent to the southern wall.

This church was his especial de-
light. He had it solemnly conse-
crated by two illustrious prelates
on the same day ; the lower chapel
to the Blessed Virgin, by Philippe
de Berruyer. Archbishop of Bour-
ges, and the upper dedicated to
our Lord's Crown of Thorns, by
Eudes de Chateauroux, Bishop of
Tusculum and legate of the Holy
See. The sacred treasures which
the king had received from Con-
stantinople were placed in reliqua-
ries of marvellous richness, wrought
in gold and enamel, adorned with

* Dictionnaire A rcheologique.

VOL. xxiv. 5

carbuncles and pearls. These again
were enclosed in what was called
La Grande Chdsse, or " The Great
Shrine," which was in the form of
an arch of bronze, gilt, and adorned
with figures in the front. It was
raised on a kind of Gothic pedestal
behind the high altar, and closed
with ten keys, each fitting a differ-
ent lock, six of which secured the
two exterior doors, and the four
others an inner trellis-work or grat-
ing. The relics themselves were
in frames or vases of gold and crys-
tal. There the holy crown was
placed, in the centre, between the
largest portion of the true cross
on the one side and the lance on
the other. Thanks to the luxury of
locks and to the six archers who
every night kept guard within the
Sainte Chapelle, its riches were safe
from all possibility of robbery or
fraud.

All these things could not be
accomplished without enormous
outlay. The cost of the Saints
Chapelle amounted to more than
^"800,000. The sums sent to the
Emperor of Constantinople, and
those spent upon the reliquaries,
amounted to two millions; and
when it was suggested to the king
that this lavish expenditure, even
upon holy things, was somewhat
excessive, he replied: " Diex m'a
donne tout ce que possede; ce que
depenserai pour lui et pour les ne-
cessiteux sera tousiours le mieux
place." *

He did not wait until the com-
pletion of the church before estab-
lishing there a college of seventeen
ecclesiastics, amply endowed. The
clergy of the Sainte Chapdle, in vir-
tue of certain privileges and ex-
emptions granted by Pope Inno-

* God has given me all that I possess ; that which
I shall spend for him and for the needy will be always
the best invested.

The Sainte Chapelle of Paris.

cent IV., were under the immediate
jurisdiction of the Holy See. The
same pope, at the prayer of the
king, enriched the relics with nu-
merous indulgences, and at the
same time granted to St. Louis and
his successors the privilege of mak-
ing the exposition of them every
Shrove Tuesday. On this day,
therefore, the court of the palace
was filled, from the hour of seven
in the morning, by the inhabitants
of the twelve parishes of Paris, who
there waited, as it was impossible
for the chapel to contain the mul-
titude. Then the king, taking
the cross, elevated it, whilst the peo-
ple sang Ecce Crux Domini ; after
which he exposed it before the cen-
tral window of the apse in such a
manner that through the open por-
tal of the church the crowds could
behold and venerate it from the
court outside.

Those days were occasions of
exceeding happiness to the saintly
monarch, who, besides, took de-
light in everything connected with
the sanctuary he had raised, wheth-
er in the pomp of its religious so-
lemnities or in the solitude of the
holy place. There he devoutly fol-
lowed the divine Office, and there
he was wont to pass long hours,
alone, in prayer, kneeling in his
oratory, or prostrate on the pave-
ment near the altar. He had there
created for himself something of
that East towards which the thoughts
and desires of his heart were ever
turning, and around this glorified
Calvary which he had raised to the
honor of God he seemed to behold
an ideal representation of the Holy
Land. All the neighboring streets
had taken the names of towns or
villages of Palestine: Bethlehem,
Nazareth, Jerusalem, etc. But the
pious illusion did not satisfy a soul
so in love with the cross as that of

St. Louis ; his knightly heart bound-
ed at the story of the misfortunes
in the East, and on the 25 th of May,
1270, he again enrolled himself
among the Crusaders ; his sons and
barons did the same. He first di-
rected his operations against Tunis
in Africa, but before he reached
that place he died near it, in Au-
gust, 1270.

Great was the mourning in
France when tidings came of the
death of the king. The Sainte C/ia-
pelle seemed plunged, as it were,
into widowhood, and the* poet
Rutebeuf, in his Regrets au Roy
Loeys, has not forgotten the deso-
lation which seemed to be shed
over it :

"Chapele de Paris, bien eres maintenue,
La mort, ce m'est advis, t'a fest desconvenue,
Du miex de tes amys, t'a laiss^ toute nue.
De la mort sont plaintifs et grant gent et me-
nue." *

A day of joy and renewed life, as it
were, was, however, in store for the
royal sanctuary, when the departed
monarch received within its pre-
cincts the first homage of the Chris-
tian world as one of the glorious
company whom the church had
raised to her altars. Pope Bene-
dict VIII., in accordance with the
ardent prayers of the whole of
France, had, in his bull of the nth
of August, 1297, declared the sanc-
tity of Louis IX. The following
year Philip le Bel convoked in
the abbey church of St. Denis all
the prelates, abbots, princes, and
barons of the realm ; the body of
St. Louis was placed in a chdsse
or coffer of silver, and borne by the
Archbishops of Rheims and Lyons
to the Sainte Chapelle, where im-
mense multitudes were assembled

1 " Chapel of Paris, erst so well maintained,
Death, as I am advised, has robbed thee
Of thy best friend, and left thee desolate
Great folk and small, all make complaint at
death."

The Sainie Chapclle of Paris.

to receive it, and where it remained
three days exposed for the venera-
tion of the faithful. Philip would
fain have kept it there in future,
but, fearing to violate the rights of
the royal abbey of St. Denis, he
restored it thither, excepting the
head, which he caused to be en-
closed in a bust of gold, and placed
amongst the sacred treasures of the
holy monarch's favorite sanctuary.
Long and prosperous days were
yet in store for the Sainte Chapelle,
which reckons in its annals a series
of great solemnities. Although its
circumscribed space did not allow
large numbers of people to assem-
ble at a time within its precincts, it
was very suitable for certain festi-
vals of a family character, such as
royal marriages and the coronation
of queens, at which none but the
principal prelates and nobles were
present. Here it was that, in 1275,
Mary of Brabant, daughter of Phi-
lip le Hardi, received the royal
consecration, and that, in 1292,
Henry VII., Emperor of Germany,
in presence of the king, espoused
Margaret of Brabant. In due time
the daughter of this prince, Mary
of Luxemburg, here became the
wife of Charles le Bel, who had
been married once before, and who,
on the death of his second wife,
not long afterwards took a third,
Jeanne d'Evreux. Here also the
too famous Isabel of Bavaria gave
her hand to the unfortunate Charles
VI. About a century previous a
noble and touching ceremony had
taken place within these walls, when
the Emperor Charles IV., accom-
panied by his son Wenceslaus, King
of the Romans, after having, to-
gether with the King of France, as-
sisted at the first Vespers of the
Epiphany, on the following day, at
the High Mass, which was sung by
the Archbishop of Rheims, these

three august personages, represent-
ing the Magi, bore their gifts to the
altar, and there offered gold and
frankincense and myrrh.

The Sainle Chapel le was always
the place of meeting and departure
of every expedition, public or pri-
vate, to the Holy Land. Even at
the period when the Crusades were
no longer in favor, it was here that
the last sparks of religious enthu-
siasm were kindled in their regard.
In 1332 a noble assemblage was
gathered in the upper chapel.
There were present Philippe II. of
Valois ; John of Luxemburg, King
of Bohemia; Philippe d'Evreux,
King of Navarre ; Eudes IV., Duke
of Burgundy ; and John III., the
Good, Duke of Brittany ; prelates,
lords, and barons. The Patriarch
of Jerusalem, Pierre de la Pallu,
who was addressing the assembly,
drew so heartrending a picture of
the misfortunes of the Holy Land
that all present arose as one man,
and, with their faces turned to the
altar and their right hands stretched
out towards the sacred cross and
crown of the Saviour, vowed to go
to the rescue of the holy places.
Alas ! the days of Tancred and
Godfrey de Bouillon were gone by,
and this generous ardor was doom-
ed to be paralyzed by circum-
stances more powerful than the
courage of brave hearts.

The clergy appointed byt. Louis
were more than sufficient for the
service of the chapel, which for a
long period retained its privileges
and organization. Up to the time
of the Revolution it was served by
a treasurer, a chantre or (chief)
"singer," twelve canons, and thir-
teen clerks. The chantry had
been founded in 1319 by Philip
le Long. The treasurer was a
person of very considerable impor-
tance, wore the episcopal ring, and

The Sainte Chapdle of Paris.

officiated with the mitre. He was
sometimes called the pope of the
Sainte Chapdle. This office was
borne by no less than five cardi-
nals, as well as by many archbi-
shops and other prelates.

There were certain ceremonies
peculiar to the chapel. For exam-
ple, on the Feast of Pentecost
flakes of burning flax were let fall
from the roof, in imitation of the
tongues of fire, and a few moments
afterwards a number of white doves
were let fly in the church, which
were also emblematic of the Holy
Spirit. Lastly, at the Offertory
one of the youngest children of the
choir, clad in white garments, and
with outspread golden wings, sud-
denly appeared hovering high
above the altar, by the side of
which he gradually descended, and
approached the celebrant with a
-silver ewer for the ablutions.
Again, on the festival of the Holy
Innocents, and in their honor, the
canons gave up their stalls to the
choir-children, who, being made for
a few hours superior to their mas-
ters, had the honor of chanting the
divine Office and of carrying out
all the ceremonial. These juvenile
personages sat in state, wore the
copes, and officiated with the ut-
most gravity and propriety. Noth-
ing was wanting; even the cantorai
baton was entrusted to the youth-
ful hands of an improvised pracen-
tor. This custom was observed
with so much reverence and deco-
rum that it continued in existence
until as late as the year 1671.

The splendors of the Sainte Cha-
pe-lie began to decline from the day
that the kings abandoned the lie
dn Palais to take up their abode on
the northern bank of the Seine ;
and from the commencement of the
sixteenth century it gradually fell
almost into oblivion. The subse-

quent events which have from time
to time called attention towards it
have nearly all been of a dark and
distressing character. Scarcely
had the Reformation, by its appear-
ance in France, roused the evil pas-
sions which for tong years plunged
the land into all the miseries of ci-
vil war, when fanaticism here sig-
nalized itself by the commission of
a fearful sacrilege. On the 25th of
August, 1503, a scholar, twenty-two
years of age, rushed into the cha-
pel during the celebration of holy
Mass, snatched the Host out of the
hands of the priest, and crushed
it to pieces in the court of the
palace. He was arrested, judged,
and condemned to be burnt. A
solemn service of expiation was
held in the church, and the pave-
ment upon which the fragments of
the sacred Host had fallen was
carefully taken up and deposited
in the treasury.

We mentioned before that the
largest portion of the cross, as well
as the smallest (the Crux Trium-
phalis), were preserved in the great
shrine, together with the sacred
crown ; but the intermediate one,
designated aliam magnam partcw,
being the portion exposed, from
time to time, for the veneration of
the faithful, was deposited in the
sacristy. All at once, on the loth
of May, 1575, it was found that
this piece had disappeared, togeth-
er with the reliquary that contained
it. Great was the general grief
and consternation. No pains were
spared in the search for it, and
large rewards were offered to any
persons who should discover any
trace of the robbers : all in vain,
although public prayers and pro-
cessions were made to obtain the
recovery of the lost relic.

But the guilty person was one
whom no one thought of suspect-

The Sainte Chapdlc of Paris.

ing. Grave historians have never-
theless affirmed that the robber
was none other than the king him-
self, Henry III., who, under the
seal of secrecy, had, for a very large
sum of money, given back this por-
tion into the hands of the Vene-
tians. A true cross, however, must
be had for the solemn expositions
customary at the Sainte Chapelle, In
September of the same year Henry
III. caused the great shrine to be
opened, and cut from the Crucem
Sanctain a piece which was thence-
forth to take the place of that which
was missing, and which he caus-
ed to be similarly shaped and arrang-
ed. A reliquary was also to be made
like the former one, the 'decoration
of which furnished the unblushing
monarch with a fresh opportunity
of enriching himself at the expense
of 'the treasures of the Sainte Cha-
pellc, from which he managed to ab-
stract five splendid rubies of the val-
ue of 260,000 crowns, and which his
successor, Henry IV., was unable to
recover from the hands of the usu-
rers to whom they had been pledg-
ed. About thirty years later the
church narrowly escaped destruc-
tion by a fire which, owing to
the carelessness of some workmen,
broke out upon the roof; but al-
though the timber-work was burnt
and the sheets of lead that cover-
ed it melted, yet the lower roof re-
sisted, and even the windows were
uninjured. The beautiful spire
was consumed, and replaced by
one so poor and ill constructed
that a century and a half later it
was found necessary to take it
down.

But where the fire had spared
man destroyed. A devotion to the
straight line led certain builders to
commit, in 1776, an act of unjus-
tifiable vandalism. The northern
facade of the Palais de Justice was to

be lengthened ; and as the exquisite
sacristy which Pierre de Montereau
had placed by the Sainte C1iapcln\
like a rosebud by the side of the
expanded flower, was found to be
within the line of the projected
additions, these eighteenth-century
architects hesitated not : the love-
ly fabric was swept away to make
room for heavy and unsightly
buildings which well-nigh hid the
S'ainte Chapelle and took from its
windows half their light.

The days of the Revolution soon
afterwards darkened over France.
The National Assembly, at the
same time that it declared the
civil constitution of the clergy, sup-
pressed all church and cathedral
chapters, together with all monas-
teries and abbeys. The Sainte Cha-
pelle was deprived of its priests and
canons, and the municipality of
Paris set seals upon the treasury
until such time as it should choose
to take possession. Louis XVI.,
who only too truly foresaw the fate
that was in store for all these riches,
resolved to save at least the holy
relic, and sending for M. Gilbert
de la Chapelle, one of his counsel-
lors, in whom he could place full
confidence, he charged him to
transfer them from the treasury to
some place where they would be
secure.

On the 1 2th of March, 1 791, there-
fore, the king's counsellor, as-
sisted by the Abbe Fenelon, had
the seals removed in presence of
the president of the Chamber of
Accounts and other notable per-
sonages ; took out the relics, and,
after having presented them to the
monarch, accompanied them him-
self to the royal abbey of St. Denis,
where they were at once deposited
in the treasury of the church.
No one then foresaw that the
sacrilegious hand of the Revolu-

The Sainte CJiapelle of Paris.

tion would reach not only thither, but
to the very extremities of the land.

In 1793 a mocking and savage
crowd forced itself into the Sainte
CJiapelle, and made speedy havoc
of the accumulated riches of five
centuries. Besides the great shrine
and the bust containing the
head of St. Louis, there were
statues of massive gold and silver,
crosses, chalices, monstrances, and
reliquaries, of which the precious
material was but of secondary
value in comparison with their
exquisite workmanship. There
were delicate sculptures in ivory,
richly-illuminated Missals and Of-
fice-books of which even the jewel-
led binding alone was of enormous
value. Everything was hammered,
twisted, broken, wrenched down,
torn, or dragged to the mint to be
melted into ingots. But, worse
than this, the relics that had been
taken to St. Denis were soon after
to be snatched from their place of
shelter. On the night of the nth
-i 2th of November in that dis-
mal year this venerable cathedral
was desecrated in its turn. We
will not dwell upon the horrible
saturnalia enacted there; but first
of all the treasures of the sanctuary
were carried off to Paris, with the
innumerable relics they contained,
and handed over to the Conven-
tion as " objects serving to the
encouragement of superstition."

What was to become of the
true, cross and of the holy crown
in such hands as these? They
who burnt the mortal remains of
St. Denis and of St. Genevieve
would not scruple to destroy the
sacred memorials of the Passion.
But they were to be saved. Hap-
pily, il wcs put into the heads of
the Convention that, in the light
of curiosities, some of these " ob-
jects " might serve to adorn mu-

seums and similar collections, and
they were therefore submitted to
the examination of learned anti-
quarians. The Abbe Barthelemy,
curator of the Bibliotheque Nation-
ale, affirmed the crown to be of
such great antiquity and rarity
that no enlightened person would
permit its destruction ; and having
obtained that it should be con-
fided to him, preserved it with the
utmost care in the National Li-
brary. M. Beauvoisin, a member
of the commission, took the por-
tion of the cross (Crucem magnum)
and placed it in the hands of his
mother. The nail was saved in
the same manner, besides a con-
siderable number of other very
precious relics, which, in various
places of concealment, awaited the
return of better days.

But the hand of the spoiler had
not yet finished its work upon the
Sainte Chapelle. Not that, like
many other ancient sanctuaries, it
was wholly demolished, but its
devastation was complete. The
grand figure of our Lord on the
principal pier of the upper chapel,
the Virgin of Duns Scotus, the
admirable bas-reliefs, the porch,
the richly-sculptured tympanum
and arches, the great statues of the
apostles in the interior, the paint-
ings and enamels which adorned
the walls not one of these escap-
ed destruction at the hands of the
iconoclasts of the Revolution, who
left this once dazzling sanctuary
not only bare but mutilated on
every side. And as if this had not
been ruin enough, the pitiless hard-
ness of utilitarians put the finishing
stroke to the havoc already made
by anti-Christian fanaticism. The
administrators of 1803 thought they
could do nothing better than make
of the Sainte Chapelle a store-room
for the records of the Republic.

The Saint e Chapelle of Paris.

Then were the walls riddled with
hooks and nails, along the arcades
and in the defoliated capitals. Up
to a given height a portion of the
rich glazing of the windows was torn
down round the whole compass of
the building, and the space walled
up with lath and plaster, along which
was fixed a range of cupboards,
shelves, and cases with compart-
ments. Dul a u re, in his Description
of Paris, highly applauds these pro-
ceedings, and considers that the
place had rather gained than lost
by being turned into a store for
waste paper. " The Sainte Cha-
pelle" he says, u is now consecrated
to public utility. It contains ar-
chives, of which the different por-
tions are arranged in admirable
order. The cupboards in which
they are placed occupy a great part
of the height of the building, and
present by their object and their
decoration a happy mixture of the
useful and the agreeable. O Prud-
homme ! thou art eternal." *

And yet this poor flower, so rudely
broken by the tempest, had tried to
lift her head, as it were, and recover
something of the past, when the
dawn of a brighter day shed some
of its first rays on her.

In the year 1800, while Notre
Dame, still given up to schismatic
ministers, was utterly deserted, two
courageous priests, the Abbe Borde-
ries, since Bishop of Versailles, and
the Abbe Lalande, afterwards Bi-
shop of Rodez, first gathered to-
gether the faithful within the walls
of the Sainte Chapelle for holy Mass,
and also for catechisings which
were long afterwards remembered.
In 1802 these good priests held there
a ceremony which for years past
had been unknown in France the
First Communion of a large num-

* See Paul de St. Victor, Sain

ber of children and young persons,
whom they had carefully watched
over and prepared. This earliest
ray of light after the darkness soon
shone upon all the sanctuaries of
the land.

When the churches were opened
again, priests were needed for them,
and of these there remained, alas !
but too few. The Sainte Chapelle
had to be left without any, and it
was then put to the use we have de-
scribed. A few years later, when
an endeavor was about to be made
to have it employed for its original
purposes, it was found to require so'
much repairing that the question
arose whether it would not be ad-
visable to pull it down rather than
attempt to restore it. Happily,
neither course was then taken.
The architects of the Empire and
of the Restoration were alike inca-
pable of touching unless irremedi-
ably to spoil so delicate a mediaeval
gem. Its state was, however, so
ruinous that after the Revolution
it was impossible to think of replac-
ing the sacred relics in a building
no longer capable of affording them
a safe shelter; they were therefore,
in 1804, at the request of Cardinal
Belloy, Archbishop of Paris, given
into the hands of the vicar-general
of the diocese, the Abbe d'Astros,
by M. de Portalis, then Minister of
Public Worship. The holy crown,
of which the identity was establish-
ed beyond all doubt, was at first
carried to the archbishop's palace,
where it remained two years, dur-
ing which time a fitting reliquary
was prepared for its reception, ana
on the loth of August it was trans-
ferred to Notre Dame and solemnly
exposed for veneration.

Beyond the removal of a few
small particles, it had not under-
gone the least alteration, nor had it
certainly been broken into three

The Saint c Ci tap die of Paris.

parts, as has been stated. M. Ro-
liault de Fleury, who was permitted
to examine it minutely, could not
discover the least trace of any frac-
ture. It is now enclosed in a re-
liquary of copper gilt, measuring
3 feet 2 inches in height and i foot
in width, of which the rectangular
pedestal rests on lions' claws, while
upon it kneel two angels, support-
ing between them a globe on which
is inscribed Vicit Leo de Tribu
Juda. The background is of lapis
lazuli veined with gold. In the
flat mouldings about the base are
various inscriptions relating to the
principal facts in the history of the
holy crown. The globe, which is
made to open in the middle, en-
closes a reliquary of crystal within
another of silver, in the form of a
ring, and it is within this circular
tube of ten inches and a half in di-
ameter that the precious relic is en-
shrined.

Another crystal reliquary con-
tains the portion of the Cruccm mag-
nani which had replaced that which
disappeared from the sacristy in
1575. This remarkable fragment is
no less than eight inches in length.
The nail of the Passion which was
formerly in the great shrine is also
at Notre Dame.

In addition to several other relics
which were part of the treasure of
the Sainte Chapelle, there are also
various articles that belonged to
St. Louis, and amongst others the
discipline, which is accompanied
by a very ancient inscription, as
follows : " Flagdlum ex catenulis fcr-
reis confcctum qua SS. rex Ludovicus
corpus suum in servitutem redigebat"
William of Nangis mentions this
discipline, with which Louis IX.
caused himself to be scourged by
his confessor every Friday. The
ivory case in which it was kept con-
tains a piece of parchment where-

on is written in Gothic letters ;
" Cestes escour^estes de fer fnrent a
M . Loys, roy de France" * The sa-
cred relics of the Passion are ex-
posed at Notre Dame on all Fridays
in Lent. In their crystal reliquaries,
which are suspended from a cross ,
of cedar-wood, they are placed on
a framework covered with red hang-
ings, which occupies the central
space at the entrance of the choir,
and is separated from the nave by a
temporary railing. The nail is placed
within the holy crown, and above
them is the portion of the true cross.

We must return, for a few parting
words, to the Sainte Chapelle, which
for more than thirty years remained
in a state of ever-increasing dilapi-
dation and decay, until, in 1837,
M. Duban was charged to com-
mence repairing it by strengthening
the fabric, and soon afterwards two
other architects were associated with
him in the work of careful and com-
plete restoration which it was in-
tended should be effected. It is
enough to mention the names of
MM. Lassus and Viollet-le-Duc to
show how wise a choice had been
made, these gentlemen having not
only a thorough and scientific know-
ledge of mediaeval architecture, an
appreciation of its beauty and a
sympathy with its spirit, but also
that power of patient investigation,
coupled with an accurate instinct,
which would accomplish the recon-
struction of a building from the
study of a. fragment, just as Cuvier,
from a fossil bone, would delineate
the entire form of an extinct ani-
mal.

The Sainte Chapelle was built in
three years, but its restoration oc
cupied nearly twenty-five. P^very
breach and rent was studied with
an attentive eye and closed by an

* These esconrgettes of iron belonged to Mon-
sieur Louis, King of France.

The Sainte Chapelle of Paris.

experienced hand. Nothing was
left to imagination or caprice. Here
the original foliage must be re-
stored to the broken capital ; there
the modem paint and whitewash
must be carefully removed to dis-
cover what remained beneath of
the ancient paintings, and supply
with accurate similarity of coloring
and design the numerous portions
that had been disfigured or de-
stroyed. Fragments of the ancient
statues and stained glass were care-
fully sought for in private gardens
and in heaps of rubbish, and in
some cases it was found practicable
to reconstruct an entire statue from
the pieces discovered here and there
at different times; otherwise, from
the indications afforded by a por-
tion, a copy of the original was
produced.

This long and painstaking labor,
which alone could ensure the re-
storation of the Sainte Chapelle to
its former condition, has been
crowned with complete success.
Nothing is wanting. Exteriorly
the buttresses and pinnacles rise as
heretofore, with their flowered fini-
als and double crowns; that of
royalty being dominated by the
crown of Christ. The bas-reliefs
and statues are in their places ; the
roofs have recovered their finely-
cut crests of leaden open-work; the
golden angel stands as of old over
the summit of the apse; and spring-
ing above all, from amid the group
of saintly figures at its base, loftily
rises the light and slender spire, its
open stone-work chiselled like a
piece of jewelry.

The lower chapel, standing on a
level with the ground, is entered by
the western porch, to the pier of
which the Virgin of Duns Scotus
has returned. It is lighted by
seven large openings, and also by
the seven narrower windows of the

apse. The low-arched roofs re:;t
upon fourteen very graceful though
not lofty pillars with richly-foliated
capitals and polygonal bases. Ar-
cades, supported by light columns,
surround the walls, which are en-
tirely covered by paintings. The
roof is adorned by fleurs-de-lis upon
an azure ground.

Quitting the lower chapel by
a narrow and winding staircase,
which still awaits its restoration,
you arrive beneath the porch of the
upper one, and, entering, suddenly
find yourself in an atmosphere of
rainbow-tinted light. The charac-
teristics of this beautiful sanctuary
which at once strike you are those
of lightness, loftiness, and splen-
dor. A few feet from the floor the
walls disappear, and slender, five-
columned pillars spring upwards to
the roof, supporting the rounded
mouldings by which it is intersect-
ed. The space between these pil-
lars is occupied by four great win-
dows in the nave, while in the apse
the seven narrower ones are car-
ried to the roof. Half-figures of
angels bearing crowns and censers
issue from the junction of the
arches, and against the pillars stand
the majestic forms of the twelve
Apostles, in colored draperies
adorned with gold, each of them
bearing a cruciform disc in his
hand. It was these discs which re-
ceived the holy unction at the
hands of the Bishop of Tuscu-
lum when the building was con-
secrated.

The walls beneath the windows
are adorned by richly gilt and
sculptured arcades filled with paint-
ings. No two of the capitals are
alike, and the foliage is copied, not
from conventional, but from natural
and indigenous, examples.

The windows are all of the time
of St. Louis, with the exception

The Sainte Chapelle of Paris.

of the lower compartments, which
were renewed by MM. Steinheil
and Lusson, and the western rose-
window, which was reconstructed
under Charles VIII. The ancient
windows are very remarkable, not
only for the richness of their color-
ing, but for the multitudes of little
figures with which they are peopled.
Subjects from the Old Testament
occupy seven large compartments
in the nave and four windows in
the apse, the remaining ones being
devoted to subjects from the Gos-
pels and the history of the sacred
relics. The translation of the
crown and of the cross affords no
less than sixty-seven subjects, in
several of which St. Louis, his bro-
ther, and Queen Blanche appear;
and notwithstanding the imperfec-
tion of the drawing, these represen-
tations very probably possess some
resemblance to the features or
bearing of the originals. In the

window containing the prophecies
of Isaias the prophet is depicted
in the act of admonishing Mahomet,
whose name is inscribed at length
underneath his effigy.

The altar, which was destroyed,
has not yet been replaced. That
of the thirteenth century had in
bas-relief on the retable the figures
of our Lord on the cross, with the
Blessed Virgin and St. John stand-
ing beneath, painted, on a gold
ground. A cross hung over it, at the
top of which was balanced the
figure of an angel with outspread
wings, bearing in his hands a Gothic
ciborium, in which was enclosed
the Blessed Sacrament. And why
not still ? Why is the mansion
made once more so fair when the
divine Guest dwells no longer
there ? When the magistracy as-
sembles to resume its sittings, Mass
is said. One Mass a year said in
the Sainte Chapelle !

Sir Thomas More.

SIR THOMAS MORE

A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
XIV.

THE following day, toward noon,
Thomas More was seated, as usual
after dinner, in the midst of his
children. No one could discover in
his countenance any trace of anx-
iety. He conversed with his cus-
tomary cheerfulness. Margaret was
a little pale, and it was evident that
she had been weeping. She alone
kept silence and held aloof from
Sir Thomas. Near the window
overlooking the garden, on the side
next the river, sat Lady More en-
gaged in knitting, according to her
invariable habit, and murmuring
between her teeth against the mon-
key, which had three or four times
carried off her ball of yarn and
tangled the thread.

Sir Thomas from time to time
raised his eyes to the clock ; he
then began to interrogate his chil-
dren about the work each had done
during the morning. At last he
called the little jester, who was pull-
ing the dog's ears and turning
summersaults in one corner of the
room, trying to make his master
laugh, whom he found less cheerful
than usual.

" Come hither," said Sir Thomas.
" Henry Pattison, do you hear
me ?"

The fool paid no attention to
what his master said to him.

"Henry Pattison!" cried Sir
Thomas.

" Master, I haven't any ears."
He turned a summersault and made

a hideous grimace, which he thought
charming.

"Since you have no ears, you
can hear me as well where you are.
Understand, then, little fool, that I
have given you to the lord-mayor.
I have written to him about you
this morning, and I have no doubt
but that he will send for you to-
day or to-morrow."

Had a pail of boiling water been
thrown on the poor child, he could
not have jumped up more suddenly.
On hearing these words he ran to-
ward Sir Thomas, and, throwing
himself at his feet, burst into a tor-
rent of tears.

"What heave I done, master?"
he cried. " How have I offended
you ? Why have you not told me ?
Forgive me, I will never do so any
more ; but don't drive me away. I
will never, never displease you
again ! No ! no ! don't send me
away !"

" My child," said Sir Thomas,
" you are mistaken. I am not at all
displeased or vexed with you ; on
t,he contrary. You will bj very
happy with the lord-mayor ; he
will take good care of you, and
that is why I prefer giving you to
him."

" No ! no !" cried Henry Patti-
son, sobbing. " Don't let me eave
you, I implore you ! Do anything
you please with me, only don't
send me away. Why is it you no
longer want me ? Dame Margaret,

Sir Thomas More.

take pity on me, and beg your fa-
ther to let me stay!"

But Margaret, usually very will-
ing to do what she was requested,
turned away her head and paid no
attention to this petition.

" Master, keep me !" he cried in
despair. " Why do you not want
me with you any longer ?"

"My child," said Sir Thomas,
" I am very much distressed at it ;
but I am too poor now to keep you
in my house, to furnish you with
scarlet coats and all the other
things to which you are accustom-
ed. You will be infinitely better off
with the lord-mayor."

" I want nothing with the lord-
mayor. I will have no more scar-
let coats nor gold lace ; and if I
am too expensive to feed, I will go
eat with the dog in the yard. You
don't send him away ; he is very
happy. It is true that he guards
the house, and that I I am good
for nothing. Well, I will work ; yes,
I will work. I implore you, only
keep me. I will work. I don't want
to leave you, my dear master. Have
pity on me !"

Sir Thomas was greatly disturb-
ed. Alas ! his heart was already
so full, it required so much courage
to conceal the state of his soul,
he was in such an agony, that he
felt if the dwarf said any more
he would be forced to betray him-
self.

Assuredly it was not the thought
of being separated from his jester
that afflicted him to such a degree,
but the attachment of this deformed
and miserable child, his tears, his
entreaties, his dread of losing him,
reminded him but too forcibly of
the grief which later must seize on
the hearts of his own children ; for
the composure which they saw him
maintain at this moment alone pre-
vented them from indulging in ex-

pressions of affection far more har-
rowing still.

" Margaret," he said, " you will
take care of him, will you not ?"
And fearing he had said too much,
he arose hurriedly, and went to
examine a vase filled with beautiful
flowers, which was placed on the
table in the centre of the apart-
ment, and thus concealed the tears
which arose and filled his eyes.
But the dwarf followed, and fell on
his knees before him.

"Come, come, do not distress
yourself," said Sir Thomas ; " I will
take care of you. Be quiet. Go
get your dinner; it is your hour
now."

Sir Thomas approached the win-
dow. While he stood there Wil-
liam Roper entered, and, going to
him, told him that the boat was
ready and the tide was up. More
was seized with an inexpressible
grief. For an instant he lost sight
of everything around him ; his head
swam.

"Whither go you?" asked his
wife.

" Dear Alice, I must to London."

" To London ?" she replied sharp-
ly. " But we need you here ! Why
go to London ? Is it to displease
his majesty further, in place of
staying quietly here in your own
house, and doing simply whatever
they ask of you? Well did I say
that you did wrong in giving up
your office. That is what has made
the king displeased with you. You
ought to write to Master Cromwell;
he has a very obliging manner,, and
I am sure that all this could be
very easily arranged ; but you are
ever loath to give up anything."

" It is indispensably necessary
for me to go," replied Sir Thomas.
" I much prefer remaining. Come ! "
he said.

"Father! father !" exclaimed al)

Sir Thomas More.
we will go with you
said the

dear

papa,

the children,

to the boat."
" Lead me

youngest.

Sir Thomas cast a glance toward

Margaret, but she had disappeared.

lie supposed she did not wish to

see him start, and he was grieved.

However, he felt that it would *be

one trial less.

"No, my children," he replied;

" I would rather that you come not

with me."

"Why not, dear father?" they

cried in accents of surprise and re-
gret.

"The wind is too strong, and the

weather is not fair enough," said

Sir Thomas.

"Yes. yes!" they cried, and

threw their arms around his neck.
" You cannot go to-day. I do
not wish it," said Sir Thomas in
a decided manner.

Words cannot describe the suf-
ferings of this great man ; he knew
that he would no more behold his
home or his children, and that, de-
termined not to take the oath which
lie regarded as the first step toward
apostasy in a Christian, they would
not pardon him. He cast a last
look upon his family and hurried
toward the door.

"You will come back to-morrow,
will you not, father?" cried the chil-
dren in one voice.

He could not reply ; but this
question re-echoed sadly in the
depths of his soul. He hastened
on still more rapidly. Roper, who
knew no more than the others, was
alarmed at the alteration he saw
in the features of Sir Thomas, and
began to fear that something had
happened still more distressing than
what he had already heard. How-
ever, More had told them so far
that it was impossible for him to be
found guilty in the affair of the

"to go
Oh! I

here, at

Holy Maid of Kent, but Roper
knew not even who she was. The
absence of Margaret alone seemed to
him inexplicable. Entirely absorb-
ed in these reflections, he followed
Sir Thomas, who walked with ex-
traordinary rapidity, and they very
soon reached the green gate.

"Come, my son," said Sir Thomas,
"hasten and open the gate; time
presses."

Roper felt in his belt ; he found
he had not the key.

" I have not the key," he said.
"I must return."

" O God!" exclaimed Sir Thomas
when he found himself alone ; and
he seated himself on the step of
the little stairway, for he felt
no longer able to stand on his
feet.

/'My God!" he cried,
without seeing Margaret !
shall see her again; if not
least before I die. Adieu, my
cherished home ! Adieu, thou lov-
ed place of my earthly sojourn !
Why dost thou keep within thy
walls those whom I love ? If they
had hft thee, then I could abandon
thee without regret. I shall see
them no more. This is the last
time I shall descend these steps,
and that this little gate will close
upon me. Be still, my soul, be
still ; I will not listen to you ; I will
not hear you ; you would make me
weak. I have no heart ; I have no
feeling; I do not think. Well, since
you will have me speak, tell me
rather why this creeping insect,
why this straw, has been crushed in
the road? Ah! here is Roper."

He at once arose. They went
out and descended to the boat.
Then Sir Thomas seated himself
in the stern, and spoke not a word.
Roper detached the cable, and, giv-
ing a push with the bar against the
terrace wall, the boat immediately

Sir Thomas More.

put off and entered the current of
the stream.

"This is the end," said Sir
Thomas, looking behind him. He
changed his seat, and remained
with his eyes fixed upon his home
until in the distance it disappeared
for ever from his view. He con-
tinued, however, gazing in that di-
rection even when the house could
no longer be seen, and after some
time he observed some one run-
ning along the bank of the river,
which ascended and descended, and
from time to time waving a white
handkerchief. He was not able to
distinguish whether it was a man or a
woman, and told Roper to approach
a little nearer to the bank. Then
his heart throbbed; he thought he
caught a glimpse of, he believed he
recognized, Margaret, and he imme-
diately arose to his feet.

" Roper! Margaret ! there is Mar-
garet ! What can be wrong ?"

They drew as near the bank as
they could, and Margaret (for it
was indeed she) leaped with an un-
paralleled dexterity from the shore
into the boat.

" What is it, my dear child ?" ex-
claimed Sir Thomas, with eager
anxiety.

" Nothing," replied Margaret.

" Nothing ! Then why have you
come ?"

" Because I wanted to come ! I
also am going to London." And
looking round for a place, she seat-
ed herself with a determined air.
'" Push off now, William," she said
authoritatively.

" My daughter !" exclaimed Sir
Thomas.

She made no reply, and More saw
that she had a small package under
her left arm. He understood very
well Margaret's design, but had not
the courage to speak of it to her.

"Margaret, I would rather you

had remained quietly at Chelsea,"
he said.

She made no reply.

" Your mother and sisters need
you !"

" Nobody in this world has need
of me," replied the young girl cold-
ly, " and Margaret has no longer
any use for anybody."

" Margaret, you pain me sorely."

" I feel no pain myself ! Row
not so rapidly," she said to Roper-;
" I am in no hurry ; it is early.
Frail bark, couldst thou only go
to the end of the earth, how gladly
would I steer thee thither !" And
she stamped her foot on the bottom
of the boat with passionate earnest-
ness.

Sir Thomas wished to speak, but
his strength failed him. His eyes
filled with tears, and, fearing to let
them flow, he bowed his head on
his hands. It was the first time in
her life that Margaret had disobey-
ed him, and now it was for his own
sake. Besides, he knew her tho-
roughly, and he felt sure that no-
thing could change the resolution
she had taken not to leave him at
that moment.

They all three 1 sat in silence.
The father dared not speak ; Ro-
per was engaged in rowing the
boat; and Margaret had enough
in her own heart to occupy her.
She became pale and red alter-
nately, and turned from time to
time to see if they were approach-
ing the city. As soon as she per-
ceived the spires of the churches
she arose.

"We are approaching the lions'
den," she cried ; " let us see if they
will tear Daniel."

And again she took her seat.

They were soon within the limits
of the city, and found, to their as-
tonishment, the greatest noise and
excitement prevailing. Crowds of

Sir Thomas More.

the lowest portion of the populace
thronged the bridges, were running
along the wharves, and gesticulating
in the most violent manner. This
vile mob, composed of malefactors
and idlers, with abuse in their
mouths and hatred in their hearts,
surges up occasionally from the low-
est ranks of society, of which they
are the disgrace and the enemy, to
proclaim disorder and destruction ;
just as a violent storm disturbs the
depths of a foul marsh, whose poi-
sonous exhalations infect and strike
with death every living being who
imprudently approaches it. At such
times it takes the names of "the
people" and " the nation," because
it has a right to neither, and only
uses them as a cloak for its hideous
deformity and a covering for its
rags, its filthy habiliments. They
buy up its shouts, its enthusiasm,
its incendiaries, terrors, and assas-
sinations ; then, when its day is
ended, when it is wearied, drunk,
and covered with crimes, it returns
to seethe in its iniquitous depths
and wallow in contempt and obli-
vion.

Cromwell was well aware of this.
Delighted, he moved about among
the 'rabble, and smiled an infamous
smile as he heard the cries that
burst on the air and pierced the
ear : " Long live Queen Anne !
Death to the traitors who would
dare oppose her !"

"And yet men say," he repeated
to himself, " that it is difficult to do
what you will. See ! it is Cromwell
who has done all this. Not long
since the streets resounded with
the name of Queen Catherine ; to-
day it is that of Anne they pro-
claim. What was good yesterday
is bad to-day ; is there any differ-
ence ? What are the masses ? An
agglomeration of stupid and igno-
rant creatures who can be made to

howl for a few pieces of silver, who
take falsehood for wine and truth
for water. And it is Cromwell who
has done all this. Cromwell has re-
conciled the people and the king;
he has made his reckoning with
virtue, and seen that nothing would
remain for him. He has then taken
one of the scales of the balance;
he has placed therein the heart of
a man branded and dishonored by
an impure passion, which has suf-
ficed to carry him out of himself;
the beam has inclined toward him.
He has added crimes ; he has add-
ed blood, remorse, treason ; he will
heap it up until it runs over, rath-
er than suffer him to recover him-
self in the least. Shout, rabble !
Ay, shout ! for ye shout for me."
And he looked at those red faces,
blazing, perspiring ; those features,
disfigured by vice and debauchery ;
those mouths, gaping open to their
ears, and which yet seemed not
large enough to give vent to their
thousand discordant and piercing
sounds.

" There is something, then, viler
than Cromwell," he went on with a
fiendish glee ; " there is something
more degraded and baser than he.
Come, you must confess it, ye moral-
ists, that crime, in white shirts and
embroidered laces, is less hideous
than that which walks abroad all
naked, and with its deformities ex-
posed to the bold light of day."

He looked toward the river, but
the light bark which carried Sir
Thomas and his party escaped his
keen vision: carried along by the
force of the current, she shot swift-
ly as an arrow under the low arches
of the first bridge.

"Alas !" said Sir Thomas, " what
is going on here ?"

He looked at Margaret and re-
gretted she was there ; but she
seemed entirely unmoved. Marga-

Sir Thomas More.

ret had but one thought, and that
admitted of no other.

On approaching the Tower they
were still more surprised to see an
immense crowd assembled and
thronging every avenue of ap-
proach. The bridges and decks of
the vessels were covered with peo-
ple, and there seemed to be a gen-
eral commotion and excitement.

" Thither she comes," said some
womeh who were dragging their
children after them at the risk of
having them crushed by the crowd.

" I saw her yesterday," said an-
other. " She is lovely ; the fairest
plumes on her head."

" And how her diamonds glitter-
ed ! You should have seen them."

" Be still there, gabblers !" said a
fat man mounted on a cask, lean-
ing against a wall. " You keep me
from hearing what they are shout-
ing down yonder."

" My troth ! she is more magnifi-
cent than the other."

" They say we are to have foun-
tains of wine at the coronation, and
a grand show at Westminster Hall."

"All is not gold that glitters,"
said the fat man, who appeared
to have as much good sense as flesh.

He made a sign to a man dressed
like himself, who advanced with
difficulty through the crowd, push-
ing his way by dint of effort and
perseverance. He seemed to be
swimming on a wave of heads, each
oscillation of which threw him
back in spite of the determined re-
sistance he made. The other, per-
ceiving this, extended his hand to
him, and, supporting himself by a
bar of iron he found near, he drew
his companion up beside him.

"Eh! good-day to you, Master
Cooping. A famous day, is it not ?
All this scum goes to drink about
Ove hundred gallons of beer for the
monks."

" May they go to the devil !" re-
plied the brewer, " and may they
die of thirst ! Hark how they yell !
Do you know what they are saying ?
Just now I heard one of them cry-
ing : 'Long live the new chancel-
lor.' They know no more about
the names than the things. This
Audley is one of the most adroit
knaves the world has ever seen.
There is in him, I warrant, enough
matter to make a big scoundrel, a
good big vender of justice. I have
known him as an advocate ; and as
for the judge, I remember him still."
As he said this he struck the leath-
ern purse he carried in the folds of
his belt.

" These lawyers are all scoun-
drels ; they watch like thieves in a
market for a chance to fleece the
poor tradesmen."

Above these men, who complain-
ed so harshly of the lawyers and of
those who meted out justice to all
comers, there was a window, very
high and narrow, placed in a tur-
ret that formed the angle of a build-
ing of good appearance and solid
construction. This window was
open, the curtains were drawn
back, and there could be seen com-
ing and going the heads of several
men, who appeared and disappear-
ed from time to time, and who,
after having looked out and survey-
ed the river and the streets adja-
cent, returned to the extremity of
the apartment.

This house belonged to a rich
merchant of Lucca named Ludo-
vico Bonvisi ; he was a man of
sterling integrity, and in very high
repute among the rich merchants of
the city. Established in England
for a great number of years, he had
been intimate with Sir Thomas
More at the time the latter was
Sheriff of London, and he had ever
since retained for him a particular

Sir Thomas More.

friendship and esteem. On this
day Ludovico had invited four or
five of his friends to his house ; he
was seated in the midst of them, in
a large chair covered with green
velvet, before a table loaded with
rare and costly wines, which were
served in decanters of rock crystal
banded with hoops of silver. There
were goblets of the same costly me-
tal, richly carved, and a number of
these were ornamented with pre-
cious stones and. different kinds of
enamel. Superb fruits arranged in
pyramids on rare porcelain china,
confectioneries, sweetmeats of all
kinds and in all sorts of figures,
composed the collation he offered
his guests, among whom were John
Story, Doctor of Laws ; John Cle-
snent, a physician of great celebrity,
and most thoroughly versed in the
Greek language and the ancient
sciences ; William Rastal, the fa-
mous jurist; his friend John Boxol,
a man of singular erudition ; and
Nicholas Harpesfield, who died in
prison for the Catholic faith during
the reign of Elizabeth. They were
all seated around the table, but ap-
peared to be much more interested
in their conversation than in the
choice viands which had been pre-
pared for them by their host. John
Story, particularly, exclaimed with
extraordinary bitterness against all
that was being done in the king-
dom.

"No!" said he, "nothing could
be more servile or more vile than
the course Parliament has pursued
in all this affair. We can scarcely
believe that these men, not one of
whom in his heart approves of the
divorce and the silly and impious
pretensions of the king, have never
dared to utter a single word in
favor of justice and equity ! No,
each one has watched his neighbor
to see what he would do ; and when

VOL. XXIV. 6

there has been question for de-
bate, they have found no other ar-
guments than simply to pass all
that was asked of them. The only
thing they have dared to sug-
gest has been to insert in this
shameful bill that those who should
speak against the new queen and
against the supremacy of the king
would be punished only so far as
they had done so maliciously. Beau-
tiful and grand restriction ! They
think to have gained a great deal
by inserting that, so closely are they
pursued by their fears.

" When they have instituted pro-
ceedings against those unfortunates
who shall have offended them, do-
you believe that Master Audley,,
and Cromwell, and all the knaves
of that class will be at great pains
to have entered a well-proven ma
liciousness ? No ; it is a halter that
will fit all necks their own as well'
as those of all others. I have-
often told them this, but they will
believe nothing. Later they will'
repent it; we shall then be in the
net, and there will be no way to
get out of it. Yes, I say, and I see
it with despair, there is no more
courage in the English nation, and.
very soon we shall let ourselves be
seized one by one, like unfledged'
birds trembling on the edge of their
devastated nest."

" It is very certain," replied Wil-
liam Rastal, " that I predict nothing
good from all these innovations;
there is nothing more immoral and j
more dangerous to society than to
let it become permeated, under any
form whatever, with the idea of di-
vorce at least, unless we wish it to-
become transformed into a vast hos-
pital of orphans abandoned to the
chance of public commiseration, in-
to a camp of furious ravishers, ex-
cited to revenge and mutual de-
struction. Take away the indisso-

Sir Thomas More.

lability of marriage, and you destroy
at the same blow the only chances
of happiness and peace in the in-
terior and domestic life of man, in
order to replace them by suspicions,
jealousies, crimes, revenge, and cor-
ruption."

" Or rather," said John Clement,
'" it will be necessary to reduce
women to a condition of slavery, as
in the ancient republics, and place
them in the ranks of domestic
>animals."

"And, as a natural consequence,
be ourselves degraded with them,"
cried John Story, " since we are
their brothers and their sons."

"With this base cowardice in
Parliament, all is possible," inter-
rupted Harpesneld, " and I do not
see how we are to arrest it. When
they no longer regard an oath as an
inviolable and sacred thing, what
guarantee is left among men ? You
know, I suppose, what the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury has done with
the king's approval, in Westminster
even, at the moment of being con-
secrated ?"

" No !" they all answered.

" He took four witnesses aside be-
fore entering the sanctuary, and de-
clared to them he, Cranmer that
the antiquity of the usage and cus-
tom of his predecessors requiring
that he should take the oath of
fidelity to the pope on receiving
the pallium from him, he intended,
notwithstanding, to pledge himself
to nothing in opposition to the re-
forms the king might desire to make
in the church, of which he recog-
nized him as the sole head. What
.think you of the invention of this
preservative of the obligations that
;bear the sanctity and solemnity of
an oath made at the foot of the
: altar, in presence of all the people,
.accustomed to listen to and see it
faith fully observed ? That proceed-

ing sufficiently describes the age in
which we live, our king, and this
man."

"But everybody knows very well
that Cranmer is an intriguer, void
of faith or law," replied Rastal,
" who has been foisted into his pre-
sent position in order to do the will
of the king and accommodate him-
self to his slightest desires."

" He has given him a wife," said
John Clement, pouring out a glass
of Cyprus wine, whose transparent
color testified to its excellent qual-
ity ; " I verily believe she will not be
the last."

" What kind of a face has she,
this damsel Boleyn ? Is she dark
or fair? Fair, without doubt; for
the other was dark. This is per-
fect nectar, Ludovico ! Have you
more of it?"

" You are right ; she has lovely
blue eyes. She sings and dances
charmingly."

" How much more, Ludovico ? A
small barrel hem ! of the last in-
voice? Excellentissimo, Signor Lu-
dovico !'

" Well, we will see her pass very
soon ; they escort her to the Tower,
where she will remain until the
coronation. They say the king has
had the apartments in the Tower
furnished with an unparalleled mag-
nificence."

"Yes ; and to sustain that magni-
ficence he is contracting debts every
day, and all his revenues do not
cover his expenses."

"A good king is a good thing,"
said Harpesfield; "but nothing is
worse than a bad one, and the good
ones are so rare !"

"That is because," replied Boxol,
who was very deliberate, " the
power, renown, and flattery sur-
rounding the throne tend so much
to corrupt and encourage the pas-
sions of a man that it is very diffi-

Sir Thomas More.

cult for him, when seated there, to
maintain himself without commit-
ting any faults. Besides, my mas-
ters, we must remember that the
faults of private individuals, often
quite as shameful, remain unknown,
while those of a king are exposed
to all eyes and counted on all
fingers."

u Well," said John Clement ; " but
this one is certainly somewhat
weighty, and I would not care to
be burdened by having his sins
charged to my account, to be held
in reserve against the day of the
last judgment." /

" Good Bonvisi, give me a little
of that dish which has nothing in
common with the brouet spartiate. "

"A good counsellor and a true
friend," said John Story " that is*
what is always wanting to princes."

" When they have them, they
don't know how to keep them," said
Ludovico. " See what has happen-
ed to More ! Was not this a bril-
liant light which the king has con-
cealed under a bushel ?"

"Assuredly," replied Boxol ; " he
is an admirable man, competent
for, and useful in, any position."

" He is a true Christian," said
Harpes field ; " amiable, moderate,
wise, benevolent, disinterested. At
the height of prosperity, as in a
humble position, you find him al-
ways the same, considering only
his duty and the welfare of others.
He seems to regard himself as the
born servant and the friend of jus-
tice."

" Hold, sirs !" replied Clement,
turning around on his chair. " There
is one fact which cannot be denied;
which is, that nothing but religion
can render a man ductile. Other-
wise he is like to iron mixed with
brimstone. We rely upon him, we
confide in his face and in the
strength of his goodness ; but sud-

denly he falls and breaks in your
hands as soon as you wish to make
some use of him."

" There must be a furious amount
of sulphur in his majesty's heart,''
replied Harpesfield, " for he is go-
ing to burn, in Yorkshire, four
miserable wretches accused of her-
esy. For what ? I know not ; for
having wished, perhaps, to do as he
has done get rid of a wife of whom
he was tired ! There is a fifth, who,
more adroit, has appealed to him as
supreme head of the church ; he
has been immediately justified, and
Master Cromwell set him at liberty.
Thus the king burns heretics at
the same time that he himself sepa-
rates from the church. All these
actions are horrible, and nothing
can be imagined more absurd and
at the same time more criminal."

" As for me," replied Clement,
who had been watering his sugar-
ed fruits with particular care for a
quarter of an hour, " I have been
very much edified by the pastoral
letter of my Lord Cranmer to his
majesty. Have you seen it, Boxol?"

"No," replied Boxol, *who was
not disposed to treat this matter so
lightly as Master Clement, as good
an eater as he was a scholar, and
what they call a bon vivant ; ''these
things make me very sick, and 1
don't care to speak of them lightly
or while dining."

" For which reason, my friend,"
replied Clement, " you are exces-
sively lean the inevitable conse-
quence of the reaction of anxiety
of soul upon its poor servant, the
body ; for there are many fools svho
confound all and disown the soul,
because they are ashamed of their
hearts and can discern only their
bodies. As if we could destroy that
which God has made, or discover
the knots of the lines he has hid-
den ! He has willed that man

8 4

Sir Thomas More.

should be at the same time spirit
and matter, and that these two
should be entirely united ; and
very cunning must he be who
will change that union one iota.
They will search in vain for the
place of the soul ; they will no more
find where it is than where it is not.
Would you believe but this is a
thing I keep secret because of the-
honor of our science that I have
a pupil who asserts that we have no
soul, because, says this beardless
doctor, he has never been able to
distinguish the moment when the
soul escaped from the body of the
dying ! Do you not wonder at the
force of that argument ? And would
it not be in fact a very beautiful
thing to observe, and a singular
spectacle to see, our souls suddenly
provided with large and handsome
wings of feathers, or hair, or some
other material, to use in flying
around and ascending whither (rod
calls them ? Now, dear friends,
believe what I tell you : the more
we learn, the more we perceive that
we know nothing. Our intelligence
goes only^so far as to enable us to
understand effects, to gather them
together, to describe them, and in
some cases to reproduce them ; but
as for the causes, that is an order
of things into which it is absolutely
useless to wish to penetrate/'

" Come, now, here is Clement go-
ing into his scientific dissertations,
in place of telling us what was in
Cranmer's letter!" cried Ludovico,
interrupting him.

" Ah ! that is because 1 under-
stand them better; and I prefer my
crucibles, my nerves and bones, to
the subtleties, the falsehoods, of
your pretended casuists. Boxol
could tell you that very well ; but
after all I have been obliged to
laugh at the sententious manner,
grave and peremptory, in which

this archbishop, prelate, primate,
orthodox according to the new or-
der, commands the king to quit his
wicked life and hasten to separate
from his brother's wife, under pain
of incurring ecclesiastical censure
and being excommunicated. What
think you of that ? And while they
distribute copies of this lofty ad-
monition among the good trades-
men of London, who can neither
read nor write, nor see much far-
ther than the end of their noses
and the bottom of their money-
bags, they have entered proceed-
ings at Dunstable against that poor
Queen Catherine, who is cast out
on the world and knows not where
to go. > Can anything more ridicu-
lous or more pitiable be found ?
Ha ! ha ! do you not agree with
me ?"

" Verily," said Boxol, who be-
came crimson with anger, " Cle-
ment, I detest hearing such things
laughed at."

"Ah! my poor friend," replied
Clement, " would you have me
weep, then ? Your men are such
droll creatures ! When one studies
them deeply, he is obliged to ridi-
cule them ; otherwise we should die
with weeping."

" He is right," said John Story.
" We see how they dispute and flay
each other daily for a piece of
meadow, a rut in the road which I
could hold in the hollow of my
hand. They write volumes on the
subject; -they sweat blood and wa-
ter; they compel five hundred ar-
rests ; then afterwards they are as-
tonished to find they have spent
four times as much money as the
thing they might have gained was
worth. Why cannot men live at
peace ? If you put them off with-
out wishing to press the suit, they
become furious ; and yet they al-
ways begin by representing their

Sir Thomas More.

affairs to you in so equitable a light
that the devil himself would be
deceived. There is one thing I
have observed, and that is, there is
nothing which has the appearance
of being in such good faith as a
litigant whose case is bad, and who
knows his cause to be unjust."

" Come, my friends," .cried Cle-
ment, " you speak well ; all that ex-
cites compassion. You often ridi-
cule me and what you please to
call my simplicity, and yet I see
everything just as clearly as any-
body else ; but I have a plain way
of dealing, and I do not seek so
much cunning. If God calls me, I
answer at once : Lord, here I am !
I have spent the nights of my youth
in studying, in learning, in compar-
ing ; I have examined and gone to
the depths of all the philosophers
of antiquity, apparently so lucid, so
luminous ; I have found only pride,
weakness, darkness, and barrenness.
I have recognized that it was all
profitless and led to no good ; it
was always the man that I was find-
ing ; and of that I had enough in
myself to guide and support. Then
I took the Bible, and I felt that it
was God who spoke t me from its
inspired pages ; whereat I aban-
doned my learning and all those
philosophical wranglings which wea-
ry the mind without bettering the
heart. I go straight to my object
without vexing myself with any-
thing. There are things which I
do not understand. That is na-
tural, since it has pleased God to
conceal them from me. Evidently I
do not need to comprehend them,
since he has not revealed them ; and
there is no reason, because I find
some obscurities, why I should aban-
don the light which burns in their
midst. * Master Clement,' they ask
me, ' how did God make that ?' * Why
that ?' My dear friends, this is just

as far as we know. 'And this, again?'
This I know nothing about, because
it cannot be explained. When our
dear friend More read us his Utopia,
I remember that I approached him
and said : ' Why have you not found-
ed a people every man of* whom
followed explicitly the laws of the
church ? That would have given you
a great deal less trouble, and you
would at once have arrived at the
art of making them happy, without
employing other precepts than these :
to avoid all wrong-doing, to love
their neighbor as themselves, and
to employ their time and their lives
in acquiring all sorts of merits by
all sorts of good works. There you
would find neither thieves nor slan-
derers, calumniators nor adulterers,
gamblers nor drunkards, misers nor
usurers, spendthrifts nor liars ; con-
sequently, you would have no need
of laws, prisons, or punishments,
and such a community would unite
all the good and exclude the bad.'
He smiled and said to me : ' Mas-
ter Clement, you are in the right
course, and you would walk there-
in with all uprightness, but others
would turn entirely around and
never even approach it.' Therefore,
when I see a man who has no reli-
gion, I say : ' That man is capable
of the utmost possible wickedness ' ;
and I am by no means astonished,
when the occasion presents, that he
should prove guilty. I mentally ex-
claim : ' My dear friend, you gain
your living by selfish and wicked
means '; and I pass by him, saying,
' Good-day, my friend,' as to all
the others. He is just what he
is ; and what will you ? We can
neither control him nor change his
nature."

His companions smiled at this
discourse of John Clement, whom
they loved ardently, and who w.as a
man as good as he was original. A

Sir Thomas More.

little brusque, he loved the poor
above all things, and was never
happier than when, seated by their
humble bedsides, he conversed with
them about their difficulties and
endeavored to relieve them. Then
it seemed to him that he was king
of the earth, and that God had
placed in his hands NX treasure of
life and health for him to distribute
among them. As often as he add-
ed largely to his purse, just so often
was it drained of its contents ; but
he had for his motto that the Lord
fed the little birds of the field, and
therefore he would not forget him ;
and, besides, nobody would let John
Clement die of hunger. Always
cheerful, always contented with
everything, he had gone entirely
round the circle of science, and, as
he said, having learned all that a
man could learn, was reduced to
the simplicity of a child, but of an
enlightened child, who feels all that
he loses in being able to go only so
far.

" But take your breakfast now,
instead of laughing at and listen-
ing to me," he cried.

As he spoke the sound of music
was suddenly heard in the distance,
and a redoubled tumult in the streets.
A dull murmur, and then a loud
clamor, reached their ears. They
immediately hurried to the window,
and left John Clement at the table,
who also arose, however, and went
to the window, where he arrived the
last.

" It is she ! It is Queen Anne !"
was heard from all sides ; and heads
arose one above the other, while the
roofs even of the houses were cov-
ered with people.

There is a kind of electricity
which escapes from the crowd and
the eager rush and excitement
something that makes the heart
throb, and that pleases us, we know

not why. There were some who
wept, some who shouted ; and the
sight of the streamers floating from
the boats, which advanced in good
order like a flotilla upon the river,
was sufficient to cause this emotion
and justify this enthusiasm ; for
the people love what is gay, what
is brilliant ; they admire, they are
satisfied. In such moments they
forget themselves ; the poet sings
without coat or shoes ; his praises
are addressed to the glowing red
velvet, the nodding white plume,
the gold lace glittering in the sun-
light. A king, a queen synonyms
to him of beauty, of magnificence
he waits on them, hopes in them,
applauds them when they pass, be-
cause he loves to see and admire
them.

Six-and-twenty boats, painted and
gilde.d, ornamented with garlands of
flowers and streaming banners, with
devices and figures entwined, fill-
ed with richly-dressed ladies, sur-
rounded the bark which con-
veyed the new spouse. Anne, ar-
rayed in a robe of white satin
heavily embroidered with golden
flowers, was seated on a kind of
throne which had been erected in
the centre of the boat. A rich pa-
vilion was raised above her head,
and her long veil of magnificent
point lace was thrown back, per-
mitting a view of her beautiful fea-
tures and fair hair. She was glow-
ing with youth and satisfaction ;
and her heart thrilled with delight
at seeing herself treated as a queen,
and making her entry in so tri-
umphant a manner into the city of
London.

Her cheeks were red and deli-
cate as the flower of spring; her
eyes sparkled with life and anima-
tion. The old Duchess of Norfolk,
her grandmother, was seated beside
her, and at her feet the Duke of

Sir Thomas More.

Norfolk, the Earl of Wiltshire, her
brother, Viscount Rochford, her sis-
ter- in law, and other relatives. The
king was in another boat, and fol-
lowed close. In all the surround-
ing boats there were musicians.
The weather was superb, and fa-
vored by its calmness and serenity
ihefefe that had been prepared for
the new queen. Soon shouts arose
of "Long live the king!" "Long
live the queen !" and the popu-
lace, trained and paid by Crom-
well, rushed upon the quays, upset-
ting everything that came in its
way, in order to bring its shouts
nearer. T4iey seemed like demons
seized with an excess of fury ; but
the eye confounded them among
the curious crowd, and the dis-
tance harmonized to the royal eyes
their savage expression.

Meanwhile, the boats, having made
divers evolutions, drew up before the
Tower, and Anne Boleyn was re-
ceived at the landing by the lord-
mayor and the sheriffs of the city,
who came to congratulate and es-
cort her to her apartments. It
would be difficult to describe the
ostentation displayed by Henry
VIII. on this occasion; he doubt-
less thought in this way to exalt,
in the estimation of the people, the
birth of his new wife, and impose
on them by her dignity. The apart-
ments in the Tower destined to re-
ceive them had been entirely re-
furnished ; the grand stairway was
covered from top to bottom with
Flanders tapestry, and loaded with
flowers and censers smoking with
perfume, which embalmed the air
with a thousand precious odors. A
violet-colored carpet, embroidered
with gold and furs, extended along
their line of march and traversed the
courtyards. Anne and all her cor-
tege followed the route so sumptu-
ously marked out. As she rested

her delicate feet on the silken car-
pet she was transporter! with joy,
and gazed with delighted eyes on
the splendors surrounding her. " 1
am queen Queen of England!"
she said to herself every moment.
That thought alone found a place
in her heart ; she saw nothing but
the throne, the title, this magnifi-
cence ; she was in a whirl of enjoy-
ment and reckless delight.

In the meantime Margaret and
Sir Thomas were also entering the
Tower. The young girl shuddered
at the aspect of the black walls
and the long and gloomy corridors
through which she had been made
to follow. Her heart throbbed vio-
lently as she gazed at the little
iron-grated windows, closely barred,
rising in tiers one above the other.
It seemed to her she could see at
each one of those little squares, so
like the openings of a cage, a con-
demned head sighing at the sight
of heaven or the thought of liberty.
She walked behind Sir Thomas, and
her heart was paralyzed by terror
and fear as she fixed her eyes on
that cherished father.

They at length reached a large,
vaulted hall, damp and gloomy, the
white-washed walls of which were
covered with names and various
kinds of drawings ; a large wooden
table and some worm-eaten stools
constituted the only furniture. A
leaden inkstand, some rolls of parch-
ment, an old register lying open,
and a man who was writing, inter-
rogated Sir Thomas.

"Age?" asked the man; and he
fixed his luminous, cat-like eyes on
Thomas More.

"Fifty years," responded Sir
Thomas.

" Your profession ?"

" I have none at present," he an-
swered.

Sir TJiouias More.

" In that case I shall write you
down as the former lord chancel-
lor."

"As you please," said More.
" But, sir," continued Sir Thomas,
" I have received an order to pre-
sent myself before the council, and
I should not be imprisoned before
being heard."

"Pardon me, sir," replied the
clerk quietly, " the order has been
received this morning; and if you
had not come to-day, you would
have been arrested this evening."

As he coolly said these words he
passed to him a roll of paper from
which hung suspended the seal of
state. Sir Thomas opened it, and
casting his eyes over the pages, the
long and useless formula of which
he knew by heart, he came at once
to the signature of Cromwell below
that of Audley. He recalled this
man, who had coolly dined at his
table yesterday, surrounded by his
children. He then took up the
great seal of green wax which hung
suspended by a piece of amaranth
silk. The wax represented the
portrait of Henry VIII., with a de-
vice or inscription. He held the
seal in his hand, looked at it, and
turned it over two or three times.

" This is indeed the royal seal,"
said he. " I have been familiar with
it for a long time ; and now the king
has not hesitated to attach it to my
name. Well, God's will be done!"
And he laid the seal and the roll of
paper on the table.

" You see it," said the clerk, ob-
serving from the corner of his eye
that he had replaced the paper.
" Oh ! I am perfectly at home with
everything since I came here. It
was I who registered Empson and
Dudley, the ministers of Henry
VII., and the Duke of Bucking-
ham. A famous trial that ! High

treason also decapitated at Tower

Hill. A noble lord, moreover; he
listen, I am going to tell you ;
for it is all written here." And he
began to turn the leaves of the
book. "Here, the lyth of May,
1521, page 86." And placing the
end of his finger on the page indi-
cated, he looked at Sir Thomas com-
placently, as if to say: "Admire
my accuracy, now, and my presence
of mind."

On hearing this Margaret arose
involuntarily to her feet. " Silence,
miserable wretch !" she cried.
"What is it to us that you have
kept an account of all the assassi-
nations which have been committed
in this place ? No ! no ! my father
shall not stay here; he shall not
stay here. He is innocent yes, in-
nocent; it would be impossible for
him to be guilty !"

The clerk inspected her closely,
as if to determine who she could be.
" That is the custom ; they always
say that, damsel. As for me, how-
ever, it concerns me not. They
are tried up above ; but I I write
here; that is all. Why do they
allow themselves to be taken ? Peo-
ple ought not tD be called wretches
so readily," he added, fixing his
eyes upon her. " I am honest, you
see, and the worthy father of a
family, you understand. I have
two children, and I support them
by the fruit of my labor."

" Margaret," said Sir Thomas,
" my dearest daughter, you must
not remain here !"

" You believe you think so !
Well, perhaps not; and yet I im-
plore you ! Undoubtedly I am only
a woman ; I can do nothing at all ;
I am only Margaret !"

And a gleam shot from her eyes."

Sir Thomas regarded her, over-
whelmed with anguish and despair.
He took her by the arm and led her
far away from the clerk, toward the

Sir Thomas More.

large and only window, looking out
on the gloomy and narrow back
yard. " Come," he said, "let me see
you display more courage ; do not
add to the anguish that already fills
my soul ! Margaret, look up to hea-
ven." And he raised his right hand
toward the firmament, of which
they could see but the smallest
space. " Have these men, my
daughter, the power to deprive us
of our abode up there ? Whatever
afflictions may befall us here on
earth, one day we shall be reunited
there in eternity. Then, Marga-
ret, we shall have no more chains,
no more prisons, no more separa-
tions. Why, then, should you grieve,
since you are immortal ? What sig-
nify the years that roll by and are
cast behind us, more than a cloud of
dust by which we are for a moment
enveloped? If my life was to be
extinguished, if you were to cease
to exist, then, yes, my despair would
be unlimited ; but we live, and we
shall live for ever ! We shall meet
again, whatever may be the fate
that attends me, whatever may be
the road I am forced to follow.
Death ah ! well, what is death ? A
change of life. Listen to me, Mar-
garet : the present is nothing; the
future is everything! Yes, I prefer
the gloom of the prison to the bril-
liancy of the throne; all the mis-
eries of this place to the delights
of the universe, if they must be
purchased at the cost of my soul's
salvation. Cease, then, to weep for
me. If I am imprisoned here, it is
only what He who called me out of
nothing has permitted; and were
I at liberty to leave, I would not do
so unless it were his will. Know,
then, my daughter, that I am calm
and perfectly resigned to be here,
since God so wills it. Return home
now ; see that nothing goes wrong
there. I appoint you in my place,

without, at the same time, elevating
you above your mother; and rest
assured that your father will endure
everything with joy and submission,
not because of the justice of men,
but because of that of God !"

Margaret listened to her father
without replying. She knew well
that she would not be permitted to
remain in the prison, and yet she
so much wished it.

" No," she exclaimed at last, " I
do not wish to be thus resigned !
It is very easy for you to talk, it is
nothing for me to listen; but as
for me, I am on the verge of life.
Without you, for me life has no
longer the least attraction ! Let
them take mine when they take
yours ! It is the same thing ; they
owe it to the king. He so thirsts
for blood that it will not do to rob
him of one drop. Have you not
betrayed him? Well! I am a trai-
tor also ; let him avenge himself,
then ; let him take his revenge ; let
him pick my bones, since he tears
my heart. I am you ; let him de-
vour me also. Write my name on
your register," she continued, sud-
denly turning toward the clerk, as
if convinced that the reasons she
had given could not be answer-
ed. " Come, friend, good-fortune
to you two prisoners instead of
one ! Come, write ; you write so
well ! Margaret More, aged eigh-
teen years, guilty of high trea-

son

The clerk made no reply.

"Is there anything lacking?"
said Margaret.

" But, damsel," he replied, plac-
ing his pen behind his ear with an
air of indecision, " I cannot do
that; you have not been accused.
If you are an accomplice and have
some revelations to make, you must
so declare before the court."

"You are right; yes, I am a&

Sir Thomas More.

accomplice!" she cried. "There-
fore come ; let nothing stop you."

" My beloved child," said Sir
Thomas painfully, " you would
have me, then, condemn myself by
acknowledging you as an accom-
plice in a crime which I have not
committed?"

"O my father!" cried the
young girl, " tell me, have you,
then, some hope ? No ! no ! you
are deceiving me. You see it !
You have heard it ! They would
have come this night to tear you
from our arms, from your desolated
home ! No ; all is over, and I too
wish to die !"

As she said these words, Crom-
well, who had rapidly and noiseless-
ly ascended the stairs, pushed open
the door and entered. He came
to see if More had arrived. He
saluted him without the least em-
barrassment, and remarked the
tears that wet the beautiful face of
Margaret. She immediately wiped
them away, and looked at him
scornfully.

" You come to see if the time has
arrived!" she said; "if my father
has fallen into your hands. Yes,
here he is ; look at him closely, and
dare to accuse him !"

" Damsel," replied Cromwell,
bowing awkwardly, " ladies should
not meddle with justice, whose
sword falls before them."

As he said this, Kingston, the
lieutenant of the Tower, entered,
followed by an escort of armed
guards.

The sound of their footsteps, the
clanking of their arms, astonished
Margaret. Her bosom heaved. She
felt that there was no longer any
resistance to be offered; she under-
stood that it was this power which
threatened to crush and destroy all
she loved she, poor young girl,
facing these armed men, covered

with iron, clashing with, steel ; these
living machines, who understood
neither eloquence, reason, truth,
sex, age, nor beauty. She regarded
them with a look of silent despair.

She saw Kingston advance to-
ward her father, and say he arrested
him in the name of the king; and
then take his hand to express the
regret with which he executed this
act of obedience to the king. " The
coward!" she thought ; "he sacri-
fices his friend."

She saw her father approach her,
to clasp her in his arms, to bid her
adieu, to tell her to return home, to
watch over her sisters, to respect
her mother, take care of Henry
Pattison, for his sake. She heard
all this ; she was almost unconscious,
for she saw and heard, and yet re-
mained transfixed and motionless.
Then he left her. Kingston con-
ducted him, the guards .surrounded
him, he passed through the door
leading into the interior of the
Tower ; it closed, and Margaret was
alone.

She stood thus for a long time,
as if paralyzed by what had just
passed before her. She put her
hand upon her forehead ; it was
burning, and she could recall no-
thing more. By degrees animation
returned, and she felt she was cold.
She looked around her; she sawr
the clerk still seated at his desk,
writing. Absolute silence reigned ;
those great walls were gloomy, deaf,
and mute. Then she arose. She saw
the day was declining; she thought
she would try to go. Roper was
waiting, and perhaps uneasy. She
cast a lingering look at the door
she had seen close upon her father ;
she set these places in her memory,
saying: " I will return." She then
went out, and slowly descended to
the bank of the river, where she
found Roper, who had charge of

Sir Thomas More.

the boat, and who was astonished
at her long absence.

" Well, Margaret, and your fa-
ther?" he said, seeing her alone.
She drooped her head. "Will
he not return ?"

"No," she replied, and en-
tered the boat ; then she suddenly
seized the hands of Roper. " He
is there do you see ? within those
black walls, in that gloomy prison.
The guards have taken him ; they
seized and surrounded him; he
disappeared, and I am left left
alone ! He has sent me away ; he
told me to go. Kingston ! Crom-
well ! O Roper ! I can stand no
more; let us go." And Margaret
sank, panting and exhausted, upon
the forepart of the boat. Roper
listened and looked at her.

" What ! he will not return ?" he
repeated ; and his eyes questioned
Margaret.

'But the noble and beautiful young
girl heard him not ; with her eyes
fixed on the walls of the Tower, she
seemed absorbed in one thought
alone.

"Farewell, farewell, my father!"
she said " Your ears no more hear
me, but your heart responds to my
own. Farewell, farewell !" And she
made a sign with her hand, as though
she had him before her eyes.

" Is it true, Margaret, that he will
not return ?"

" No ! I tell you he will not. We
are now all alone in the world. You
may go. You may go quickly now,
if you wish."

"Well," said Roper, "he will be
detained to stand his trial; that will
end, perhaps, better than you think."
And he seated himself quietly at
the. oars ; because Roper, always
disposed to hope for the best in the
future, concluded that Margaret,
doubtless frightened at the impos-
ing appearance of justice, believed

Sir Thomas to be in far greater
danger than he really was ; and, fol-
lowing the thread of his own
thoughts, he added aloud : " Men
are men, and Margaret is a woman."

"What would you say by that?"
she asked with energy. " Do you
mean to say that I am your infe-
rior, and that my nature is lower
than your own ? What do you
mean by saying ' a woman '? Yes, I
am inferior, but only in the animal
strength which enables you to row
at this moment and make me
mount the wave that carries me. I
am your inferior in cruelty, indif-
ference, and selfishness. Ah ! if I
were a man like you, and could only
retain under your form all the vigor
of my soul and the fearlessness
with which I feel myself transport-
ed, you would see if my father re-
mained alone, abandoned without
resistance in the depths of the pris-
on where I saw him led; and if the
oppressor should not, in his turn,
fear the voice of the oppressed;
and if this nation, which you call a
nation of men, should be allowed to
slaughter its own children !"

" Margaret," said Roper, alarmed,
"calm yourself."

" I must sleep, I suppose, in order
to please you, when I see my father
delivered into the hands of his
enemies ! He is lost, I tell you,
and you will not believe it, and I can
do nothing for him. Of what good
is courage to one who cannot use
it ? Of what use is strength, if one
can only wish for it ? To fret one's
self in the night of impossibility ; to
see, to hear, and have power to do
nothing. This is the punishment I
must endure for ever ! Nothing to
lean upon ! Everything will fall
around me. He is condemned, they
will say ; there will be only one
human creature less ! That will be
my father !"

9 2

Sir Thomas More.

And Margaret, standing up in the
middle of the boat, her hair dis-
hevelled, her eyes fixed, seemed to
see the wretchedness she was de-
scribing. The wind blew violently,
and scattered the curls of her dark
hair around her burning face.

" Margaret," cried Roper, run-
ning to her and taking her in his
arms " Margaret, are you dream-
ing? What would your father say
if he knew you had thus abandoned
yourself to despair ?"

" He would say," replied Marga-
ret, " that we must despise the
world and place our trust in Hea-
ven ; he would recall resignation
into my exasperated soul. But
shall I see him henceforth ? Who
will aid me in supporting the bur-
dens of this life, against which, in
my misery, I revolt every instant ?
Oh ! if I could only share his chains.
Then, near him, I would brave
tyrants, tortures, hell, and the
devils combined ! The strength of
my will would shake the earth,
when I cannot turn over a single
stone !"

At this moment the boat, which
Roper, in his trouble, had ceased to
guide, struck violently against some
piers the fishermen had sunk along
the river. It was almost capsized,
and the water rushed in through
a hole made by the stakes.

" We are going to sink," cried
Roper, leaving Margaret and rush-
ing toward the oar he had aban-
doned.

" Well ! do what you can to pre-
vent it," replied the young girl
coldly, as she seated herself in her
former position in the stern of the
boat.

But the water continued to rush
in, and was already as high as their
feet. Roper seized his cloak, and
made it serve, though not without
considerable difficulty, to close the

vent through which the water en-
tered. A plank which he found
in the bottom of the boat was used
to finish his work, and they were
able to resume their course ; the
boat, however, made but slow way,
and it was constantly necessary
to bail out the water that leaked
through the badly-repaired open-
ing. Night came on, and it was
already quite late when they suc-
ceeded in reaching the Chelsea
terrace, at the foot of which they
landed.

Roper, having attached the boat
to the chain used for that purpose,
opened the gate, and they entered to-
gether. Margaret's heart throbbed
violently ; this lonely house, depriv-
ed of him who had made the hap-
piness of her life ; the gate which
they had closed without his having
entered it everything, even to the
sound of her own footsteps, pierced
her soul with anguish. She passed
rapidly through the garden and en-
tered the house, where she found
the rest of the family assembled as
usual. All appeared sad, Lady
More alone excepted ; this woman,
vulgar and coarse, was not in a
condition to comprehend the posi-
tion in which she found herself; the
baseness of her sentiments, the lit-
tleness of her soul, rendered her a
burden as annoying as she was
painful to support. Margaret, in
particular, could feel no affection
for her. Frank and sincere herself,
she abhorred the cunning and arti-
fice her stepmother believed herself
bound to employ to make up for
her deficiency of intellect ; and
when, in the midst of a most inter-
esting and elevated conversation,
the reasoning of which Margaret
caught with so much avidity, she
heard her loudly decide a question
and pronounce a judgment in the
vulgar phrases used among the most

Sir Thomas More.

obscure class of people, she was not
always able to conceal her impa-
tience. Her father, more cheerful,
more master of himself, recalled by
a glance or a smile his dear Mar-
garet to a degree of patience and
respect he was always ready to ob-
serve.

On entering, therefore, Margaret's
indignation was excited by hearing
her stepmother abusing unmerci-
fully poor Henry Pattison, who had
wept incessantly ever since the de-
parture of his master.

"Till-Wall! Till-Wall! "she cried.
" This fool here will never let us
have any more peace ! Sir Thomas
had better have taken him with
him; they could have acted the
fool together !"

Margaret listened at first to her
stepmother, but she could not per-
mit her to continue. "Weep !" she
cried " yes, weep, poor Pattison !
for your master is now imprison-
ed in the Tower, and God knows
whether you will ever see him again.
Weep, all of you," she continued,
turning to her sisters, " because you
do not see your father in the midst
of us. Believe in my presentiments ;
they have never deceived me.
Those souls, coarse and devoid of
sensibility, over whom life passes
and dries like rain upon a rock, will
always reject such beliefs; but if,
when one is united by affection
to a cherished being, the slightest
movement of his eyes enables you
to read his soul, and you dis-
cover the most secret emotion of
his heart, we must believe also that
nature, on the approach of misfor-
tunes which are to befall us, reveals
to us the secrets of the future. That
is why I say to you, Weep, all of
you ; for you will never see him
again. I no, I will not weep, be-
cause to me this means death ! I
shall die!"

And crossing the room, she went
and threw herself on her knees be-
fore the arm-chair usually occupied
by her father. " Yesterday at this
hour he was here ; I have seen him
here; I have heard him speak to
me!" she cried, and it seemed to
her she still heard him ; but in place
of that cherished voice which sound-
ed always near her that of Lady
More alone fell on her ear.

" Cecilia," she said, " go and see
if supper is ready ; it should have
been served an hour ago. I have
waited for you," she added, looking
at Margaret, "although you may
not have expected it, judging from
the time you were absent."

" I thank you," replied Margaret.
" It was not necessary ; I could not
eat."

" That is something one could
not guess," angrily replied Lady
More, rising from her arm-chair
and proceeding to the dining-room.

They all followed her ; but, on
seeing her stepmother take Sir
Thomas' place, and begin in a loud
voice to say grace (as was custo-
mary in those days, when heads of
families did not blush to acknow-
ledge themselves Christians), Mar-
garet was unable to restrain her
tears, and immediately left the din-
ing-room. Roper cast an anxious
look after her, but on account of
her stepmother he said nothing.

" It appears," said Lady More,
whilst helping the dish which was
placed before her, " that we are at
the end of our trouble. All my life
I've been watching Sir Thomas
throwing himself into difficulties
and dangers : at one time he would
sustain a poor little country squire
against some powerful family ; at
another he was taking part against
the government ; and now, I fear,
this last affair will be the worst of
all. But what have you heard,

Sir Thomas More.

Roper? Why has Sir Thomas not
returned ?"

Roper then related to her how
he had waited in the boat ; how he
had seen the new queen pass, fol-
lowed by the most brilliant assem-
bly ; and, finally, what Margaret had
told him concerning her father.

"You see!" she exclaimed at
every pause he made in his narra-
tion. " I was right ! Say if I was
not right ?"

Meanwhile, her appetite remained
. undisturbed ; she continued to eat
very leisurely while questioning
Roper.

He was anxious to finish satisfy-
ing the curiosity of his stepmother,
who detained him for a long time,
giving the details of Lady Boleyn's
dress, although, in spite of his com-
placent good-will, Roper was un-
able to describe but imperfectly the
inventions, the materials, jewelry,
and embroideries which composed
her attire.

" How stupid and senseless these
scruples of Sir Thomas are!" she
cried on hearing these beautiful
things described. " I ask you now
if it is not natural for me to wish
to be among those elegant ladies,
and to be adorned like them ? But
no ; he has done everything to de-
prive himself of the king's favor,
who has yielded to him to the ut-
most degree. But I will go and
find him ; I will speak to him, and
demonstrate to him that his first
duty is to take care of his family,
and not drag us all down with him."
^As she said this, she shook her gray
head, and assumed a menacing air
as she turned towards Roper. But
he was gone. He was afraid she
would make him recommence his
narrative ; and, contrary to his usual
custom, he was greatly troubled at
the condition in which he saw Mar-
garet.

He softly ascended to the cham-

ber of the young girl, and paused
to listen a moment at the door.
The light shone through the win-
dows, and yet he heard not the
slightest sound. He then entered,
and found Margaret asleep, kneel-
ing on the floor like a person at
prayer. She was motionless, but
her sleep seemed troubled by pain-
ful dreams ; and her eyebrows and
all the features of her beautiful
face were successively contracted.
Her head rested on her shoulder,
and she appeared to be still gazing
at a little portrait of her father,
which she had worn from her child-
hood, and which she had placed on
the chair before her.

Roper regarded her a moment
with a feeling of intense sorrow.
He then knelt by her side and took
her hand.

The movement aroused Marga-
ret. "Where are we now, Roper?"
she said, opening her eyes. " Have
you finished mending the boat ?"

But scarcely had she pronounced
the words when, looking around
her, she perceived her error. "Ah!"
she continued, " I had forgotten we
had reached home."

" My dear Margaret," said Roper,
" I have felt the most dreadful anx-
iety since you left your stepmother."

" Oh ! my stepmother," cried Mar-
garet. " How happy she is ! How I
envy her the selfishness which makes
us feel that in possessing ourselves
all our wishes are accomplished !
She is, at least, always sure of fol-
lowing and carrying herself in every
place ; they cannot separate her from
the sole object of her love, and no-
thing can tear her from it."

" Is it, then, a happiness to love
only one's self? And can you, dear
Margaret, desire any such fate ?"

" Yes !" replied Margaret. " The
stupid creature by whom the future
is disregarded, the past forgotten,
the present ignored, makes me en-

Sir Thomas More.

vious ! Why exhaust ourselves in
useless efforts ? And why does not
man, like the chrysalis which sleeps
forty days, not await more patiently
the moment when he shall be born
in eternity the moment that will
open to him the sources of a new
existence, where he shall love with-
out fearing to lose the object of his
devotion ; where, happy in the hap-
piness of the Creator himself, he will
praise and bless him every moment
with .new transports of joy ? Wil-
liam, do you know what that power
is which transforms our entire be-
ing into the one whom we love, in
order to make us endure his suffer-
ings a thousand times over? Do
you understand well that love which
has neither flesh nor bone ; which
loves only the heart and mind ;
which mounts without fear into
the presence of God himself;
which draws from him, from his
grandeur, his perfections, from his
infinite majesty, all its strength and
all its endurance ; which, fearing
not death, extends beyond the
grave, and lives and increases
through all eternity ? That celes-
tial love have you ever felt it?
that soul within a soul, which con-
siders virtue alone, lives only for
her, and which is every moment
exalted by its sacrifices and its de-
votion ? that life within another
life, which feels that nothing can
extinguish it, and considers the
world and creatures as nothing ?
Speak, Roper, do you entirely com-
prehend it ? O my friend ! listen
attentively to me ; when the fruit
of experience shall have ripened
for you, when your fellow-creatures
shall no more speak of you but as
'the old man,' when you shall have
long looked upon your children's
children, then you will assemble
them round you, and tell them
that in other times a tyrant nam-

ed Henry VIII. devastated their
country, and immolated, in his
bloody rage, the father of Marga-
ret; you will tell them that you
loved Margaret, and that she per-
ished in the flower of her youth;
and you will teach them to exe-
crate the memory of that cruel
king, to weep over the oppressed,
and to defend them."

"Margaret!" cried Roper, : * whith-
er have your excited feelings carried
you ? Who will be able to take you
from me? And the children of
whom you speak-*-will they not also
be yours?"

" No, they will not be mine !
Upon the earth there remains for
me neither father nor husband, now
that all are reduced to slaves. And
learn this, if you do not already
know it : Slaves should have no
hearts! But I I have one," she
cried, " and I well understand how
to keep it out of their hands!"

" Margaret," replied Roper, "you
are greatly to blame for express-
ing yourself in this manner.
What ! because the king sends for
your father to -come and take an
oath which he believes he has a
right to exact, you already accuse
him of wishing to encompass hig-
death? Your father is lost, you say.
Have you forgotten, then, the num-
berless assurances of protection and
particular regard which the king
has not ceased to bestow on him
in the most conspicuous manner ?
Has he not raised him to the high-
est position in his kingdom ? And
if your father had not voluntarily
renounced it, the office would have
been still in his possession."

"Without doubt," replied Mar-
garet, u if my father had been will
ing to barter his conscience, t
would have bought it. To-day tl
will weigh it in the balance ;
his life. He is already doomed.

TO BS CONTINUED.

Sancta Sophia.

SANCTA SOPHIA.*

THE new and improved edition
of Father Cressy's compendium of
the principal treatises of the Eng-
lish Benedictine, Father Baker, en-
title-d Sancta Sophia, or Holy Wis-
dom, which has now appeared, has
been long looked for. and we give it
a cordial welcome. In compliance
with an earnest request of the very
reverend and learned prelate under
whose careful supervision this new
edition has been prepared, we very
gladly ma^e use of the opportunity
which is thus presented of calling
attention to this admirable work,
and to. some topics of the greatest
interest and importance which are
intimately connected with its pecu-
liar nature and scope as a book of
spiritual instruction. It belongs to
a special class of books treating of
the higher grades of the spiritual
life, and of the more perfect way in
which the soul that has passed
through the inferior exercises of
active meditation is led upward
toward the tranquil region of con-
templation. It is a remarkable
fact, and an indication of the in-
creasing number of those who feel
the aspiration after this higher life,
that such a demand has made itself
felt, within a comparatively recent
period, for spiritual treatises of this
sort. The most voluminous and

* Sand a Sophia. ; or, Directions for the Prayer
of Contemplation, etc. Extracted out of more
than forty treatises written by the late Kather
Augustin Haker, a monk of the English Congre-
gation of the Holy Order of St. Henedict ; and me-
thodically digested by R. F. Serenus Cressy- Dow-
ay, A.D 1657. Is'ow edited by the Very Rev.
JUom Norbert Sweeney, D.D.,of the same order
and congregation. London : t"'urns & Oat^s. 1876.
New York : The Catholic Publication Society.

popular modern writer who has
ministered to this appetite of souls
thirsting for the fountains of pure
spiritual doctrine, is the late holy
Oratorian, Father Faber. The un-
paralleled circulation of his works
is a matter of common notoriety.
The lives of saints and of holy per-
sons who have been led in the high-
ways of mystic illumination and
union with God, which have poured
forth in such copious abundance
from the Catholic press, and have
been so eagerly read, are another
symptom as well as a cause of this
increasing taste for the science and
wisdom of the saints. The most
choice and elevated spiritual works
which have appeared are, how-
ever, with few exceptions, republica-
tions of books of an older and by-
gone time. Among these we may
mention that quaint treatise so often
referred to by Father Baker, called
The Cloud of the Unknowing, Walter
Hilton's Seal a Perfectionis, t h e Spir-
itual Dialogues of St. Catherine of
Genoa, St. Teresa's writings, Dom
Castaniza's Spiritual Conflict ami
Conquest, and above all others that
truly magnificent edition in an Eng-
lish version of the Works of St. John
of the Cross, for which we are in-
debted to Mr. Lewis and his Emi-
nence the Cardinal of Westminster.
As a manual for common and gen-
eral use, the Sancta Sophia of Fa-
ther Baker has an excellence and
value peculiarly its own. Canon
Dalton, a good authority on sub-
jects of this kind, says that "it is
certainly the best book we have in
English on prayer." Bishop Ulla-

Sane t a Sophia.

thorne says of it : " Nothing is more
clear, simple, solid, and profound."
Similar testimonies might be multi-
plied ; and if the suffrages of the
thousands of unknown but devout
persons in religious communities
and in the secular state, who have
made use of this book, could be
collected, the result would prove
that the high esteem in which it
has ever been held by the English
Benedictines is perfectly well de-
served, according to the sense of
the most pious among the faithful.

The first modern edition of Sanc-
ta Sophia was published in New
York in 1857. Before this time it
was wholly unknown in this coun-
try, so far as we are informed, ex-
cepting in the convent of Carmelite
Nuns at Baltimore. At the ancient
convent on Aisquith Street, where
a small community of the daughters
of St. Teresa had long been strictly
practising the rule of their holy
mother, an old copy of the first
edition of Sancta Sophia was pre-
served as their greatest treasure.
It was there that Father Walworth
became acquainted with the book,
and, charmed with its quaint style
and rare, old-fashioned excellence,
resolved to have a new edition of
it published for the benefit of the
Catholics of the United States. By
permission of the Very Rev. Father
Bernard, of holy memory, who was
then provincial of the Redempto-
rists, it was published, under Father
Hecker's supervision, by James B.
Kirker (Dunigan & Bro.) of New
York. It was reprinted correctly,
though in a plain and unattractive
form, without any change excepting
in the spelling of words and the omis-
sion of certain forms of short prayers
and aspirations which were added to
tiie treatises in the original. There
is no substantial difference, as to the
text of the work itself, between this
VOL. xxiv. 7

edition and the new one edited by
Dr. Sweeney. He has, however,
had it published in a much better
and more attractive form, has re-
stored all the parts omitted, and,
besides carefully revising the text,
has added prefatory matter, notes,
and appendices, which make his
edition more complete. A portrait
of the venerable Father Baker is
prefixed. If an index of the con-
tents of the chapters had been add-
ed, it would have made the edition
as perfect as we could desire. That
it will now become once more wide-
ly known and appreciated in Eng-
land we cannot doubt, and we trust
that it will also obtain a much
wider circulation in this country
than it has hitherto enjoyed. There
is but one serious obstacle in the
way of its becoming a universal fa-
vorite with those who have a taste
for solid spiritual food. It is food
of the most simple, dry, and hard
quality, served without sauce or
condiments of any kind pure nu-
triment, like brown bread, wheaten,
grits, farina, or Scotch porridge. It
is most wholesome and conducive-
to spiritual growth, but altogether
destitute of the eloquence which
we find in Tauler, the deep philo--
sophy and sublime poetry of St..
John of the Cross, the ecstatic rap-
ture of St. Teresa. Whoever stu--
dies it will have no stimulus but a
pure and simple desire for instruc-
tion, improvement, and edification.
The keynote to the entire mode
and measure of the book is given
in the chapter, borrowed from Fa-
ther Walter Hilton, on the spiritual
pilgrimage : " One way he knew,
which, if he would diligently pur-
sue according to the directions and
marks that he would give him
though, said he, I cannot promise
thee a security from many frights,
beatings, and other ill-usage and

Sane t a Sophia.

temptations of all kinds ; but if
thou canst have courage and pa-
tience enough to suffer them with-
out quarrelling or resisting, or troub-
ling thyself, and so pass on, having
this only in thy mind, and some-
times on thy tongue, I have naught,
I am naught, I desire naught but to
be at Jerusalem, my life for thine,
thou wilt escape safe with thy life,
and in a competent time arrive
thither." Father Baker attempts
nothing but to furnish a plain guide-
-book over this route. For descrip-
tions of the scenery, photographic
-views of mountains, valleys, lakes,
.and prospects, one must go else-
where. A clear, methodical, safe
guide-book over the route he will
'find in Sancta Sophia. This is not
to say that one should confine him-
self exclusively to its perusal, or
deny himself the pleasure of read-
ing other books in which there is
more that pleases the imagination
. and awakens >the affections, or that
satisfies the demands of the intel-
lect seeking for the deepest causes
of things and the exposition of sub-
lime truths. The most important
and practical matter, however, is to
find and keep the right road. And
certainly many, if not all, of those
who are seeking the straightest and
safest way to perfection and ever-
lasting beatitude, will value the
.Sancta Sophia all the more for its
very plainness, and the absence of
.everything except that simple and
solid doctrine which they desire
.and feel the need of amid the trials
.and perplexities of the journey of
life.

The doctrine of Father Baker
has not, however, lacked oppo-
nents from his own day to the
present. Since the publication of
Sancta Sophia in this country we
have repeatedly heard of its use
being discountenanced in religious

communities and in the case of
devout persons in the world. Dr.
Sweeney calls attention directly to
this fact of opposition to Father
Baker's doctrine, and devotes a con-
siderable part of his own annota-
tions to a refutation of the objec-
tions alleged against it. He has
pointed out one seemingly plausible
ground of these censures which we
were not before aware of, and which
was unknown to the American edi-
tors of Sancta Sophia when they re-
published it in this country. We
cannot pass this matter by without
some examination ; for although on
such subjects controversy is disa-
greeable, and to the unlearned and
simple-minded may be vexatious
and perplexing, it cannot be avoid-
ed where a question of orthodox
soundness in doctrine is concerned.
The gist of the whole matter is
found in chapter the seventh, " On
the Prayer of Interior Silence," to
which Dr. Sweeney has appended a
long note of explanation. The
matter of this chapter is professed-
ly derived from an old Spanisli
work by Antonio de Rojas, entitled
The Life of the Spirit Approved,
which was placed on the Index
about fifty years after the death
of Father Baker, and two years
after the condemnation of Quiet-
ism. We have never seen tin's
book, but we are informed by Dr.
Sweeney that its language, taken in
the most natural and obvious sense,
leads to the conclusion that the
state of charity which is requisite
to perfection excludes all private
interest, not only all fear of punish-
ment, but all hope of reward that
is, all desire or consideration of the
beatitude of heaven. In order to
attain this state of indifference and
annihilation of self-love, all express-
acts are discountenanced, and that
kind of silence and passivity in

Sane t a Sophia.

prayer recommended which sup-
presses the active movements of
the soul toward God, such 3s hope,
love toward God as the chief good,
petition and supplication, thanks-
giving, etc. Now, such a doctrine
as this is manifestly tinged with
some of the errors of Quietism,
and seems to be precisely similar
to the semi-Quietism of Madame
Guyon and Fenelon which was con-
demned by Innocent XII. in 1699.
The second of the propositions
from Fenelon's Maxims of the Saints
condemned by this pope is as fol-
lows : "In the state of contempla-
tive or unitive life every interested
motive of fear and hope is lost."
The doctrinal error here is the no-
tion that the soul's love of itself,
desire and hope for its own beatifi-
cation in God, and love to God as
its own sovereign good, is incom-
patible with a pure, disinterested,
perfect love of God, as the sover-
eign good in himself. The practi-
cal error is the inculcation of direct
efforts to suppress every movement
of interested love to God in prayer,
in order to make way for passive,
disinterested love. Father Baker
lived so long before the errors of
false mystfcism had been thorough-
ly investigated, refuted, and con-
demned that it was very easy for
him to fail of detecting what was
unguarded, inaccurately expressed,
exaggerated, or of erroneous ten-
dency in a book which was approv-
ed by a number of prelates and the-
ologians. He has certainly not bor-
rowed or adopted what was errone-
ous in the book, but that portion
of its teaching which was sound
and safe, upon which the error was
a mere excrescence. The mere
fact of citing a book which has been
placed on the Index is a matter of
small and only incidental moment.
Dr. Sweeney seems to us to have

followed too timorous a conscience
in his way of treating the chapter
of Sancta Sophia in which the
work of De Rojas is quoted. We
cannot agree with him that Father
Baker would have suppressed that
chapter if the book had been cen-
sured during his lifetime. He
would have suppressed his com-
mendation of the book, and looked
carefully to see what the error was
on account of which it had been
condemned, as any good Catholic
is bound to do in such a case. But
we feel confident that he would not
have felt himself obliged to make
any essential alteration in what he
had written on the prayer of si-
lence, though he would probably
have explicitly guarded it against
any possible misapprehension or
perversion. Any one who reads
the Sancta Sophia, especially with
Dr. Sweeney's annotations, will see
at once how absurd is the charge
of a tincture of semi-Quietism
against so sober and practical a
writer as Father Baker, and how
remote from anything favoring the
illusions of false spirituality are his
instructions on prayer. It would be
almost as absurd to impute -Quiet-
ism to Father Baker as rigorism
to St. Alphonsus. We are afraid
that Dr. Sweeney's signal-board of
"caution" will scare away simple-
minded and devout readers from
one of the most useful chapters of
Sancta Sophia, one which is really
the pivot of the whole book. Father
Baker's special scope and object
was not to give instruction in medi-
tation and active exercises, but to
lead the soul through and beyond
these to contemplation. The in-
structions on the prayer of interior
silence are precisely those which arc-
fitted to enlighten and direct a per-
son in the transition state from the
spiritual exercises of discursive me-

IOC

Sand a Sophia.

dilation to that state of ordinary
and acquired contemplation which
Scnramelli and all standard writers
recognize as both desirable and at-
tainable for those who have devoted
a considerable time to the practice
of mental prayer. Father Baker's
directions on this head should be
judged by what they are intrinsi-
cally in themselves, without any re-
gard to anything else. Are they
singular, imprudent, or in any re-
spect contrary to the doctrine of the
saints and other authors of recog-
nized soundness in doctrine? We
cannot see that they are. What-
ever perversion of the method of
prayer in question may have been
contained in the book of De Rojas,
sprang from his erroneous doctrine
that explicit acts of the understand-
ing and will in prayer should be
suppressed in order to eradicate
the implicit acts, the habits, and
tendencies of the soul, by which its
.intention and desire are directed to-
ward its own supreme good and fe-
licity in God. But this is no reason
against the method itself, apart from
a perversion no trace of which is to
be found in Father Baker's own lan-
guage. The well-known and justly-
revered Father Ramiere, S.J., in his
introduction to a little work by an-
other Jesuit, Father De Caussade, en-
titled L? Abandon a la Providence Di-
vine, remarks in reference to the doc-
trine of that book, which is quite
similar in its spirit to the Sancta So-
phia, as follows : " There is no
truth so luminous that it does not
change into error from the moment
when it suffers diminution or ex-
aggeration ; and there is no nour-
ishment, however salutary to the
soul, which, if imprudently used,
may not produce in it the effect of
a noxious poison." It would seem
that some are so afraid of the per-
version of the luminous truths of

mystical theology, and of ths abuse
of the salutary nourishment it af-
fords to the soul, that they would
desire to avoid the danger by shut-
ting out the light and locking up
the food in a closet. They would
restrict all persons whatever, in
every stage and condition of the
spiritual life, to certain methods
of prayer and the use of certain
books, excellent for the majority
of persons while they are beginners
or proficients, but unsuitable, or
even injurious, to some who are of
a peculiar disposition, or who have
advanced so far that they need
something of a different order.
It is a great mistake to suppose
that such a course is safe or pru-
dent. There are some who cannot,
even in the beginning, make use of
discursive meditation. It is a gen-
erally-recognized rule that those
who can, and actually do, practise
this kind of mental prayer, ought,
as soon as it ceases to be pleasant
ajid profitable to them, to change
it for a simpler method. Even
those set methods which are not
discursive, if they consist in oft-
repeated acts of the understanding,
the affections, and the will, become
frequently, after the lapae of time,
too laborious, wearisome, and in-
sipid to be continued with any fer-
vor. The soul needs and in-
stinctively longs for the cessation
of this perpetual activity in a holy
repose, in tranquil contemplation,
in rest upon the bosom of God.
It is for such souls that the chapter
on the prayer of interior silence
was written.

We may now examine a little more
closely the passages which Dr.
Sweeney seems to have had in view,
as requiring to be read with cau-
tion because similar to statements
made by De Rojas and other writers
whose doctrine is tinctured with

Sancta Sophia.

101

Quietism. Dr. Sweeney remarks :
" When afterwards (in the book of
De Rojas) express acts toward God
are discountenanced, and it is de-
clared that an advantage of this kind
of prayer is self-annihilation, and
that resignation then becomes so
pure that all private interest is for-
gotten and ignored, we see the
prudence and watchfulness of the
Holy See in cautioning her children
against a book which, if it does not
expressly, distinctly, and advisedly
teach it, yet conveys the impres-
sion that a state of charity excludes
all private interest, such as fear of
punishment and hope of reward,
and that perfection implies such a
state." *

Father Baker says that in the pray-
er of silence, u with the will she [the
soul] frames no particular request
nor any express acts toward God " ;
that " by this exercise we come to
the most perfect operation of self-
annihilation," and practise in the
most sublime manner " resignation,
since the soul forgets all private in-
terests " ; and more to the same ef-
fect. Nevertheless, the dangerous
and erroneous sense which this
language might convey, if intended
or interpreted to mean that the
soul must suppress all hope or
desire for its own private good as
incompatible with the perfect love
of God, is plainly excluded by the
immediate context in which it oc-
curs. The soul, says Father Baker,
should " continue in his presence
in the quality of a petitioner, but such
an one as makes no special, direct
requests, but contents herself to
appear before him with all her
wants and necessities, best, and indeed
only, known to him, who there-
fore needs not her information."
Again, he compares the soul to the

*P. 492, note.

subject of a sovereign who ab-
stains from asking any particular
favors from his prince, because he
knows that '* he is both most wise-
to judge what favors may become
the one to give and the other to re-
ceive, and in that that he has a
love and magnificence to advance
him beyond his deserts"

Once more he says that in this
prayer the soul exercises in a sub-
lime manner "hope, because the soul,
placing herself before God /// the pos-
ture of a beggar, confidently expects
that he will impart to her both the
knowledge of his will and ability to
fulfil it."

It is equally plain that Father Bak-
er's method of the prayer of interior
silence is not liable to the censure
which Dr. Sweeney attaches to the
one of De Rojas when he remarks
that " we can at once see what
danger accompanies such an exer-
cise, if that can be called an exer-
cise where all activity ceases and
prayer is really excluded." " Since
an intellectual soul is all activity,"
says Father Baker, "so that it cannot
continue a moment without some
desires, the soul then rejecting all
desires toward created objects, she
cannot choose but tend inwardly
in her affections to God, for which
end only she put herself in such a
posture of prayer; her tendance
then being much like that of the
mounting of an eagle after a prece-
dent vigorous springing motion and
extension of her wings, which ceas-
ing, /// virtue thereof the flight is con-
tinued for a good space with a great
swiftness, but withal with great still-
ness, quietness, and ease, without
any waving of the wings at all or
the least force used in any mem-
ber, being in as much ease and still-
ness as if she were reposing on her
nest." For the further defence of
Father Baker's doctrine from the

102

Sancta Sophia.

other parts of Sancta Sophia, and in
general from his known method of
personal conduct and his direction
of others, what his learned Bene-
dictine editor has furnished amply
suffices.

We are not content, however,
with simply showing that Father
Baker's method of conducting souls
to perfection by means of contem-
plative prayer is free from the
errors of Quietism and the illusions
of false mysticism. The Sancta
Sophia is not merely a good book,
one among the many English bqpks
of devotion and spiritual reading
which can be safely and profitably
read. We think Canon Dalton's
opinion that it is the best book on
prayer we have in the English lan-
guage is correct. It is a guide for
those who will scarcely find another
book to fill its place ; and we ven-
ture to affirm that the very part of
it which we have been specially
criticising is not only defensible, but
positively in accordance, even to
its phraseology, with the doctrine
of the most approved authors, and
of special, practical value and im-
portance.

In an appendix which Father
Ramie~re has added to the little
book by Father Caussade already
once cited in this article, there is a
chapter taken from Bossuet, enti-
tled <k A Short and Easy Method of
making the Prayer of Faith and of
the simple presence of God," from
which we quote the following pas-
sages : " Meditation is very good in
its own time, and very useful at the
beginning of the spiritual life ; but
it is not proper to make it a final
stopping-place, for the soul which is
faithful in mortification and recol-
lection ordinarily receives a gift of
prayer which is purer and more
simple, and may be called the
prayer of simplicity, consisting in a

simple view, or fixed, attentive, and
loving look directed toward some
divine object, whether it be God
in himself, or some one of his per-
fections, or Jesus Christ, or one of
the mysteries relating to him, or
some other Christian truths. In
this attitude the soul leaves off rea-
soning, and makes use of a quiet
contemplation, which keeps it peace-
ful, attentive, and susceptible to the
divine operations and impressions
which the Holy Spirit imparts to it ;
it does little and receives a great
deal ; its labor is easy, and never-
theless more fruitful than it would
otherwise be ; and as it approaches
very near to the source of all light
grace and virtue it receives on that
account the more of all these. The
practice of this prayer ought to be-
gin on first awaking, by an act of
faith in the presence of God, who is
everywhere, and in Jesus Christ,
whose eyes are always upon us, if
we were even buried in the centre
of the earth. This act is elicited
either in the ordinary and sensible
manner, as by saying inwardly, ' I
believe that my God is present ' ; or
it is a simple calling to memory of the
faith of God's presence in a more
purely spiritual manner. After this,
one ought not to produce multifarious
and diverse acts and dispositions,
but to remain simply attentive to
this presence of God, and as it were
exposed to view before him, con-
tinuing this devout attention and
attitude as long as the Lord grants
us the grace for doing so, without
striving to make other acts than
those to which we are inspired,
since this kind of prayer is one in
which we converse with God alone,
and is a union which contains in an
eminent mode all other particular
dispositions, and disposes the soul
to passivity ; by which is meant,
that God becomes sole master of

Sancta Sophia.

its interior, and operates in it in
a special manner. The less work-
ing done by the creature in this
state, the more powerful is the
operation of God in it ; and since
God's action is at the same time a
repose, the soul becomes in a cer-
tain way like to him in this kind of
prayer, receiving in it wonderful
effects ; so that as the rays of the
sun cause the growth, blossoming,
and fruit-bearing of plants, the soul,
in like manner, which is attentive
and tranquilly basking under the
rays of the divine Sun of righteous-
ness, is in the best condition for
receiving divine influences which
enrich it with all sorts of virtues."*

St. John of the Cross declares
that " the soul having attained to
the interior union of love, the spiri-
tual/acuities of it are no longer ac-
tive, and still less those of the body ;
for now that the union of love is
actually brought about, the facul-
ties of the soul cease from their ex-
ertions, because, no\v that the goal
is reached, all employment of means
is at an end." f

Again : "He who truly loves
makes shipwreck of himself in all
else, that he may gain the more in
the object of his love. Thus the
soul says that it has lost itself that
is, deliberately, of set purpose.
This loss occurs in two ways.
The soul loses itself, making no
account whatever of itself, but re-
ferring all to the Beloved, resigning
itself freely into his hands without
any selfish views, losing itself de-
liberately, and seeking nothing for
itself. Secondly, it loses itself in
all things, making no account of
anything save that which concerns
the Beloved. This is to lose one's
self that is, to be willing that others

* V Abandon & la Providence Divine^ pp.
164-167.
t Complete Works, Lewis' Trans., vol. ii. p. 75.

103

should have all things. Such is he
that loves God; he seeks neither
gain nor reward, but only to lose
all, even himself according to God's
will. This is what such an one counts
gain. . . . When a soul has advanc-
ed so far on the spiritual road as to
be lost to all the natural methods
of communing with God ; when it
seeks him no longer by meditation,
images, impressions, nor by any
other created ways or representa-
tions of sense, but only by rising
above them all, in the joyful com-
munion with him by faith and love,
then it may be said to have gained
God of a truth, because it has truly
lost itself as to all that is not God,
and also as to its own self."*

In another place the saint ex-
plains quite at length the necessity
of passing from meditation to con-
templation, the reasons for doing so,
and the signs which denote that the
time for this change has arrived.
The state of beginners, he says, is
" one of meditation and of acts of
reflection." After a certain stage
of progress has been reached, " God
begins at once to introduce the soul
into the state of contemplation, and
that very quickly, especially in the
case of religious, because these,
having renounced the world, quick-
ly fashion their senses and desires
according to God ; they have, there-
fore, to pass at once from medita-
tion to contemplation. This pas-
sage, then, takes place when the
discursive acts and meditation fail,
when sensible sweetness and the
first fervors cease, when the soul
cannot make reflections as before,
nor find any sensible comfort, but
is fallen in to aridity, because the spir-
itual life is changed. ... It is evi-
dent, therefore, that if the soul does
not now abandon its previous ways

* Ib. pp. 158, 159.

104

Sancta Sophia.

of meditation, it will receive this
gift of God in a scanty and imper-
fect manner. ... If the soul will
at this time make efforts of its own,
and encourage another disposition
than that of passive, loving attention,
most submissive and calm, and if
it does not abstain from its previous
discursive acts, it will place a com-
plete barrier against those graces
which God is about to communi-
cate to it in this loving knowledge.
. . . The soul must be attached to
nothing, not even to the subject of
its meditation, not to sensible or
spiritual sweetness, because God
requires a spirit so free, so annihi-
lated, that every act of the soul,
even of thought, of liking or dis-
liking, will impede and disturb it,
and break that profound silence of
sense and spirit necessary for hear-
ing the deep and delicate voice of
God, who speaks to the heart in
solitude ; it is in profound peace
and tranquillity that the soul is to
listen to God, who will speak peace
unto his people. When this takes
place, when the soul feels that it is
silent and listens, its loving atten-
tion must be most pure, without a
thought of self, in a manner self -for-
gotten, so that it shall be wholly in-
tent upon hearing; for thus it is
that the soul is free and ready for
that which our Lord requires at its
hands." *

We have sufficiently proved, we
trust, that there is no reason to be
disquieted by a certain verbal and
merely apparent likeness between
:some parts of Father Baker's spir-
itual doctrine and the errors of
.a false mysticism. We may, per-
haps, return to this subject on a
future occasion, and point out more
distinctly and at length the true phi-
losophical and theological basis ^of

* Complete Works, etc., vol. ii. pp. 267-270.

Catholic mystical doctrine, in con-
trast with the travesties and per-
versions of its counterfeits in the
extravagant, absurd, and revolting
systems of infidel and heretical
visionaries. At present a few
words may suffice to sum up and
succinctly define the difference be-
tween the true and the false doc-
trine in respect to the case in hand.
That doctrine which is false,
dangerous, and condemned by the
unerring judgment of the holy
church teaches that the love and
pursuit of our own good and hap-
piness, even in God, is sinful, or at
least low and imperfect. It incul-
cates, as a means for suppressing
and eradicating our natural ten-
dency towards the attainment of
the good as an end, and annihilat-
ing our self-activity, the cessation
of all operation of the natural fac-
ulties of understanding and voli-
tion, at least in reference to God
as our own supreme and desirable
good. It inculcates a fixed, otiose
quietude and indifference toward
our own happiness or misery. Its
effect is therefore to quench the
life of the soul, to extinguish its
light, and to reduce it to a state
of torpor and apathy resembling
that of a stoical Diogenes or an
Indian fakir. Its pretence of dis-
interestedness and pure love to
God for himself alone is wholly
illusory and founded on a false
view of God as the intrinsically
sovereign good and the object of
supreme love to the intelligent
creature. The goodness of God as
the first object of the love of com-
placency cannot be separated from
the same goodness as the object
of desire. The extrinsic glory of
God as the chief end of creatures
is identified with the exaltation and
happiness of those intellectual and
rational beings whom he has creat-

Sancta Sophia.

ed and elevated to a supernatural
end. Hope, desire, and effort for
the attainment of the good intended
for and promised to man is a duty
and obligation imposed by the law
of God. It is impossible to love
God and be conformed to his will
without loving our neighbors, and
our own soul as our nearest neigh-
bor. Moreover, we are not saved
merely by the action of God upon
us passively received, but also by a
concurrence of our understanding
and will, a co-operation of our own
active efforts with the working of
God in us, or, as it is commonly
expressed, by a diligent and faith-
ful correspondence to grace. Not
to desire our own true happiness is
therefore a suicidal, idiotic folly.
Not to work for it is presumption,
ingratitude, and the deadly sin of
sloth. Moreover, to attempt to fly
with unfledged wings ; to soar aloft
in the sky among the saints when
we ought to be walking on the earth ,
to undertake while yet weak begin-
ners the heroic works of the per-
fect ; to anticipate by self-will the
time and call which God appoints,
and pervert the orderly course of
his providence ; to strive by our own
natural powers to accomplish what
requires the special gifts and graces
of the Holy Spirit, is imprudent,
contrary to humility, and full of
peril. The dupe of false spiritual-
ity may, therefore, either take an
entirely wrong road or attempt to
travel the right road in a wrong
manner ; in either case sure to fail
of reaching his intended goal, if he
persists in his error.

The sound and orthodox doc-
trine of Catholic mystical theology
presents God as he is in his own
intrinsic essence, as the object
of his own beatific contemplation,
and of the contemplation of the
blessed who have received the

105

faculty of intuitive vision by the
light of glory. The nearest ap-
proach to this beatific state, as well
as the most perfect and immediate
preparation for it, is the state of
quiet, tranquil contemplation of
God by the obscure light of faith
The excellence and blessedness of
this state consists in the pure love
of God. It is of the nature of love
and the intention of the mind to-
ward the sovereign good, by which
the will is directed in its motion to-
ward the good which it loves and
in the fruition of which it finds its
repose, that the consideration of
the object precede the considera-
tion and desire of the fruition of
the object. Liberatore. who is a
good expositor of the doctrine of
St. Thomas and all sound Catholic
philosophers on this head, proposes
and proves this statement in the
clearest terms. The object is first
apprehended and loved for its in-
trinsic goodness. Reflection on the
enjoyment which is received and
delight in this enjoyment, though a
necessary consequence of the pos-
session of the chief good, is the se-
cond but not the first act. St. John
of the Cross teaches the same truth :
" As the end of all is love, which
inheres in the will, the characteris-
tic of which is to give and not to
receive, to the soul inebriated with
love the first object that presents
itself is not the essential glory which
God will bestow upon it, but the
entire surrender of itself to him in
true love, without any regard to its
own advantage. The second ob-
ject is included in the first."* Fa-
ther Mazzella, S.J., of Woodstock
College, in his admirable work on
the infused virtues, makes a length-
ened exposition of the distinction
between that love of benevolence

* Complete Works, vol. ii pp. 198, 199

io6

Sancta SopJiia.

and complacency toward God which
is the principle of perfect contri-
tion, and by itself takes away sin
and unites the soul with God, and
the love of desire which terminates
on the good received from God.
The first considers God as the so-
vereign good in himself : the second
considers him directly and expli-
citly as the source and giver of
good to us. It manifests itself as
an efficacious desire for the rewards
of everlasting life, accompanied by
a fear of the punishment of sin in
the future state, and is the principle
of imperfect contrition or attrition,
which of itself does not suffice for
justification, though it is a sufficient
condition for receiving grace through
the appointed sacraments. The Ca-
tholic teachers of mystical theology
direct the soul principally and as
their chief purpose toward the high-
er and more perfect love. The se-
cond object is included in this first
object, and taken for granted. It
is not excluded, but comparatively
neglected, because it follows of it-
self from the first, and is sought for
by the natural,-necessary law of our
being, without any need of direct,
explicit efforts. The resignation,
forgetfulness of private interests,
self-annihilation, so strongly recom-
mended, do not denote any sup-
pression or destruction of our na-
tural beatific impulses, but only of
our own personal notions, wishes, and
interests in respect to such things as
are merely means to the attainment
of an end, a conformity of our will
to the will of God, and an abandon-
ment of solicitude respecting our
own future happiness, founded on
filial confidence in the wisdom and
goodness of God.

It follows from this doctrine of
sound, mystical writers that the
quietude of the state of contempla-
tion. and union with God is totally

opposite to a condition of apathy
and sloth. It is a state of more
tranquil activity, of more steady
and therefore more imperceptible
yet more rapid movement. Pre-
viously the soul was like a boat
propelled by oars against wind* and
tide. Now it is like a yacht sailing
with a press of canvas under a
strong and fair breeze.

So far as the imprudent misuse
of mystical theology is concerned,
we need not waste words on a tru-
ism of spiritual direction, that be-
ginners and unlearned, inexpe-
rienced persons must follow the
counsel of a guide, if they can have
it. If not, they must direct them-
selves as well as they can by good
books, which will instruct them gra-
dually and soberly in the first prin-
ciples of solid virtue and piety, and
afterwards lead them on to perfec-
tion. They cannot have a better
guide than Sancta Sophia. It is a
book that will last for years, and
even for a lifetime; for it is a guide
along the whole way, from the gate
at the entrance to the river of
death, for such as are really and
earnestly seeking to attain perfec-
tion by prayer, and desire to lead
an interior life amid the external
occupations, duties, and trials of
their state in life, or even in the
most strict cloistral seclusion. The
exterior persecutions to which the
church is subject, the disorders of
the times, and the multifarious
troubles of every kind, both outward
and inward, to which great numbers
of the best-disposed and most vir-
tuous people are subjected, have
an effect to throw thoughtful per-
sons on the interior life as a refuge
and solace. Pius IX., whose long
experience and great sanctity, as
well as his divine office, make him
as a prophet of God to all devout
Catholics, has told us that the

Evening on the Sea-Shore. lO n.

church is now going through the speak, he really cares, except the
exercises of the purgative way as a growth of the souls of men. The
preparation for receiving great gifts world and' the church were made
from the Holy Spirit, which will for this purpose. The wisdom of
accompany a new and glorious tri- the ancients was an adumbration
umph of the kingdom of Jesus of the truth, and that doctrine
Christ on the earth. Whatever ex- which teaches the full and com-
ternal splendor the reign of Christ plete form of it alone deserves to
over this world may exhibit, it is in be called in the highest sense wis-
the hearts of men that his spiritual dom, and to win the love and ad-
royalty has its seat. There is no- miration of all men for its celestial
thing on earth for which, so to beauty.

EVENING ON THE SEA-SHORE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF VISCOUNT DK CHATEAUBRIAND.

THE woods, the sand-beach desolate and bare,
Blend dusky with the shadows dim and far,
And, glittering from the depths, the evening star

Gleams solitary through the silent air.

Westward, and sparkling under purest skies,

Foams on the long, low reef the line of white ;
And towards the north, o'er seas of crystal light,

The gathering mist of deepening purple flies.

The mountains redden still with sunset fire,

Soft dies the plaintive breeze in murmurs low,
And, each to each linked in their gentle flow,

The waves roll calmly shoreward and expire.

All grandeur, mystery, love ! In this, the time
Of dying day, all nature with her state
Of mountain ranges and her forests great,

The eternal order and the plan sublime,

Stands like a temple on whose walls of light

The beauties of creation's day are shown
A sanctuary, where is the Godhead's throne

Veiled by the curtains of the holy night

Whose cupola high to the zenith towers,
A glorious harmony, a work divine,
And painted with the heavenly hues that shine

In dawns, in rainbows, and in summer flowers.

io8

Letters of a Young Irishivoman to Jter Sister \

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

NOVEMBER 2.

' Voici lea feuilles sans seve
Qui tombent sur le gazon." *

WHAT a solemn day to the Chris-
tian is All Souls' day ! I prayed
much, very much, for all our dear
friends in the other world. Oh ! how
I pity the suffering souls consumed
by the flames of purgatory. They
have seen God ; they have had a
glimpse of his glory on the day of
their judgment; they long for the Su-
preme Good with unutterable ardor.
What torment ! And some there
are who will be in those lakes of
fire even to the end of the world.
We can do nothing but offer our
prayers, and they bring deliverance !
Who would not devote themselves
to the suffering souls ? What mis-
fortune more worthy of pity than
theirs ? I love the " Helpers of the
Holy Souls !" f It is to me a great
happiness to be united with them
in thought, prayer, and action. A
thousand memories have come into
my mind ; there have passed before
me all my beloved dead, all the
dead whom I have known or whom
I have once seen. How numerous
they are, and yet I have not been
living so very long. Each day thins
our ranks, links drop off from the
chain. Blessed are the dead who
die in the Lord !

Here is winter upon us melan-
choly winter, which makes poor mo-
thers weep.

* " Behold the sapless leaves, which fall upon the

turf."
f " Dames A nxiliatrices du Purgatoire."

Meditated yesterday on the joys
of the love of Jesus, which in Holy
Communion melts our heart like
two pieces of wax into one only
Jesus, the only true friend, who
consoles and sustains, and without
whom all is vanity. The Christian
who has prayer and Communion
ought to live in perpetual gladness
of heart.

I must confess to you, my Kate,
that I envy Johanna, Berthe, and
Lucy. They allow me to share
largely in their maternal joys, but
these treasures in which I take such
pleasure, why are they not my own ?
I felt sad about it yesterday, and
murmured to myself these lines of
Brizeux :

"Jours passes, que chacun rappelle avec des

larmes,
Jours qu'en vain on regrette, aviez vous tant des

charmes ?

Ou les vents troublaient-ils aussi votre clarte,
Et 1'ennui du present fait-il votre beaute ? " *

Rene was behind me. "What,
then, do you regret, my Georgina?"
I told him all, and how gently and
sweetly he comforted me as you
would, my Kate ! Poor feeble reed
that I am, I lean upon you.

May the Blessed Virgin Mary
protect us, dear sister !

NOVEMBER 13.

Eleven days between my two let-
ters, my note-book tells me. Hap-
pily, Rene has taken my place,
and you are aware in what occupa-

* Past days, which each of us recalls with tears,
Days we regret in vain, had you so many charms ?
Or was your brightness also marred by winds.
And doth our weariness of the present make you
seem so fair ?

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

tions I have been absorbed, dear
Kate. The poor are becoming
quite a passion with me. I cate-
rbise them, I clothe them; it is so
delightful to lavish one's superabun-
dance on the disinherited ones of
tin's world ! To-morrow we go to
Nantes to take leave of our saintly
friend Elizabeth, who will shortly
depart for Louisiana. She has re-
ceived permission to come and bid
adieu to her mother perhaps a life-
long adieu ; for who can say whether
she will return ? I have had a letter
from Ellen, giving me many details
of her sojourn in the Highlands.
The wound is still bleeding. The
sight of a child makes her weep ;
and in her dreams she sees her son.
May God support her!

To-day is St. Stanislaus the gen-
tle young saint whose feast Marga-
ret pointed out to me with a hope
which is not realized. Our dear
Anglaise wanted to have us all to-
gether in her princely dwelling. The
absence of the Adrien family, Lucy's
journey all these dispersions have
disarranged the grand project.
And yet there are moments when
1 experience a kind of home-sick-
ness a thirst to see our dear Erin
again, a longing to live under my
native sky which tells upon my
health. Do not pity me too much,
Kate ; I possess all the elements of
happiness which could be brought
together in a single existence. I
love the seraphic Stanislaus, hold-
ing in his arms the infant Jesus.
O great saint ! give me a little of
your love of God, a little of your
fervent piety, that I may detach
myself from the world ! I am afraid
of loving it too much, my sister.
The day before yesterday was the
feast of St. Martin this hero whose
history is so poetic. I like to think
of this mantle, cut in two to clothe
a poor man, and of our Lord ap-

109

pearing that night to the warrior,
who in the Saviour's vestment re-
cognized the half of his mantle.
Kind St. Martin ! giving us a second
summer, which I find delightful,
loving as I do the warm and per-
fumed breezes of the months that
have long days, and regretting the
return of winter with its ice, when,
shivering in well-closed rooms, one
thinks of the poor without fire and
shelter. Dear poor of the good
God ! * Margaret shares my fond-
ness for them. Never in our Brit-
tany will the sojourn of this sweet
friend be forgotten.

What noise! Adieu* my sister;
Erin go bragh !

NOVEMBER 17.

You have heard the joyful tidings,
Kate dearest the triumph of Men-
tana ? Gertrude writes to us. Ad-
rien and his two sons fought like
lions, and his courageous wife fol-
lowed the army, waiting on the
wounded, praying for her dear ones,
who had not a scratch ! They
were afterwards received in private
audience by the Holy Father, who
seemed to them more saintly and
sublime than ever. God does in-
deed do all things well ! All these
loving hearts, torn by the departure
of Helene, have recovered their
happiness, are enthusiastic in their
heroism and devotion, have been
violently snatched from all selfish
regrets, and have enriched them-
selves with lifelong memories.
Mgr. Dupanloup has written to the
clergy of his diocese, ordering
thanksgivings to be offered in the
churches; and the holy and illus-
trious Pius IX. has written to the
eloquent bishop, to whom he sends
his thanks and benediction.

Truly, joy has succeeded to sor-
row. But how guilty is Europe !

* In Brittany the poor are habitually called Iff
auvres du Bon Dieu. TRANSL.

110

Letters of a Young Iris Jiwo man to her Sister.

Can you conceive such inertia in
the face of this struggle between
strength and weakness ? Our good
abbe is in possession of all the
mandements (or charges) of the bi-
shops of France. He is making a
collection of them. Yesterday he
quoted to me the following pas-
sage from that of Mgr. de Per-
pignan : " Princes of the earth,
envy not the crown of Rome ! One
of the greatest of this world's po-
tentates was fain to try it on the
brow of his son, and placed it on
his cradle ; but it weighed too
heavily on that frail existence, and
the child, to whom the father's
genius promised a brilliant future,
withered away, and died at the age
of twenty years"; and this other
by Mgr. de Perigueux : " When
God sends great trials upon his
church, he raises up men capable of
sustaining them. We are in one
of these times of trial, and we have
Pius IX."

Dear Isa sends me four pages, all
impregnated with sanctity. Her
life is one long holocaust; all her
aspirations tend to one end, and
one that I fear she will not attain.
God will permit this for his glory.
How much good may one soul do !
I .see it by Isa. Her life is one of
the fullest and most sanctified that
can be ; she sacrifices herself hour
by hour, giving herself little by
little, as it were, and yet all at a
time. Ellen is starting for Hyeres ;
she is mortally stricken. They de-
ceived themselves with regard to
her. She herself, overwhelmed for
a time by the side of that cradle
changed into a death-bepi, did her
best to look forward cheerfully to
the future. Her last letter, receiv-
ed only fifteen days afterwards, and
which was long and affectionate,
appeared to me mysterious ; she
spoke so much of outward things.

Dear, dear Ellen ! I wish I could
see her. Impossible, alas ! Isa's
letter is dated the roth. The sad,
dying one must have crossed the
Channel that same day. There is
something peculiarly sorrowful in
the thought of death with regard to
this young wife, going away to die
far from her home, her country, and
her family, beneath mild and genial
skies, where life appears so delight-
ful. Her state is such as to allow
of no hope, but her husband wishes
to try this last remedy. The little
angel in heaven awaits his mother.

A terrible gale quite a tempest.
I am thinking of the poor mariners.
These bowlings of the wind, these
gusts which rush through the long
corridors, resemble wild complaints ;
one would think that all the ele-
ments, let loose, weep and implore.
O holy Patroness of sailors ! take
pity on them.

Visits all the week pious visits,
such as I love. My heart attaches
itself to this country.

Let us praise the Lord, dear
Kate ! May he preserve to Ireland
her faith and her love ! There is
no slavery for Christian hearts.

NOVEMBER 19.

A line from Karl one heart-
rending plaint, thrown into the
post at Paris after Ellen had re-
ceived your last kiss. " Pray," he
says to me, " not for this soul, of
whom I was not worthy, and who
is going to rejoin her son, but for
my weakness, which alarms me."
Rene wept with me. Oh ! how sad
is earth to him who remains alone.
The same thought of anguish and
apprehension seized us both. Ah !
dearest, let your prayers preserve
to me him in whom I live.

Saint Elizabeth, "the dear saint,"
this fair and lovely flower of Hun-
garv transplanted into Thuringia,

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

ii i

there to shed such sweetness of
perfume ! I have been thinking of
her, of her poetic history, of all that
M. de Montalembert has written
about her the veritable life of a
saint, traced out with poetry and
love. You remember that St.
Elizabeth was one of the chosen
heroines of my childhood. I could
wish that I had borne her name. I
used to dream of becoming a saint
like her. What an unparalleled
life hers was ! Dying so young, she
appeared before God rich in merits.
Born in the purple, the beloved
daughter of the good King Andrew,
and afterwards Duchess of Thurin-
gia ; united to the young Duke
Louis, also so good and holy, so well
suited to the pure and radiant star
of Hungary seen by the aged poet;
then a widow at nineteen years of
age, and driven from her palace
with her little children, drinking to
its dregs the cup of bitterness and
anguish my dear saint knew suffer-
ing in its most terrible and poign-
ant form. How I love her, from
the moment when the good King
Andrew, taking in his arms the cra-
dle of solid gold in which his Eli-
zabeth was sleeping, placed it in
those of the Sire de Varila, saying,
" I entrust to your knightly honor
my dearest consolation," until the
time when I find her, clad in the
poor habit of the Seraph of Assisi,
reading a letter of St. Clare ! What
an epoch was that thirteenth cen-
tury, that age of faith, when the
throne had its saints, when there
was in the souls of men a spring of
energy and of religious enthusiasm
which peopled the monasteries and
renewed the face of the earth ! Who
will obtain for me the grace to love
God as did Elizabeth ? O dear
saint ! pray for me, for Rene, Karl,
Ellen, the church, France, Ireland,
the universe.

Here is something, dear sister,
which I think would comfort Karl :

" To desire God is the essential
condition of the human heart; to
go to God is his life ; to contemplate
God is his beatitude. To desire
God is the noble appanage of our
nature ; to go to God is the work
which grace effects within us ; to
contemplate God is our state of
glory. To desire God is the prin-
ciple of good ; to go to God is the
way of good ; to contemplate God
is the perfection of good. .

" God is everything to the soul.
The soul breathes : God is her at-
mosphere. The soul needs nour-
ishment and wherewith to quench
her thirst : God is her daily bread
and her spring of living water. The
soul moves on: God is her way.
The soul thinks and understands:
God is her truth. The soul speaks
God is her word ; she loves God
is her love." *

Exquisite thoughts ! Oh ! love, the
love of God, can replace every-
thing. May we be kindled with
this love, dear sister of my life !

NOVEMBER 22.

My sweet one, I love to keep my
festivals with you ! Yesterday, the
Presentation of Mary in the Tem-
ple, we spent here in retreat a re-
treat, according to all rules, preach-
ed by a monsignor ! Rene is writ-
ing you the details. I am not clever
at long descriptions ; with you es-
pecially it is always on confidential
matters that I like to write the
history of my soul, my thoughts,
my impressions.

What a heavenly festival ! How,
on this day of the Presentation,
must the angels have rejoiced at
beholding this young child of Ju-
dea, scarcely entered into life, and

* Mgr. de la Bouillerie

112

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

yet already so far advanced in the
depths of divine science, consecrat-
ing herself to God ! How must
you, O St. Anne ! the happy mother
of this immaculate child, have miss-
ed her presence ! This sunbeam
of your declining years, this flower
sprung from a dried-up stem, this
virgin lily whose fragrance filled
your dwelling, all at once became
lost to you. Ah ! I can understand
the bitterness which then flowed in
upon your soul, and it seems to me
that for this sacrifice great must be
your glory in heaven !

To-day, St. Cecilia, the sweet
martyr saint, patroness of musicians,
the Christian heroine, mounting to
heaven by a blood-stained way.
Louis Veuillot, in Rome and Loretto,
speaking of the " St. Cecilia " of Ra-
phael, calls it " one of the most
thoroughly beautiful pictures in the
world." "The saint," he says, "is
really a saint ; one never wearies of
contemplating the perfect expression
with which she listens to the concert
of angels, and breaks, by letting
them fall from her hands, the instru-
ments of earthly music." Kate,
do you remember the museum at
Bologna, and how we used to stand
gazing at this page of Raphael ?

I am reading Bossuet with Rene".
What loftiness of views ! What ve-
hemence of thought ! Another con-
solation for Karl : " Death gives
us much more than he takes away :
he takes away this passing world,
these vanities which have deceived
us, these pleasures which have led
us astray ; but we receive in re-
turn the wings of the dove, that we
may fly away and find our rest in
God." Helene had copied these
lines into her journal, and remark-
ed upon them as follows : " Beau-
tiful thought ! which enchants my
soul, and makes me more than ever
desire that hour for which, accord-

ing to Madame Swetchine, we ought
to live ; that day when my true life
will begin, far from the earth, where
nothing can satisfy the intensity of
my desires." We are going to tra-
vel about a little, and visit the fu-
neral cemetery of Quiberon and va-
rious other points of our Brittany,
so rich in memories. I am packing
up my things with the pleasure of a
child, assisted by the gentle Pic-
ciola and pretty little Alix, whom
I have surnamed Lady-bird.* One
of my Bengalese is ill, and all the
young ones are interested about it,
wanting to kiss and caress it, and
give it dainty morsels, but nothing
revives the poor little thing. Ah !
dear Kate, this Indian bird dying
in Brittany makes me think of Ellen,
a thousand times more lovable and
precious, and who is also bending
her fair head to die.

Sister, friend, mother, all that is
best, most tender, and beloved, God
grant to us to die the same day,
that together we may see again the
kind and excellent mother who
confided me to your love.

DECEMBER 2.

Here we are, home again, in the
most Advent-like weather that ever
was. We have seen beautiful things ;
we have lived in the ideal, in the
true and beautiful, in minds, in
scenery, in poetry, and music in a
feast of the understanding, the eyes,
and the heart. But with what
pleasure we have again beheld
our honie^ so calm, so pious, and
so grand ! It is only two hours since
I took possession of my rooms. We
found here piles of letters ; Rene" is
reading them to me while I am
saying good-morning to you Kate,
dearest, you first of all; this beauti-
ful long letter which I reverently

* In French , VOiseau du Bon Dicti ; in Catholic
England," Our Lady's bird.'

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

kiss, which I touch with delight ; it
lias been with you; it has seen you !
How I want to see you again !

A letter from Ireland from Lizzy,
who is anxious about Ellen.

Alas ! her anxiety is only too well
founded. Karl writes to me that
Ellen grows weaker every day ;
strength is gradually leaving the
body, while the soul is fuller of life
and energy than ever before, and
preparing for her last journey with
astonishing serenity, and also pre-
paring for it him who is the witness
of her departure. In a firm hand
she has added a few lines to the
confidences of Karl : " Dear Geor-
gina, will you not come and see me
at Hveres ? Your presence would
help me to quit this poor earth, here
so fair, which I would always in-
habit on account of my good Karl.
The will of our Father be done !
Tender messages to Kate and to
your good husband. Pray for me."

Poor, sweet Ellen ! How can I
refuse this last prayer? But there
is no time to be lost; Rene will
consult my mother. Ah! my sister,
pray that this journey may be pos-
sible, and that the angel of death
may not so soon pluck this charm-
in flower which we love so much.

Evening. How good God

We are all going; my mother wish-
es it to be so. ; ' I do not," she
said to me, " want to have any dis-
tance between you and me." The
winter is so severe that my sisters
are glad to get their children away
from the season which is setting in.
I am writing to Lizzy and to Karl.
We shall be at Hyeres next week.
Pray with us, beloved.

DECEMBER 12.

Arrived, dear Kate, without acci-

dent, and all installed in a beautiful

chalet near to that of Ellen, who

welcomed us with joy. Karl had

VOL. xxiv. 8

gently prepared her for this meet-
ing. How thin she has become !
still beautiful, white, transparent ;
her fine, melancholy eyes so often
raised, by preference, to heaven,
her hands of marble whiteness, her
figure bending. She would come
as far as to the door of her room
to meet us, and there it was that 1
embraced her and felt her tears
upon my cheek. " God be praised ! "
These were her first words. Then
she was placed on her reclining-
chair, and by degrees was able to
see all the family. I was trembling
for the impression the children
might make upon her; but she in-
sisted. Well, dearest, she caressed,
admired, listened to them, without
any painful emotion or thought of
herself; one feels that she is al-
ready in heaven. Every day, by a
special permission granted by Pius
IX., Mass is said in a room adjoin-
ing hers. The removal of a large
panel enables her to be present at
the Holy Sacrifice. This first mo-
ment was very sweet. In spite of
this fading away, which is more
complete than I could have ima-
gined it, to find her living when I
had so dreaded that it might be
otherwise, was in itself happiness ;
but when I had become calm, how
much I felt impressed ! Karl's re-
signation is admirable. Rene com-
pels me to stop, finding me pale
enough to frighten any one. Love
me, my dearest !

DECEMBER 20.

Dearest sister, Ellen remains in
the same state a flickering lam}),
and so weak that Rene and I are
alone admitted into this chamber
of death, which Karl now never
leaves. Yesterday Ellen entreated
him to take a little rest, and he
went out, suffocated by sobs, fol-
lowed by Rene; then the sufferer

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

tried to raise herself so as to be
still nearer to me. I leaned my
head by hers and kissed her. " Dear
Georgina, thanks for coming. You
will comfort Karl. Do not weep for
me ; mine is a happy lot : I am go-
ing to Robert. Ah ! look, he comes,
smiling and beautiful as he was be-
fore his illness ; he stretches out his
arms to me. I come ! I come !" And
she made a desperate effort, as if to
follow him. I thought the last hour
was come, and called. Rene and
Karl hastened in ; but the tempo-
rary delirium had passed, and Ellen
began again to speak of her joy at
our being together.

The window is open. I am writ-
ing near the bed where our saint is
dying. The weather is that of Para-
dise, as Picciola says flowers and
birds, songs and verdure. It is
spring, and death is here, ready
to strike

DECEMBER 25.

Sic nos ainantem, quis non redama-
ret ? Ellen departed to heaven
while Rene was singing these words*
after the Midnight Mass. This
death is life and gladness. I am
by //<?r, near to that which remains
to us of Ellen. Lucy and I have
adorned her for the tomb ; we have
clothed her in the white lace robe
which was her mother's present to
her, and arranged for the last time
her rich aiid abundant hair, which
Karl himself has cut. It is,
then, true that all is over, and that
this mouth is closed for ever. She
died without suffering, after having
received the Beloved of her soul.
What a night ! I had a presentiment
of this departure. For two days
past I have lived in her room, my
eyes always upon her, and listening
to her affectionate recommendations.
On the 23d we spoke of St. Chan-

* In the hymn A deste fideles.

tal that soul so ardent and so
strong in goodness, so heroic among
all others, who had a full portion of
crosses, and who knew so truly
how to love and suffer. On the
24th a swallow came and warbled
on the marble chimney-piece. " I
shall fly away like her, but I shall
go to God," murmured Ellen. At
two o'clock the same day her con-
fessor came ; we left her for a few
minutes, and I had a sort of faint-
ing fit which frightened Rene. Karl's
grief quite overcame me. Towards
three o'clock Ellen seemed to be a
little stronger; she took her hus-
band's hand, and, in a voice of ten-
derness which still resounds in my
ear, said to him slowly : " Remem-
ber that God remains to you, and
that my soul will not leave you.
Love God alone ; serve him in the
way he wills. Robert and I will
watch over your happiness." She
hesitated a little ; all her soul look-
ed from her eyes : " Tell me that
you will be a priest ; that, instead of
folding yourself up in your regrets,
you will spend yourself for the sal-
vation of souls, you will spread the
love of Him who gives me strength
to leave you with joy to go to him !"
Karl was on his knees. " I prom-
ise it before God !" he said. The
pale face of the dying one became
tinged with color, and she joined
her hands in a transport of grati-
tude ; then she requested me to
write at her dictation to Lizzy, Isa,
Margaret, and Kate. Her poor in
Ireland were not forgotten. She
became animated, and seemed to
revive, breathing with more ease
than for some time past. She re-
ceived "all the dear neighbors,"
said a few heartfelt words to each,
asked for the blessing of our mo-
ther, who would not absent herself
any more, and shared our joys and
sorrows. The doctor came ; Rene

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

went back with him. " It will be
to-morrow, if she can last until
then." O my God ! And the night
began this solemn night of the
hosanna of the angels, of the Re-
deemer's birth. I held one of her
hands, Karl the other ; my mother
and Rene were near us, our broth-
ers and sisters in the room that is
converted into a chapel. At eleven
o'clock I raised the pillows, and
began reading, at the request of
Ellen, a sennon upon death. After
the first few lines she stopped me
with a look ; Karl was pale again.
The dear, dying one asked us to
sing. Kate, we were so electrified
by Ellen's calmness that we obey-
ed ! She tried to join her Voice to
ours. The priest came ; the Mass
began. ' Ellen, radiant, followed
every word. We all communicat-
ed with her. After the .Mass she
kissed us all, keeping Karl's head
long between her hands her poor
little alabaster hands ; then, at her
request, Rene sang the Adeste : " Sic
nos aniantem, quis 11011 redamarctl"
At this last word Ellen kissed the
crucifix for the last time and fled
away into the bosom of God. The
priest had made the recommenda-
tion of the soul a little before. Oh !
those words, " Go forth, Christian
soul !"

Excelsior ! Let us love each other,
dear Kate.

DECEMBER 29.

" In Rama was a voice heard,
weeping and lamentation : Rachel
weeping for her children, and would
not be comforted, because they are
not." Poor mothers of Bethlehem,
what must you not have suffered !
But you, ye " flowers of martyr-
dom," as the church salutes you
you who follow the Lamb whither-
soever he goeth how happy were
you to die for him who had come
to die for you !

Dear sister, we followed her to
the church, and then Karl and
Rene set out, taking this coffin with
them to Ireland. The family have
wished it thus. This sorrowful jour-
ney has a double object: Karl is
going to settle his affairs, and in two
months at most he will enter the
Se'minaire des Missions Etrangeres,
the preparatory college of the for-
eign missions. He will see you at
that time. He was sublime. God
has been with us, and the soul of
Ellen shone upon these recent
scenes. My mother would not con-
sent to my going also. I was weak-
er than I thought. On returning
to the chalet I was obliged to go
to bed. What an inconvenience I
should have been to the dear trav-
ellers ! But how sad it is to end a
year, a first year of marriage, with-
out Rene ! This beautiful sky, this
luxuriant nature, all the poetry of
the south, which I love so much all
this appears to me still more beau-
tiful since that holy death. Why
were you not with us ? There are
inexpressible things. I have un-
derstood something of what hea-
ven is. Sweet Ellen ! What peace
was in her death, what suavity in
her words ! I did not leave her af-
ter her death, but remained near
her bed, where I had so much ad-
mired her. I tried to warm her
hand, to recall her glance, her
smile, until the appearance of the
gloomy coffin. O my God ! how
must Karl have suffered. Those
hammer-strokes resounded in my
heart !

Dear, she is with God ; she is
happy. Sweet is it thus to die
with Jesus in the soul. It is Para-
dise begun.

I embrace you a hundred times,
my Kate. We had some earth from
Ireland, and some moss from Gar-
tan, to adorn Ellen's coffin.

Letters of a Young IrisJuuoman to her Sister.

death ! where is thy sting ? O grave !
where is thy victory ?

JANUARY i, 1868.

O my God ! pardon me, bless me,
and bless all whom I love.

Dear sister of my soul, the anni-
versary of my marriage has passed
without my having been able to
think of it to thank you again for
your share in making my happiness.
But you know well how I love you !
It is the ist of January, and I wish
to begin the year with God and
with you. May all your years be
blessed, dearest, the angel Raphael
of the great journey of my life ! I
have wished to say, in union with
you, as I did a year ago, the prayer
of Bossuet : " O Jesus ! by the ar-
dent thirst thou didst endure upon
the cross, grant me a thirst for the
souls of all, and only to esteem my
own on account of the holy obliga-
tion imposed upon me not to neg-
lect a single one. I desire to love
them all, since they are all capable
of loving thee ; and it is thou who
hast created them with this blessed
capacity." I said on my knees the
last thought copied by Ellen in the
beautiful little volume which she
called Kates book : " Everything
must die sweetness, consolation,
repose, tenderness, friendship, hon-
or, reputation. Everything will be
repaid to us a hundred-fold ; but
everything must first die, every-
thing must first be sacrificed. When
we shall have lost all in thee, ray God,
then shall we again find all in thee."

Yesterday the Adrien family ar-
rived. What nice long conversa-
tions we shall all have ! George
and Amaury have been heroic. All
are 'in need of repose. How de-
lightful it is to meet again en fa-
millet And Rene is far away.
May God be with him, with you,
and with us, dear Kate !

JANUARY 6.

Need I tell you about the first
day of this year, beloved ? Scarce-
ly had I finished writing to you
than the children made an irrup-
tion into my room. Then oh ! what
kissing, what outcries of joy, what
smiles and clapping of hands, at
the sight of the presents arrived
from Paris, thanks to the good Vin-
cent, who has made himself won-
derfully useful. How much I en-
joyed it all ! Then, on going to
my mother, she blessed me and
gave me a letter from Rene, to-
gether with an elegantly-chased cup
of which I had admired the. model.
Then in the drawing-room all the
greetings, and our poor (for my
passion follows me everywhere),
and your letter, with those from
Ireland and Brittany (from the
good cure who has charge of our
works) what delight for the whole
day ! Karl thanks me for having
copied for him these consoling
words : " No ; whatever cross we
may have to bear in the Christian
life, we never lose that blessed peace
of the heart which makes us will-
ingly accept all that we suffer, and
no longer desire any of the enjoy-
ments of which we are deprived."
It is Fenelon who says that.

We have been making some ac-
quaintances, amongst others that
of a young widow who is spending
the winter here on account of her
daughter, a frail young creature of
an ideal beauty graceful, smiling,
and affectionate ; a white rose-bud
half open. Her blue, meditative
eyes remind me of Ellen's. This
interesting widow (of an officer of
rank) knows no one, with the ex-
ception of the doctor. Her isola-
tion excited our compassion. Lucy
made the first advances, feeling at-
tracted by the sadness of the un-
known lady. Now the two fami-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

lies form but one. Picciola and
Duchesse have invited the sweet
little Anna to share their lessons
and their play. Her mother never
leaves her for a moment ; this child
is her sole joy.

The 3d, Feast of St. Genevieve :
read her life with the children.
What a strong and mortified soul !
I admire St. Germanus distinguish-
ing, in the midst of the crowd, this
poor little Genevieve who was one
day to be so great. Is not this at-
traction of holy souls like a begin-
ning of the eternal union ?

Yesterday, St. Simon Stylites, that
incomparable penitent separated
from the world, living on a lofty
column, between heaven and earth.
Thus ought we also to be, in spirit,
on a column that of love and sac-
rifice.

I am sad about, my first
separation from Rene, and for so
sorrowful a cause. That which
keeps me from weeping is the cer-
tainty of Ellen's happiness, and
also the thought that from hea-
ven she sees Rene and Karl to-
gether.

To-day is the Epiphany this
great festival of the first centuries,
and that of our call to Christianity.
Gold, frankincense, myrrh, the gifts
of the happy Magi, those men of
good-will who followed the star
symbolic and mysterious gifts : the
gold of love, the incense of adora-
tion, the myrrh of sacrifice why
cannot I also offer these to the di-
vine Infant of the stable of Bethle-
hem ? Would that I had the ar-
dent faith of those Eastern sages
the faith which stops at nothing,
which sees and comes ! And the
legendary souvenirs of the bean, an
ephemeral royalty which causes so
rimch joy !

My mother is fond of the old
traditions. We have had a king-

117

cake.* Anna had the bean ; she of-
fered the royalty to Arthur. Cheer-
ful evening. Mme. de Cliss.-
less sad. We accompanied her back
to her house /;/ choir.

Good-night, beloved sister ; I am
going to say my prayers and go to
sleep.

JANUARY 12.

Rene will be in Paris on the i5th,
darling Kate. He will tell you
about Karl, Lizzy, Isa, all our
friends, and then I shall have him
again ! Adrian is reading Lamar-
tine to us ; I always listen with en-
chantment. What poetry ! It flows
in streams ; it is sweet, tender, me-
lancholy, moaning ; it sings with
nature, with the bird, with the fall-
ing leaf, the murmuring stream, the
sounding bell, the sighing wind ; it
weeps with the suffering heart, and
prays with the pleading soul. Oh !
how is it that this poet could stray
aside from his heavenly road, and
burn incense on other altars ? How
could he leave his Christian lyre
he who once sang to God of his
faith and love in accents so sub-
lime ? Will he not one day recover
the sentiments and emotions of his
youth, when he went in the foot-
steps of his mother to the house of
God

Offrir deux purs encens, innocence el bonhcur.^

The Harmonies are rightly named.
I never read anything more har-
moniously sweet, more exquisite in
cadence. How comes it that he
should have lost his faith where so
many others have found it in that
journey to the East, from which he
ought to have returned a firmer
Catholic, a greater poet? CouKl it
be that the death of his daughter,

* GAtenu des Rois, " Twelfth-Cake."
t To offer two pure [grains of] incense : ir.nocem
and happiness.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to Jier Sister.

she who was his future, his joy, his
dearest glory, overthrew everything
within him ? O my God ! this lyre
has, almost divinely, sung of thee ;
thou wilt not suffer its last notes
to be a blasphemy. Draw all unto
thyself, Lord Jesus, and let not the
brows marked by the seal of genius
be stamped eternally with that of
reprobation !

Mme. de Clissey has told us her
history ; you must hear it, since
your kind heart is interested in
these two new friends of your Geor-
gina. Madame is Roman, and has
been brought up in Tuscany. You
know the proverb : " A Tuscan
tongue in a Roman mouth." * Her
mother made a misalliance, was
cast off by her family after her
husband's death, and the poor wo-
man hid at Florence her loneliness
and tears. Thanks to her talents
as a painter, she was enabled to se-
cure to Marcella a solid and bril-
liant education ; but her strength be-
coming rapidly exhausted by exces-
sive labor, Marcella, when scarcely
sixteen years of age, saw her mother
expire in her arms. She remained
alone, under the care of a vener-
able French priest, who compas-
sionated her great misfortune, and
obtained for his protegee an honor-
able engagement. She was taken
as governess to her daughter by a
rich duchess, who, after being in
ecstasies about her at first, cast her
aside as a useless plaything. Her
pupil, however, a very intelligent
and affectionate child, became the
sole and absorbing interest of the
orphan ; but the young girl's at-
tachment to her mistress excited
the jealousy of the proud duchess,
who contrived to find a pretext
for excluding Marcella from the
house. Her kind protector then

*The purest Italian, "Lingua Toscanainbocca
Romana"

brought her to France, and, as it
was necessary that she should ob-
tain her living, she entered as teach-
er in a boarding-school in the
south. A year afterwards a lady
of high rank engaged her to under-
take the education of her daughters.
She thankfully accepted this situa-
tion, but had scarcely occupied it a
month before she was in a dying
state from typhoid fever and inflam-
mation of the brain. For fifty-two
days her life was in danger, and
for forty-eight hours she was in a
state of lethargy, from which she
had scarcely returned, almost mir-
aculously, to consciousness, before
she had to witness the death of the
kind priest who alone, with a Sister
of Charity, had done all that it was
possible to do to save her life.
What was to become of her ? The
slender means of which the old
man had made her his heir lasted
only for the year of her convales-
cence ; she then unexpectedly made
the acquaintance of a rich widow
who was desirous of finding a young
girl as her companion, promising
to provide for her future. Mar-
cella was twenty years of age ; the
old lady took a great fancy to her,
and took her to Paris and to Ger-
many. Unfortunately, the charac-
ter of her protectress was not one
to inspire affection. Ill-tempered,
fanciful, exacting, life with her was
intolerable. Her servants left her
at the end of a month. Marcella
became the submissive slave of her
domineering caprice, and was shut
up the whole day, having to replace
the waiting-woman, adorn the an-
tique idol, enliven her, and play
to her whatever she liked. In the
drawing-room, of an evening, she
had to endure a thousand vexa-
tions ; at eleven o'clock the custo-
mary visitors took leave, and Mar-
cella examined the account-books

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to Jicr Sister.

119

of the house under the eye of the
terrible old dowager, who, more-
over, could not sleep unless some
one read to her aloud. " Till five
o'clock in the morning I used to
read Cooper or Scott." What do
you think of this anticipated pur-
gatory, dear Kate ? Marcella, timid,
and without any experience of life,
tried to resign herself to her lot,
until at Paris M. de Clissey asked
her to exchange her dependent
condition for a happy and honored
life. She accepted his offer, to
the no small despair of the old
lady, who loudly charged her with
ingratitude, and thought to revenge
herself by not paying her the pro-
mised remuneration. M. de Clissey
triumphantly took away his beauti-
ful young bride to his native town.
" It seemed to me as if I had had
a resurrection to another life. For
ten years our happiness was with-
out alloy. But the cross, alas ! is
everywhere ; and I am now, at
thirty-two years of age, a widow,
with unspeakable memories and my
pretty little Anna, whose love is
my consolation."

Thank God ! Marcella has friends
also, and my mother wishes to pro-
pose to her to live with us.

Kate, what a good, sweet, happy
destiny God has granted us ! How
I pity those orphans who have not,
as I have, a sister to love them !
Oh ! may God bless you, and ren-
der to you all the good that your
kind heart has done to me ! Hur-
rah for Ireland ! Erin mavour-
neen !

JANUARY 20.

I have recovered my happiness:
Rene is here. I never weary of
hearing him, of rejoicing that I
have him. Dearest, I am enchant-
ed with what he tells me about you.
Tell me if ever two sisters loved

each other as we do? No; it is
not possible.

Lord William, Margaret, Lizzy,
Isa, all our friends beyond the sea,
are represented on my writing-
table under envelopes. Karl wUl
come back to us; he "is burning
to belong to God." You know ail
the details : the father blessing the
coffin of his daughter, the sister,
abounding in consolation all these
miracles of grace and love. O
dear Kate ! how good God is.

What will you think of my bold-
ness ? Isa has often expressed re-
gret at her inability to read Gue'rin,
as Gerty used to say; so I thought
I would attempt a translation. I
write so rapidly that I shall soon
be at the end of my task. The
souls of Eugenie and of Isa are too
much like those of sisters not to un-
derstand each other. These few
days spent in the society of the Soli-
tary of Cayla have more than ever
attached me to that soul at the
same time so ardent arid so calm,
a furnace of love, concentrated
upon his brother Maurice, who was
taken from him by death alas !
as if to prove once more that earth
is the place of tears, and heaven
alone that of happiness.

u Qu'est-ce done que les jours pour valoir qu'on
les pleure ?" *

Helene wrote to me on the loth,
Feast of St. Paul the Hermit, full of
admiration for the poetic history of
this saint : the raven daily bring-
ing half a loaf to the solitary ; the
visit of St. Antony ; St. Paul asking
if houses were still built ; St. An-
tony exclaiming when he returned
to the monastery: "I have seen
Elias; I have seen John in the de-
sert; I have seen Paul in Para-
dise " ; the lions digging the grave

* What, then, are days, that they should deserve
our tears ?

120

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

of this friend of God what a.
poem !

Rene has brought me back the
Consolations of M. de Sainte-Beuve.
How is it that the poets of our
time have not remained Christian ?
In his Souvenirs cTEnfance (" Me-
mories of Childhood") the author
of the Consolations says to God :

" Tu m'aimais entre tous, et ces dons qu'on ddsire,
Ce pouvoir inconnu qu'on accorde a la lyre,
Cet art mysterieux de charmer par la voix,
Si Ton dit que je 1'ai, Seigneur, je te le dois." *

Karl tells me that he carefully
keeps on his heart the last words
traced by Ellen. It is like the tes-
tament of our saintly darling, whom
I seem still to see. I had omitted
to mention this. The evening be-
fore her death, after I had written
by her side the solemn and touch-
ing effusions for those who had not,
like us, been witnesses of the admi-
rable spectacle of her deliverance,
the breaking of the bonds which
held her captive in this world of
sorrows, Ellen asked me to let her
write. Ten minutes passed in this
effort, this victorious wrestling of
the soul over sickness and weak-
ness. On the sealed envelope
which she then gave me was written
one word only " Karl." Would
you like to have this last adieu,
Kate ? How I have kissed these
two almost illegible lines :

" My beloved husband, I leave
you this counsel of St. Bernard for
your consolation : * Holy soul, re-
main alone, in order that thou
mayest keep thyself for Him alone
whom thou hast chosen above all !' "

What a track of light our sweet
Ellen has left behind her ! Love
me, dearest Kate !

* " Thou lovedst me amongst all, and the gifts
that men desire this unknown power accorded to
the lyre, this myst rious art of pleasing by the
voice if I am said to own it, Lord, I owe it all to
thce."

JANUARY 25.

We leave in a week, my dearest
Kate. Rene made a point of re-
turning to the south, whose blue
sky we shall not quit without regret ;
and also he wished to pray once
more with us in Ellen's room.
Karl does not wish the Chalet of
souvenirs to pass into strange hands.
He had rented it for a year ; Rene
proposed to him to buy it, and the
matter was settled yesterday. I
am writing to Mistress Annah, to
lay before her the offer of a good
work, capable of tempting her self-
devotion namely, that she should
install herself at the cjialet, and
there take in a few poor sick people,
and we might perhaps return thith-
er. What do you think of this plan,
dearest Kate ?

We are all in love with Marcella
and her pretty little girl, who are glad
to accompany us to Orleans. Ger-
trude has offered Helena's room to
our new friend, whose melancholy
is gradually disappearing. It is
needless to say that she is by no
means indifferent to Kate. You
would love her, dear sister, and
bless God with me for having placed
her on our path. She has the head
of an Italian Madonna, expressive,
sympathetic, sweet ; her portrait
will be my first work when we re-
turn to Orleans.

On this day, eighteen centuries
ago, St. Paul was struck to the
earth on his way to Damascus ; he
fell a persecutor of .Christ, and
arose an apostle of that faith for
which he would in due time give
his life. Let us also be apostles,
my sister.

A visit from Sarah on her wed-
ding journey. Who would have
thought of my seeing-her here?

We prayed much for France on
the ill-omened date of the 2ist.
O dearest ! if von were but to read

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

121

KM. de Beauchene's Louis XVII.
It is heartrending ! Poor kings !
It is the nature of mountain-tops to
attract the lightning. Rene has
given to Marcella Marie Antoinette,
by M. de Lescure. Adrian has
been reading it to us in the even-
ings. The grand and mournful
epic is related with a magical charm
of style which I find most attrac-
tive. Marie Antoinette, the calum-
niated queen, there appears in all
the purity and splendor of her
beauty. This reading left on my
mind a deep impression of sadness.
Poor queen ! so great, so sanctified.
" The martyrology of the Temple
cannot be written." The life of
Marie Antoinette is full of con-
trasts ; nothing could be fairer than
its dawn, nothing more enchanting
than the picture of her childhood,
youth, and marriage this latter the
dream of the courts of Austria and
France, which made her at fifteen
years old the triumphant and al-
most worshipped Dauphiness. And
yet what shadows darkened here
and there the radiant poem of
her happy days ! She went on in-
creasing in beauty; she became a
mother; and beneath the delightful
shades of Trianon, " the Versailles
of flowers which she preferred to
the Versailles of marble," she came
to luxuriate in the newly-found joys
which filled her heart. Then came
a terrible grief, the sinister precur-
sor of the horrible tempests which
were to burst upon the head of this
queen, so French, but whom her
misguided people persisted in call-
ing the foreigner the death of
Maria Theresa the Great. What a
cruel destiny is that of queens !
Marie Antoinette, whose heart was

so nobly formed for holy family
joys, quitted her own at the age of
fifteen, going to live far from her
mother, whom she was never to
see again, even at the moment when
that heroic woman rendered up to
God the soul which had struggled
so valiantly. The Revolution was
there, dreadful and menacing.
Marie Antoinette began her mili-
tant and glorious life, and the day
came when "the monster" said
with truth : " The king has but one
man near him, and that man is the
queen." O dear Kate! the end
of this history makes me afraid.
What expiation will God require
of France for these martyrdoms?

And we are going away.
Shall we return ?

We are to visit Fourvieres, Ars,
Paray-le-Monial, and first of all
the Grande Chartreuse what a
journey! and you afterwards. I
am fond of travelling fond of the
unknown, of beautiful views, move-
ment, the pretty, wondering eyes of
the little ones, the halts, for one or
two days, in hotels, all the moving
of the household which reminds me
of the pleasant time when I used to
travel with my Kate. Dearest sis-
ter, I long, I. long to embrace you !
Your kind, rare, and delightful let-
ters, which I learn by heart the
first day, the feeling of that near-
ness of our hearts to each other
which nothing on earth can separ-
ate this is also you ; but to see you
is sweeter than all the rest.

Marcella wishes to be named in
thisletter. You know whether or not
the whole family loves Mme. Kate.
Send us your good angel during
our wanderings, and believe in the
fondest affection of your Georgina.

TO BE CONTINUED.

122

Christina Rossetti s Poems,

CHRISTINA ROSSETTTS POEMS.*

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI is, we be-
lieve, the queen of the Preraph-
aelite school, the literary depart-
ment of that school at least, in
England. To those interested in
Preraphaelites and Preraphaelit-
ism the present volume, wjiich
seems to be the first American
edition of this lady's poems, will
prove a great attraction. The
school in art and literature repre-
sented under this name, however,
has as yet made small progress
among ourselves. It will doubtless
be attributed to our barbarism, but
that is an accusation to which we
are growing accustomed, and which
we can very complacently bear.
The members of the school we
know : Ruskin, Madox Brown,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, all the
other Rossettis, Swinburne, Morris,
and the rest ; but we know no
school. It has not yet won
enough pupils to establish itself
among us, and we at best regard it
as a fashion that will pass away
as have so many others : the low
shirt-collar, flowing locks, melan-
choly visage, and aspect of gene-
ral disgust with which, for instance,
the imitators of Byron, in all save
his intellect, were wont to afflict us
in the earlier portion of the pres-
ent century. The fact is, our
English friends have a way of run-
ning into these fashions that is per-
plexing, and that would seem to in-
dicate an inability on their part to
judge for themselves of literary or
artistic merit. To-day Pope and Ad-
dison are the fashion ; to-morrow,

* Poems by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston : Rob-
erts Brothers. 1876.

Byron and Jeffreys; then Words-
worth and Carlyle ; then Tennyson
and Macaulay ; and now Rossetti,
Swinburne, Morris, and their kin,
if they are not in the ascendant,
gain a school, succeed in mak-
ing a great deal of noise about
themselves, and in having a great
deal of noise made about them.
It is the same with tailoring in
days when your tailor, like your
cook, is an "artist."

Surely the laws and canons of art
are constant. The good is good
and the bad bad, by whomsoever
written or wrought. Affectation can-
not cover poverty of thought or
conception. A return to old ways,
old models, old methods, is good,
provided we go deeper than the
mere fringe and trappings of such.
How the name Preraphaelite first
came we do not know. It originat-
ed, we believe, in an earnest revolt
against certain viciousness in mod-
ern art. It was, if we mistake not,
a return, to a great extent, to old-
time realism. The question is, Ho\v
far back did the originators of the
movement go ? If we take the
strict meaning of the word, Homer
was a Preraphaelite ; so was Vir-
gil ; so was Horace ; so were the
Greek tragedians ; so was Aris-
tophanes. Apelles' brush deceiv-
ed the birds of heaven; Phidi-
as made the marble live ages be-
fore Raphael. Nay, how long be-
fore Raphael did the inspired pro-
phets catch the very breathings of
God to men, and turn them into the
music and the religion of all time ?
These are surely Preraphaelites ;
yet we find few signs of their teach-

Christina Rossetti s Poems.

ings in this fussy, ardent, and ag-
gressive little modern English
school.

We do not deny many gifts to
certain members of the school.
Swinburne, for instance, seems
capable of playing with words as

123

very good example of the faults and
virtues of her school. Here is a
volume of three hundred pages, and
it is filled with almost every kind
of verse, much of which is of the
most fragmentary nature,
of it is marvellously beautiful ; some

he pleases, of turning and tuning trash; some coarse ; some the very
them into any form of melodious breathing and inspiration of the

deep religion of the heart. In her
devotional pieces she is undoubted-
ly at her best. Surely a strong Ca-
We look tholic tradition must be kept alive
this man in this family. Her more famous
brother sings of the Blessed Virgin
in a spirit that Father Faber might
have envied, and in verse that Fa-
ther Faber never could have com-
manded. How she sings of Christ
and holy things will presently ap-
pear. But her other pieces are not
so satisfactory. The ultra-melan-
choly tone, the tiresome repetitions
of words and phrases that mark the
school, pervade them. Of melan-

rhythm. But he begins and ends
\\-\\\\ivords. Dante Gabriel Rossetti
has given us some massive frag-
ments, but nothing more,
and say, u How much
might have done!" but there our
admiration ceases. Morris has
written much and well, but he
teases one with the antique. Set
Byron by the side of any or all of
them, and at once they dwindle al-
most into insignificance. Yet Byron
wrote much that was worthless.
He wrote, however, more that was
really great. He never played
tricks with words ; he never allow-

ed them to master him. He began choly as of adversity it may be said,

the Childe Harold in imitation of
Spenser; but he soon struck out so
freely and vigorously that, though
it may be half heresy to say it,
Spenser himself was left far in the
rear, and we believe that any intel-
ligent jury in these days would
award a far higher -prize to the
Childe Harold than to the Faerie
Queen. Byron was a born poet.
Like all great poets, undoubtedly,
he owed much to art ; but then art
was always his slave. H^e rose
above it. The fault with our pre-
sent poets, not excepting even Ten-
nyson, is that they are better artists
than they are poets. Consequently,
they win little cliques and knots
of admirers, where others, as did
Byron, win a world in spite of itself.
It is all the difference between
genius and the very highest respec-
tability.

" Sweet are its uses," provided "its
uses " are not too frequent. An
ounce of melancholy will serve at
any time to dash a ton of mirth.

But our friends the Preraphael-
ites positively revel in gloom.
They are for ever " hob and nob
with Brother Death." They seem
to study a skeleton with the keen
interest of an anatomist. Wan
ghosts are their favorite compan-
ions, and ghosts' walks their choice
resorts. The scenery described in
their poems has generally a sad,
sepulchral look. There is a vast
amount of rain with mournful
soughing winds, laden often with
the voices of those who are gone.
A favorite trick of a Preraphaelite
ghost is to stalk into his old haunts,
only to discover that after all peo-
ple live in much the same style as
when he was in the flesh, and can

Miss Rossetti we take to be a manage to muster a laugh and calk

124

Christina Rossetti s Poems.

about mundane matters even though
he has departed. Miss Rossetti
treats us to several such visits, and
in each case the " poor ghost " stalks
out again disconsolate.

There is another Preraphaelite
ghost who is fond of visiting, just
on the day of her wedding with
somebody else, the lady who has
jilted him. The conversation car-
ried on between the jilt and the
ghost of the jilted is, as may be imag-
ined, hardly of the kind one would
expect on so festive an occasion.
For our own part, we should im-
agine that the ghost would have
grown wiser, if not more charitable,
by his visit to the other world, and
would show himself quite willing
to throw at least the ghost of a
slipper after the happy pair.

Between the Preraphaelite ghosts
and the Preraphaelite lovers there
seems really little difference. The
love is of the most tearful descrip-
tion ; the lady, wan at the start, has
to wait and wait a woful time for
the gentleman, who is always a
dreadfully indefinite distance away.
Strange to say, he generally has to
make the journey back to his lady-
love on foot. Of course on so long
a journey he meets with all kinds
of adventures and many a lady gay
who keep him from his true love.
She, poor thing, meanwhile sits pa-
tiently at the same casement look-
ing out for the coming of her love.
The only difference in her is that
she grows wanner and more wan,
until at .length the tardy lover
arrives, of course, only to find her
dead body being carried out, and
the good old fairy-story ending
that they were married and lived
happy ever after is quite thrown
out.

It will be judged from what we
have said that, whatever merits
the Preraphaelite school of poetry

may possess, cheerfulness is not
one of them. As a proof of this
we only cull a few titles from the
contents of the book before us. " A
Dirge" is the eighth on the list ; then
come in due order, " After Death,"
" The Hour and the Ghost," " Dead
before Death," " Bitter for Sweet,"
" The Poor Ghost," " The Ghost's
Petition," and so on. But Miss
Rossetti is happily not all melan-
choly. The opening piece, the
famous " Goblin Market," is thor-
oughly fresh and charming, and, to
our thinking, deserves a place be-
side " The Pied Piper of Hamlin."
Is not this a perfect picture of its
kind ?

u Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping ;
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratcl and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes
Hugged her and kissed her ;
Squeezed and caressed her ;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates ;

' Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs ;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.' "

Of course this is not very high
poetry, nor as such is it quoted
here. But it is one of many won-
derful pieces of minute and life-like
painting that occur in this strange
poem. From the same we quote
another passage as exhibiting what

Christina Rossetti s Poems.

125

\ve would
the poet :

call a. splendid fault

1 White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously ;
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary, roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire ;
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet,
Sore beset by wasp and bee ;
Like a royal virgin town,
Topped with gilded dome and spire,
Close beleaguered by a fleet,
Mad to tug her standard down."

Undoubtedly these are fine and
spirited lines, and, some of them at
least, noble similes. What do they
call up to the mind of the reader?
One of those heroic maidens who in
history have led armies to victory
and relieved nations a Joan of Arc
leading a forlorn hope girt around by
the English. Any picture of this kind
it would fit; but what is it intended
to represent? A little girl strug-
gling to prevent the little goblin-
men from pressing their fatal fruits
into her mouth ! The statue is far
too large for the pedestal. Here
is another instance of the same, the
lines of which might be taken from
a Greek chorus :

" Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run."

The locks that are like all these
wonderful things are those of Liz-
zie's little sister Laura, who had
tasted the fruits of the goblin-men.
How different from this is ''The
Convent Threshold"! It is a strong
poem, but of the earth earthy. As
far as one can judge, it is the ad-
dres* of a young lady to her lover,
who is still in the world and ap-
parently enjoying a gay life. She
has sinned, and remorse or some
other motive seems to have driven

her within the convent walls. She
gives her lover admirable advice,
but the old leaven is not yet purged
out, as may be seen from the final

exhortation :

" Look up, rise up ; for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set ;
There we shall meet as once we met,
And love with old familiar love."

Which may be a very pleasant
prospect for separated lovers, but
is scarcely heaven.

The poem contains a strong con-
trastand yet how weak a one to
the truly spiritual soul ! between
the higher and the lower life.

" Your eyes look earthward ; mine look up.
I see the far-off city grand,
Beyond the hills a watered land,
Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand
Of mansions where the righteous sup
Who sleep at ease among the trees,
Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn
With Cherubim and Seraphim ;
They bore the cross, they drained the cup,
Racked, roasted, crushed, rent limb from limb
They, the off-scouring of the world :
The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,
The sun before their face is dim.

" You, looking. earthward, what see you ?
Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,
Up and down leaping, to and fro,
Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,
Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,
Their golden, windy hair afloat,
Love-music warbling in their throat,
Young men and women come and go."

Something much more character-
istic of the school to which Miss
Rossetti belongs is " The Poor
Ghost," some of which we quote as
a sample :

" Oh ! whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,
With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,
And your face as white as snow-drops on the lea,
And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea ?"

" From the other world 1 come back to you ;
My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching

dew.

You know the old, whilst I know the new :
But to-morrow you shall know this too."

11 Life is gone, then love too is gone :
It was a reed that I leant upon ;
Never doubt I will leave you alone,
And not wake you rattling bone with bone."

But this is too lugubrious. Tii
are manv others of a similar tone,

126

Christina Rosscttis Poems.

but we prefer laying before the
reader what we most admire. We
have no doubt whatever that there
are many persons who would con-
sider such poems as the last quoted
from the gems of the volume. To
us they read as though written by
persons in the last stage of con-
sumption, who have no hope in life,
and apparently very little beyond.
The lines, too, are as heavy and
clumsy as they can be. Perhaps
the author has made them so on
purpose to impart an additional
ghastliness to the poem ; for, as seen
already, she can sing sweetly enough
when she pleases. Another long
and very doleful poem is that en-
titled " Under the Rose," which re-
peats the sad old lesson that the
sins of the parents are visited on
the heads of the children. A third,
though not quite so sad, save in the
ending, is " The Prince's Progress,"
which is one of the best and most
characteristic in the volume. As
exhibiting a happier style, we quote
a few verses :

u In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat,
Taking his ease on cushion and mat ;
Close at hand lay his staff and his hat.

' When wilt thou start? The bride waits, O

youth !'

' Now the moon's at full ; I tarried for that :
Now I start in truth.

4 But tell me first, true voice of my doom,
Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom ;
Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom,

Watch for me asleep and awake ?'
* Spell-bound she watches in one white room,
And is patient for thy sake.

k By her head lilies and rosebuds grow ;
The lilies droop will the rosebuds blow?
The silver slim lilies hang the head low ;

Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare.
Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow :

They will blossom and wax fair.

4 Red and white poppies grow at her feet ;
The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,
Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat ;
But the white buds swell ; one day they wil

burst,

Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet ;
Which will open the first ?'

Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail ;
And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale :

4 Time is short, life is short,' they took up the tale :
' Life is sweet, love is sweet ; use to-day while

you may ;

Love is sweet and to-morrow may fail :
Love is sweet, use to-day.' "

The Prince turns out to be a sad
laggard ; but what else could he be
when he had to traverse such lands
as this ?

l< Off he set. The grass grew rare,
A blight lurked in the darkening air,
The very moss grew hueless and spare,

The last daisy stood all astunt ; I
Behind his back the soil lay bare,

But barer in front.

11 A land of chasm and rent, a land
Of rugged blackness on either hand ;
If water trickled, its track was tanned

V\ ith an edge of rust to the chink ;
If one stamped on stone or on sand,

It returned a clink.

" A lifeless land, a loveless land,
Without lair or nest on either hand
Only scorpions jerked in the sand.

Black as black iron, or dusty pale
From point to point sheer rock was manned

By scorpions in mail.

" A land of neither life nor death,
Where no man buildeth or fashioneth,
Where none draws living or dying breath ;

No man cometh or goeth there,
No man doeth, seeketh, saith,

In the stagnant air."

So far for the general run of
Miss Rossetti's poems. It will be
seen that they are nothing very
wonderful, in whatever light we view
them. They are not nearly so great
as her brother's; indeed, they will
not stand comparison with them at
all. The style is too varied, the
pieces are too short and fugitive to
be stamped with any marked origi-
nality or individuality, with the ex-
ception, perhaps, of the " Goblin
Market." But there is a certain
class of her poems examination of
which we have reserved for the
last. Miss Rossetti has set up a
little devotional shrine here and
there throughout the volume, where
we find her on her knees, with ;i
strong faith, a deep sense of spiri-
tual needs, a feeling of the real
littleness of the life passing arour, J
us, of the true greatness of what is

Christina Rosscttis Poems.

127

to come after, a sense of the pre-
sence of the living God before
whom she bows down her soul
into the dust ; and here she is an-
other woman. As she sinks her
poetry rises, and gushes up out of
her heart to heaven in strains sad,
sweet, tender, and musical that a
saint might envy. What in the
wide realm of English poetry is
more beautiful or more Catholic
than this ?

THE THREE ENEMIES.

The Flesh.

" Sweet, thou art pale."

44 More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bare his Father's wrath for me."

" Sweet, thou art sad."

41 Beneath a rod

More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The wine-press of the wrath of God."

41 Sweet, thou art weary."

" Not so Christ ;

Whose mighty love of me sufficed
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."

u Sweet, thou art footsore."
"If I bleed,

His feet have bled : yea, in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed."

The World.

44 Sweet, thou art young."

41 So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."

"Look, thou art fair "

" He was more fair

Than men, Who deigned for me to wear
A visage marred beyond compare."

u And thou hast riches."

44 Daily bread :

All else is His ; Who living, dead,
For me lacked where to lay His Head. 1 '

44 And life is sweet."

44 It was not so

To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
With mine unutterable woe."

The Divil.

44 Thou drinkest deep."

44 When Christ would sup
He drained the dregs from out my cup.
So how should I be lifted up ?"

" Ihou shalt win Glory."

44 In the skies,

Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
Lest they should look on vanities."

44 Thou shalt have Knowledge."
44 Helpless dust,

In thee, O Lord, I put my trust ;
Answer Thou for me, Wis-j and just."

"And Might."

" Get thee behind me. Lord,
Who hast redeemed and not abhorred
My soul, oh ! keep it by thy Word."

And what a cry is this ? Who
has not felt it in his heart ? It is
entitled "Good Friday" :

" Am I a stone and not a sheep,

That I can stand, O Christ ! beneath Thy

Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's

slow loss,
And yet not weep ?

44 Not so those women loved

Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee ;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly ;
Not so the thief was moved ;

44 Not so the Sun and Moon

Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad

noon,
I, only I.

44 Yet give not o'er,

But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of

the flock ;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once

more
And smite a rock.

It would seem that the heart
which can utter feelings like these
should be safely housed in the one
true fold. There, and there only,
can such hearts find room for ex-
pansion ; for there alone can they
find the food to fill them, the where-
with to satisfy their long yearnings,
the light to guide the many wander-
ings of their spirits, the strength to
lift up and sustain them after many
a fall and many a cruel deceit.
Outside that threshold, however
near they may be to it, they will
in the long run find their lives
empty. With George Eliot, they
will find life only a sad satire and
hope a very vague thing. Like her
heroine, Dorothea Brooke, the finer
feelings and aspirations of their
really spiritual and intensely reli-
gious natures will only end in petty
collisions with the petty people

128

Christina Rossettis Poems.

around them, and thankful they
may be if all their life does not
turn out to be an exasperating mis-
take, as it must be a failure, com-
pared with that larger life that they
only dimly discern. How truly
Miss Rossetti discerns it may be
seen in her sonnet on " The World ":

u By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair :
But all night as the moon so changeth she ;

Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy,
And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.
By day she wooes me to the outer air,

Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety :

But through the night, a beast she grins at me,
A very monster void of love and prayer.
By day she stands a lie : by night she stands,

In all the naked horror of the truth,
With pushing horns and clawed and clutching

hands.
Is this a friend indeed, that I should sell

My soul to her, give her my life and youth,
Till my feet ', cloven too, take hold on hell ' f"

Could there be anything more
complete than this whole picture,
or anything more startling yet true
in conception than the image in the
last line, which we have italicized ?
One feels himself, as it were, on the
very verge of the abyss, and the
image of God, in which he was
created, suddenly and silently fall-
ing from him. But a more beauti-
ful and daring conception is that
in the poem " From House to
Home." Treading on earth, the
poet mounts to heaven, but by the
thorny path that alone leads to it.
Her days seemed perfect here be-
low, and all happiness hers. Her
house is fair and all its surround-
ings beautiful. She tells us that

" Ofttimes one like an angel walked with me.

With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire,
But deep as the unfathomed, endless sea,
Fulfilling my desire."

The spirit leaves her after a time,
calling her home from banishment
into " the distant land." All the
beauty of her life goes with him,
and hope dies out of her heart, un-
til something whispered that they
should meet again in a distant lard.

44 I saw a vision of a woman, where

Night and new morning strive for domination ;
Incomparably pale, and almost fair,
And sad beyond expression.

14 1 stood upon the outer barren ground,

She stood on inner ground that budded flowers ;
While circling in their never-slackening round
Danced by the mystic hours.

" But every flower was lifted on a thorn,

And every thorn shot upright from its sands
To gall her feet ; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn
With cruel clapping hands.

" She bled and wept, yet did not shrink ; her

strength

Was strung up until daybreak of delight ;
She measured measureless sorrow toward its

length,
And breadth, and depth, and height.

" Then marked I how a chain sustained her form,

A chain of living links not made nor riven :
It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind,

and storm,
And anchored fast in heaven.

"One cried: 4 'How long? Yet founded on the

Rock

She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.'
One answered : k Faith quakes in the tempest

shock :
Strengthen her soul again.'

14 1 saw a cup sent down and come to her
Brimful of loathing and cf bitterness :
She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir
The depth, not make it less.

u But as she drank I spied a hand distil

New wine and virgin honey ; making it
First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until
She tasted only sweet.

14 Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy fresh and young ;
Drinking she sang: 'My soul shall nothing

want ' ;

And drank anew : while soft a 3ong was sung,
A mystical low chant.

" One cried : 4 The wounds are faithful of a friend :

The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.'
One answered : 4 Rend the veil, declare the end,
Strengthen her ere she goes.' "

Then earth and heaven are rolled
up like a scroll, and she gazes into
heaven. Wonderful indeed is the
picture drawn of the heavenly court ;
but we have already quoted at such
length that we fear to tire our rea-
ders. Still, we must find room for
the following three verses :

Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose
So high that it was dreadful, flames with
flames :

Echo to Mary.

129

No man could number them, no tongue disclose
Their secret sacred names.

As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood
Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-
voiced,
They struck their harps, cast down their crowns,

they stood
And worshipped and rejoiced.

Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit,
Each face looked one way towards its Sun of

Love ;

Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it
And knew no end thereof."

We might go on quoting with
pleasure and admiration most of
these devotional pieces, but enough
has been given to show how differ-
ent a writer is Miss Rossetti in her
religious and in her worldly mood.
The beauty, grace, pathos, sublimity
often, of the one weary us of the
other. In the one she warbles or
sings, with often a flat and discord-

ant note in her tones that now
please and now jar; in the other
she is an inspired prophetess or
priestess chanting a sublime chant
or giving voice to a world's sorrow
and lament. In the latter all affecta-
tion of word, or phrase, or rhythm
disappears. The subjects sung are
too great for such pettiness, and the
song soars with them. The same
thing is true of her brother, the
poet. Religion has inspired his
loftiest conceptions, and a religion
that is certainly very unlike any
but the truth. We trust that the
reverence and devotion to the truth
which must lie deep in the hearts
of this gifted brother and sister
may bear their legitimate fruit, and
end not in words only, but blossom
into deeds which will indeed lead
them "From House to Home."

ECHO TO MARY.

WHO gently dries grief's falling tear ?

Maria.
Of fairy flowers which fairest blows ?

The Rose.
What seekest thou, poor plaining dove ?

My Love.

Rejoice, thou morning Dove !
Earth's peerless Rose, without a thorn,
Unfolds its bloom this natal morn-
Maria, Rose of Love !

What craves the heart of storms the sport?

A Port.

And what the fevered patient's quest?

Calm Rest.
What ray to cheer when shadows slope ?

Hope.
VOL. xxiv. 9

130 Echo to Mary.

O Mary, Mother blest !

Through nights of gloom, through days of fear,
Thy love the ray by which to steer,

Bright Hope ! to Port of Rest.

Desponding heart what gift will please ?

Heart of Ease.
What scent reminds of a hidden saint ?

Jess'rnine Faint.

What caught its hue from the azure sky ?

Violet's Eye.
O Mary, peerless dower !
A balm to soothe, love s odor sweet,
A glimpse of heaven in thee we greet
Heartsease, Jess'rnine, Violet flower]

Of Mary's love who most secure ?

The Pure.
What lamp diffuses light afar ?

A Star.
When is light-winged zephyr born ?

At Morn.

My eyes, with watching worn,
Will vigil keep till day returns ;
To see thy light my spirit yearns,
Mary Pure, Star of Morn !

What name most sweet to dying ear ?

Maria.
On heavenly hosts who smiles serene ?

Their Queen.
What joy is perfected above ?

Love.

Welcome, thou spotless Dove !
Awake, my soul, celestial mirth !
This day brings purest joy to earth !
Maria, Queen of Love.

NATIVITY B. V. MARY, September 8.*

* The above is a free translation from a beautiful short Spanish poem which lately appeared in the
Revista Catolica of Las Vegas, New Mexico.

The Highland Exilg.

THE HIGHLAND EXILE.

A RECENT number of the London
Tablet contains some very interest-
ing facts concerning the return of
the Benedictine Order to Scotland.
This event is expected soon to take
place, after a banishment of the
Order for nearly three hundred
years from those regions of beauty
where for many previous centuries
it had been the source and dispen-
ser of countless spiritual and tem-
poral blessings to the people.

It is among the most marvellous
of the wonderful compensations of
divine Providence in these days of
mysterious trial for the church as
to her temporalities, and of her
most glorious triumphs in the spir-
itual order, that the place for this
re-establishment should have been
fixed at Fort Augustus, in Inver-
ness-shire the very spot which the
"dark and bloody " Duke of Cum-
berland made his headquarters
while pursuing with merciless and
exterminating slaughter the hapless
Catholics of the Highlands after
the fatal field of Culloden in 1746.
No less significant is the fact that
a descendant of the Lord Lovat
who was beheaded for his partici-
pation in that conflict, and the
inheritor of his title, should have
purchased Fort Augustus from the
British government with a view to
this happy result, though he was
not permitted to live long enough
t witness the accomplishment of
his pious purpose.

A more beautiful or appropriate
abode for the devoted sons of St.
Benedict could not have been found
than this secluded spot, where, far

removed from all the turmoil and
distractions of the world, they will
be free to exercise the spirit of their
holy rule, and draw down abundant
benedictions upon the surrounding
country. The buildings are situat-
ed near the extremity of Loch Ness,
commanding toward the east a view
of that picturesque lake, and to the
west of the wild range of Glengarry
Mountains.

It is consoling to reflect that the
place which, notwithstanding the fas-
cinations of its extraordinary beau-
ty, has so long been held in detes-
tation by the faithful Catholic High-
landers, on account of the fearful
atrocities once committed under
protection of its strong towers, is
destined thus to become the very
treasure-house of Heaven's choicest
blessings for them in the restora-
tion of their former benefactors and
spiritual directors.

Very pleasant, also, to every child
of the faith the world over, is the
thought that these hills and glens,
long so " famous in story," will
once again give echo, morning,
noon, and night, to the glad tidings
of salvation proclaimed by the holy
Angelus, and to the ancient chants
and songs of praise which resound-
ed through the older centuries
from the cloisters of this holy bro-
therhood ; and that in these soli-
tudes the clangor of the "church-
going bell " will again summon the
faithful to the free and open exer-
cise of the worship so long pro-
scribed under cruel penalties. - The
tenacity with which the Highland-
ers of Scotland clung to their faith

132

The Highland Exile.

through the most persistent and
appalling persecutions proved that
the foundations of the spiritual edi-
fice in that

" Land cf brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood, 1 '

were laid broad and deep by saints
not unworthy to be classed with
the glorious St. Patrick of the
sister shores.

In the course of our studies of
history in early youth, before we
were interested in such triumphs
of the church, save as curious his-
torical facts not to be accounted
for upon Protestant principles, we
were deeply impressed by proofs
of her supernatural and sustaining
power over this noble race which
came within our personal notice.

During a winter in the first quar-
ter of this century my father and
mother made the journey from
Presco^t, Upper Canada, to Mon-
treal, in their own conveyance, tak-
ing me with them.

We stopped over one night at an
inn situated on the confines of a
dismal little village, planted in a
country as flat and unattractive in
all its features as could well be im-
agined. The village was settled
entirely by Highlanders exiled on
account of their religion and the
troubles which followed the irre-
trievable disaster of Culloden. Its
inhabitants among themselves spoke
only the Gaelic language, which I
then heard for the first time. My
father's notice was attracted by the
aged father of our host, a splendid
specimen of the native Highlander,
clad in the full and wonderfully
picturesque costume of his race.
Although from his venerable ap-
pearance you might have judged
that

11 A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard,"

yet was his form as erect and his
mind as clear as when in youth he
trod his native glens.

My father soon drew him into a
conversation to which their juve-
nile companion was an eager and
retentive listener. The chief tenor
of it was concerning the state of
Scotland, and the prevailing senti-
ment of her people in the north,
before the last hapless scion of the
Stuarts made the fatal attempt which
resulted in utter defeat and ruin to
all connected with it. In the course
of their chat, and as his intellect
was aroused and excited by the
subject, a narrative of his own per-
sonal knowledge of those matters
and share in the conflict fell uncon-
sciously, as it were, from his lips.

He was a young lad at the time
his father's clan gathered to the
rallying-cry of the Camerons for
the field of Culloden. Young as he
was, he fought by his father's side,
and saw him slain with multitudes
of his kin on that scene of carnage.
He was among the few of his clan
who escaped and succeeded by al-
most superhuman efforts in rescuing
their families from the indiscri-
minate slaughter which followed.
Among the rocks and caves of the
wild hills and glens with which they
were familiar they found hiding-
places that were inaccessible to the
destroyers who were sent out by
the merciless Cumberland, but their
sufferings from cold and 'hunger
were beyond description. In the
haste of their flight it was impossi-
ble to convey the necessary food
and clothing, and the whole coun-
try was so closely watched by scat-
tered bands of soldiers that there
was no chance of procuring sup-
plies. Insufficiently clad and fed,
and very imperfectly sheltered from
the wild storms of those bleak
northern regions, many of the wo-

The Highland Exile.

men, the children, and the aged
people perished before it was pos-
sible to accept offers made by the
British government of founding co-
lonies in Nova Scotia and Upper
Canada for those who, persistently
refusing to renounce the Catholic
faith, would consent to emigrate.
Large rewards and the most tempt-
ing inducements were held out to
all who would surrender their faith,
embrace Protestantism, and remain
among their beloved hills.

So intense is the love of country
in the hearts of this brave and gen-
erous people that many could not
tear themselves away from scenes
inwoven with their tenderest affec-
tions, but remained, some to enjoy
in this world the price of that apos-
tasy which imperilled their eternal
interests for the next, while multi-
tudes sought the most remote and
unapproachable nooks of the rugged
north, and remained true to their
religion in extreme poverty and
distress, with no hope of alleviation.
Our aged narrator joined a band
of emigrants from the neighborhood
of Loch Ness, and came to the dreary
wilderness where the present vil-
lage has grown up. My father ex-
pressed his surprise that they should
have chosen a place so entirely dif-
ferent in all its features from their
native scenes, in preference to the
hilly parts of Canada, where it
would seem that they would have
been more at home.

" Na, na !" exclaimed the vener-
able old man, his dark eye kin-
dling with the fire of youth, while he
smote the ground with his staff, as
if to emphasize his dissent " na,
na; sin' we could na tread our na-
tive hills, it iss better far that we had
nane! I think the sicht of hills
withoot the heather wad drive me
mad ! Na, na ; it iss far better that
we should see nae hills !"

His touching recital of the wrongs
sustained by his people at the hands
of their ruthless conquerors, and
the bitter sufferings they endured
for the faith, awakened" my deep
and enduring sympathy.

My father questioned whether,
after all, it would not have been
better for them to have submitted
in the matter of religion, accepted
the liberal terms offered under that
condition, and remained contented
in their beloved homes, rather than
make such cruel sacrifices, for them-
selves and the helpless ones depend-
ent upon them, in support of a mere
idea, as the difference between one
religion and another seemed to him.
The old man rose in his excitement
to his feet, and, standing erect and
dignified, with flashing eyes ex-
claimed : " Renounce the faith !
Sooner far might we consent that
we be sold into slavery ! Oh ! yes ;
we could do that we could bow
our necks to the yoke in this world
that our souls might be free for the
next but to renounce the faith ! It
iss that we could na do whatever ;
no ! not the least one among us,
though it wass to gain ten kingdoms
for us in this warld !"

My father apologized for a sug-
gestion which had such power to
move him, remarking that he was
himself quite ignorant concerning
the Catholic religion, and, indeed,
not too well informed as to any
other ; upon which the hoary patri-
arch approached him, laid his hand
upon his head, and said with deep
solemnity : " That the great God,
who is ever merciful to the true of
heart, might pour the light of his
truth into yours, and show you how
different is it from the false reli-
gions, and how worthy that one
should die for it rather than yield
the point that should seem the most
trifling ; for there iss nothing con-

The Highland Exile.

nected with the truth that will be
trifling/'

The grand old man ! He little
suspected that his words struck a
responsive chord in the hearts of
his listeners that never ceased to
vibrate to their memory !

A few years after this incident I
was passing the months of M;iy and
June with a relative in Montreal.
Several British regiments were then
quartered in that city. One of
them, I was told, was the famous
" Thirty-ninth" which had won, by
its dauntless valor on many hard-
fought battle-fields in India, the
distinction of bearing upon its col-
ors the proud legend, " Primus in
Indis"

It was ordered to Canada for the
invigorating effect of the climate
upon the health of soldiers exhaust-
ed by long exposure, in fatiguing
campaigns, to the sultry sun of In-
dia. It was composed chiefly, if
not wholly, of Scotch Highlanders,
well matched in size and height,
and, taken all together, quite the
finest body of men in form and
feature, and in chivalrous bearing,
that I have ever seen. Their uni-
form was the full Highland dress,
than which a more martial or grace-
ful equipment has never been de-
vised. Over the Scotch bonnet of
each soldier drooped and nodded a
superb ostrich plume.

Under escort of the kind friend
to whose care I had been commit-
ted, and who was delighted with
the fresh enthusiasm of his small
rustic cousin, just transported from
a home in the woods to the novel
scenes of that fair city, I witness-
ed repeatedly the parade of the
troops on the Champ de Mars. The
magnificent Highlanders took pre-
cedence and entirely eclipsed them
all, while the bitterness of feeling
with which the other regiments sub-

mitted to the ceremony of "pre-
senting arms" whenever the gallant
" Thirty-ninth" passed and repassed
was apparent even to me, a stranger
and a mere child.

Impressive as these scenes on the
Chdmp de Mars were, however, to
the eager fancy of a juvenile ob-
server, they fell far short of the
thrilling effect produced by a pa-
geant of a widely different nature
which I was soon to witness.

While I was expressing my glow-
ing admiration for those " superb
Highlanders," my kinsman, himself
a Presbyterian elder, would exclaim :
" Oh ! this is nothing at all. Wait
until you have seen them march to
church and assist at a grand High
Mass !"

Accordingly, on one fine Sunday
morning in June he conducted me
to an elevated position whence the
muster of the regiment with its
splendid banners, and the full line
of march to the music of the finest
band in the army, composed en-
tirely of Highland instruments
could be distinctly observed. Then,
taking a shorter turn, \ve entered
the church, and secured a seat
which overlooked the entrance of
the troops within the sacred pre-
cincts. The full band was playing,
and the music breathed the very
spirit of their native hills. It was
a spectacle never to be forgotten.
The measured tramp of that multi-
tude as the footfall of one man ;
their plumed bonnets lifted rever-
ently before the sacred Presence
by one simultaneous motion of the
moving mass ; their genuflections,
performed with the same military
and, as it seemed to a spectator,
automatic precision and unity ; the
flash and clash of their arms, as
they knelt in the wide space allot-
ted to them under the central dome
of the immense edifice; the rapt

;

The Highland Exile.

135

expression of devotion which light-
d up each face ; the music of the
band, bursting forth at intervals
during the most solemn parts of the
first High Mass I had ever attended,
now exquisitely plaintive and soul-
subduing, and again swelling into
a volume of glorious harmony
which filled the whole church and
electrified the hearts of the listen-
ers all this combined to produce
emotions not to be expressed in
words. Strangers visiting the city,
and multitudes of its non-Catholic
inhabitants, were drawn week by
week to witness the solemn and
soul-awakening ceremonial; first
from curiosity, and afterwards, in
many instances, from the convic-
tion that a religion whence flowed
a worship so sublime and irresisti-
ble in its power over the souls of
men must be- the creation of the
great Author of souls.

It seemed a fitting compensation
to this noble race, after the degra-
dation and oppression to which
they had been subjected by their
ruthless conquerors, that this valiant
band of their sons should have been
enabled to achieve such renown as

gave them the most (Distinguished
position in the British army, and
placed them before the world with
a prestige and a glory not surpassed
by the bravest of their ancestors at
the period of their greatest pros-
perity. But infinitely more pre-
cious than all earthly fame was the
right, won back, as it were, by
their arms, to practise fully and
freely the religion of those ances-
tors, so long proscribed and forbid-
den to their people. Nor was it
a slight satisfaction to their national
pride and patriotism to be permit-
ted to resume the costume which
had also been proscribed and in-
cluded in the suppression of the
clans.

Since those days of long ago we
have not seen a Scottish High-
lander; but the notice in the Lon-
don Tablet of which we have spo-
ken awakened the recollections we
have thus imperfectly embodied as
our slight tribute to the cairn that
perpetuates, in this world, the mem-
ory of all this people have done and
suffered for that faith which shall
be their eternal joy and crowning
glory in the next.

136

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. 5.

THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF HALIFAX, N. S.

THE Catholic Church in America
lias recently lost, in the person of
the Most Reverend Dr. Connolly,
one of her most distinguished pre-
lates. Thomas Louis Connolly was
born about sixty-two years ago in
.the city of Cork, Ireland. In his
'person were found all the virtues
-and noble qualities of head and
.heart that have made his country-
men loved and honored. Like
many other distinguished church-
men, he was of humble parentage;
and there are many townsmen of his
in America to-day who remember
the late archbishop as a boy run-
ning about the streets of Cork. He
.lost his father when he was three
years old ; nevertheless, his widow-
ed mother managed to bring up her
little son and a still younger daugh-
ter in comfort. She kept a small
but decent house of entertainment,
.and the place is remembered by a
mammoth pig that stood for years
in the window, and which bore the
quaint inscription :

1 " This world is a city with many a crooked street,
And death the market-place where all men meet.
If life were merchandise that men could buy,
The rich would live and the poor would die."

Father Mathew, the celebrated
Apostle of Temperance, whose

church was but a few doors from
young Connolly's home, noticed
the quiet, good-natured boy who
was so attentive to his church and

-catechism, and, perhaps discerning
in him some of the rare qualities
which afterwards distinguished him
as a man, became his friend, confi-
dant, and adviser. The widow was
able to give her only son a good

education, and we learn that at six-
teen young Connolly was well ad-
vanced in history and mathematics
and in the French, Latin, and
Greek languages. The youth, de-
siring to devote his life to the
church, became a novice in the Ca-
puchin Order, in which order Father
Mathew held high office.

In his eighteenth year he went to
Rome to complete his studies for
the priesthood. He spent six years
in the Eternal City, and they were
years of hard study, devoted to
rhetoric, philosophy, and theology.
Even then he was noted for his
application, and was reserved and
retiring in his disposition, except
to the few with whom he was inti-
mately acquainted. He left Rome
for the south of France, where he
completed his studies, and in 1838,
at the cathedral at Lyons, he was
ordained priest by the venerable
archbishop of that city, Cardinal
Boise. The following year he re-
turned to Ireland, and for three
years he labored hard and fervently
in the Capuchin Mission House,
Dublin, and at the Grange Gorman
Lane Penitentiary, to which latter
institution he was attached as chap-
lain. In 1842, when Dr. Walsh
was appointed Bishop of Halifax,
the young Capuchin priest, then in
his twenty-eighth year, volunteered
his services, and came out as secre-
tary to t'ne studious and scholarly
prelate whom he was afterwards to
succeed.

Until 1851, a period of nine
years, Father Connolly labored in-
cessantly, faithfully, and cheerfully

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. S.

'37

as parish priest, and after a while as
Vicar-General of Halifax. In the
prime of his manhood, possessed
of a massive frame and a vigorous
constitution, with the ruddy glow
of health always on his face, the
young Irish priest went about late
and early, in pestilence and disease,
qmong the poor and sick, hearing
confessions, organizing societies in
connection with the church, preach-
ing in public, exhorting in private,
doing the work that only one of his
zeal and constitution could do, and
through it all carrying a smiling
face and cheering word for every
one. It is this period of his life
that the members of his flock love
to dwell upon, and to which he
himself, no doubt, looked back
with pleasure as a time when, pos-
sessed of never-failing health, he
had only the subordinate's work to
do, without the cares, crosses, and
momentous questions to decide
which the mitre he afterwards wore
brought with it. Indeed, at that
time Father Connolly was every-
where and did everything. All the
old couples in Halifax to-day were
married by him ; and all the young
men and women growing up were
baptized by him.

The worth, labors, and abilities
of the ardent missionary could not
fail to be recognized, and when Dr.
Dollard died, in 1851, on the recom-
mendation of the American bishops
Father Connolly was appointed to
succeed him as Bishop of St. John,
New Brunswick. He threw all his
heart and soul into his work, and
before the seven years he resided
in St. John had passed away he had
brought the diocese, which he found
in a chaotic, poverty-stricken, and
ill-provided state, into order, effi-
ciency, and comparative financial
prosperity. Without a dollar, but
with a true reliance on Providence

and his people, he set to work to
build a cathedral, and by his en-
ergy and the liberality of his flock
soon had it in a tolerable state of com-
pletion. He seems to have taken a
special delight in building, and no
sooner was one edifice fairly habi-
table than he was at work on an-
other. Whatever little difficulties
or differences he may have had with
the Catholics under his jurisdiction
can be all traced to this; they were
money questions, questions of ex-
pense. He always kept a warm
corner in his heart for the orphans
of his diocese, whom he looked
upon as especially under his care,
and who were to be provided for at
all costs ; and soon the present effi-
cient Orphan Asylum of St. John
sprang up, nuns were brought from
abroad to conduct it, and, through
the exertions of their warm-hearted
bishop, the little wanderers and
foundlings of New Brunswick were
provided with a home.

On the death of Archbishop
Walsh, in 1859, Bishop Connolly
was appointed by the present Pon-
tiff to succeed him. In his forty-
fifth year, with all his faculties
sharpened, his views and mind
widened, and his political opinions
changed for the better by his trying
experience, Bishop Connolly came
back to Halifax a different man, in
all but outward appearance, from
the Father Connolly who had left
that city eight years before.

Halifax is noted as being one of
the most liberal and tolerant cities
on the continent. Nowhere do
the different bodies of Christians
mingle and work so well together ;
and although it is not free from in-
dividual bigotry, the great mass of
its citizens work and live together
in harmony and cordial good-will.
It is too much to credit the late
archbishop with this happy state of

138

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. S.

affairs, for it existed before his time,
and owes its existence to the good
sense and liberality of the Protes-
tant party as well as the Catholic ;
but it is only common justice to say
that the archbishop did all in his
power to maintain it. Hospitable
and genial by nature, it was a pleasure
to him to have at his table the most
distinguished citizens of all creeds,
to entertain the officers of the army
and navy, and to extend his hospi-
tality to the guests of the city.
Without lessening his dignity, and
without conceding a point of what
might be considered due to the
rights of his church, he worked and
lived on the most friendly and inti-
mate footing with those who differ-
ed from him in religion. A hard
worker, an inveterate builder, and
a great accumulator of church pro-
perty, he was hardly settled in his
archdiocese before he set to work
to convert the church of St. Mary's
into the present beautiful cathedral.
The work has been going on for
years under his personal supervision,
and he resolutely refused to let any
part out to contract ; and although
his congregation has grumbled at
the money sunk in massive founda-
tions, unnecessary finish, and the
extras for alterations, yet time, by
the strength, durability, and tho-
roughness of the work, will justify
the archbishop in the course he
adopted. School-houses were built,
homes for the Sisters of Charity, or-
phanages, an academy, and a sum-
mer residence for himself and clergy
at the Northwest Arm, a few miles
from the city. All of these build-
ings have some pretensions to arch-
itecture, and are substantial and
well built. Excepting the cathe-
dral, the archbishop was generally
his own architect; and as he was a
little dogmatic in his manner, and
not too ready to listen to sugges-

tions from the tradesmen under
him, he on more than one occasion
made blunders, more amusing than
serious, in his building operations.
A man's religion never stood in his
way in working for Archbishop
Connolly.

His duties as the father of his
flock were not neglected on ac-
count of his outside work. No
amount of physical or mental la-
bor seemed too much for him.
After the worry, work, and travel-
ling of the week, it was no uncom-
mon thing for him to preach in the
three Catholic churches in the city
on the one Sunday. His knowledge
of the Scriptures was astonishing,
even for a churchman, and was an
inexhaustible mine on which he
could draw at pleasure. His read-
ing was wide and extensive. It was
hard to name a subject on which
he had not read and studied ; on the
affairs and politics of the day he was
ready, when at leisure, to talk; and
on his table might be found the
periodical light literature as well
as heavier reading. In 1867, when
the confederation of the different
British provinces into the present
Dominion of Canada was brought
about, he took an active part in
politics. Believing that Nova
Scotia would be rendered more
prosperous, and. that the Catholics
would become more powerful by be-
ing united to their Canadian breth-
ren, he warmly advocated the union.
But despite his position and in-
fluence, and the exertions of those
on his side, the union party was de-
feated at the polls all over the pro-
vince as well as in the city of Hali-
fax. Since that he ceased to take
an active part in politics, and re-
frained from expressing his politi-
cal opinions in public.

As a speaker he was noted for
his sound common sense and the

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. 5.

absence of anything like tricks of
rhetoric or of manner. His lec-
tures and addresses from the pul-
pit of his own church to his own
people were generally extempore.
He was powerful in appealing to a
mixed audience, and spoke more
especially to the humbler classes.
He had a fund of quaint proverbs
and old sayings, and, by an odd
conceit or happy allusion, would
drive his argument home in the
minds of those of his own country.
He could, at times, be eloquent in
the true sense of the word; and
when he prepared himself, girded
on his armor for the conflict, he
was truly powerful. On the mel-
ancholy death of D'Arcy McGee
the archbishop had service in St.
Mary's, and delivered a panegyric
on the life and labors of that gifted
Irishman, who was a personal friend
of his own, which is looked upon
as one of his ablest efforts.

If he was quickly excited, he was
just as quick to forgive ; and when he
thought he had bruised the feelings
of the meanest, he was ever ready
to atone, and never happy till he
did so. Like many great republi-
cans, while claiming the greatest
freedom of thought, word, and ac-
tion for himself, he was, though he
knew it not, arbitrary in his dictates
to others. Whatever he took in
hand he went at heart and soul.
The smallest detail of work he
could not leave to another, but
would himself see it attended to
from a board in a fence to the
building of a cathedral. Travelling
over a scattered diocese with poor
roads and poor entertainment,
preaching, hearing confessions, and
administering the sacraments of the
church, can it be wondered at that
his health broke down ? that a con-
stitution, vigorous at first, wore out
before its time? With everything

139

to do and everything a trouble to
him, can we wonder that some mis-
takes were made, that some things
were ill-done ?

Though hospitable, witty, and a
lover of company, he was very ab-
stemious and temperate in his
habits ; and, although never at-
tacked by long disease, his health
was continually bad. Last fall he
visited Bermuda, which was under
his jurisdiction, partly for his
health, and also to see to the wants
of the few Catholics there. In the
spring he returned to Halifax, but
little benefited by the change.

If there was one subject of public
importance more than another in
which the archbishop was interest-
ed, it was the public-school ques-
tion. No question requires more
careful handling ; none involves
vaster public interests. His school-
houses had been leased to the
school authorities ; he had brought
the Christian Brothers to Halifax,
and these schools were under their
charge; and the Catholics in Hali-
fax had, thanks to their archbishop
and the tolerance of their fellow-
citizens, separate schools in all but
the name. For a long time past
there had been personal and private
differences and grievances between
the archbishop and the brothers.
What they were, and what the rights
and the wrongs of the matter are,
was never fully made public, nor is
it essential that it should be. On
the Sunday after his arrival from
Bermuda the archbishop was visit-
ed by the director-general of the
brothers, a Frenchman, who gave
him twenty-four hours to accede to
the demands of the brothers, or
threatened in default that ti
would leave the province. Both
were hot-tempered, both believed
they had right on their side, and it
is more than probable that neither

140

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. S.

thought the other would proceed
to extremities. The archbishop did
not take an hour to decide ; he flat-
ly refused. Next day saw the work
of years undone ; the brothers de-
parted ; their places were tempora-
rily filled by substitutes ; the School
Board took the matter in hand ;
and the sympathies of the Catholics
of Halifax were divided between
their archbishop and the teachers
of their children.

Many think the excitement and
worry that he underwent on this
occasion had much to do with his
death. A gentleman who had some
private business with the archbi-
shop called at the glebe-house on
the Tuesday following the Sunday
on which the rupture with .the bro-
thers had taken place. Although
it was ten o'clock in the morning,
and tiie sun was shining brightly
outside, he found the curtains un-
drawn, the gas burning, and the
archbishop hard at work writing at
a table littered with paper. In the
course of their conversation he
mentioned incidentally to his visitor
that he had not been to bed for two
nights, nor changed his clothes for
three days. Even after the diffi-
culty had been smoothed over, and
matters seemed to be going on as
of old, it was noticed that the arch-
bishop had lost his cheerfulness and
looked wearied and haggard. His
duties were not neglected, though
sickness and sadness may have
weighed him down. He began a
.series of lectures on the doctrines
of the church which unhappily were
never to be completed. On the
.third Sunday before his death, in
making an appeal to his parishioners
for funds to finish the cathedral, he
enumerated the many other works
he wished to undertake, and stated
that he trusted he had ten or fifteen
years of life before him wherein to

accomplish these works. The meet-
ing which he had called for that
afternoon was poorly attended,
and the amount subscribed not
nearly what he expected. It was
noticed that this troubled him ; for
he loved to stand well with his peo-
ple always, and he took this as a
sign that his popularity was on the
wane.

On Saturday, the 22d of July,
he complained of being unwell, but
it did not prevent him from speak-
ing as usual at the three churches
on the morrow. He never allowed
his own sufferings to interfere with
what he considered his duty. None
of the many who heard him that
day surmised that the shadow of
death was then on him, and that on
the following Sunday they would
see the corpse of the speaker laid
out on the same altar. On Mon-
day, still feeling unwell, he drove to
his residence at the Northwest Arm,
thinking that a little rest and quiet
would restore him to his usual
health. The next day, growing
worse, and no doubt feeling his
end approaching, he told his at-
tendants to drive him to the. glebe-
house and to write to Rome.
Next day the whole community
was startled to hear that the arch-
bishop was stricken down by con-
gestion of the brain; that he was
delirious; that he had been given
up by the doctors ; and that his
death was hourly expected.

A gloom seemed to have fallen
over the city. The streets leading
to the glebe-house were filled all
the next day and late into the
night with a noiseless throng; and
hour after hour the whisper went
from one to another, " He still lives,
but there's no hope." All this
time the dying prelate remained
unconscious. The heavy breathing
and the dull pulse were all that told

The late Archbishop of Halifax, N. S.

141

the watchful and sorrowing attend-
ants that he yet lived. From his
bedroom to the drawing-room, in
which he had at times received
such a brilliant company, they ear-
ned the dying man for air. Those
who wished were allowed in to see
him; but he saw not the anxious
faces that gazed sorrowfully for a
moment and then passed away ; he
heard not the low chant of the Lit-
any for the Dying that was borne
Out through the open windows on the
still night-air; he knew not of the
tears that were shed by those who
loved and honored him, and who
could not, in the presence of death,
repress or hide their sorrow. At
midnight on Thursday, the 2yth
of July, the bell of the cathedral
tolled out to tell the quiet city
that the good archbishop lived no
more.

The next day, in the same apart-
ment, the corpse was laid in state,
and was visited by hundreds of all
creeds and classes, who came to
take their last look at all that re-
mained on earth of the wearied
worker who had at last found rest.
What were the thoughts of many
who looked upon that face, now fix-
ed in death ? Among the throng
were those who had come to him
weighed down by sorrow and sin,
and had left him lightened of their
loads and strengthened in their re-
solutions of atonement and amend-
ment by his eloquent words of ad-
vice. Some had felt his wide-
spreading charity ; for his ear and
heart were ever open to a tale of
distress, and he gave with a free
and open hand, and his tongue
never told of what his hand let fall.
The general feeling was one of be-
reavement; for the great multi-
tude of his people knew not his
worth till they had lost him. Who

would take his place ? They
might find his equal in learning,
in eloquence, even in work ; but
could they find one in whom were
united all the qualities that had so
eminently fitted him for the posi-
tion he so ably filled? Perhaps
there were others present who had
to regret that they had misjudged
him, that they had been uncharit-
able in their thoughts toward him,
that they had not assisted as they
should have done the great, good,
and unselfish man who had worked
not to enrich or exalt himself, but
who had worn out his life in the
struggle for the welfare of his peo-
ple and the glory of his church.

In his loved cathedral, the un-
finished monument of his life, now
draped in mourning, the last sad and
solemn rites of the Catholic Church
were performed by the bishops and
clergy who had been ordained by
him, who knew him so well and
loved him so deeply. He was fol-
lowed to his last resting-place by
the civil and military authorities,
by the clergymen of other denomi-
nations, and by hundreds of all
creeds, classes, and colors, who
could not be deterred by the rain,
which fell in torrents, from testifying
their respect for him who was hon-
ored and esteemed by all.

We may add that the late and
much-lamented archbishop was
ever the sincere and faithful friend
of the Superior of the Paulist com-
munity. Among the first of their
missions was one at St. John ; and
the archbishop afterwards called
them also to his cathedral at Hali-
fax. Both superior and congrega-
tion, no less than his own people,
owe Dr. Connolly a debt of grati-
tude which it would indeed be diffi-
cult to pay.

The character of Archbishop

142

Neiv Publications.

Connolly was marked by an ardent
zeal for the faith ; a magnanimity
which, whenever the occasion called
for its exercise, rose above all human

considerations whatever, even of
his own life; and a charity that was
not limited either by nationality,
race, or religious creed.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

MEMOIRS OF THE RIGHT REVEREND SI-
MON WM. GABRIEL BRUTE, D.D., FIRST
BISHOP OF VINCENNES. With sketches
describing his recollections of scenes
connected with the French Revolu-
tion, and extracts from his Journal.
By the Rt. Rev. James Roosevelt Bay-
ley, D.D., Bishop of Newark. New
York : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1876.

The Catholic Church in America has
reason to be thankful that the seeds of
faith were sown on her shores by some
of the most eminent and holy men that
ever lived. The names of Cheverus, Fla-
get, Carroll, Dubois, and Gallit/in might
be fittingly blazoned on. the same scroll
with those of an Augustine, a Gregory,
or an Ambrose. To the untiring labors,
profound piety, and extensive learning
of these men Catholic faith and senti-
ment in our land owe their freshness and
vitality. To their devotion to the Holy
See, and strictest adherence to all that is
orthodox and canonical, American Ca-
tholics owe their unity and their ardent
attachment to the fortunes of the Sove-
reign Pontiff. And if the distinguished
ecclesiastics just mentioned contributed
much to secure those glorious results,
more still even did that prince of mis-
sionaries and model of bishops, Simon
William Gabriel Brute. The growing
interest manifested in this admirable cha-
racter is full, timely, and calculated to
do much good. As a man he was emi-
nently human, feeling for his fellows with
a keenness of sensibility which could
alone grow out of a heart that throbbed
with every human emotion. This fea-
ture of high humanity also it was which
gave that many-sidedness to his charac-
ter, making it full-orbed and polished
ad ungut-m. Thus viewed, he was in truth
tolus feres atque rotundus. His constantly-
outgoing sympathies brought him into
the closest relations with his people, and

magnate or peasant believed that in him
they had found one who could peculiarly
understand themselves. Nature endow-
ed him with just those gifts which pre-
eminently fitted him for missionary life.
Lithe, agile, and compactly built, he
could endure exposure and privation be-
yond most men. Constantly cheerful,
and with a mind which was a storehouse
of the most varied and interestng know-
ledge, he could illumine darkness itself
and convert despondency into joy. Tra-
velling at all seasons and at all hours,
his presence was everywhere hailed with
delight, and many a cot and mansion
among the regions of the Blue Ridge
Mountains watched and welcomed his
presence. So inured was he to hard
labor that he deemed a journey of fifty-
two miles in twelve hours a mere baga-
telle. And the qu;untnes3 with which
he relates those wonderful pedestrian
achievements, interspersing his recital
with humorous and sensible allusions
to wayside scenes, is not only interest-
ing, but serves often to reveal the simple
and honest character of the man. His
English to the end retained a slightly
Gallic flavor, which, so far from impair-
ing interest in what he has written, has
lent it a really pleasing piquancy. He
thus records one of his trips: ' The
next morning after I had celebrated
Mass at the St. Joseph's, I started
on foot for Baltimore, without saying
a word to anybody, to speak to the Archbi-
shop. . . . Stopped at Tancytown at Fa-
ther Lochi's, and got something to eat.
At Winchester found out that I had not
a penny in my pocket, and was obliged
to get my dinner on credit- . . . Ingoing
I read three hundred and eighty-eight
pages in Anquetil's history of Fiance ;
. . . fourteen pages of Cicero De OJJlciis ;
three chapters in the New Testament ; my
Office; recited the chapelet three times."
As a worker he was indefatigable ; nay,

New Publications.

'43

he courted toil, and the prospect of a
long and arduous missionary service fill-
ed him with delight. Not content with
preaching, administering the sacraments,
and visiting the sick and poor, he was
constantly drawing on his unbounded
mental resources lor magazine articles,
controversial, philosophic, and histori-
cal. He longed to spread the light of
truth everywhere, and to refute error and
recall the erring was the chief charm of
his life. He had early formed the habit
of committing to paper whatever particu-
larly impressed him, and recommended
this practice to all students as the most
effectual mnemonic help, and as accus-
toming them to precision and exactness.
His admirable notes on the French Rev-
olution were the normal outcome of the
habit of close observation which this
practice engendered. Nothing escaped
his notice, and the slightest meritorious
act on the part of a friend or acquaint-
ance drew from him the most gracious
encomiums, whilst the reproval of faults
was always governed by extreme consid-
eration and charity. Consecrated first
Bishop of Vincennes, much against his
will, he entered on his new field of labor
with the same zeal and love of duty which
had characterized him as missionary and
teacher at Mt. St. Mary's. The limitless
distances he had to travel over in his
infant diocese never daunted him. Four
or five hundred miles on horseback, over
prairie and woodland, had no terrors for
him, who bore a light heart and an ever
cheerful soul within him, praising and
blessing God at every step for thus al-
lowing him to do what was pleasing to
the divine will. What he most regretted
was his separation from the friends he
left behind at Mt. St. Mary's. He had. a
Frenchman's love of places as well as
of persons, and he accordingly suffered
much from the French complaint of
nostalgia, or home-sickness. But no-
thing with him stood in the way of duty ;
and when the fiat was pronounced, he
went on his new way rejoicing. His
memory will grow among us " as a fair
olive-tree in plains, and as a plane-tree
by the waters" ; " like a palm-tree in
Cades, and as a rose-plant in Jericho."
When such another comes among us, our
prayer should be, Serus in c a I urn rcdcas.

The Most Rev. Archbishop of Balti-
more has honored himself by thus hon-
oring the memory of a saintly bishop ;
and whoever knows the graces of style

which the fluent pen of Archbishop Bay-
ley distils will not delay a moment in
obtaining this delightful volume.

THE VOICE OF CREATION AS A WITNKSS
TO THE MIND OF rrs DIVINE AUTHOR.
Five Lectures. By Frederick Canon
Oakeley, M.A. London : Burns &
Gates. 1876. New York: The Ca-
tholic Publication Society.
This little volume bears the undoubted
impress of a high reverence for the Crea-
tor. It is not a mere refutation of athe-
istical opinions, as is the celebrated work
of Paley, but an eloquent tribute to the
divine beneficence as made manifest in
the works of nature. Everywhere and
in all things the author, looking through
the eyes of faith, beholds the finger of
God not alone in those marvels of skill
and design in which the animal and ve-
getable worlds abound, but in those ap-
parent anomalies which the unseeing
and unreflecting multitude often pro-
nounce to be the dismal proofs of pur-
poselessness. Canon Oakeley, however,
is not a mere pietist, but a highly cul-
tured, scientific man withal, and so grap-
ples with the latest objections of god
less philosophers, and disposes of then,
in a satisfactory manner. In his letter
of approbation his Eminence Cardinal
Manning thus expresses himself: "The
argument of the third lecture on the
' Vestiges of the Fall ' seems to me espe-
cially valuable. I confess the prevalence
of evil, physical and moral, has never
seemed to me any real argument against
the goodness of the Creator, except on
the hypothesis that mankind has no will,
or that the will of man is not free. . . .
If the freedom of the will has made the
world actually unhappy, the original
creation of God made it both actually
and potentially happy. . . . What God
made man marred." His Eminence pro-
nounces the book to be both " convinc-
ing and persuasive," with which high
approval we commend it to the attention
of our readers.

UNION WITH OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST IN

HIS PRINCIPAL MYSTERIES. For all

seasons of the year. By the Rev.

F. John Baptist Saint Jure, S.J. Ni-w

York : Sadlier & Co. 1876.

Father Saint Jure flourished in the

seventeenth century and is known as the

author of several spiritual works. The

present volume, which is a good transla-

144

New Publications.

tion of one of these works, published in
a neat and convenient form, is intended
as a help to meditation during the va-
rious seasons of the ecclesiastical year.
It is very well adapted for that purpose
simple, brief, easy of use, and in every
way practical.

REAL LIFE. By Madame Mathilde Fro-
ment. Translated from the French by
Miss Newlin. Baltimore : Kelly, Piet
& Co. 1876.

Real life is, generally speaking, a dull
enough thing to depict. The living of a
good Christian family life has nothing
outwardly heroic in it, however much
heroism there may be, and indeed must
be, concealed under the constant calm
of its exterior. For Christianity, in its
smallest phase, is eminently heroic. It
is just such a life that Madame Froment
has taken up in the present volume, and
out of it she has constructed a useful
and, on the whole, an interesting narra-
tive. The narrator is the heroine, who
begins jotting down her experiences,
hopes, thoughts, aspirations, while still
a girl within the convent walls. On the
twenty third page she is married, and
thenceforth she gives us the story- of
her married life, its crosses and trials
as well as its pleasures. The whole
story is told in the first person, and in
the form of a diary. This is rather a try-
ing* method, especially as in the earlier
portions of the narrative Madame Fro-
ment scarcely catches the free, thought-
less spirit, the freshness and naivete 1 of a
young girl just out of a convent and en-
tering the world. Then, too, many of
the entries in the diary are remarkable
for nothing but their brevity. Of course
this may be a very good imitation of a
diary, but too frequent indulgence in
such practice is likely to make a very
poor book. As the narrative advances,
however, the interest deepens, and the
whole will be found worthy of perusal.
The translation, with the exception of
an occasional localism, is free, vigorous,
and happy.

SILVER PITCHERS AND INDEPENDENCE.

A Centennial Love-Story. By Louisa

M. Alcott. Boston : Roberts Brothers.

1876.

Of course our Centennial would not
be complete without its Centennial lite-
rature. We have had odes, poems, and
all manner of bursts of song which might
have been better, judged from a literary
point of view, but which all possess the
one undeniable character of genuine and
unbounded enthusiasm. It was but
proper, therefore, that we should have
some Centennial story telling, and we are
glad that the task has fallen into no worse
hands then those of Miss Alcott. This
lady has already recommended herself
to the reading public by a series of fresh,
sprightly, and very readable little vol-
umes. She tells a story well. She is
not pretentious, yet never low, and the
English has not suffered at her hands.
Of late it has somehow become the vogue
among so called popular writers to sup-
ply true tact and the power to enlist in-
terest by a sort of double-entendre style
which, if it does not run into downright
indecency, is" at least prurient ; and, alas !
that we should have to say that our lady
writers especially lay themselves open to
this charge.

To our own credit be it said that this
reprehensible manner of writing is more
common in England than among our-
selves. Miss Alcott has avoided these
faults ; and in saying this we consider we
have said much in her praise. Her Silver
Pitchers is a charming little temperance
story told in her best vein It is* some-
what New-Englandish, but that has its
charms for some ourselves, we must
confess, among the number. Pity Miss
Alcott could not understand that there
are higher and nobler motives for tem-
perance than the mere impulse it gives
to worldly success and the desire to pos-
sess a good name. The siren cup will
never be effectually dashed aside by the
tempted ones till prayer and supernatu-
ral considerations come to their assist-
ance.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. XXIV., No. 140. NOVEMBER, 1876.

THOUGHTS ON MYSTICAL THEOLOGY.

ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS, in com-
menting on these two lines of the
thirty-ninth stanza of his Spiritual
Canticle :

11 The grove and its beauty
In the serene night,"

gives us a definition of mystical
theology. ' * In the serene night '
that is, contemplation, in which the
soul 'desires to behold the grove
(God as the Creator and Giver of
life to all creatures). It is called
night because contemplation is ob-
scure, and that is the reason why it
is also called mystical theology
that is, the secret or hidden wisdom
of God, wherein God, without the
sound of words or the intervention
of any bodily or spiritual sense, as it
were in silence and repose, in the
darkness of sense and nature,
teaches the soul and the soul
knows not how in a most secret
and hidden way. Some spiritual
writers call this ' understanding
without understanding,' because it
does not take place in what philo-
sophers call the active intellect (in-
tellectus agens), which is conver-

sant with the forms, fancies, and
apprehensions of the physical facul-
ties, but in the intellect as it is
passive (intellectus possibilis) , which,
without receiving such forms, re-
ceives passively only the substantial
intelligence of them, free from all
imagery."'

Father Baker explains mystic con-
templation as follows : " In the se-
cond place, there is a mystic contem-
plation which is, indeed, truly and
properly such, by which a soul,,
without discoursings and curious
speculations, without &\\y perceptible,
iise of the internal senses or sensible
images, by a pure, simple, ^md re-
poseful operation of the mind, in
the obscurity of faith, simply re-
gards God as infinite and incom-
prehensible verity,, and with the
whole bent of the will rests in him
as (her) infinite, universal, and in-
comprehensible good. . . . This
is properly the exercise of angels,
for their knowledge is not by dis-
course (discursive), but by one

* Complete works, vol. iii. p. 208,

146

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

simple intuition all objects are re-
presented to their view at once with
all their natures, qualities, rela-
tions, dependencies, and effects ;
but man, that receives all his know-
ledge first from his senses, can only
by effects and outward appearances
with the labor of reasoning collect
the nature of objects, and this but
imperfectly; but his reasoning being
ended, then he can at once contem-
plate all that is known unto him in
the object. . . . This mystic con-
templation or union is of two sorts :
i. Active and ordinary. ... 2.
Passive and extraordinary ; the
which is not a state, but an actual
grace and favor from God. . . .
And it is called passive, not but
that therein the soul doth actively
contemplate God, but she can nei-
ther, when she pleases, dispose her-
self thereto, nor yet refuse it when
that God thinks good to operate
after such, a manner in the soul,
and to represent himself unto her
by a divine particular image, not at all
framed by the soul, but super naturally
infused into her. . . . As for the
former sort, which is active con-
templation, we read in mystic au-
thors Thaulerus, Harphius, etc.
that he that would become spiritual
ought to practise the drawing of his
external senses inwardly into his
internal, there losing and, as it
were, annihilating them. Having
done this, he must then draw his
internal senses into the superior
powers of the soul, and there an-
nihilate them likewise ; and those
powers of the intellectual soul he
must draw into that which is called
their unity, which is the principle
and fountain from whence those
powers do flow, and in which they
are united. And, lastly, that unity
(which alone is capable of perfect
union with God) musl. be applied
and firmly fixed on God; and here-

in, say they, consist the perfect di-
vine contemplation and union of an
intellectual soul with God. Now,
whether such expressions as these
will abide the strict examination of
philosophy or no I will not take on
me to determine ; certain it is that,
by a frequent and constant exercise
of internal prayer of the will, joined
with mortification, the soul comes
to operate more and more abstract-
ed from sense, and more elevated
above the corporal organs and fa-
culties, so drawing nearer to the
resemblance of the operations of an
angel or separated spirit. Yet this
abstraction and elevation (perhaps)
are not to be understood as if the
soul in these pure operations had
no use at all of the internal senses
or sensible images (for the schools
resolve that cannot consist with the
state of a soul joined to a mortal
body) ; but surely her operations in
this pure degree of prayer are so
subtile and intime, and the images
that she makes use of so exquisitely
pure and immaterial, that she can-
not perceive at all that she works
by images, so that spiritual writers
are not much to be condemned by
persons utterly inexperienced in
these mystic affairs, if, delivering
things as they perceived by their
own experience, they have express-
ed them otherwise than will be ad-
mitted in the schools." *

That kind of contemplation which
is treated of in mystical theology is,
therefore, a state or an act of the
mind in which the intellectual op-
eration approaches to that of sepa-
rate spirits that is, of human souls
separated from their bodies, and of
pure spirits or angels who are, by
their essence unembodied, simply
intellectual beings. Its direct and
chief object is God, other objects

* Sancta Sophia, treatise iii. sec. iv. chap. i.
par. 5-12.

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

being viewed in their relation to
him. The end of it is the elevation
of the soul above the sphere of the
senses and the sensible world into
a more spiritual condition approach-
ing the angelic, in which it is close-
ly united with God, and prepared
for the beatific and deific state of
the future and eternal life. The
longing after such a liberation from
the natural and imperfect mode of
knowing and enjoying the sovereign
good, the sovereign truth, the sove-
reign beauty, through the senses and
the discursive operations of reason,
is as ancient and as universal among
men as religion and philosophy. It
is an aspiration after the invisible
and the infinite. When it is not en-
lightened, directed, and controlled
by a divine authority, it drives men
into a kind of intellectual and spiri-
tual madness, produces the most ex-
travagant absurdities in thought and
criminal excesses in conduct, stimu-
lates and employs as its servants all
the most cruel and base impulses of
the disordered passions, and dis-
turbs the whole course of nature.
Demons are fallen angels who as-
pired to obtain their deification
through pride, and the fall of man
was brought about through an in-
ordinate and disobedient effort of
Eve to become like the gods, know-
ing good and evil. An inordinate
striving to become like the angels
assimilates man to the demons, and
an inordinate striving after a simili-
tude to God causes a relapse into a
lower state of sin than that in which
we are born. The history of false
religions and philosophies furnishes
a series of illustrations of this state-
ment. In the circle of nominal
Christianity, and even within the
external communion of the Catho-
lic Church, heretical and false sys-
tems of a similar kind have sprung
up, and the opinions and writings

147

of some who were orthodox and
well-intentioned in their principles
have been tinctured with such er-
rors, or at least distorted in their
verbal expression of the cognate
truths. This remark applies not
only to those who are devotees of a
mystical theology more or less erro-
neous, but also to certain philoso-
phical writers with their disciples.
Ontologism is a kind of mystical
philosophy; for its fundamental
doctrine ascribes to man a mode
of knowledge which is proper only
to the purely intellectual being, and
even a direct, immediate intuition
of God which is above the natural
power not only of men but of an-
gels.

There are two fundamental errors
underlying all these false systems
of mystical theology or more pro-
perly theosophy and philosophy.
One is distinctively anti-theistic, the
other distinctively anti-Christian ;
but we may class both under one lo-
gical species with the common dif-
ferentia of denial of the real essence
and personality, and the real opera-
tion ad extra, of the Incarnate Word.
The first error denies his divine na-
ture and creative act, the second
his human nature and theandric
operation. By the first error iden-
tity of substance in respect to the
divine nature and all nature is as-
serted ; by the second, identity of
the human nature and its operation
with that nature which is purely
spiritual. The first error manifests
itself as a perversion of the reveal-
ed and Catholic doctrine of the
deification of the creature in and
through the Word, by teaching
that it becomes one with God in
its mode of being by absorption
into the essence whose emanation
it is, in substantial unity. The
second manifests itself by teaching
that the instrumentality and the

148

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

process of this unification are
purely spiritual. The first denies
the substantiality of the soul and
the proper activity which proceeds
from it and constitutes its life.
The second denies the difference
of the human essence as a com-
posite of spirit and body, which
separates it from purely spiritual
essences and marks it as a dis-
tinct species. The first error is
pantheism; for the second we can-
not think of any designating term
more specific than idealism. Both
these errors, however disguised or
modified may be the forms they as-
sume, conduct logically to the ex-
plicit denial of the Catholic faith,
and even of any form of positive
doctrinal Christianity. Their ex-
treme developments are to be found
outside of the boundaries of all that
is denominated Christian theology.
Within these boundaries they have
developed themselves more or less
imperfectly into gross heresies, and
into shapes of erroneous doctrine
which approach to or recede from
direct and palpable heresy in pro-
portion to the degree of their evo-
lution. Our purpose is not directly
concerned with any of the openly
anti-Christian forms of these errors,
but only with such as have really
infected or have been imputed to
the doctrines and writings of mysti-
cal authors who were Catholics by
profession, and have flourished with-
in the last four centuries. There is
a certain more or less general and
sweeping charge made by some
Catholic authors of reputation, and
a prejudice or suspicion to some
extent among educated Catholics,
against the German school of mys-
tics of the epoch preceding the Re-
formation, that they prepared the
way by their teaching for Martin
Luther and his associates. This
notion of an affinity between the

doctrine of some mystical writers
and Protestantism breeds a more
general suspicion against mystical
theology itself, as if it undermined
or weakened the fabric of the ex-
ternal, visible order and authority of
the church through some latent, un-
orthodox, and un-Catholic element
of spiritualism. We are inclined to
think, moreover, that some very
zealous advocates of the scholastic
philosophy apprehend a danger to
sound psychological science from
the doctrine of mystic contempla-
tion as presented by the aforesaid
school of writers. Those who are ca-
nonized saints, indeed, as St. Bona-
venture and St. John of the Cross,
cannot be censured, and their writ-
ings must be treated with respect.
Nevertheless, they may be neglect-
ed, their doctrine ignored, and,
through misapprehension or inad-
vertence, their teachings may be
criticised and assailed when pre-
sented by other authors not canon-
ized and approved by the solemn
judgment of the church; and thus
mystical theology itself may suffer
discredit and be undervalued. It
is desirable to prove that genuine v
mystical theology has no affinity
with the Protestant heresies which
subvert the visible church with its
authority, or those of idealistic phi-
losophy, but is, on the contrary, in
perfect harmony with the dogmatic
and philosophical doctrine of the
most approved Catholic schools.
It is only a modest effort in that
direction which we can pretend to
make, with respect chiefly to the
second or phi)osophical aspect of
the question. We must devote,
however, a few paragraphs to its
first or theological aspect.

From the mystery of the Incar-
nation necessarily follows the sub-
stantial reality of human nature as
a composite of spirit and body, the

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

excellence and endless existence, in
its own distinct entity, not only of
the spiritual but also of the cor-
poreal part of man and of the visible
universe to which he belongs as be-
ing an embodied spirit. The theo-
logy which springs out of this fun-
damental doctrine teaches a visible
church, existing as an organic body
with visible priesthood, sacrifice,
sacraments, ceremonies, and order,
as mediums subordinate to the the-
andric, mediatorial operation of
the divine Word acting through his
human nature. Sound philosophy,
which is in accordance with theo-
logy, teaches also that the corporeal
life and sensitive operation of man
is for the benefit of his mind and
his intellectual operation. He is
not a purely intellectual being, but
a rational animal. He must there-
fore derive his intelligible species
or ideas by abstraction from sensi-
ble species furnished by the corpo-
real world to the senses, and then
proceed by a discursive process of
reasoning from these general ideas
to investigate the particular objects
apprehended by his faculties. False
theology denies or undervalues the
being of the created universe, or the
corporeal part of it. Under the
pretence of making way for God it
would destroy the creature, and, to
exalt the spiritual part of the uni-
verse, reduce to nothing that part
which is corporeal. Hence the de-
nial of the visible church, the sacra-
ments, the Real Presence, the exter-
nal sacrifice and worship, the value
of reason, the merit of good works,
the essential goodness of nature,
and the necessity of active vol-
untary co-operation by the senses
and the mind with the Spirit of God
in attaining perfection. The corpo-
real part of man, and the visible
world to which it belongs, are re-
garded as unrea 1 appearances, or as

149

an encumbrance and impediment, at
the best but temporary provisions
for the earliest, most imperfect stage
of development.

Some of the German mystics, es-
pecially Eckhardt and the author of
the Tkeologia Gcnnauica, undoubted-
ly prepared the way for the errors of
Luther and the pantheists who fol-
lowed him. But the doctors of mys-
tic theology, the canonized saints of
the church and their disciples, have
invariably taught that as the hu-
man nature of Christ is for ever
essentially and substantially dis-
tinct from the divine nature in the
personal union, so much more the
beatified, in their separate per-
sonalities, remain for ever distinct
in essence and substance from God.
So, also, as they teach that the
body of Christ is immortal and to
be adored for ever with the worship
of latria, they maintain that the
union of the soul with the body
and the existence of corporeal
things is for the advantage of the
soul, and perpetual. It is only by
comparison with supernatural life
in God that natural life is depreci-
ated by the Catholic mystics, and
by comparison with the spiritual
world that the corporeal world is
undervalued. In a word, all things
which are created and visible, even
the humanity of the Word, are only
mediums and instruments of the
Holy Spirit ; all nature is only a
pedestal for grace ; and the gifts
and operations of grace are only
for the sake of the beatific union
with Christ in the Holy Spirit, in
whom he is one with the Father.
All things, therefore, are to be val-
ued and employed for their utility
as means to the final end, but not
as ends in themselves ; and, conse-
quently, the lower are to give place
to the higher, the more remote to
the proximate, and that which is

ISO

Thoughts on Mystical TJieology.

inferior in nature is to be wholly
subordinated to that which is high-
est. Mystical theology is in doc-
trine what the lives of the great
saints have been in practice. Nei-
ther can be blamed without impi-
ety; and when the actions or doc-
trines of those whose lives or writ-
ings have not received solemn sanc-
tion from the church are criticised,
it must be done by comparing them
with the speculative and practical
science of the saints as a standard.
The psychological doctrine of
the doctors and other canonized
authors who have treated scientifi-
cally of the nature of mystic con-
templation, is not, however, placed
above all critical discussion. A
few important questions excepted,
upon which the supreme authority
of the Holy See has pronounced a
judgment, the theory of cognition
is an open area of discussion, and
therefore explanations of the phe-
nomena of the spiritual life, given
by any author in accordance with
his own philosophical system, may
be criticised by those who differ
from him in opinion. Those who
follow strictly the psychology of
St. Thomas, as contained in mod-
ern writers of the later Thomistic
school, may easily be led by their
philosophical opinions to suspect
and qualify as scientifically unten-
able the common language of mys-
tical writers. The passage quoted
from Father Baker at the head of this
article will furnish an illustration
of our meaning. Those who are
familiar with metaphysics will un-
derstand at once where the appa-
rent opposition between scholastic
pyschology and mystical theology
is found. For others it may suf-
fice to explain that, in the meta-
physics of the Thomists, no origin
of ideas is recognized except that
which is called abstraction from

the sensible object, and that the
precise difference of the human
mind in respect to the angelic in-
tellect is that the former is natu-
rally turned to the intelligible in a
sensible phantasm or image, where-
as the latter is turned to the
purely intelligible itself. Now, as
soon as one begins to speak of a
mode of contemplation similar to
that of the angels a contempla-
tion of God and divine things with-
out the intervention of images he
passes beyond the known domain
of metaphysics, and appears to be
waving his wings for a flight in the
air, instead of quietly pacing the
ground with the peripatetics.

Now, assuming the Thomistic
doctrine of the origin of ideas and
the specific nature of human cog-
nition to be true, it is worthy of
careful inquiry how the statements
of mystical authors respecting in-
fused contemplation are to be ex-
plained in accordance with this sys-
tem. We cannot prudently assume
that there is a repugnance between
them. Practically, St. Thomas was
one of those saints who have made
the highest attainments in mystic
contemplation. He is the "Angel-
ical," and the history of his life
shows that he was frequently, and
towards the close of his life almost
habitually, rapt out of the com-
mon sphere of the senses, so as to
take no notice of what went on be-
fore his eyes or was uttered in his
hearing. His last act as an in-
structor in divine wisdom was an
exposition of the Canticle of Solo-
mon to the monks of Fossa Nuova,
and he could no doubt have ex-
plained according to his own philo-
sophical doctrine all the facts and
phenomena of mystic contempla-
tion, so far as these can be repre-
sented in human language. There
cannot be any sufficient reason,

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

therefore, to regard the two as dis-
sonant or as demanding either one
any sacrifice of the other.

In respect to the purely passive
and supernatural contemplation,
there seems, indeed, to be no diffi-
culty whatsoever in the way. There
is no question of an immediate in-
tuition of the divine essence in this
ecstatic state, so that, even if the
soul is supposed to be raised for a
time to an equality with angels in
its intellectual acts, the errors of
false mysticism and ontologism
are excluded from the hypothesis.
For even the angels have no such
natural intuition. That the human
intellect should receive immediate-
ly from angels or from God infused
species or ideas by which it becomes
cognizant of realities behind the
veil of the sensible, and contem-
plates God through a more perfect
glass than that of discursive rea-
son, does not in any way interfere
with the psychology of scholastic
metaphysics. For the cause and
mode are professedly supernatural.
I In the human intellect of our Lord,
the perfection of infused and ac-
quired knowledge, the beatific vi-
sion and the natural sensitive life
common to all men co-existed in per-
fect harmony. It is even probable
that Moses, the Blessed Virgin, and
St. Paul enjoyed temporary glimpses
of the beatific vision. Therefore,
although it is true that, without a
miracle, no mere man " can see God
and live," and that the ecstasies of
the saints, in which there is no in-
tuitive vision of the divine essence,
but only a manifestation of divine
things, naturally tend to extinguish
bodily life, yet, by the power of
God, the operations of the natural
life can be sustained in conjunction
with those which are supernatural,
because they are not essentially in-
congruous. The only question is

one of fact and evidence. What-
ever may be proved to take place in
souls so highly elevated, philosophy
has no objection to offer ; for these
things are above the sphere of
merely human and rational science.

The real matter of difficult and
perplexing investigation relates to
certain abnormal or' preternatural
phenomena, which seem to in-
dicate a partial liberation of the
soul from the conditions of organic-
life and union with the body, and
to that state of mystic contempla-
tion which is called active or ac-
quired. In these cases there is no
liberty allowed us by sound theo-
logy or philosophy of resorting to
the supernatural in its strict and
proper sense. We are restricted to
the sphere of the nature of man and
the operations which can proceed
from it or be terminated to it ac-
cording to the natural laws of its
being. There is one hypothesis,
very intelligible and perfectly in
accordance with psychology, which
will remove all difficulty out of the
way. if only it is found adequate
to explain all the certain and pro-
bable facts and phenomena which
have to be considered. Father Ba-
ker furnishes this explanation as a
probable one, and it no doubt am-
ply suffices for the greatest number
of instances. That is to say, we
may suppose that whenever the
mind seems to act without any spe-
cies, image, or idea, originally pre-
sented through the medium of the
senses, and by a pure, spiritual in-
tuition, it is really by a subtile and
imperceptible image which it has
elaborated by an abstractive and
discursive process, and which ex-
ists in the imagination, that the in-
tellect receives the object which it
contemplates.

But let us suppose that this hy-
pothesis is found insufficient to ex-

152

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

plain all the facts to which it must
be applied. Can it be admitted,
without prejudice to rational psy-
chology, that the soul may, by an
abnormal condition of its relations
to the body, or as the result of its
efforts and habits, whether for evil
or good, lawfully or unlawfully, es-
cape from its ordinary limits in
knowing and acting, and thus draw
nearer to the state of separate
spirits ?

We must briefly consider what is
the mode of knowing proper to
separate spirits before we can find
any data for answering this ques-
tion. Here we avail ourselves of
the explication of the doctrine of
St. Thomas given by Liberatore in
his interesting treatise on the na-
ture of man entitled Dell' Uomo*

St. Thomas, following St. Augus-
tine, teaches that in the creation,
the divine idea in the Word was
communicated in a twofold way,
spiritual and corporeal. In the lat-
ter mode this light was made to
reverberate from the visible uni-
verse. In the former it was made
to shine in the superior and intel-
lectual beings that is, the angels
producing in them ideally all that
which exists in the universe really.
As they approximate in intelligence
to God, these ideas or intelligible
species by which they know all
things have a nearer resemblance
to the Idea in the Divine Word
that is, approach to its unity and
simplicity of intuition are fewer
and more general. As their grade
of intelligence is more remote from
its source, they depart to a greater
and greater distance from this unity
by the increasing multiplicity of
their intelligible species. More-

* Delf Uomo. Trattato del P. Matteo Libera-
tore, D.C.D.G. Vol. ii. Dell' Anima Humana,
-seconda ed. corretta ed accresciuta. Roma. Be-
fani : Via delle Stimate 23, 1875. Capo x. Dell'
Anima separata dal Corpo.

over, the inferior orders are illumi-
nated by those which are superior;
that is, these higher beings pre-
sent to them a higher ideal universe
than their own, and are as if re-
flectors or mirrors of the divine
ideas, by which they see God
mediately in his works. The hu-
man soul, being the lowest in the
order of intelligent spirits, is not
capable of seeing objects distinctly,
even in the light of the lowest order
of angels. It is made with a view
to its informing an organized body,
and it is aided by the bodily senses
and organic operations to come out
of the state of a mere capacity of
intelligence, in which it has no in-
nate or infused ideas, into actual
intelligence. It is naturally turned,
as an embodied spirit, to inferior
objects, to single, visible things, for
the material term of its operation,
and from these abstracts the uni-
versal ideas which are the prin-
ciples of knowledge. The necessity
of turning to these sensible phan-
tasms is therefore partly the in-
choate state of the intelligence of
man at the beginning of his exist-
ence, partly its essential inferiority,
and, in addition, the actual union
of the soul with the body. There
is, however, in the soul, a power,
albeit inferior to that of angels, of
direct, intellectual vision and cog-
nition, without the instrumentality
of sensation. When the soul leaves
the body and goes into the state of
a separate spirit, it has the intuition
of its'own essence, it retains all its
acquired ideas, and it has a certain
dim and confused perception of
higher spiritual beings and the
ideas which are in them. It is
therefore, in a certain sense, more
free and more perfect in its intel-
lectual operation in the separate
state than it was while united with
the body. All this proceeds with-

Thoughts on Mystical Theology.

153

out taking into account in the least
that supernatural light of glory
which enables a beatified spirit to
see the essence of God, and in him
to see the whole universe.

We see from the foregoing that
the necessity for using sensible im-
ages in operations of the intellect
does not arise from an intrinsic,
essential incapacity of the human
mind to act without them. As Fa-
ther Baker says, and as Liberatore
distinctly asserts after St. Thomas,
it is " the state of a soul joined to a
mortal body " which impedes the
exercise of a po\ver inherent and
latent in the very nature of the
soul, as a form which is in. and by
itself substantial and capable of
self-subsistence and action in a sep-
arate state. Remove the impedi-
ment of the body, and the spirit
starts, like a spring that has been
weighted down, into a new and im-
mortal life and activity. The cur-
tain has dropped, and it is at once
in the world of spirits. The earth,
carrying with it the earthly body,
drops down from the ascending
soul, as it does from an aeronaut
going up in a balloon. "Animse,
secundum ilium modum essendi,
quo corpori est unita, competit
modus intelligendi per conver-
sionem ad phantasmata corporum,
quae in corporeis organis sunt.
Cum autem fuerit a corpore sepa-
rata, competit ei modus intelligendi
per conversionem ad ea, quoe sunt
intelligibilia simpliciter, sicut et
aliis substantiis separatis " "To

turning toward things simply intel-
ligible." "HuJLismodi perfectio-
nem recipiunt animae separata^ a
Deo, mediantibus angelis " "This
kind of perfection the separate
souls receive from God through
the mediation of angels. "f " Quan-
do anima erit a corpore separata
plenius percipere poterit influen-
tiam a superioribus substantiis,
quantum ad hoc quod per hujusmodi
influxum intelligere poterit absque
phantasmate quod modo non potest "
"When the soul shall be separated
from the body, it will be capable of
receiving influence from superior
substances more fully, inasmuch as
by an influx of this kind it can exer-
cise intellectual perception without
a phantasm, which in its present state
it cannot do >." This language of St.
Thomas and other schoolmen ex-
plains the hesitation of Father Ba-
ker in respect to certain statements
of mystical authors, especially Har-
phius. He says, as quoted above :
" This abstraction and elevation
(perhaps) are not to be understood
as if the soul in these pure opera-
tions had no use at all of the internal
senses or sensible images (for the
schools resolve that cannot consist
with the state of a soul joined to
a mortal body)." He says "per-
haps," which shows that he was in
doubt on the point. The precise
question we have raised is whether
there is reason for this doubt in
the shape of probable arguments,
or conjectures not absolutely ex-
cluded by sound philosophy. The

(4111O OLlL/OtClllLLlO O V^ IJCt-L LIU I .3 J- V - . ,

the soul, in respect to the mode of point to be considered name y is

beins

be-

. & by union with a body,
longs a mode of understanding by
turning toward the phantasms of
bodies which are in the bodily or-
gans. But when it is separated
from the body, a mode of under-
standing belongs to it in common
with other separate substances, by

whether the reception % of this in-
flux and the action of the intel-
lect without the medium of sensi-
ble images is made absolutely im-
possible, unless by a miracle, by
the union of the soul and body.

* Summ. Theol., i. p. qu. 89, art i.
t Qq. disp. ii. de Anima^ art. 19 ad 13.

154

Thoughts on Mystical Tlieology.

It is a hindrance, and ordinarily
a. complete preventive of this kind
of influx from the spiritual world
into the soul, and this kind of
activity properly belonging to a
separate spirit. But we propose
the conjectural .hypothesis that
there may be, in the first place,
some kind of extraordinary and
abnormal condition of the soul, in
which the natural effect of the union
with a body is diminished, or at
times partially suspended. In this
condition the soul would come in
a partial and imperfect manner, and
quite involuntarily, into immediate
contact with the world of spirits,
receive influences from it, and per-
ceive things imperceptible to the
senses and the intellect acting by
their aid as its instruments. In the
second place, that it is possible to
bring about this condition unlaw-
fully, to the great damage and dan-
ger of the soul by voluntarily yield-
ing to or courting preternatural
influences, and thus coming into
immediate commerce with demons.
In the third place, that it is possi-
ble, lawfully, for a good end and
to the soul's great benefit, to ap-
proximate to the angelical state by
abstractive contemplation, accord-
ing to the description given by Har-
phius and quoted by Father Baker.
As for passive, supernatural con-
templation, it is not possible for the
soul to do more than prepare itself
for the visitation of the divine Spi-
rit with his lights and graces. In
this supernatural condition it is
more consonant to the doctrine of
St. John of the Cross, who was well
versed in scholastic metaphysics
and theology ; of St. Teresa, whose

wisdom is called by the church in
her solemn office " celestial "; and
to what we know of the exalted ex-
perience of the most extraordinary
saints, to suppose that God acts on
the soul through the intermediate
agency of angels, and also imme-
diately by himself, without any con-
currence of the imagination or the
active intellect and its naturally-ac-
quired forms. The quotation from
St. John of the Cross at the head
of this article, if carefully repe-
rused and reflected on, will make
this statement plain, and intelligi-
ble at least to all those who have
some tincture of scholastic meta-
physics.

There are many facts reported on
more or less probable evidence, and
extraordinary phenomena, belong-
ing to diabolical and natural mys-
ticism, which receive at least a
plausible explanation on the same
hypothesis. To refer all these to
subjective affections of the external
or internal senses and the imagina-
tion does not seem to be quite suf-
ficient for their full explanation.
It appears like bending and strain-
ing the facts of experience too vio-
lently, for the sake of a theory
which, perhaps, is conceived in too
exclusive and literal a sense. At
all events it is worth investigation
and discussion whether the dictum
of St. Thomas, intelligere absque
phantasmate modo non potest, does
not admit of and require some mo-
dification, by which it is restricted
to those intellectual perceptions
which belong to the normal, or-
dinary condition of man within
the limits of the purely natural or-
der.

Avila.

155

IT was on the 3ist of January,
1876, we left the Escorial to visit the
muy leal, miiy magnified, y muy noble
city of Avila Avila de los Caballeros,
once famed for its valiant knights,
and their daring exploits against
the Moors, but whose chief glory
now is that it is the birthplace of
St. Teresa, whom all Christendom
admires for her genius and vene-
rates for her sanctity.

Keeping along the southern base
of the Guadarrama Mountains, whose
snowy summits and gray, rock-
strewn sides wore a wild, lonely as-
pect that was inexpressibly melan-
choly, we came at length to a
lower plateau that advances like a
promontory between two broad val-
leys opening to the north and south.
On this eminence stands the pictu-
resque city of Avila, the Pearl of
Old Castile, very much as it was in
the twelfth century. It is full of
historic mansions and interesting
old churches that have a solemn
architectural grandeur. One is as-
tonished to find so small a place
inland, inactive, and with no ap-
parent source of wealth, with so
many imposing and interesting
monuments. They are all massive
and severe, because built in an
heroic age that disdained all that
was light and unsubstantial. It is
a city of granite not of the softer
hues that take a polish like marble,
but of cold blue granite, severe and

AVILA.

Mira tu muro dichoso
Que te rodea y corona,
Pues de tantos victorioso !
Merece (en triumpho glorioso),
Cada almena su corona.

A riz grandezas de A vila.

invincible as the steel-clad knights
who built it. The granite houses
are built with a solidity that would
withstand many a hard assault ; the
granite churches, with their frown-
ing battlements, have the aspect of
fortresses ; and the granite convents
with their high granite walls look
indeed like " citadels of prayer."
Everything speaks of a bygone
age, an age of conflict and chival-
rous deeds, when the city must
have been far more wealthy and
powerful than now, to have erected
such solid edifices. We are not in
the least surprised to hear it was
originally founded by Hercules him-
self, or one of the forty of that name
to whom so many of the cities
of Spain are attributed. Avila is
worthy of being counted among his
labors.

But whoever founded Avila, it
afterwards became the seat of a
Roman colony which is mentioned
by Ptolemy. It has always been
of strategic importance, being at tin.
entrance to the Guadarrama Moun-
tains and the Castiles. When Ro-
derick, the last of the Goths, brought
destruction on the land by his folly,
Avila was one of the first places
seized by the Moors. This was in
714. After being repeatedly taken
and lost, Don Sancho of Castile
finally took it in 992, and the Moors
never regained possession of it.
But there were not Christians

156

A vila.

enough to repeople it, and it re-
mained desolate eighty-nine years.
St. Ferdinand found it uninhabited
when he came from the conquest
of Seville. Alonso VI. finally com-
missioned his son-in-law, Count
Raymond of Burgundy, to rebuild
and fortify it.

Alonso VI. had already taken
the city of Toledo and made peace
with the Moors, but the latter, in-
tent on ruling over the whole of the
Peninsula, soon became unmindful
of the treaty. In this new crisis
many foreign knights hastened to
acquire fresh renown in this land
of a perpetual crusade. Among
the most renowned were Henry of
Lorraine; Raymond de St. Gilles,
Count of Toulouse ; and Raymond,
son of Guillaume Te'te-Hardie of
Burgundy, and brother of Pope Ca-
lixtus II. They contributed so
much to the triumph of the cross
that Alonso gave them his three
daughters in marriage. Urraca
(the name of a delicious pear in
Spain) fell to the lot of Raymond
of Burgundy, with Galicia for her
portion, and to him was entrusted
the task of rebuilding Avila, the
more formidable because it requir-
ed numerous outposts and a con-
tinual struggle with the Moors.
The flower of Spanish knighthood
came to his aid, and the king grant-
ed great privileges to all who would
establish themselves in the city.
Hewers of wood, stone-cutters, ma-
sons, and artificers of all kinds
came from Biscay, Galicia, and
Leon. The king sent the Moors
taken in battle to aid in the work.
The bishop in pontificals, accom-
panied by a long train of clergy,
blessed the outlines traced for the
walls, stopping to make special ex-
orcisms at the spaces for the ten
gates, that the great enemy of the
human race might never obtain en-

trance into the city. The walls
were built out of the ruins left suc-
cessively behind by the Moors, the
Goths, and the Romans, to say
nothing of Hercules. As an old
chronicler remarks, had they been
obliged to hew out and bring hither
all the materials, no king would
have been able to build such walls.
They are forty-two feet high and
twelve feet thick. The so-called
towers are rather solid circular but-
tresses that add to their strength.
These walls were begun May 3,
1090. Eight hundred men were
employed in the work, which was
completed in nine years. They
proved an effectual barrier against
the Saracen; the crescent never
floated from those towers. How
proud the people are of them is
shown by the lines at the head of
this sketch :

"Behold the superb walls that
surround and crown thee, victorious
in so many assaults ! Each battle-
ment deserves a crown in reward
for thy glorious triumphs !"

It was thus this daughter of Her-
cules rose from the grave where she
had lain seemingly dead so many
years. Houses sprang up as by
enchantment, and were peopled so
rapidly that in 1093 there were
about thirty thousand inhabitants.
The city thus rebuilt and defended
by its incomparable knights merit-
ed the name often given it from that
time by the old chroniclers, Avila
de los Caballeros.

One of these cavaliers, Zurraquin
Sancho, the honor and glory of
knighthood, was captain of the
country forces around Avila. One
day, while riding over his estate
with a single attendant to examine
his herds, he spied a band of Moors
returning from a foray into Chris-
tian lands, dragging several Spanish
peasants after them in chains. AG

Am/a.

soon as Zurraquin was perceived,
the captives cried to him for deliv-
erance. Whereupon, mindful of
his knightly vows to relieve the
distressed, he rode boldly up,
though but slightly armed, and of-
fered to ransom his countrymen.
The Moors would not consent, and
the knight prudently withdrew.
But, as soon as he was out of sight,
he alighted to tighten the girths of
his steed, which he then remounted
and spurred on by a different path.
In a short time he came again upon
the Moors, and crying " Santiago !"
as with the voice of twenty men, he
suddenly dashed into their midst,
laying about him right and left so
lustily that, taken unawares, they
were thrown into confusion, and,
supposing themselves attacked by
a considerable force, fled for their
lives, leaving two of their number
wounded, and one dead on the field.
Zurraquin unbound the captives,
who had also been left behind, and
sent them away with the injunction
to be silent concerning his exploit.
A few days after, these peasants
came to Avila in search of their
benefactor, bringing with them
twelve fat swine and a large flock
of hens. Regardless of his parting
admonition, they stopped on the
Square of San Pedro, and related
how he had delivered them single-
handed against threescore infidels.
The whole city soon resounded with
so brave a deed, and Zurraquin was
declared a peerless knight. The
women also took up his praises and
sang songs in his honor to the sound
of the tambourine :

44 Cantan de Oliveros, e cantan de Roldan,
E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen barragan." *

A second band would take up the
strain :

157

" Cantan de Roldan, e cantan de Olivero,
E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen caballero."*

After rebuilding Avila Count
Raymond of Burgundy retired to
his province of Galicia, and, dying
March 26, 1107, he was buried in
the celebrated church of Santiago
at Compostella. It was his son
who became King of Castile under
the name of Alonso VIII., and
Avila, because of its loyalty to him
and his successors, acquired a new
name Avila del Rey among the
chroniclers of the time.

But the city bears a title still
more glorious than those already
mentioned that of Avila de los San-
tos. It was in the sixteenth century
especially that it became worthy of
this name, when there gathered
about St. Teresa a constellation
of holy souls, making the place a
very Carmel, filled with the " sons
of the prophets." Avila cantos y
santos Avila has as many saints as
stones says an old Spanish proverb,
and that is saying not a little. The
city has always been noted for dig-
nity of character and its attachment
to the church.

The piety of its ancient inhabi-
tants is attested by the number and
grave beauty of the churches, with
their lamp-lit shrines of the saints
and their dusky aisles filled with
tombs of the old knights who fought
under the banner of the cross. In
St. Teresa's time it was honored
with the presence of several saints
who have been canonized : St.
Thomas of Villanueva, St. Peter of
Alcantara, St. John of the Cross,
and that holy Spanish grandee, St.
Francis Borgia, besides many other
individuals noted for their sanctity.
But St. Teresa is the best type of
Avila. Her piety was as sweetly

* " Some sing of Oliver, and some of Roldan :
We sing of Zurraquin, the brave partisan."

* " Some sing of Roland, and others Oliver:
We sing of Zurraquin, the brave cavalier.'

i 5 8

Avila.

austere as the place, as broad and
enlightened as the vast horizon
that bounds it, and fervid as its
glowing sun.

" You mustn't say anything
against St. Teresa at Avila," said
the inevitable Englishmen we met
an hour after our arrival.

" We are by no means disposed
to, here or anywhere else," was our
reply. On the contrary, we regard-
ed her, with Mrs. Jameson, as " the
most extraordinary woman of her
age and country"; nay, "who
would have been a remarkable
woman in any age or country."
We had seen her statue among the
fathers of the church in the first
Christian temple in the world, with
the inscription : Sane fa Teresa, Ma-
ter spiritualis. We had read her
works, written in the pure Castilian
for which Avila is noted, breathing
the imagination of a poet and the
austerity of a saint, till we were
ready to exclaim with Crashawe :

" Oh ! 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis Heaven she speaks !"

and we had come to Avila express-
ly to offer her the tribute of our ad-
miration. Here she reigns, to
quote Miss Martineau's words, " as
true a queen on this mountain
throne as any empress who ever
wore a crown !"

At this very moment we were on
our way to visit the places associat-
ed with her memory. A few turns
more through the narrow, tortuous
streets, and we came to the ponder-
ous gateway of San Vicente on the
north side of the city, so named
from the venerable church just
without the walls, beloved of arch-
aeologists. But for the moment it
had no attraction for us ; for below,
in the broad, sunny valley, we could
see the monastery of the Incarna-
tion, a place of great interest to
the Catholic heart. There it was

that St. Teresa, young and beauti-
ful, took the veil and spent more
than thirty years of her life. The
first glimpse of 'it one can never
forget ; and, apart from the associa-
tions, the ancient towers of San
Vicente on the edge of the hill, the*
fair valley below with its winding
stream and the convent embosomed
among trees, and the mountains
that gift the horizon, made up a
picture none the less lovely for be-
ing framed in that antique gateway.
We went winding down to the con-
vent, perhaps half a mile distant, by
the Calle de la Encarnacion. No
sweeter, quieter spot could be de-
sired in which to end one's days.
It is charmingly situated on the
farther side of the Adaja, and com-
mands a fine view of Avila, which,
indeed, is picturesque in every di-
rection. We could count thirty
towers in the city walls as we turn-
ed at the convent gate to look back.
St. Teresa stopped in this same
archway, Nov. 2, 1533, to bid fare-
well to her brother Antonio, who,
on leaving her, went to the Domini-
can convent, where he took the mo-
nastic habit. She was then only
eighteen and a half years old. The
inward agony she experienced on
entering the convent she relates
with great sincerity, but there was
no faltering in her determination to
embrace the higher life. The house
had been founded only about twen-
ty years before, and the first Mass
was said in it the very day she was
baptized. That was more than
three centuries ago. Its stout
walls may be somewhat grayer, and
the alleys of its large garden more
umbrageous, but its general aspect
must be very much the same ; for
in that dry climate nature does not
take so kindly to man's handiwork
as in the misty north, where the old
convents are all draped with moss

A vila.

'59

and the ivy green. It is less peo- We next visited the church which

pled also. In 1550 there were is large, with buttressed walls lew

ninety nuns, but now there are n ? t square towers, and a gabled belfry'

more than half that number. The interior is spacious and lofty

There is a series of little parlors, but severe in style. There is a

low and dim, with unpainted beams, nave, and two short transepts with

and queer old chairs, and two black a dome rising between them It is

grates with nearly a yard between, paved with flag-stones, and plain

through which you can converse, wooden benches stand against the

as through a tunnel, with the nuns, stone walls. The high altar, at

They have not been changed since which St. John of the & Cross used

St. Teresa's time. In one of these to say Mass, has its gilt retable, with

our Lord reproved her for her con- colonnettes and niches filled with

versations, which still savored too the saints of the order, among

much of the world. Here, later in whom we remember the prophets

life, St. Francis Borgia came to see who dwelt on Mt. Carmel, and St.

her on his way from the convent of Albert, patriarch of Jerusalem. The

Yuste, where he had been to visit nuns' choir is at the opposite end

his kinsman, Charles V. Here she of the church. We should say

saw St. Peter of Alcantara in ecstasy, choirs; for they have two, one above

In one of these parlors, now regard- the other, with double blark grates,

ed 'as a sacred spot, she held her which are generally curtained. It

interviews with St. John of the was at the grate of the lower 'choir,

Cross when he was director of the
house. It is related that one day,
while he was discoursing here on
the mystery of the Holy Trinity,
she was so impressed by his words
that she fell on her knees to listen.

dim and mystic as his Obscure
Night of the Soul, that St. John
of the Cross used to preach to the
nuns. What sermons there must
have been from him who wrote, as
never man wrote, on the upward

In a short time he entered the ec- way from night to light!

static state, leaving St. Teresa lost The grating of this lower choir

4 in divine contemplation; and when has two divisions, between which is

one of the nuns came with a mes-
sage, she found them both sus-
pended in the air ! For a moment
they ceased to belong to earth, and
its laws did not control them. A

a small square shutter, like the door
of a tabernacle, on which is repre-
sented a chalice and Host. It was
here St. Teresa received the Holy
Communion for more than thirty

picture of this scene hangs on the ye.ars. Here one morning, after re-
wall. In a larger and more cheer- ceiving it from the hand of St. John
ful parlor some nuns of very pleas- of the Cross, she was mysteriously
ing manners of the true Spanish affianced to the heavenly Bride-
type showed us several objects that groom, who called her, in the Ian-
belonged to St. Teresa, and some guage of the Canticles, by the sweet
of her embroidery of curious Span- name of Spouse, and placed on her
ish work, very nicely done, as we finger the nuptial ring. She was
were glad to see ; likewise, a then fifty-seven years of age. A
Christ covered with bleeding wounds painting over the communion table
as he appeared to St. John of the represents this supernatural event

Cross, and many other touching
memorials of the past.

This choir is also associated with
the memory of Eleonora de Cepe-

i6o

Avila.

da, a niece of St. Teresa's, who be-
came a nun at the convent of the
Incarnation. She was remarkable
for her detachment from earth, and
died young, an angel of purity and
devotion. St. Teresa saw her body
borne to the choir by angels. No
Mass of requiem was sung over her.
It was during the Octave of Corpus
Christi. The church was adorned
as for a festival. The Mass of the
Blessed Sacrament was chanted to
the sound of the organ, and the
Alleluia repeatedly sung,- as if to
celebrate the entrance of her soul
into glory. The dead nun, in the
holy habit of Mt. Carmel, lay on
her bier covered with lilies and
roses, with a cele cl ial smile on her
pale face that seemed to reflect the
beatitude of her -oul. The proces-
sion of the Host was made around
her, and all the nuns took a last
look at their beautiful sister before
she was lowered into the gloomy
vault below. *

In the upper choir there is a
statue of St. Teresa, dressed as a
Carmelite, in the stall she occupied
when prioress of the house. The
nuns often go to kiss the hand as a
mark of homage to her memory.
The actual prioress occupies the
next stall below.

It will be remembered that St. Te-
resa passed twenty-nine years in this
convent before she left to found
that of San Jose. She afterwards
returned three years as prioress,
when, at her request, St. John of
the Cross (who was born in a small
town near Avila) was appointed spir-
itual director. Under the direction
of these two saints the house be-
came a paradise filled with souls of
such fervor that the heavenly spirits
themselves came down to join in
their holy psalmody, according to

* See Life of St. Teresa.

the testimony of St. Teresa herself^
who saw the stalls occupied by
them.

" The air of Paradise did fan the house,
. And angels office all."

One of St. Teresa's first acts, on
taking charge of the house, was to
place a large statue of Our Lady
of Mt. Carmel in the upper choir,
and present her with the keys of
the monastery, to indicate that this
womanly type of all that is sweet
and heavenly was to be the true
ruler of the house. This statue
still retains its place in the choir,
and in its hand are the keys pre-
sented by the saint.

The convent garden is surround-
ed by high walls. It wears the
same smiling aspect as in the saint's
time, but it is larger. The neigh-
boring house occupied by St. John
of the Cross, with the land around
it, has been bought and added to
the enclosure. The house lias been
converted into an octagon chapel,
called the Ermita de San yuan de
la Cruz. The unpainted wooden
altar was made from a part of St.
Teresa's cell. In this garden are
the flowers and shrubbery she loved,
the almond-trees she planted, the*
paths she trod. Here are the ora-
tories where she prayed, the dark
cypresses that witnessed her peni-
tential tears, the limpid water she
was never weary of contemplating
symbol of divine grace and re-
generation. St. Teresa's love of
nature is evident on every page of
her writings. She said the sight
of the fields and flowers raised her
soul towards God, and was like a
book in which she read his gran-
deur and benefits. And she often
compared her soul to a garden
which she prayed the divine Hus-
bandman to fill with the sweet per-
fume of the lowly virtues.

Avila.

161

arms. There are granite fonts for
the holy water. Old statues, old
paintings, and old inscriptions in

In the right wing of the convent
is a little oratory, quiet and soli-
tary, beloved of the saint, where an

angel, all flame, appeared to the Gothic text line the narrow aisles"
eyes of her soul with a golden ar- The windows are high up in the
row in his hand, which he thrust arches, which were still light, though
deep into her heart, leaving it for shadows were gathering around the
ever inflamed with seraphic love.
This mystery is honored in the Car-
melite Order by the annual festival
of the Transverberation. Art like-

wise has immortalized it. We re-

tombs below. There was not a
soul in the church. We looked
through the reja that divides the
nave at the beautiful Gothic shrine
of San Vicente and his two sisters,

member the group by Bernini in Sabina and Chrysteta, standing O n

*!-./ ,> U , i *. . U ^C C 1 . TVT_..' J_11 -11 . ,

the church of Santa Maria della pillars under a richly-painted cano-
Vittoria at Rome, in which the di- py, with curious old lamps burning
vine transport
clearly visible

of her soul is so
through the pale
beauty of her rapt form, which
trembles beneath the fire-tipped
dart of the angel. What signifi-
cance in this sacred seal set upon
her virginal heart, from this time
rent in twain by love and peni-
tence ! Cor contritum ethumiliatum,
Deus, non despicies ! was the excla-
mation of St. Teresa when dying.

The sun was descending behind
the proud walls of Avila when we
regained the steep hillside, lighting
up the grim towers and crowning
them with splendor. We stopped
on the brow, before the lofty portal
of San Vicente, to look at its
wreaths of stone and mutilated
saints, and read the story of the
rich man and Lazarus so beauti-
fully told in the arch. Angels are
bearing away the soul of the latter
on a mantle to Abraham's bosom.
On the south side of the church is
a sunny portico with light, clustered
pillars, filled with tombs, some in
niches covered with emblazonry,
others like plain chests of stone set
against the wall. We went down
the steps into the church, cold, and
dim, and gray, all of granite and
cave-like. The pavement is com-
posed of granite tombstones cover
ed with inscriptions and coats of
VOL. xxiv. ii

within, and then went down a long,
narrow, stone staircase into the
crypt of the third century and
kept along beneath the low, round
arches till we came to a chapel
where, by the light of a torch, we
saw the bare rock on which the
above-mentioned saints were mar-
tyred, and the Bujo out of which
the legendary serpent came to de-
fend their remains when thrown out
for the beasts to devour. This
Bujo was long used as a place of
solemn adjuration, a kind of Bocca
de la Verita, into which the per-
jurer shrank from thrusting his
hand, but the custom has been dis-
continued.

The following morning we wei>t
to visit the place where St. Teresa
was born. On the way we passed
through the Plaza de San Juan,
like an immense cloister with its
arcades, which takes its name from
the church on one side, where St.
Teresa was baptized. The very
font is at the left on entering a
granite basin fluted diagonally, sur-
rounded by an iron railing. Over
it is her portrait and the following
inscription :

Vigesimo octavo Martii

Teresia oborta,

Aprilis ante nona est

sacro hoc fonte

renata

MDXV.

1 62

A vila.

A grim old church for so sweet
a flower to first open to the dews
of divine grace in ; the baptismal
font at one end, and the grave at
the other, with cold, gray arches
encircling both like the all-embrac-
ing arms of that great nursing-mo-
ther 'Death. At each side of the
high altar are low, sepulchral re-
cesses, into which you look down
through a grating at the coroneted
tombs, before which lamps hang
dimly burning. Over the altar the
Good Shepherd is going in search
of his lost lambs, and at the left is
a great, pale Christ on the Cross,
ghastly and terrible in the shadowy,
torch-lit arch. The whole church
is paved with tomb-stones, like most
of the churches of Avila, as if the
idea of death could never be sepa-
rated from life. But then, which
is death and which life ? Is it not
in the womb of the grave we
awaken to the real life ?

One of the most popular tradi-
tions of Avila is connected with the
Square of San Juan : the defence of
the city in 1 109 by the heroic Ximena
Blasquez, whose husband, father, and
brothers were all valiant knights.
The old governor of the city, Xime-
nes Blasquez, was dead, and Xime-
na's husband and sons were away
fighting on the frontier. The peo-
ple, left without rulers and means of
defence, came together on the pub-
lic square and proclaimed her gov-
ernor of the place. She accept-
ed the charge, and proved herself
equal to the emergency. Spain at
this time was overrun by the
Moors who had come from Africa
to the aid of their brethren. They
pillaged and ravaged the country
as they went. Learning the de-
fenceless state of Avila, and suppos-
ing it to contain great riches and
many Moorish captives, they resolv-
ed to lay siege to it. Ximena was

warned of the danger, and, instantly
mounting her horse, she took two
squires and rode forth to the coun-
try place of Sancho de Estrada to
summon him to her aid. Sancho,
though enfeebled by illness, was too
gallant a knight to turn a deaf ear
to the behest of ladye fair. He did
not make his entrance into the city
in a very knightly fashion, however.
Instead of coming on his war-horse,
all booted and spurred, and clad in
bright armor, he was brought in
a cart on two feather-beds, on the
principle of Butler's couplet, which
we vary to suit the occasion :

44 And feather-bed 'twixt knight urbane
And heavy brunt of springless wain."

In descending at the door of his
palace at Avila he unfortunately
fell and was mortally injured, and
the vassals he had brought with him
basely fled when they found they
had no chastisement to fear.

But the dauntless Ximena was
not discouraged. Determined to
save the city, she went from house
to house, and street to street, to
distribute provisions, count the men,
furnish them with darts and arrows,
and assign their posts. It is men-
tioned that she took all the flour
she could find at the bishop's; and
Tamara, the Jewess, made her a
present of all the salt meat she had
on hand.*

On the 3d of July Ximena, hear-
ing the Moors were within two
miles of the city, sent a knight
with twenty squires to reconnoitre
their camp and cut off some of the
outposts, promising to keep open a
postern gate to admit them at their
return. Then she despatched sev-
eral trumpeters in different direc-
tions to sound their trumpets, that

*The butchery, at the repeoplinj of Avila, was
given to Benjamin, the Jew, and his sister. There
seem to have been a good many Jews in the streets
now called St. Dominic and St. Scholastica.

Avila.

the Moors might suppose armed
forces were at hand for the defence
of the city. This produced the ef-
fect she desired. The knight pene-
trated to the camp, killed several
sentinels, and re-entered Avila by
the postern. Ximena passed the
whole night on her palfrey, making
the round of the city, keeping watch
on the guards, and encouraging the
men. At dawn she returned to her
palace, and, summoning her three
daughters and two daughters-in-
law to her presence, she put on a
suit of armor, and, taking a lance
in her hand, called upon them to
imitate her, which they did, as well
as all the women in the house.
Thus accoutred, they proceeded to
the Square of San Juan, where they
found a great number of women
weeping and lamenting. " My good
friends," said Ximena, " follow my
example, and God will give you the
victory." Whereupon they all has-
tened to their houses, put on all the
armor they could find, and cover-
ed their long hair with sombreros.
Ximena provided them with jave-
lins, caltrops, and gabions full of
stones, and with these troops she
mounted the walls in order to at-
tack the Moors when they should
arrive beneath.

The Moorish captain, approach-
ing the city, saw it apparently de-
fended by armed men, and, de-
ceived by the trumpets in the night,
supposed the place had been rein-
forced. He therefore decided to
retreat.

As soon as Ximena found the
enemy really gone she descended
from the walls with her daughters
and daughters-in-law, distributed
provisions to her troops on the
Square of St. John, and, after the
necessary repose, they all went in
procession to the church of the
glorious martyrs San Vicente and

163

his sisters, and, returning by the
churches of St. Jago and San Sal-
vador, led Ximena in triumph to
the Alcazar. The fame of her bra-
very and presence of mind extend-
ed all over the land, and has be-
come the subject of legend and
song. A street near the church of
San Juan still bears the name of
Ximena Blasquez.

A convent for Carmelite friars
was built in the seventeenth cen-
tury on the site of St. Teresa's
family mansion, in the western part
of Avila. The church, in the style
of the Renaissance, faces a large,
sunny square, on one side of which
is a fine old palace with sculptured
doors and windows and emblazon-
ed shields. Near by is the Posada
de Santa Teresa. The whole con-
vent is embalmed with her memory.
Her statue is over the door of the
church. All through the corridors
you meet her image. The cloisters
are covered with frescoes of her
life and that of St. John of the
Cross. Over the main altar of the
church, framed in the columns of
the gilt retable, is an alto-relievo
of St. Teresa, supported by Joseph
and Mary, gazing up with suppliant
hands at our Saviour, who appears
with his cross amid a multitude of
angels. The church is not sump-
tuous, but there is an atmosphere
of piety about it that is very touch-
ing. The eight side-chapels are like
deep alcoves, each with some scene
of the Passion or the life of the
Virgin. The transept, on the gos-
pel side, constitutes the chapel of
Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, from
which you enter a little oratory
hung with lamps and entirely cov-
ered with paintings, reliquaries, and
gilding, as if art and piety had vied
in adorning it. It was on this spot
St. Teresa first saw the light in the
year 1:515, during the pontificate of

164

A vila.

Leo X. A quieter, more secluded
spot in which to pray could not be
desired. But Avila is full of such
dim, shadowy oratories, consecrate^
by some holy memory. Over the
altar where Mass is daily offered
is a statue of St. Teresa, sad as the
Virgin of Many Sorrows, repre-
senting her as when she beheld
the bleeding form of Christ, her
face and one hand raised towards
the divine Sufferer, the other hand
on her arrow-pierced breast. She
wears a broidered cope and golden
rosary. Among the paintings on
the wall are her Espousals, and
Joseph and Mary bringing her the
jewelled collar. Two little win-
dows admit a feeble light into this
cell-like solitude. The ceiling is
panelled. Benches covered with
blue cloth stand against the wall.
And there are little mirrors under
the paintings, in true modern Span-
ish taste, to increase the glitter and
effect. The De Cepeda coat of
arms and the family tree hang at
one end, appropriate enough here.
But in the church family distinc-
tions are laid aside. There only
the arms of the order of Mt. Car-
rnel, St. Teresa's true family, are
emblazoned.

In a little closet of the oratory
we were shown some relics of the
saint, among which were her san-
dals and a staff the latter too long
to walk with, and with a small
crook at the end. It might have
been the emblem of her monastic
authority.

Beneath the church are brick
vaults full of the bones of the old
friars, into which we could have
thrust our hands. Their cells above
are less fortunate. They are ten-
antless, or without their rightful in-
mates ; for since the suppression of
the monasteries in Spain only the
nuns in Avila have been left un-

molested. Here, at St. Teresa's, a
part of the convent has been appro-
priated for a normal school. We
went through one of the corridors
still in possession of the church.
Ave Maria, sin peccado concebida
was on the door of every cell. We
entered one to obtain some souve-
nir of the place, and found a studi-
ous young priest surrounded by his
books and pictures, in a narrow
room, quiet and monastic, with one
small window to admit the light.

Then there is the garden full of
roses and vines, also sequestered,
where St. Teresa and her brother
Rodriguez, in their childhood, built
hermitages, and talked of heaven,
and encouraged each other for
martyrdom.

" Scarce has she learned to lisp the name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with the breath
vVhich, spent, could buy so brave a death."

Avila was full of the traditions
of the incomparable old knights
who had delivered Spain from the
Moor. The chains of the Christian
captives they had freed were sus-
pended on the walls of one of the
most beautiful churches in the land,
and those who had fallen victims to
the hate of the infidel were regard-
ed as martyrs. The precocious
imagination of the young Teresa
was fired with these tales of chiv-
alry and Christian endurance. She
was barely seven years of age when
she and her brother escaped from
home, and took the road to Sala-
manca to seek martyrdom among
the Moors. We took the same path
when we left the convent. Leaving
the city walls, and descending into
the valley, we came to the Adaja,
which flows along a narrow defile
at the foot of Avila, over a rocky
bed bordered by old mills that have
been here from time immemorial,
this faubourg in the middle ages hav-

Am/a.

165

ing been inhabited by dyers, millers,
tanners, etc. We crossed the river
by the same massive stone bridge
with five arches, and went on and
up a sunny slope, along the same
road the would-be martyrs took,
through open fields strewn with
huge boulders, till we came to a
tall, round granite cross between
four round pillars connected by
stone cross-beams that once evi-
dently supported a dome. This
marks the spot where the children
were overtaken by their uncle.
The cross bends over, as if from
the northern blasts, and is covered
with great patches of bright green
and yellow moss. The best view
of Avila is to be had from this
point, and we sat down at the foot
of the cross, among the wild thyme,
to look at the picturesque old town
of the middle ages clearly traced
out against the clear blue sky its
gray feudal turrets ; its palacios,
once filled with Spanish valor and
beauty, but now lonely ; the strong
Alcazar, with its historic memories ;
and the numerous towers and bel-
fries crowned by the embattled
walls of the cathedral, that seems at
once to protect and bless the city.
St. Teresa's home is distinctly visi-
ble. The Adaja below goes wind-
ing leisurely through the broad, al-
most woodless landscape. Across
the pale fields, in yonder peaceful
valley, is the convent of the Incar-
nation, where Teresa's aspirations
for martyrdom were realized in a
mystical sense. Her brother Rod-
riguez was afterwards killed in bat-
tle in South America, and St. Teresa
always regarded him as a martyr,
because he fell in defending the
cause of religion.

The next morning we were awak-
ened at an early hour by the
sound of drum and bugle, and
the measured tramp of soldiers

over the pebbled streets. We
hurried to the window. It was
not a company of phantom knights
fleeing away at the dawn, but the
flesh-and-blood soldiers of Alfonso
XII. going to early Mass at the ca-
thedral of San Salvador on the op-
posite side of the small square. We
hastened to follow their example.

San Salvador, half church, half
fortress, seems expressly built to
honor the God of Battles. Chained
granite lions guard the entrance.
Stone knights keep watch and ward
at the sculptured doorway. Happily,
on looking up we see the blessed
saints in long lines above the
yawning arch, and we enter. The
church is of the early pointed style,
though nearly every age has left its
impress. All is gray, severe, and
majestic. Its cold aisles are sombre
and mysterious, with tombs of bi-
shops and knights in niches along
the wall, where they lie with folded
hands and something of everlasting
peace on their still faces. The
heart that shuts its secrets from the
glare of sunlight, in these shadowy
aisles unfolds them one by one, as
in some mystic Presence, with vague,
dreamy thoughts of something high-
er, more satisfying, than the outer
world has yet given, or can give.
The distant murmur of the priests
at the altars, the twinkling lights,'
the tinkling bells, the bowed forms ,
grouped here and there, the holy
sculptures on the walls, all speak
to the heart. The painted windows
of the nave are high up in the
arches, which are now empurpled
with the morning sun. Below, all
dimness and groping for light;
above, all clearness and the radi-
ance of heaven ! Sursum corda !

The coro, as in most Spanish ca-
thedrals, is in the body of the
church, and connected with the
Capilla Mayor by a railed passage.

1 66

Avila.

The stalls are beautifully carved.
Old choral books stand on the lec-
terns ready for service. The outer
wall of the choir is covered with
sculptures of the Renaissance repre-
senting the great mysteries of reli-
gion, of which we never tire.
Though told in every church in
Christendom, they always seem told
in a new light, and strike us with
new force, as something too deep
for mortal ever to fathom fully.
They are the alphabet of the faith,
which we repeat and combine in a
thousand different ways in order to
obtain some faint idea of God's
manifestations to us who see here
but darkly.

These mysteries are continued
in the magnificent retable of the
time of Ferdinand and Isabella in
the Capilla Mayor, where they are
richly painted on a gold ground by
Berruguete and other famous ar-
tists of the day, and now glorious
under the descending morning light.
It is the same sweet Rosary of Love
that seems to have caught new
lights, more heavenly hues.

The interesting chapels around the
apsis are lighted by small windows
like mere loop-holes cut through
walls of enormous thickness. In
the ambulatory we come to the
beautiful alabaster tomb of Alfonso
de Madrigal, surnamed El Tostado,
the tawny, from his complexion,
and El Abulense, Abula being the
Latin for Avila. He was a writer
of such astonishing productiveness
that he left behind him forty-eight
volumes in folio, amounting to sixty
thousand pages. It is to be feared
we shall never get time to read
them, at least in this world. He
became so proverbial that Don
Quixote mentions some book as
large as all the works of El Tostado
combined, as if human imagination
could go no farther. Leigh Hunt

speaks of some Spanish bishop as
probably writing his homilies in a
room ninety feet long! He must
have referred to El Tostado. He
is represented on his tomb sitting
in a chair, pen in hand, and eyes
half closed, as if collecting his
thoughts or listening to the divine
inspiration. His jewelled cope,
embroidered with scenes of the Pas-
sion, is beautifully carved. Below
him are the Virtues in attendance,
as in life, and above are scenes of
Our Lord's infancy, which he lov-
ed. This tomb is one of the finest
works of Berruguete.

Further along we opened a door
at a venture, and found ourselves
in the chapel of San Segundo, the
first apostle of Avila, covered with
frescoes of his life. His crystal-
covered shrine is in the centre, with
an altar on each of the four sides,
behind open-work doors of wrought
brass. The chapel was quiet and
dim and solemn, with burning lamps
and people at prayer. Then, by
another happy turn, we came into
a large cloister with chapels and
tombs, where the altar-boys were
at play in their red cassocks and
short white tunics. The church
bells now began to ring, and they
hurried away, leaving us alone to
enjoy the cloistral shades.

When we went into the church
again the service had been com-
menced, the Capilla Mayor was
hung with crimson and gold, can-
dles were distributed to the canons,
who, in their purple robes, made
the round of the church, the wax
dripping on the tombstones that
paved the aisles, and the arches
resonant with the dying strains of
the aged Simeon : Nunc dimittis
servum tuum, JDomine ! For it was
Candlemas-day.

The cathedral of San Salvador
was begun in 1091, on the site of a

A vila.

167

former church. The pope, at the brother Antonio retired from the
request of Alonso VI., granted in- world and died while in the
diligences to all who would contri- tiate. We
bute to its erection. Contributions
were sent, not only from the dif-

novi-

tiate. We visited several grass-
grown cloisters with fine, broad
arches; the lonely cells once in-
ferent provinces of Spain, but from habited by the friars, commanding

France and Italy. More than a
thousand stone-cutters and carpen-
ters were employed under the archi-
tect Garcia de Estella, of Navarre,
and the building was completed in
less than sixteen years.

After breakfast we left the city
walls and came out on the Square
of San Pedro, where women were

a fine view over the rock-strewn
moor and the Guadarrama Moun-
tains beyond; the infirmary, with a
sunny gallery for invalids \o walk-
in, and windows in the cells so ar-
ranged opposite each other that all
the sick could from their beds at-
tend Mass said in the oratory at the
end; the refectory, with stone tables

filling their jars at the well in true and seats, and defaced paintings on

Oriental fashion, the air vocal with
their gossip and laughter. Groups
of peasant women had come up from
the plains for a holiday, and were
sauntering around the square or
along the arcades in their gay
stuff dresses, the skirts of which
were generally drawn over their
heads, as if to show the bright fac-
ings of another color. Yellow
skirts were faced with red peaked
with green ; red ones faced with
green and trimmed with yellow.
When let down, they stood out, in
their fulness, like a farthingale, short
enough to show their blue stockings.
Their hair, in flat basket-braids,
was looped up behind with gay
pins. We saw several just such
glossy black plaits among the vo-
tive offerings in the oratory of St.
Teresa's Nativity.

W T e stopped awhile in the church
of San Pedro, of the thirteenth
century like all of the churches
of Aviia, well worth visiting and
then kept on to the Dominican
convent of St. Thomas, a mile
distant, and quite in the country.
This vast convent is still one of
the finest monuments about Avila,
though deserted, half ruined, and

the walls ; the royal apartments,
looking into a cloister with sculp-
tured arches, and everywhere the
arrows and yoke, emblems of Fer-
dinand and Isabella ; and the broad
stone staircase leading to the
church where lies their only son
Juan in his beautifully-sculptured
Florentine tomb of alabaster, now
sadly mutilated. On one side of
this fine church is a chapel with
the confessional once used by St.
Teresa. It was here, on Assump-
tion day, 1561, while attending
Mass, and secretly deploring the of-
fences she had confessed here, she
was ravished in spirit and received
a supernatural assurance that her
sins were forgiven her. She was
herself clothed in a garment of daz-
zling whiteness, and, as a pledge of
the divine favor, a necklace of
gold, to which was attached a jew-
elled cross of unearthly brilliancy,
was placed on her neck. There is
a painting of this vision on one side
of the chapel, as well as in several of
the churches of Avila. Mary Most
Pure, in all the freshness of youth,
appears with St. Joseph, bearing the
garment of purity and the collar of
wrought %o\d a sweet yoke of love

L ll\J II 2 li UWO%* * IV* VJf *** O -' _ - j

covered with the garment of sad- she received just before s

It was here St. Teresa's ed the convent of San Jose, i

ness.

i68

Avila.

Pedro Ybanez, a distinguished
Dominican, who combined sanctity
with great acquirements, and has
left several valuable religious works,
was a member of this house. He
was one of St. Teresa's spiritual
advisers, and the first to order her
to write her life.

We were glad to learn that this
convent has been purchased by the
bishop of Avila, and is about to be
restored to the Dominican Order.

The Jesuit college of San Gines,
likewise among the things of the
past, has some interesting associa-
tions. It was founded by St. Fran-
cis Borgia, and in it lived for a time
the saintly Balthazar Alvarez, the
confessor par excellence of St.
Teresa, who said her soul owed
more to him than to any one else
in the world. She saw him one
day at the altar crowned with light,
symbolic of the fervor of his devo-
tion. He was a consummate mas-
ter of the spiritual life, and the
guide of several persons at Avila
noted for their sanctity.

One day we walked entirely
around the walls of Avila, and
came about sunset to a terrace at
the west, overlooking a vast plain
towards Estramadura. The fertile
Vega below, with the stream wind-
ing in long, silvery links ; the pur-
ple mist on the mountains that
stood against the golden sky; the
snowy range farther to the left,
rose-flushed in the sunset light,
made the view truly enchanting.
We could picture to ourselves this
plain when it was filled with con-
tending hosts the Moslem with
the floating crescent, the glitter-
ing ranks of Christian knights with
the proudly streaming cross and
the ensigns of Castile, the peal of
bugle and clash of arms, and per-
chance the bishop descending with
the clergy from his palacio just

above us to encourage and bless
the defenders of the land.

Now only a few mules were slow-
ly moving across the plain with the
produce of peaceful labor, and the
soft tinkle of the convent bells,
calling one to another at the hour
of prayer, the only sounds to break
the melancholy silence.

Near by is the church of San-
tiago, where the caballeros of Avila
used to make their veille'e des armes
before they were armed knights,
and with what Christian sentiments
may be seen from an address, as
related by an old chronicle, made
by Don Pelayo, Bishop of Oviedo,
to two young candidates in this
very church, after administering
the Holy Eucharist. It must be
remembered this was at the end of
the eleventh or beginning of the
twelfth century, being in the reign
of Alonso VI., to whom the re-
building of Avila was due :

" My young lords, who are this day to
be armed knights, do you comprehend
thoroughly what knighthood is? Knight-
hood means nobility, and he who is truly
noble will not for anything in the world
do the least thing that is low or vile.
Wherefore you are about to promise, in
order to fulfil your obligations unfalter-
ingly, to love God above all things ; for
he has created you and redeemed you at
the price of his Blood and Passion. In
the second place, you promise to live
and die subject to his holy law, without
denying it, either now or in time to
come ; and, moreover, to serve in all
loyalty Don Alonso, your liege lord,
and all other kings who may legitimate-
ly succeed him ; to receive no reward
from rich or noble. Moor or Christian,
without the license of Don Alonso, your
rightful sovereign. You promise, like-
wise, in whatever battles or engagements
you take part, to suffer death rather than
flee ; that on your tongue truth shall al-
ways be found, for the lying man is an
abomination to the Lord ; that you will
always be ready to fly to the assistance
of the poor man who implores your aid
and seeks protection, even to encounter

A vila.

169

those who may have done him injustice
or outrage ; that you be ready to protect
all matrons or maidens who claim your
succor, even to do battle for them.,
should the cause be just, no matter
against what power, till you obtain
complete redress for the wrong they
may have endured. You promise, more-
over, not to show yourselves lofty in your
conversation, but, on the contrary, hum-
ble and considerate with all ; to show
reverence and honor to the aged ; to offer

two of some Castilian noblemen at
the side. The pulpit, in which
saints have preached, is a mere cir-
cular rail against the wall, ascend-
ed by steps. When used it is hung
with drapery. On the same side
of the church is a picture of the
young Teresa beside her teacher,
Maria Briceno, a nun of fervent-
piety, to whom the saint said she

no defiance, without cause, to any one in was indebted for her first spiritual
the world ; finally, that you receive the i:u<. r n ,_-_ _._

Body of the Lord, having confessed your
faults and transgressions, not only on the
three Paschs of the year, but on the fes-
tivals of the glorious St. John the Bap-
tist, St. James, St. Martin, and St. George."

Which the two young lords, who
were the bishop's nephews, solemn-
ly swore to perform. Whereupon
they were dubbed knights by Count
Raymond of Burgundy, after which
they departed for Toledo to kiss
the king's hand.

Not far from the church of San-
tiago is the convent of Nuestra
Senora de la Gracia on the very
edge of the hill, inhabited by An-
gustinian nuns. The church stands
on the site of an ancient mosque.
The entrance is shaded by a porti-
co with granite pillars. Our guide
rang the bell at the convent door,
saying: " Ave Maria Purissima!"
" Sin peccado concebida" respond-
ed a mysterious voice within, as
from an oracle. St. Teresa attend-
ed school here, and several memo-
rials of her are shown by the nuns.
St. Thomas of Villanueva, the Alms-
giver, who is said to have made his
vows as an Augustinian friar the
very day Luther publicly threw off
the habit of the order, was for a
time the director of the house, and
often preached in the church, which
we visited. It consists of a single
aisle, narrow and lofty, with the gilt
retable over the altar, as in all the
Spanish churches, and a tomb or

light. This mm, who, it appears,
conversed admirably on religious
subjects, told her pupil one day
how in her youth she was so struck
on reading the words of the Gospel,
"Many are called, but few are cho-
sen," that she resolved to embrace
the monastic life; and she dwelt on
the rewards reserved for those who
abandon all things for the love of
Christ a lesson not lost on the
eager listener.

At the end of the church is a
large grating, through which we
looked into the choir of the nuns,
quiet and prayerful, with its books
and pictures and stalls. Two nuns,
with sweet, contemplative faces,
were at prayer, dressed in queer
pointed hoods and white mantles
over black habits. At the sides of
the communion wicket stood the
angel of the Annunciation and Ra-
phael with his fish gilded statues
of symbolic import.

One of the most interesting places
in A vila is the convent of San Jose,
on the little Plaza de las Madres,
the first house of the reform estab-
lished by St. Teresa. The convent
and high walls are all of granite and
prison-like in their severity of aspect,
but we were received with a kind-
ness by the inmates that convinced
us there was nothing severe in the
spirit within. It is true we found
the doors most inhospitably closed
and locked, even those of the out-
er courts generally left open, and

Avila.

we were obliged to hunt up the
chaplain, who lived in the vicinity,
to come to our aid. We thought
he would prove equally unsuccess-
ful in obtaining entrance, for he rang
repeatedly (giving three strokes
each time to the bell, we noticed),
and it was a full quarter of an hour
before any one concluded to answer
so unwelcome a summons from the
outer world. We began to suppose
them all in the state of ecstasy, and
the nun who at length made her
appearance, we were going to say
herself audible spoke to us from
some inaccessible depth in a voice
absolutely beatific, as if she had just
descended from the clouds. We
never heard anything so calm and
sweet and well modulated. Thanks
to her, we saw several relics of St.
Teresa, whom she invariably spoke
of as <k Our holy Mother." She also
gave us bags of almonds and filberts,
and branches of laurel, from the
trees planted in the garden by the
holy hands of their seraphic foun-
dress.

The church of this convent is said
to be the first church ever erected
in honor of St. Joseph. There
were several chapels before, which
bore his name, in different parts of
Europe for example, one at Santa
Maria ad Martyres at Rome but
no distinct church. St. Teresa
was the great propagator of the
devotion to St. Joseph, now so
popular throughout the world. Of
the first eighteen monasteries of
her reform, thirteen were placed
under his invocation ; and in all
she inculcated this devotion, and
had his statue placed over one of
the doors. She left the devotion as
a legacy to the order, which has
never ceased to extend it. At the
end of the eighteenth century there
were one hundred and fifty churches
of St. Joseph in the Carmelite Order

alone. His statue .s over the door
of the church at Avila, and beside
him stands the Child Jesus with a
saw in his hand. " For is not
this the carpenter's son?"

The church consists of a nave
with round arches and six side
chapels, the severity of which is
relieved by the paintings and inevi-
table gilt retables. A statue of St.
Joseph stands over the altar. The
grating of the nuns' choir is on the
gospel side, opposite which is a
painting of St. Teresa with pen in
hand and the symbolic white dove
at her ear. yesvs, Maria, Jose
are successively carved on the key-
stones of the arches of the nave.

The first chapel next the epistle
side of the altar contains the tomb
of Lorenzo de Cepeda, St. Teresa's
brother, who entered the army and
went to South America about the
year 1540, where he became chief
treasurer of the province of Quito.
Having lost his wife, a woman of
rare merit (it is related she died in
the habit of Nuestra Seilora de la
Merced), he returned to Spain with
his children, after an absence of
thirty four years, and established
himself at a country-seat near Avila.
He had a great veneration for his
sister, and placed himself under her
spiritual direction. Not to be sep-
arated from her, even in death, he
founded this chapel at San Jose's,
which he dedicated to his patron,
San Lorenzo, as his burial-place.
His tomb is at the left as you en-
ter, with the following inscription :
" On the 26th of June, in the year
1580, fell asleep in the Lord Lo-
renzo de Cepeda, brother of the
holy foundress of this house and
all the barefooted Carmelites. He
reposes in this chapel, which he
erected."

In the same tomb lies his daugh-
ter Teresita, who entered a novice

Avila.

171

at St. Joseph's at the age of thir-
teen and died young, an angel of
innocence and piety.

Another chapel was founded by
Caspar Daza, a holy priest of
Avila, who gathered about him a
circle of zealous clergymen devoted
to works of charity and the salva-
tion of souls. His reverence for
St. Teresa induced him to build
this chapel, which he dedicated to
the Nativity of the Virgin, with a
tomb in which he lies buried with
his mother and sister. It was he
who said the first Mass in the
church, Aug. 24, 1562, and placed
the Blessed Sacrament in the tab-
ernacle, after which lie gave the
veil to four novices, among whom
was Antonia de Hanao, a relative
of St. Teresa's, who attained to
eminent piety under the guidance
of St. Peter of Alcantara, and died
prioress of the Carmelites of
Malaga, where her memory is still
held in great veneration. At the
close of this ceremony St. Peter of
Alcantara, of the Order of St. Fran-
cis ; Pedro Ybanez, the holy Domin-

I ican, and the celebrated Balthazar
Alvarez, of the Society of Jesus,
offered Masses of thanksgiving.
What a reunion of saints ! On that
day the birthday of the discalced
Carmelites St. Teresa laid aside
her family name, and took that of
Teresa de Jesus, by which she is
now known throughout the Chris-
tian world.

Among the early novices at San
Jose was a niece of St. Teresa's,
Maria de Ocampo, beautiful in per-
son and gifted in mind, who, from
the age of seventeen, resolved to
be the bride of none but Christ.
She became one of the pillars of
the order, and died prioress of the

' convent at Valladolid, so venerated
for her sanctity that Philip III.

| went to see her on her death-bed,

and recommended himself and the
kingdom of Spain to her prayers.
Her remains are in a tomb over
the grating of the choir in the Car-
melite convent at Valladolid, sus-
pended, as it were, in the air, among
other holy virgins who sleep in the
Lord.

Another niece of St. Teresa's,*
who belonged to one of the noblest
families of Avila, also entered the
convent of San Jose. Her father,
Alonso Alvarez, was himself regard-
ed as a saint. Maria was of rare
beauty, but, though left an orphan
at an early age with a large fortune,
she rejected all offers of marriage
as beneath her, and finally chose
the higher life. All the nobility of
Avila came to see her take the veil.
Here her noble soul found its true
sphere. She rose to a high degree
of piety, and succeeded St. Teresa
as prioress of the house.

Another chapel at San Jose, that
of St. Paul, at the right as you go
in, was founded by Don Francisco
de Salcedo, a gentleman of Avila,
who was a great friend of St. Tere-
sa's, as well as his wife, a devout
servant of God and given to good
works. St. Teresa says he lived a
life of prayer, and in all the perfec-
tion of which his state admitted, for
forty years. For twenty years he
regularly attended the theological
course at the convent of St. Tho-
mas, then in great repute, and after
his wife's death took holy orders.
He greatly aided St. Teresa in her
foundations, and accompanied her
in her journeys. He lies buried in
his chapel of St. Paul.

Not far from St. Joseph's is the
church of St. Emilian, in the tri-
bune of which Maria Diaz, also a
friend of St. Teresa's, spent the last
forty years of her life in perpetual

*See Life of 'St. Teresa.

172

Avila.

adoration of the Blessed Sacrament,
which she called her dear neighbor,
never leaving her cell, excepting to
go to confession and communion
at St. Gines; for she was under the
direction of Balthazar Alvarez.
She had distributed all her goods
to the poor, and now lived on alms.
The veil that covers the divine
Presence in the Sacrament of the
Altar was rent asunder for her, and,
when she communed, her happiness
was so great that she wondered if
heaven itself had anything more to
offer. St. Teresa saying one day
how she longed to behold God,
Maria, though eighty years of age,
and bowed down by grievous in-
firmities, replied that she preferred
to prolong her exile on earth, that
she might continue to suffer. "As
long as we remain in the world,"
she said, " we can give something
to God by supporting our pains for
his love; whereas in heaven noth-
ing remains but to receive the re-
ward for our sufferings." Dying in
the odor of sanctity, she was so
venerated by the people that she
was buried in the choir of the
church, at the foot of the very
tabernacle to which her adoring
eyes had been unceasingly turned
for forty years.

We have mentioned, too briefly
for our satisfaction, some of the
persons, noted for their eminent
piety, who made Avila, at least in
the sixteenth century, a city de los
Santos. It is a disappointment not
to find here the tomb of her who is
the crowning glory of the place.
The expectations of Lorenzo de

Cepeda were not realized. He does
not sleep in death beside his saint-
ed sister. The remains of St.
Teresa are at Alba de Tormes,
where she died, in a shrine of jasper
and silver given by Ferdinand VII.
It stands over the high altar of the
Carmelite church, thirty feet above
the pavement, where it can be seen
from the choir of the nuns, and ap-
proached by means of an oratory
behind, where they go to pray.
Her heart, pierced by the angel, is
in a reliquary below.

We left Avila with regret. Few
places take such hold on the heart.
For those to whom life has nothing
left to offer but long sufferance it
seems the very place to live in.
The last thing we did was to go to
the brow of the hill by San Vicente,
and take a farewell look at the con-
vent of the Incarnation, where still
so many

u Willing hearts wear quite away their earthly
stains "

in one of the fairest, happiest of
valleys. How long we might have
lingered there we cannot say, had
not the carriage come to hurry us
to the station. And so, taking up
life's burden once more, which we
seemed to have laid down in this
City of the Saints, we went on our
pilgrim way, repeating the lines St.
Teresa wrote in her breviary :

11 Nada te turbe,
Nada te espante,
Todo se pasa.
Dios no se muda.-

t La pacienza
Todo se alcanza,
Quien a Dios tiene,
Nada le falta ;
Solo Dios basta."

Let nothing disturb thee,
Let nothing affright thee ;
All passeth away.
God alone changeth not.
Patience to all things
Reacheth, and he who
Fast by God holdeth,
To him naught is wanting
Alone God sufficeth.

Teresa. _

ST. TERESA.

" To suffer or to die."

THE air came laden with the balmy scent

Of citron*grove and orange; far beyond

The cloister wall, like towering battlement,

Sierra's frowning range rich colors donned

From ling'ring Day-Star's robe ; and brilliant hues

Floated like banners on palatial clouds.

Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;

Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.

Below Avila lay ; its cross-lit spires

Blended their even-chime with seraph lyres;

O'er mount and vale pealed out their call to' prayer,

And stole with joy upon the list'ning air.

Within the cloister's fragrant, bowery shade,

Gemmed with Espana's blooms 'mid velvet lawns,

Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,

Teresa muses ; on her chaste brow dawns

A light celestial peace and hope and love.

The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,

Is draped in Carmel's saintly robe and veil.

The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyes

Whose gaze has revelled in the courts above,

Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guise

On image of the Crucified within

Her fingers' slender clasp ; in sacred trance

Now rapt, its mysteries are revealed ; dark sin

In ghastly horror rises ; now her glance

On bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once more

Upon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,

The cross hangs trembling; o'er her soul,

Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;

And burning words her holy passion tell,

Like fountain gushing from her heart's deep cell :

" O earth ! break forth in groans ; ease thou my pain !
Ye rivers, ocean, weep ! My Love is slain !

My Jesus dies, and I
I cannot die, but through this exile moan
A stranger, midst of multitudes alone,

And vainly seek to fly

Where harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;
My solace here, to suffer or to die !

" O Jesus ! long and wildly have I striven,
By fast and penance this vile body driven
To thy sweet yoke to yield;

St* Teresa.

And agonies of death have seized this frame,
Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,

Thou, thou alone my shield.
A bower of roses ! looms so steep and high
The path I strain, to suffer or to die !

** Thou walk'st before ! O thorn-lined patli and cross !
A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,

Nor fear the dark, dark night.
Love strains my sorrows to my heart with grasp
Stronger than aught on earth, save God's dear clasp

Of soul beloved. The height
Will soon appear ; the glory I descry :
Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die !

" Augment my woes ! Let flesh and spirit share
Each separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,

Nor drop of comfort blend.
Let death's stern anguish be my daily bread,
Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head

Pain, torture to the end ;
And while death's angel seals my glazing eye,
Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die ! "

Great soul ! be comforted : thy prayer is heard

More huge and terrible than human word

May utter, mortal heart conceive, the throng

Of woes that haste from Calvary to greet

Thy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrong

Shall make of thee their jest ; as purest wheat

Thou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim ;

Slander, the hydra-tongned, shall cloud thy name ;

Treason with thee break bread ; toil, hunger, cold,

Thy daily 'tendants far from these sweet bowers.

A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,

But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hours

Through centuries to come, and learn of thee

The path to peace, and prayer's sweet mystery.

The seraph waits with flaming lance to dart

The fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,

And up, far up the Mount of God will lead

Thee face to face, as patriarch of old,

With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,

And its resplendent mysteries unfold

To future doctors of the sacred lore.

Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!

While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,

Teresa's seraph-soul its plaint shall pour

Unsated yet : " More suffering, Lord, yet more ! "

M. S. P.

Six Sunny Months.

'75

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE HOUSE OF YORKE," GRAPES AND THORNS, ' ETC. , ' ,

CHAPTER VI.

BIANCA'S FESTA.

BIANCA'S birthday coming, they
celebrated it by a little trip into the
country. It was getting late for ex-
cursions, the weather being hot even
for the last of May. But on the
day before the proposed journey a
few ragged clouds, scudding now
and then across the sky, promised
refreshment. Clouds never come to
Rome for nothing ; even the smallest
fugitive mist is a herald ; and the
family, therefore, looked anxiously
to see if they were to be kept at
home the next day if the herald
announced a royal progress, short
and splendid, or a long siege of
rainy days.

They were sauntering, late in the
afternoon, through a street of the
Suburra, on one of those aimless
walks that hit the mark of pleasure
far oftener than planned pleasure-
seeking does, and, seeing at their
left a steep grade that ended in a
stair climbing through light and
shadow up the hillside, and going
out under a dark arch into the
light again, they followed it with-
out asking questions, and presently
found themselves in a quiet piazza
surrounded by churches and con-
vents as silent and, apparently, un-
inhabited as a desert. The most
living thing was a single lofty palm-
tree that leaned out against the sky.
A wall hid the base of it, where one
would not have been surprised to
have found a lion sleeping.

Entering the portico of the near-

est church, they saw what might
have been taken for two ancient,
mossy statues, seated one at either
side of the door, one representing
a man as ragged and gray as Rip
Van Winkle after his nap, the other
a woman well fitted to be his com-
panion. The statues stirred, how-
ever, at the sound of steps, extend-
ed their withered hands, and com-
menced a sort of gabbling appeal,
in which nothing was distinguish-
able but the inevitable qualche cosa.
Inside the church, beside the
beautiful Presence indicated by the
ever-burning lamp, there was but
one person, a gigantic man, all
white, who sat leaning forward a
little, with the fingers of his right
hand tangled in his beard. They
saw him gazing, almost glaring, at
them across the church as they
seated themselves near the door
after a short adoration. The paint-
ed roof invited their eyes to glimpses
of heaven, the tribune walls shone
with the story of St. Peter liberated
by an angel, and the antique col-
umns told of pagan emperors whom
they had served before they were
raised to hold a canopy over the
head of the King of kings; but
through them all, becoming every
moment more importunate and ter-
rible, the stare of those motion 1
stony eyes drew theirs with an un-
comfortable fascination, and the fig-
ure seemed to lean more forward,
as if about to stride toward them,

Six Sunny Mont/is.

and the fingers to move in the
beard, as if longing to catch and
toss them out of the church.

" He appears to resent our not
saluting him," Mr. Vane said. " I
do not need an introduction. Sup-
pose we go to him before he comes
clattering down the nave to us !"

They rose, and, with a diffidence
amounting almost to fear, went up
the aisle to pay their respects to
Michael Angelo's Moses.

" O Mr. Vane !" the Signora
whispered, suddenly touching his
arm, " does he look as if he went
up the mountain to bring down
Protestantism?"

She said it impulsively, and was
ashamed of herself the next mo-
ment. He was not offended, how-
ever, but smiled slightly, and, feel-
ing the touch, drew her hand into
his arm. " He doesn't look like a
man who would carry any sort of
ism about long."

He was looking at the Moses as
he spoke ; but he felt the dissatis-
faction which the lady at his side
did not indicate by word or motion,
and added after a moment : " It
must be owned that Protestantism
has reduced the stone tables to
dust, and that your church is the
only one that has grav.en laws."

She did not venture to press him
any farther. The question with
him, then, was evidently whether
graven laws were necessary. He
was not at all likely to write his
faith in the dust of the sects.

" It is the most uncomfortable
marble person in Rome," she said
of the Moses. " I always have a
feeling that it is never quite still;
that he has turned his face on being
interrupted in something, as if he
had been talking with God here
alone, and were waiting for people
to go and leave him to continue the
conversation. He will watch us

out the door, though. I wonder if
he can see through the leathern
curtain ? Come, little girls, we are
going."

Bianca had a rose in her belt,
and, as the others walked slowly
away, she slipped across the church
and threw it inside the railing be-
fore the Blessed Sacrament, repeat-
ing from the Canticle of St. Francis
of Assisi, which they had been read-
ing with their Italian teacher the
evening before :

" Laudate sia il mio Signer per la nostra
Madre terra, la quale
Ci sostenta, e nudrisce col produrre
Tanta diversiti
D'erba, di fiori e frutti."

" They speak of the Blessed Sac-
rament here as // Santissimo" she
heard the Signora say when she
joined them at the door, "It is
beautiful ; but I prefer the Spanish
title of ' His Majesty.' One would
like to be able to ask, on entering a
church, * At which altar is His Ma-
jesty ?' It sounds like a live faith.
Isn't that palm beautiful ? And do
you see the ghost of Lucretia Bor-
gia up in her balcony there ? That
is, or was, her balcony. Dear me !
what an uncanny afternoon it is.
I quite long to get among common
people."

In fact, a solid post of snow-
white cloud showed like a motion-
less figure over the balcony, chang-
ing neither shape nor position while
they looked at it. There was, evi-
dently, something behind worth see-
ing, and they took a carriage to
the Janiculum for a better view.
When they reached the parapet of
San Pietro in Montorio, they saw
the horizon beyond the city bound
by a wonderful mountain-range not
the accustomed Sabine Apennines
and Monte Cimino ; these had dis-
appeared, and over their places rose
a solid magnificence of cloud that

Six Sunny Months.

177

made the earth and sky look un-
stable. Ruby peaks splintered here
and there against the blue in sharp
pinnacles, their sides cleft into gorges
of fine gold, their bases wrapped
about with the motionless smoke
and flame of a petrified conflagra-
tion. Beneath all were rough mass-
es of uneasy darkness, in which
could be seen faintly the throb of a
pulse of fire. The royal progress
had begun, and promised to be a
costly one to some. The poor far-
mers would have to pay, at least.

They leaned on the parapet, and
took a new lesson in shape and
color from the inexhaustible skies,
and the Signora told them one of
the many legends of the Janiculum.

" It is said that after the Flood
Noe came here to live, held in
high honor, as we may well imagine,
by his descendants. As time pass-
ed, after his death, the truth be-
came mixed with error, and the
patriarch Noe became the god
Janus, with two faces, because he
had seen the old world and the
new. So all antique truth, left to
human care, became corrupted lit-
tle 'by little. It was only when the
Holy Spirit came down to stay on
earth that truth could be preserved
unadulterated. ' Teaching you all
truth.' Am I preaching ? Excuse
me !"

Turning her face, as she spoke
slowly and dreamily, she had found
Mr. Vane looking at her with a
steady and grave regard which did
not evade, but lingered an instant,
when it met hers. She recollected
that he had not her faith, and
thought he might be displeased a
little at having alien doctrines so
constantly held up before him.

On the contrary, he was admir-
ing her fair, pale face, which the
glowing west and a glowing thought
were tinting with soft rose, and was
VOL. xxiv. 12

thinking he had never known a
woman who so habitually lived in
a high atmosphere, who so easily
gathered about her the beauties of
the past and the present, and who
had so little gossip to talk. When
she descended to trifling things, it
was to invest them with a charm
that made them worthy of notice
as pretty and interesting trifles, but
never to elevate them to places they
were not made for. Besides, he
liked her way of talking a certain
cool sweetness of manner, like the
sweetness of a rose, that touched
those who came near, but was not
awakened by their presence, and
would be as sweet were no one by
to know. He glanced at her again
when she was again looking off
thoughtfully into the west, and
marked the light touch with gold
the strands of a braid that crowned
her head under the violet wreath.
She was certainly a very lovely wo-
man, he thought. Why had she
never married ?

For, though we call her Signora,
the Vanes' padrona was, in fact, a
signorina.

"Well, what is it?" she asked
smilingly, turning again, aware of
his eyes. She was one of those
persons who always feel the stress,
of another mind brought to bear on>
them. "You should tell me what
it is."

The two girls had gone to a little
distance, and he ventured to put
the question.

" It is an impertinence," he said
hastily, " but I was wondering why
you never married. You are thirty-
five years old, and have had time
and opportunities. If you com-
mand me to ask no more, I shall
not blame you."

" It is not an impertinence," she
replied quite easily. " There is no
tragedy hidden behind my * maiden

178

Six Sunny Months.

meditation.' The simple truth is
that I have never had an offer from
any one whom I could willingly or
possibly promise to love, honor, and
obey for my whole life, though I
have refused some with regret ; and
if I have known any person to whom
I could have so devoted myself, no
approach on his part and no con-
sciousness on mine have ever reveal-
ed the fact to me. My mind and
life were always full. My mother
taught me to love books and nature,
and said nothing about marriage.
There is nothing like having plenty
to think of. Are you satisfied ?"

" Perfectly," he replied, but seem-
ed not altogether pleased. Perhaps
he would have found a less self-
sufficing woman more interesting
and amiable. " Still, I beg your
pardon for a question which, after
all, no one should ask. One never
knows what may have happened in
a life."

" That is true," she replied.
" And it is true that the question
might be to some an embarrassing
one to answer. It does not hurt
.me, however."

" Papa does not allow us to ask
questions," Isabel said a little com-
plainingly, having caught a few
words of their talk. " You have no
idea how sharply he will speak to
us, or, at Least, look at us, if he
hears us asking the simplest ques-
tion that can be at all personal.
And yet people question us un-
mercifully. I think one might re-
tort in self-defence."

" How I wish you could have a
larger number of pupils than these
two, Mr. Vane!" the Signora sighed.
" I would like to send some of my
lady friends to school to you. The
questions that some ladies, who
consider themselves well bred, will
ask, are astonishing. Indeed, there
is. I think, more vulgarity in fine

society than among any other class
of people in the world. Delicacy
and refinement are flowers that need
a little shade to keep their fresh-
ness. I have more than once been
shocked to see, in a momentary re-
velation, how slight was the differ-
ence of character between a bold,
unscrupulous virago of the streets,
and some fine lady when an un-
pleasant excitement had disturbed
the thin polish of manner with
which she was coated. Madame
de Montespan not a model by any
means, though relates that, when
she came to Paris to be trained for
polite life, among the admonitions
and prohibitions, one of the strong-
est was that she must not ask ques-
tions. Not long ago, on thinking
over a conversation I had with n
lady whom I had known just three
weeks, I found* that these questions
had been propounded to me in the
course of it : How old are you ?
Who visits you ? What is your in-
come? Have'you any money laid
up? Have you sold your last
story ? To whom have you sold it ?
How much do they pay you ? Is
it paid for ? Of course the lady
was fitting herself to speak with
authority of my affairs."

The Signora made an impatient
motion of the shoulders, as if throw-
ing off a disagreeable burden.
"How did we fall into this misera-
ble subject ? Let us walk about
awhile and shake it off. We might
go into the church and say a little
prayer for poor Beatrice Cenci,
who is buried here. One glance at
Piombo's Scourging of Christ, one
thought of that girl's terrible tra-
gedy, will scorch out these petty
thoughts, if one breath of the Lord's
presence should not blow them
away."

She hurried up the steps and ran
into the church, as one soiled and

Six Sunny Months.

dusty with travel rushes into a bath.
Coming out again, they strolled
back into the gardens, and looked
off over the green sea of the luxu-
riant Campagna, where St. Paul's
Church floated like an ark, half
swamped in verdure and flowers,
and a glistening bend of the Tiber
bound the fragrantly breathing
groves like a girdle, the bridge
across it a silver buckle. Beneath
the wall that stopped their feet a
grassy angle of the villa beyond
was red with poppies growing on
their tall stems in the shade. So
everywhere in Italy the faithful soil
commemorates the blood of the
martyrs that has been sprinkled
over it, a scarlet blossom for every
precious drop, flowering century
after century : to flower in centuries
to come, till at last the scattered
dust and dew shall draw together
again into the new body, like scat-
tered musical notes gathering into
a song, and the glorified spirit shall
catch and weld them into one for
ever !

Looking awhile, they turned si-
lently back into the garden. The
two girls wandered among the flow-
ers ; Mr. Vane and the Signora walk-
ed silently side by side. Now and
then they stopped to admire a cam-
panile of lilies growing around a
stem higher than their heads, spring-
ing from the midst of a sheaf of
leaves like swords. One of these
leaves, five feet long, perhaps,
thrown aside by the gardener, lay
in the path. It was milk-white and
waxy, like a dead body, through its
thickness of an inch or two. Long,
purple thorns were set along its
sides and at the point, and a faint
tinge of gold color ran along the
centre of its blade. It was not a
withered leaf, but a dead one, and
strong and beautiful in death.

Mr. Vane glanced over the brist-

179

ling green point of the plant, and
up the airy stem where its white
bells drooped tenderly. " So God
guards his saints," he said.

Isabel came to them in some tre-
pidation with her fingers full of
small thorns. She had been steal-
ing, she confessed. Seeing that, in
all the crowds of. great, ugly cacti
about, one only had blossomed, she
had been smitten by a desire to
possess that unique flower.

" I called up my reasoning pow-
ers, as people do when they want
to justify themselves," she said,
"and I reasoned the matter out, till
it became not only excusable but
a virtue in me to take the flower.
I spare you the process. If only
you would pick the needles out of
my fingers, papa ! Isn't it a pretty
blossom ? It is a bell of golden
crystal with a diamond heart."

When the tiny thorns were ex-
tracted and the young culprit pro-
perly reproved for her larceny, the
clouds of the west had lost all their
color but one lingering blush, and
were beginning to catch the light
of the moon, that was sailing through
mid-air, as round as a bubble.
They went down the winding ave-
nue on foot, sending the carriage to
wait for them in the street below.
The trees over their heads were
full of blossoms like little flies with
black bodies and wide-spread, whit-
ish wings, and through the heaps
of these blossoms that had fallen
they could see a green lizard slip
now and then; the fountains plash-
ed softly, lulling the day to sleep.
Near the foot of the hill all the
lower wall of one of the houses was
hidden by skeins of brilliant, gold-
colored silk, hung out to dry, per-
haps, making a sort of sunshine in
the shady street.

It was a lovely drive home
through the Ave Marias ringing all

i8o

ix Sunny Months.

about, through the alternate gloom
arid light of narrow streets and open
piazze, where they spoke no word,
but only looked about them with
perhaps the same feeling in all
their minds :

" How good is our life the mere living !"

Not only the beauty they had
seen and their own personal con-
tentment pleased them ; the richness
and variety of the human element
through which they passed gave
them a sense of freedom, a fuller
breath than they were accustomed
to draw in a crowd. It was not a
throng of people ground and smooth-
ed into nearly the same habits and
manners, but a going and coming
and elbowing of individuals, many
of whom retained the angles of
their characters and manners in all
their original sharpness.

" The moon will be full to-mor-
row in honor of your festa" Isabel
said as they went into the house ;
"and there is a prospect that the
roads may be sprinkled."

The roads were sprinkled with a
vengeance; for the delectable moun-
tains of sunset came up in the small
hours and broke over the city in a
torrent. There had not been such
a tempest in Rome for years. It
was impossible to sleep through it,
and soon became impossible to lie
in bed. Not all their closing of
blinds and shutters could keep out
the ceaseless flashes, and the win-
dows rattled with the loud bursts
of thunder. The three ladies dress-
ed and went into the little sala,
where the Signora lighted two bless-
ed candles and sprinkled holy wa-
ter, like the old-fashioned Catholic
she was; and presently Mr. Vane
joined them.

" I should have expected to hear
more cultivated thunders here," he

said. " These are Goths and Van-
dals."

" Speak respectfully of those hon-
est barbarians," exclaimed the Sig-
nora. " They were strong and
brave, and some things they would
not do for gain. Do you recollect
that Alaric's men, when they were
sacking Rome, being told that cer
tain vessels of silver and gold were
sacred, belonging to the service of
the church, took the treasure on
their heads and carried it to St.
Peter's, the Romans falling into
the procession, hymns mingling
with their war-cries ? Fancy Victor
Emanuel's people making restitu-
tion ! Fancy Signer Bonghi and his
associates marching in procession
through the streets of Rome, bear-
ing on their heads the libraries they
have stolen from religious houses
to make their grand library at the
Roman College, which they have
also stolen. Honor to the bar-
barians ! There were things they
respected. Ugh ! what a flash.
And what about cultivated thun-
ders, Mr. Vane ?"

" Do you not know that there
are thunders and thunders ?" he
replied. " Some roll like chariot-
wheels from horizon to horizon,
rattling and crashing, to be sure,
but following a track. Others go
clumsily tumbling about, without
rhyme or reason, and you feel they
may break through the roof any
minute."

The rain fell in torrents, and
came running in through chinks of
the windows. The storm seemed
to increase every moment. Bianca
drew a footstool to the Signora's
side, and, seating herself on it, hid
her face in her friend's lap. Isabel
sought refuge with her father, hold-
ing his arm closely, and they all
became silent. Talk seems trivial
in face of such a manifestation

Six Sunny Months.

of the terrible strength of nature ; taken
and at night one is so much more
impressed by a storm, all the little
daylight securities falling off. They
sat and waited, hoping that each
sharp burst might be the culminat-
ing one.

While they waited, suddenly
through the storm broke loudly
three clear strokes of a bell.

" Oh !" cried Bianca, starting up.

" Fiilgitra frango" exclaimed
the Signora triumphantly. Four
strokes, five, and one followed with
the sweet and deliberate strength
of the great bell, then the others

181

them in a more serious man-
ner. Perhaps the presence of the
Signora, whose sentiments in such
matters he could not regard as child-
ish, and whose displeasure he could
not look upon with the natural supe-
riority of a father, put him a little
more on his guard. He glanced
at her now, biting his lip; but she
did not seem to have heard.

" May not the effect bell-ringing
has on tempests be accounted for
on natural principles?" Isabel ask-
ed, with the air of one making a
philosophical discovery.

" My dear Isabel, it is said that

joined and sang through the night the miracles of Christ may be so
like a band of angels.

"Brava, Maria Assunta!" ex-
claimed the Signora. "Where is
the storm, Mr. Vane?"

He did not answer.

accounted for," the Signora replied.
"But who is to account for the
natural

In fact,

with the ceasing of the fifteen min-
utes' ringing the storm ceased, and
there was left only a low growling
of spent thunders about the hori-
zon, and a flutter of pallid light
now and then. It was only the
next morning at the breakfast-table
that Mr. Vane thought to remark
that the bell-ringer of the basilica
must be a pretty good meteorolo-
gist, for he knew just when to strike
in after the last great clap.

"It was a most beautiful in-
cident," Bianca said seriously.
"Please do not turn it into ridi-
cule, papa!"

They were just rising from the
table, and, in speaking, the daugh-
ter put her arm around her father's
shoulder and kissed him, as if she
would assure him of her loving re-
spect in all that was human, even
while reproving him from the height
of a superior spiritual wisdom.

The father had been wont to re-
ceive these soft admonitions affec-
tionately, indeed, but somewhat
lightly. Lately, however, he had

principles? We have no
time to spare," she added brightly.
"The train starts in fifteen minutes.
Hurry, children ! "

But, brightly as she spoke, a slight
cloud settled over her feelings after
this little incident. She was not
displeased with Mr. Vane ; for she
had learned that no real irreverence
underlay these occasional gibes, and
had observed that they grew more
rare, and were rather the effect of
habit than of intention. She was
grateful to him, indeed, for the deli-
cacy and consideration he showed,
and for the patience with which he
submitted himself to a Catholic at-
mosphere and mode of life which
did not touch his convictions, though
it might not have been foreign to his
tastes.

"We are frequently as unjust to
Protestants as they are to us," she
constantly said to her over-zealous
friends. " If they are sincere in
their disbelief, it would show a lack
of principle in them to be over-in-
dulgent and complacent to us. You
must recollect that many a Pro-
testant cannot help believing us
guilty of something like, at least,

182

Six Sunny Months.

unconscious idolatry ; cannot help
having a sort of horror for some of
our ways. Besides, we must not
claim merit to ourselves for having
faith. ' Non nobis, Domine, rwn nobis,
sed no mini tuo da gloriam.' Then,
again, here is an inquiry worth
making : Look about among your
Catholic acquaintances, including
yourself among them, and ask, from
your knowledge of them and of
yourself, ' If the drama of salvation
were yet to be acted, and Christ
were but just come on earth, poor,
humble, and despised, how many
of these people would follow him ?
Would I follow him? What in-
stance of a sacrifice of worldly ad-
vantages, a giving up of friends and
happiness, a willingness to be de-
spised for God's sake, have I or
any of these given?' It is easy, it
is a little flattering, indeed, to one's
vanity, and pleasing to one's imagi-
nation, to stand in very good com-
pany, among people many of whom
are our superiors in rank and repu-
tation, and have our opponents fire
their poor little arrows at us. We
feel ourselves very great heroes and
heroines indeed, when, in truth, we
are no more than stage heroes, with
tinsel' crowns and tin swords, and
would fly affrighted before a real
trial. It is easy to talk, and those
who do the least talk the most and
the most positively. Some of the
noblest natures in the world are
outside of the fold, some of the
meanest are inside. God's ways
are not our ways, and we cannot
disentangle these things. Only we
should not take airs to ourselves.
When I see the primitive ardor and
nobleness of Christianity in a per-
son, I hold that person as inde-
pendent of circumstances, and am
sure that he would join the com-
pany of the fishermen to-day, if
they were but just called. The

others I do not wish to judge, ex-
cept when they make foolish pre-
tences."

The Signora had sometimes dis-
pleased some of her friends by talk-
ing in this manner and pricking
their vainglorious bubbles ; and
she consistently felt that, accord-
ing to his light, Mr. Vane was for-
bearing with his daughters and with
her, and that they should show some
forbearance with him. She was,
therefore, not displeased with him
for his unintentional mocking. Her
cloud came from another direction.
She found herself changing a little,
growing less evenly contented with
her life, alternating unpleasantly be-
tween moods of happiness and de-
pression. While she lived alone,
receiving her friends for a few
hours at a time, she had found her
life tranquil and satisfying. Sym-
pathy and kind services were always
at hand, and there was always the
equal or greater pleasure of sympa-
thy and kind services demanded to
make of friendship a double bene-
fit. But the question had begun to
glance now and then across her
mind whether she had been alto-
gether wise in taking this family
into her house, having before her
eyes the constant spectacle of an
affection and intimacy such as she
had left outside her own experi-
ence, and had no desire to invite or
admit, even while she felt its charm.
She, quite deprived of all family
ties, felt sometimes a loneliness
which she had never before experi-
enced, in witnessing the affection of
the father and his daughters ; and,
at the same time that she saw them
as enclosed in a magic circle from
which she was excluded, she looked
forward with dread to the time when
they should leave her, with a new
void in her life, and a serenity per-
manently disturbed, perhaps. There

Six Sunny Months.

'83

were l,t le moments, short and sharp, dined to think that one element of

when she could have sympathized the picturesque must be inconsis-

w,th Faust casting aside with pas- tency. Ah! here are your white

s.onate contempt his worthless gifts Campagna cattle we have heard so

and learning at sight of the simple much about. Aren't they of rather

harvnin AOG r\f l/~vr<^ ^ .-. A ,, ,,i.u ,-,.. J

happiness of love and youth.

But these moments and moods
were short and disconnected. She
was scarcely aware of them, scarce-
ly remembered that each, as it came,

a bluish color ?"

"But look and see what they are
eating, papa," Bianca said. "No
wonder it turns them blue."

The ground ail about was deeply

was not the first, and her life flow- colored with blue flowers, in the

ed between them always pleasantly, midst of which these lanr e white

sometimes joyfully. She was quite cattle wandered, feeding lazily as

gay and happy when they ran down if eating were a pleasure not a

to the carrin ge and hurried to the
station.

The morning was delicious, every

necessity. They were like people
reading poetry.

We do not often have such a

ing all with a delicate softness that
was to sunshine as contentment is
to joy. Here and there a deep
shadow slept on the landscape.
Our little party took possession of
a first-class car, and seated, each
at a corner of it, were every mo-

thing washed clean and fresh by day here," the Signora said, " and

the plentiful shower. A light, to me the clouds "are a luxury. I

pearly cloud covered the sky, veil- own that I have sometimes grown

weary of seeing that spotless blue
overhead week after week, month
after month, even. Clouds are ten-
der, and give infinite lights and
shades. The first winter I spent in
Rome there were a hundred days
in succession of windless, cloudless,

ment calling attention to some new golden weather, beginning in Octo-

beauty. Isabel glanced with de-
light along the great aqueduct

lines and the pictures they framed,

all blurred and swimming with the

birds with which the stone arches

were alive ; Bianca watched the

mountain, her e\ >js full of poetical

fancies ; and Mr Vane presently fell

in love with a square of solid green

he espied in the midst of the bare

Campagna, a little paradise, where

the trees and flowers seemed to be

bursting with luxuriance over the

walls, and regarding with astonish-
ment the dead country about them,

that stretched off its low waves and

ber, and lasting till after New Year's
day. Then came a sweet three
days' rain, which enchanted me. I
went out twice a day in it."

" This reminds me," Isabel said,
"of our first visit to the White
Mountains. We went there under
the ; rainy Hyades,' apparently ; for
we hadn't seen sunshine for a week.
When we reached Lancaster, at
evening, the fog touched our faces
like a wet flannel, and there was a
fine, thick rain in the morning when
I awoke. About nine o'clock there
was a brightening, and I looked up
and saw a blue spot. The cloud*

undulations in strong and stubborn melted away from it, still raining,

contrast with that redundant spot.
"Aladdin's lamp must have done
it," he said ; and after a moment
added, having followed the subject
a little in his own mind : " I am in-

and sunbeams shot across, but none
came through. First I saw a green
plain with a river winding through
it, and countless little pools of
water, everything a brilliant green

1 84

Six Sunny Months.

and silver. A few trees stood about
knee-deep in grass and yellow grain.
And then, all at once, down through
the rain of water came a rain of
sunshine ; and, lastly, the curtains
parted, and there were the moun-
tains ! They are a great deal more
solemn looking and impressive than
these," she said, with a depreciatory
glance toward the Alban Moun-
tains. "On the whole, I think the
scene was finer and more brilliant."

As if in answer to her criticism,
a slim, swift sunbeam pierced sud-
denly the soft flecks of mist over-
head, shot across the shadowed
world, and dropped into Rome.
Out blazed the marvellous dome, all
golden in that light, the faint line
of its distant colonnades started into
vivid clearness with all their fine-
wrought arches, and for a moment
the city shone like a picture of a
city seen by a magic-lantern in a
dark room.

"Very true!" the young woman
replied quite coolly, as if she had
been spoken to. " We have no
such city, no such towns and vil-
lages and villas set on the moun-
tain-side ; but we are young and
fresh and strong, and we are brave,
which you are not. Your past, and
the ruins left of it, are all you
can boast of. We have a present
and a future. And after all," she
said, turning to her audience, who
were smilingly listening to this per-
fectly serious address, " it is un-
grateful of the sun to take the part
of Italy so, when we welcome him
into our houses, and they shut him
out. Why, the windows of the
Holy Father's rooms at the Vatican
.are half walled up."

" Maybe the sun doesn't consider
it such a privilege to come into our
houses," her father suggested.

" And as for Rome," the young
woman went on, " to me it seems

only the skull of a dead Italy, and
the Romans the worms crawling
in and out. But there! I won't
scold to-day. How lovely every-
thing is !"

The yellow-green vineyards and
the blue-green canebrakes came
in sight, the olive-orchards rolled
their smoke-like verdure up the
hills, and at length the cars slid be-
tween the rose-trees of the Frascati
station, and the crowd of passen-
gers poured out and hurried up
the stairs to secure carriages to
take them to the town. The family
Ottanf-Otto, finding themselves in
a garden, did not make haste to
leave it, but stayed to gather each
a nosegay, nobody interfering.
More than one, indeed, of the pas-
sengers paused long enough to
snatch a rosebud in passing.

Going up then to the station-yard,
they found it quite deserted, except
for the carriage that had been sent
for them, and another drawn by a
tandem of beautiful white horses,
in whose ears their owner, one of
the young princes living near the
town, was fastening the roses he
had just gathered below. The
creatures seemed as vain of them-
selves as he evidently was proud
of them, and held their heads
quite still to be adorned, tossing
their tails instead, which had been
cut short, and tied round with a gay
scarlet band.

Every traveller knows that Fras-
cati is built up the sides of the Tus-
culan hills, looking toward Rome,
the railway station on a level witli
the Campagna, the town rising
above with its countless street-
stairs, and, still above, the magnifi-
cent villas over which look the ruins
of ancient Tusculum. On one of the
lower streets of the town, in Palazzo
Simonetti, lived a friend of the Sig-
nora, and there rooms had been

Six Sunny Months.

provided for the family, and every
preparation made for their comfort.
They found a second breakfast
awaiting them, laid out in a room
looking up to one of the loveliest
nooks in the world the little piazza
of the duomo vecchio, with its great
arched doorway, and exquisite foun-
tain overshadowed by a weeping
willow. If it had been a common
meal, they would have declined it ;
but it was a little feast for the
eyes rather : a dish of long, slim
strawberries from Nemi, where
strawberries grow every month in
the year by the shores of the beau-
tiful lake, in a soil that has not
yet forgotten that it once throbbed
with volcanic fires; tiny rolls, ring-
shaped and not much too large for
a finger-ring, and golden shells of
butter; all these laid on fresh vine-
leaves and surrounded by pomegra-
nate blossoms that shone like fire in
the shaded room. The coffee-cups
were after-dinner cups, and so small
that no one need decline on the
score of having already taken coffee ;
and there was no sign of cream,
only a few lumps of sugar, white and
shining as snow-crust.

" It is frugal, dainty, and irre-
sistible," Mr. Vane said. " Let us
accept by all means."

They were going up to Tuscu-
lum, and, as the day was advanc-
ing, set off after a few minutes, go-
ing on foot. They had preferred
that way, being good walkers, and
having, moreover, a unanimous dis-
inclination to see themselves on don-
keys.

" A gentleman on a donkey is
less a gentleman than the donkey,"
Mr. Vane said. " I would walk a
hundred miles sooner than ride one
mile on a beast which has such short
legs and such long ears. The at-
mosphere of the ridiculous which
they carry with them is. of a cir-

cumference to include the tallest
sort of man. Besides, they have an
uncomfortable way of sitting down
suddenly, if they only feel a fly,
and that hurts the self-love of the
rider, if it doesn't break his bones."
"Poor little patient wretches!
how they have to suffer," said the
Signora. " Even their outcry, while
the most pitiful sound in the world,
a very sob of despairing pain, is
the height of the ridiculous. If
you don't cry hearing it, you must
laugh, unless, indeed, you should be
angry. For they sometimes make
a * situation' by an inopportune
bray, as a few weeks ago at the
Arcadia. The Academy was hold-
ing an adunanza at Palazzo Al-
temps, and, as the day was quite
warm and the audienc.e large, the
windows into the back court were
opened. The prose had been read,
and a pretty, graceful poetess, the

Countess G , had recited one of

her best poems, when a fine-look-
ing monsignore rose to favor us
with a sonnet. He writes and re-
cites enthusiastically, and we pre-
pared to listen with pleasure. He
began, and, after the first line, a
donkey in the court struck in with
the loudest bray I ever heard.
Monsignore continued, perfectly in-
audible, and the donkey continued,
obstreperously audible. A faint rip-
ple of a smile touched the faces
least able to control themselves.
Monsignore went on with admira-
ble perseverance, but with a some-
what heightened color. A sonnet
has but fourteen lines, and the
bray had thirteen. They closed
simultaneously. Monsignore sat
down ; I don't know what the
donkey did. One only had been
visible, as the other only had been
audible. The audience applauded
with great warmth and politeness.
* Who are they applauding,' asked

1 86

Six Sunny Months.

my companion of me ' the one
they have heard, or the one they
have not heard?' If it had been
my sonnet, I should instantly have
gone out, bought that donkey, and
hired somebody to throw him into
the Tiber."

" Here we are at the great /&**,
and here is the cathedral. See
how the people in the shops and
fruit-stands water their flowers!"

In fact, all the rim of the great
fountain-basin was set round with
a row of flower-pots containing
plants that were dripping in the
spray of the falling cascades. Just
out of reach of the spray were two
fruit- shops large enough to contain
the day's store and the chair of the
person who sold it. Temporary
pipes from the fountain conducted
water to the counters, where a tiny
fountain tossed its borrowed jet,
constantly renewed from the cool
cascade, and constantly returning
to the basin.

" We must take excelsior for our
motto," the Signora said to the two
girls, who wanted to stop and ad-
mire everything they saw. " We
are for the mountain-height now.
When we return, you may like to
dress up with flowers two shrines
on the road. I always do it when
I come this way."

They climbed the steep and rocky
lane between high walls, passed on
the one side the house where Car-
dinal Baronius wrote his famous
Annals, which had an interest too
dry to fascinate the two young la-
dies ; passed the wide iron gate of
a villa to left, and another to right,
giving only a glance at the para-
dises within ; passed the large paint-
ing of the Madonna embowered in
trees at the foot of the Cappucini
Avenue ; passed under the stone
portal, and the rod of verdant
shadow almost as solid, that form-

ed the entrance to Villa Tuscolana,
ravished now and then by glimpses
of the magnificent distance ; on into
the lovely wood-road, the ancient
Via Tusculana ; and presently there
they were at last in th birthplace
of Cato, the air-hung city that broke
the pride of Rome, and that, con-
quered at last, died in its defeat,
and remained for ever a ruin.

Not a word was spoken when they
reached the summit, and stood gaz-
ing on what is, probably, the most
magnificent view in the world.
Only after a while, when the three
new-comers began to move and
come out of their first trance of ad-
miration, the Signora named some
of the chief points in the landscape
and in the ruins. The old histori-
cal scenes starred up, the old mar-
vellous stories rushed back to their
memories, the mountains crowded
up as witnesses, and the towns,
with all their teeming life and
countless voices of the present hush-
ed by distance, became voluble
with voices and startling with life of
the past.

After a while they seated them-
selves in the shade of a tree, facing
the west, and silently thought, or
dreamed, or merely looked, as their
mood might be. Their glances shot
across the bosky heights that climb-
ed to their feet, and across the wide
Campagna, to where Rome lay like
a heap of lilies thrown on a green
carpet, and the glittering sickle of
the distant sea curved round the
world.

Day deepened about them in
waves. They could almost feel
each wave flow over them as the
sun mounted, touching degree after
degree of the burning blue, as a
hand touches octaves up an organ.
The birds sang less, and the cicali
more, and the plants sighed forth
all their perfume.

Six Sunny Months.

187

Isabel slipped off her shoes, and
set her white-stockinged feet on a
tiny laurel-bush, that bent kindly
under them without breaking, mak-
ing a soft and fragrant cushion.
All took off their hats, and drank
in the faint wind that was fresh,
even at noon.

" The first time I came here,"
the Signora said after a while, " was
on the festa of SS. Roch and Se-
bastian, in the heat of late summer-
time. That is a great day for Fras-
cati, for these two saints are their
protectors against pestilence, which
has never visited the city. When,
in '69, the cholera dropped one
night on Albano, just round the
mountain there a few miles, and
struck people dead almost like
lightning, and killed them on the
road as they fled to other towns, so
that many died, perhaps, from fear
and hofror, having no other illness,
none who reached Frascati in
health died. The nobility died as
well as the low, and the cardinal
bishop died at his post taking care
of his people. Whole families came
to Frascati, the people told me, fly-
ing by night along the dark, lonely
road, some half-starving ; for all the
bakers were dead, and there was
no bread except what was sent from
Rome. The saints they trusted
did not refuse to help them. In
Frascati they found safety. If any
died there, certainly none sickened
there. So, of course, the saints
were more honored than ever. I
sat here and heard the bells all
ringing at noon, and the guns firing
salutes, and saw the lovely blue
wreaths of smoke curl away over
the roofs after each salvo. In Italy
they do not praise God solely with
the organ, but with the timbrel and
the lute. Anything that expresses
joy and triumph expresses religious
joy and triumph, and the artillery

and military bands come out with
the candles and the crucifix to
honor the saint as well as the war-
rior. Then in the evening there
was the grand procession, clergy,
church choirs, military bands, cru-
cifixes, banners, women dressed in
the ancient costume of the town,
and the bells all ringing, the guns
all booming, and the route of the
procession strewn with fragrant
green. The evening deepened as
they marched, and their candles,
scarcely visible at first, grew bright-
er as they wound about the steep
streets and the illuminated piazzas.
All the houses had colored lamps
out of their windows, and there
were fireworks. But my noon up
here impressed me most. My two
guides, trusty men, and my only
companions, sat contentedly in the
shade playing Morra after their
frugal bread and wine. Sitting
with my back to them, only faintly
hearing their voices as they called
the numbers, I could imagine that
they were Achilles and Ajax, whom
you can see on an ancient Etruscan
vase in the Vatican playing the
same game. The present was quite
withdrawn from me. I felt like
Annus Mundi looking down on An-
nus Domini, and seeing the whole
of it, too. I could have stayed all
day, but that hunger admonished
me; for I had not been so provi-
dent as my guides, nor as I have
been to-day. Going down, how-
ever, just below the Capuchin con-
vent, I saw a man on a donkey com-
ing up, with a large basket slung at
each side of the saddle in front of
him. No one could doubt what
was under those cool vine-leaves.
He was carrying fresh figs up to
the Villa Tuscolana, where some
college was making their villigicttura.
I showed him a few soldi, and he
stopped and let me lift the leaves

188

Six Sunny Months.

myself. There they lay with soft
cheek pressed to cheek, large, black
figs as sweet as honey. The very
skins of them would have sweeten-
ed your tea. Where we stood a
little path that looked like a dry
rivulet-bed led off under the wall
of the convent grounds. When I
asked where it went, they answer-
ed,' To the Madonna.' We will go
there on our way down. Meantime,
has Isabel nothing hospitable to
say to us ?"

Miss Vane displayed immediately
the hmcheon she had been detailed
to prepare, a bottle of Orvieto, only
less delicate because richer than
champagne, a basket of cianbelli,
and lastly a box. "In the name
of the prophet, figs !" she said,
opening it. " They are dried, it is
true; but then they are from
Smyrna."

They drank felicissima festa to
Bianca, drank to the past and the
present, to all the world ; and Mr.
Vane, when their little feast was
ended, slipped a beautiful ring on
his younger daughter's finger. " To
remember Tusculuin by, my dear,"
he said ; and, looking at her wist-
fully, seeming to miss some light-
heartedness even in her smiles, he
added : " Is there anything you
lack, child ?"

She dropped her face to his arm
only in time to hide a blush that
covered it. " What could I lack?"
she asked.

But a few minutes afterward, while
the others recalled historical events
connected with the place, and the
Signora pointed out the cities and
mountains by name, the young girl
walked away to the Roman side,
and stood looking off with longing
eyes toward the west. She lacked
a voice, a glance, and a smile too
dear to lose, and her heart cried
out for them. She was not un-

happy, for she trusted in God, and
in the friend whose unspoken af-
fection absence and estrangement
had only strengthened her faith in ;
but she wanted to see him, or, at
least, to know how he fared. It
seemed to her at that moment that
if she should look off toward that
part of the world where he must
*be, fix her thoughts on him and
call him, he would hear her and
come. She called him, her tender
whisper sending his name jout
through all the crowding ghosts
of antiquity, past pope and king
and ambassador, poet and orator,
armies thrust back and armies tri-
umphant the little whisper winged
and heralded by a power older and
more potent than Tusculum or the
mountain whereon its ruins lie.

They went down the steep way
again, gathering all the flowers they
could find, and, when they reached
the shrine at the turn of the Cap-
pucini road, stuck the screen so full
of pink, white, and purple blossoms
that the faces of Our Lady and the
Child could only just be discerned
peeping out. Then they turned
into the pebbly path under the
Cappucini wall, where the woods
and briers on one side, and the
wall on the other, left them room
only to walk in Indian file ; came
out on the height above beautiful
Villa Lancilotti, with another burst
of the Campagna before their eyes,
and the mountains with their coro-
nets of towns still visible at the
northeast over the Borghese Ave-
nue and the solid pile of Mondra-
gone.

Here, set so high on the wall that
it had to be reached by two or three
stone steps, was the picture of the
Madonna, looking off from its al-
most inaccessible height over the
surrounding country. It was visi-
ble from the villas below, and many

Six Sunny Months.

a faithful soul far away had breath-
ed a prayer to Mary at sight of it,
though nothing was visible to him
but the curve of high, white wall
over the trees, and the square frame
of the picture. Now and then a
devout soul came through the lone-
ly and thorny path to the very foot
of the shrine, and left a prayer and
a flower there.

The others gave their flowers to
Bianca, who climbed the steps, and
set a border of bloom inside the
frame, and pushed a flower through
the wires to touch the Madonna's
hand, and set a little ring of yellow
blossoms where it might look like a
crown.

As she stood on that height, visi-
ble as a speck only if one had look-
ed up from the villa, smiling to her-
self happily while she performed her
sweet and unaccustomed task, down
in the town below, a speck like her-
self, stood a man leaning against
the eagle-crested arch of the Bor-
ghese Villa gate, and watching her
through a glass. He saw the slight,
graceful form, whose every motion
was so well known to him ; saw the
ribbon flutter in her uncovered hair,
the little gray mantle dropped off
the gray dress into the hands of
the group at the foot of the steps ;
saw the arms raised to fix flower
after flower ; finally, when she turn-

ed to come dovvn, fancied that he
saw her smile and blush of plea-
sure, and, conquered by his imagi-
nation, dropped the glass and held
out his arms, for it seemed that she
was stepping down to him.

The party went home tired and
satisfied, and did not go out again
that day. It was pleasure enough
to sit in the westward windows as
the afternoon waned and watch the
sun go down, and see how the mist
that for ever lies over the Campagna
caught his light till, when lie burn-
ed on the horizon in one tangle of
radiating gold, the whole wide space
looked as if a steady rainbow had
been straightened and drawn across
it, every color in its order, glowing
stratum upon stratum pressed over
sea and city and vineyard, blur-
ring all with a splendid haze, till the
earth was brighter than, even the
cloudless sky.

" It is so beautiful that even the
stars come out before their time to
look," the Signora said. " Your
Madonna on the wall can see it
too, Bianca. But as for the poor
Madonna in her nest of trees, she
can see nothing but green and flow-
ers."

" I wonder why I prefer the Ma-
donna of the wall?" asked Bianca
dreamily. " I feel happy thinking
of it."

TO BE CONTINUED.

190

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

TEXT-BOOKS IN CATHOLIC COLLEGES.

AFTER many advances on the part
of editors and correspondents to-
wards approaching this question
in a tangible form, the Rev. Dr.
Engbers, a professor of the Sem-
inary of Mount St. Mary's of the
West, Cincinnati, Ohio, has been
the first to take up the subject in
earnest. Often have we heard men,
admirably adapted to handle this
question, express the wish that some
one would come forward and pro-
p-ose a system of improvement : we
need better books, we are at the
mercy of non- Catholic compilers,
in every department of learning,
except divinity. "Well, why do
you not set to work and give us
such text-books as can be safely
adopted in our schools ? books of
history, sacred, ecclesiastical, secu^
lar; books of mental or rational
and natural philosophy ; treatises on
the philosophy of religion ; books
of geography, sadly wanted to let our
boys know how wide the Catholic
world is ; then grammars ; then
Greek and Latin text-books all
and each of them fit to be placed in
the hands of Catholic young men
and women, for the salvation of
whose souls some one will be called
to an account, etc. etc." " Oh ! you
see, I cannot tax my time to such
an extent; I cannot afford it. Then
do you think I can face the apathy,
perhaps the superciliousness, of
those who should encourage, but
will be sure to sneer at me and
pooh-pooh me down ? No, no ; I
cannot do it." Time and again have
we heard such remarks. But, luck-
ily, it seems as if at this propitious
moment rerum nascitur ordo. All

praise to the Rev. Dr. Engbers !
Not only has he raised his voice
and uttered words expressive of
a long, painful experience, and
resolutely cried out that some-
1,hing must be done, but has actu-
ally addressed himself to the work,
and has broken ground on a road
whereon we can follow him, wheth-
er pulling with him or not. That
we need text-books for our schools is
adniitted by all who give a thought
to the importance of a proper train-
ing in Catholic schools that train-
ing which should distinguish the
Catholic citizen from all others.
There is no doubt but a judicious
training in a properly-conducted
Catholic college will stamp the pu-
pil with a character we may dare
to call indelible.

There must needs be a character
imprinted on the mind of the gradu-
ate, whether he goes forth from the
halls of his Alma Mater as a literary
man or a philosopher, a scientist
or a professional man. We cannot
refrain from transcribing the beau-
tiful sentiments uttered by the Hon.
George W. Paschal, in his annual
address before the Law Department
of the University of Georgetown, on
the 3d of June, 1875 :

" You go forth from an institution long
honored for its learning, its high moral
character, its noble charities, which have
been bestowed in the best possible way
mental enlightenment, and its watchful
sympathy for its learned children spread
all over the land. The fathers of that
institution expect much from you, and
they will be ever ready to accord to you
every possible encouragement. -Your
immediate instructors in your profession

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

cannot fail to feel for you the deepest
interest."

Surely the gist of the above is
that the graduates who " stand up-
on the threshold of their profession,
holding passes to enter the great
arena" as Mr. Daly has so happily
expressed it in his valedictory on
the same occasion must bear im-
printed on their brows the parting
kiss of their Alma Mater.

Now, if bonum ex integrd causa,
malum ex quocumque dvfectu, every-
thing in a collegiate course must
tend to give the graduate a Catho-
lic individuality in the world of
science and of letters.

And here it is that we cannot
fail to admire the great wisdom of
the Holy Father, who, when the
question of classics in the Catholic
schools began to be mooted, expro-
fesso and in earnest, would not
sanction a total and blind exclusion
of the pagan classics for that
would be obscurantism but advised
the use of the classics, with a. proviso
that the rich wells of Christian clas-
sicism should not be passed by.

Then it cannot be gainsaid that
the use of pagan classics is neces-
sary in the curriculum of belles-
lettres, just as, if we may be al-
lowed the comparison, the study of
the sacred books is indispensable
to the student of divinity; although
even in Holy Writ there are pas-
sages which should not be wantonly
read, and much less commented
upon. *

And here we must differ from the
admirable letter of Dr. Engbers,
who certainly is at home on the
subject and makes some excellent
points. He avers that il is neither
possible nor necessary " to prepare
Catholic books for the whole extent
of a college education."

For brevity's sake we shall not
give his reasons, but shall limit

191

ourselves to our own views on the
subject.

In the first place, it is necessary
to prepare text-books of the classics
for our schools. For, surely, we
cannot trust to the scholar's hand
Horace, or Ovid, or even Virgil, as
they came from their authors ; and
this on the score of morality. Se-
condly, we have no hesitation in
saying that we do not possess as
yet a single Latin classic (to speak
of Latin alone) so prepared to meet
all the requirements of the youthful
student. We may almost challenge
contradiction when we assert that,
in all such editions as are prepared
for American schools, the passages
really difficult are skipped over.
True, it is many years since we had
an opportunity of examining such
works thoroughly ; but from what
we knew then, and have looked
into lately, we find no reason for a
change of opinion. The work of
such editions is peffunctorily done.
The commentators, annotators, or
whatsoever other name they may go
by, seem to have only aimed at doing
a certain amount of work somewhat
a la penny-a-liner ; but nothing
seems to be done con amore, and
much less according to thorough
knowledge. Let our readers point
to one annotator or editor of any
poet adopted in American schools
who is truly aesthetic in his labors.

Classics must, then, be prepared.
Dr. Engbers avers that we can
safely use what we have, no matter
by whom they have been prepared;
and in this we must willingly yield
to his judgment, because it would
be temerity in us, who are not a
professor and have so far led a
life of quite the reverse of classical
application, to make an issue with
him. But we must be allowed to
differ from him in that " we have
not the means to provide for all.

I 9 2

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

and our educators are unable to
satisfy the wants for the whole col-
lege course."

Let us bear in mind that we limit
our disquisition to the Latin clas-
sics for the present. What we say
about them will be equally applica-
ble to the Greek, as well as to the
authors of all nations.

It seems to us abundantly easy to
prepare books for this department.
Let a certain number of colleges,
schools, and seminaries join to-
gether, and through their faculties
make choice of a competent scholar.
Set him apart for one year for the
purpose of preparing a neat, cheap
school edition of the Latin classics
for our Catholic schools. He must
limit himself to the ^Etas aurea,
giving some of those authors in
their entirety, such as Nepos ; some
with a little pruning, such as the
sEneid ; others, &<g&\\\,summolibandi
calamo ; while of Cicero and Livy
we would advise* only selections for
a beginning. Of Cicero, e.g., give
us a few letters Ad Familiares, his
De Oratore, six Orations, Somnium
Scipionis, DC Officiis, and De Se-
nectute. From what we are going
to say it will be evident that no
more will be necessary at first.
Teach the above well, et satis super-
que satis !

Exclude from your classes the
cramming system. Prof. Cram is
the bane, the evil genius of our
classical halls. Supporters of the
" forty lines a day " rule, listen ! It
was our good fortune to learn the
classics in a Jesuit college. We
were in rhetoric. Our professor
gave Monday and Wednesday after-
noons to Virgil, Tuesday to Homer,
and Friday to Horace. Of Virgil
we read book vi., and of Horace
the third book of Odes that is, what
we did read of them. The profes-
sor was a perfect scholar, an orator,

a poet, as inflammable as petroleum,
and as sensitive as the " touch-me-
not " plant, with a mind the quick-
est we ever knew, and a heart most
affectionate, besides being truly a
man of God. Well, the session had
entered its fourth month, and we had
gone through about three hundred
verses of Virgil, while from Horace
we were just learning not magna
modis tenuare parvis. One after-
noon the rector suddenly put in an
appearance with some of the pa-
trassi. As they had taken their
seats, the former asked what por-
tions of the Latin classics we had
been reading. "Cicero and Livy
of the prose, Horace and Virgil of
the poets." " But what part ?"
quoth he. "Any part," replied the
master. The rector looked puz-
zled ; the boys well, we do not
know, for we had no looking-glass,
nor did we look at one another
but perfectly astounded at the
coolness of the teacher. One thing,
however, all who have survived will
remember : the strange feeling that
seized us ; for " Was he going to
make a fool of every one of his
boys ?" We were eleven in the class.
It was a small college, in a pro-
vincial town, that has given some
very great men to the world, but
of which Lord Byron did not sing
enthusiastically. There we were :
on the pillory, in the stocks, billeted
for better for worse, for " what not ?"
The rector, with ill-disguised im-
patience? called for one of the boys,
and, opening Virgil at random,
chanced on the very death of
Turnus. The poor boy, pale and
trembling, began to read, and on
he went, while the relentless ques-
tioner seemed carried away by the
beauty of the passage, unconscious
of the torture to which he had
doomed the unlucky pupil. But,
no; we take the word back: be-

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

cause as he was advancing he seem-
ed to become more self-possessed,
and so much so that at the end he
described the last victim of the
Lavinian struggle with uncommon
pathos, until, with a hoarse sound
of his voice, he launched the soul
of the upstart sub umbras, just as
the teacher would himself have
read to us a parallel passage. It
was evident that, although he had
never before read those lines, he
had caught their spirit, and the re-
citation ended perfectly. Then, as
he was requested to render the
whole passage into vernacular, with
a fluent diction, choice words, and
not once faltering, he acquitted
himself with universal applause.
( )ne or two more boys were called
up, and the visitors took their leave
much pleased.

Then it was our turn to ask the
master why he had done that.
" Well, boys," said he, " I expect-
ed it all along. You see it now.
How many times you have wonder-
ed at my keeping you so long on
perhaps only three or four lines a
whole afternoon! Now you under-
stand. We have not read Virgil,
but we have studied Latin poetry,
and you have learned it. In future
we shall skim the poets here and
there, as I may choose, and at the
final exhibition you shall be ready
to read to the auditorium any part
of the Greek and Latin authors the
audience may think fit to call for."
And so we did, and did it well.

Once, being on a school com-
mittee, we asked the master of the
high-school and a learned man he
was why he hurried through so
many lines. " I cannot help it,"
said he ; " they must have read so
many lines [sic] when they present
themselves for examination at Har-
vard " ! Nor shall we omit here to
note that young men have failed in
VOL. xxiv. 13

193

their examinations to enter Har-
vard because, in sooth, they could
not get through the recitation. Pro I".
Agassiz himself told us that one
of his favorite students (whom we
knew well) failed because he could
not repeat verbatim a certain por-
tion of a treatise on some point of
natural philosophy. However, the
good professor insisted on the youth
being examined as to the sense, and
not, parrot-like, repeating sentence
after sentence, and the candidate
carried the palm.

This " recitation " system, the
"forty lines" routine, is a curse.
We are sure professors will bear us
out in our assertion. Dr. Becker, in
his excellent article in the Atneri-
can Catholic Quarterly, deals with
this matter in a very luminous style.
What use, then, of so many authors,
or of the whole of any one of them,
for a text-book ? Non multa scd mul-
tum, and multum inparvo. The bee
does not draw all that is garnered
in the chalice, but just that much
which is necessary to make the
honey. No wonder that so few are
endowed with the nescio quo sapore
vernaculo, as Cicero would call it.
We have treasured for the last three -
and-forty years the paper on which
we copied the description of the
war-horse, as rendered by our pro-
fessor of rhetoric, who gave two
lectures on it, bringing in and com-
menting on parallel descriptions in
prose and verse. Nearly half a
century has passed away, and those
two charming afternoons in that
old class-room are yet fresh in our
remembrance.

If some prelates have gone so far
as to exclude profane classics from
the schools in their seminaries alto-
gether, the Holy Father, on the
other hand, does not approve of
such indiscriminate ostracism ; nay,
he recommends that a judicious

'94

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

adoption be made of the pagan
classics, at the same time bringing
before the Catholic student the
great patterns of sacred writings
which have been preserved for us
from the Greek and Latin fathers.
Surely only a senseless man would
withhold from the " golden-mouth-
ed John " that meed of praise which
is allowed to the Athenian Demos-
thenes. Are they not both noble
patterns on which the youthful as-
pirant to forensic or ecclesiastical
eloquence should form himself?

And here it is that the necessity
of preparing Catholic text-books be-
comes self-evident. Outsiders can-
not furnish us with the materials
we need for a thorough and whole-
some Catholic training even more
important, in our estimation, when
we take into consideration that such
works in extenso are too costly and
far beyond the means of the aver-
age of scholars. Hence if we are
really in earnest in our desire of
having perfect Catholic schools,
such books must needs be prepared.

After we have carefully prepared
proper editions of the pagan clas-
sics, ALtatis aurece, for our schools,
what else have we to do to furnish
our arsenal with a well-appointed
complement? We must look about
for a choice of the best Christian
Latin classics. As for Christian
Latin poets of antiquity, the choice
will be less difficult, because there
is not an embarrassing wealth of
them, yet enough to learn how to
convey the holiest ideas in the
phraseology of Parnassus, how to
sing the praises of Our Lady with
the rhythm of the Muses.

It is well known that a new
departure is about to take place,
nay, has taken place, in the
Catholic schools of Europe. The
great patristic patterns of ora-
tory and poetry will in future be

held before the Catholic student
for his imitation and improvement.

The movement inside the Catho-
lic world has become known, be-
cause there is no mystery about it,
and the Catholic Church, faithful to
her Founder's example, does and
says everything "openly." The
debate on the classics is over, and
every one is satisfied of the necessity
of the new arrangement. Outside
the church some one stood on tip-
toe, arrectis auribus ; all at once
a clapping of hands -presto! The
chance is caught, the opportunity
improved. We have used pagan
classics in our schools as they
came from a non-Catholic press,
and we felt safe in adopting them !
Moreover, it has been, so far, next
to impossible to detail any one,
chosen from our bands, to prepare
new sets. Now a plan seems to be
maturing, and a line drawn, follow-
ing which one will know how to
work; and it is on this line that the
writer is adding his feeble efforts to
aid a great cause.

But what of the Christian clas-
sics ? Obstupescite, ca>li ! Harper &
Brothers have come to the rescue.
To them, then, we must suppliantly
look for help to open this avenue
of Christian civilization the blend-
ed instruction, in our schools, of
pagan and Christian training in
belles-lettres !

"Latin Hymns, with English Notes.
For use in schools and colleges. New
York : Harper & Bros., Publishers,
Franklin Square. 1875. Pp. 333.
121110, tinted paper, $i 75."

The book is to be the first of a
series of what maybe called sacred
classics. The second of the series,
already printed, is The Ecclesiastical
History of Eusebins ; it will be fol-
lowed by Tertullian and Athana-
goras (surely a worse choice as
regards style could not be made),

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

both in press. Then, "should the
series be welcomed, it will be con-
tinued with volumes of Augustine,
and Cyprian, and Lactantius, and
Justin Martyr, and Chrysostom,
and others; in number sufficient for
a complete college course."

From a notice intended to usher
the whole series before the public
we learn that " for many centuries,
down to what is called the pagan
Renaissance, they [the writings of
early Christians] were the common
linguistic study of educated Chris-
tians." A startling disclosure to
us. For the future, pagan classics
are to be eliminated. Is it not evi-
dent that the industrious editors
have taken the clue from us ? at
least for a part of their programme ;
for they push matters too far.

But here is the mishap. If we
have to judge by the first book,
their works will be unavailable,
their labor bootless. Dr. Par-
sons closes his admirable transla-
tion of Dante's Inferno (albeit with
a little profanity, which we are will-
ing to forgive, considering the sub-
ject and its worth) with those im-
ploring words, Tantus labor non sit
cassus ! Mr. March will find them
at page 155 of his book. He may as
well appropriate them to himself,
with a little suppression, however ;
nor should he scruple to alter the
text, seeing that he has taken other
unwarrantable liberties with the an-
cient fathers. What right has he to
mutilate Prudentius' beautiful hymn
De Miraculis Christi, and of thir-
ty-eight stanzas give us only eight,
therewith composing, as it were, a
hymn of his own, and entitling it
De Nativitate Christi? Without
entering into other damaging de-
tails, we assure the projectors of
this new enterprise that they have
undertaken a faithless job. Ca-
tholic teachers cannot adopt their

195

books. For, surely, we are not
going to make our youth buy pub-
lications which tell us, ^., that
the hymn Stabat Mater is " simple
Mariolatry,"to say nothing of other
notes equally insulting, especially
when we come to the historical de-
partment. Nor can it be said that
they give proof either of knowledge
or of taste when they choose Euse-
bius for the very first sample of
patristic classicism. Ah ! sutor, su-
tor !

But enough. We have dwelt on
this new departure of Protestant
zeal for the study of the fathers, to
give an additional proof in favor
of our opinion as to how far we
can trust non-Catholic text-books.
Even the most superficial reader
will at once discover that we only
take up side questions, and our re-
marks and arguments do not in the
least clash with the argument and
judgment of Dr. Engbers, with
whom we agree in the main. We
only assert that it would be better
were we to strain every nerve in
preparing text-books of our own,
whilst we also believe it would not
be so very difficult to attain the
long-wished-for result. It will take
some time, it will require sacrifices,
yet the object can be accomplished.
A beginning has been made already
in two American Catholic colleges.
Nor should we forget that none but
Catholics can be competent to per-
form such a work. The fathers are
our property ; and the same divine
Spirit that illumined their minds
will not fail to guide the pens of
those who, in obedience to autho-
rity, undertake this work.

As for the Christian authors, the
difficulty is in the choice, as Dr.
Engbers points out. For the sake
of brevity we limit ourselves to the
Latin fathers.

From the works of St. Augustine

196

Text- Books in Catholic Colleges.

(a mine of great wealth) might be
compiled a series of selections
which, put together with some
from the Ciceronian Jerome and a
few others, would furnish an an-
thology of specimens of eloquence,
whether sacred, historical, or de-
scriptive, that could not be sur-
passed. A judicious spicilegium
from the Ada Martyrum and the
liturgies of the first ages should
form the introductory portion. This
first volume would be characteristic.
We would suggest that it were so
prepared as at once to rivet the
attention of the scholar and enamor
him with the beauties of apostolic
literature.

Dr. Engbers is very anxious and
justly so, when we consider our
needs that something were done to
supply our schools with works of
" history, natural science, and geo-
graphy." Indeed, it is high time
that we had a supply of such works.
But here many will ask : " Have we
resources in our own Catholic com-
munity on which to depend for such
works ?" Most assuredly we have.
For, to quote only a few, is not Pro-
fessor James Hall, of Albany, a Ca-
tholic ? Indeed he is, and one of
the first men in the department of
natural history, acknowledged as
such by all the eminent societies
of the European continent.

And who is superior to S. S.
Haldeman, of Pennsylvania ? And
is he not " one of ours" ? The fact
is, we do not know our own re-
sources. Here we have two men,
inferior to none in their own de-
partments of learning, and they are
totally ignored by the Catholic body,
to which they nevertheless belong !
Indeed, John Gilmary Shea, another
of our best men, has touched a sad
chord in his article in the first num-
ber of the new Catholic Quarterly.
We have allowed our best opportu-

nities to slip by unnoticed, and may
God grant it is not too late to be-
gin the seemingly herculean task
before us !

We have written under the inspi-
ration and after the guidance of
the well-known wishes, nay, com-
mands, of our Holy Father. He
insists upon education being made
more Christian. His Holiness does
not exclude the pagan authors ; he
wishes them to be so presented to
our youth that no harm may result
therefrom to the morals of the stu-
dent; and we have no doubt that
the programme we have only sketch-
ed will meet with the approval of all
who are interested in the matter,
and who will give us the credit of
having most faithfully adhered to
our Holy Father's admonition.

Nor will the reader charge us
with presumption if we dare to
quote the words of our great Pope,
with the pardonable assurance that
no more fitting close could be given
to our paper.

Monseigneur Bishop of Calvi and
Teano, in the kingdom of Naples,
now a cardinal, is a most determined
advocate of the needed reform, and
justly claims the merit of having
been the first to inaugurate it in Italy.
In a letter to him Pius IX. sets down
the importance of the movement,
and distinctly places the limits with-
in which it should be confined in
order to attain complete success.

" R. P. D. d'AvANZO, Episcopo Calven,

Theanen.*

" PlUS P.P. IX., Venerabilis Prater,
Saint em et Apostolicam Bcnedictiomm.

"Quo libentius ab orbe Catholico in-
dicti a Nobis Jubilasi beneficium fuit
exceptum, Venerabilis Frater, eo uberio-
rcm inde fructum expectandum esse ccn-
fidimus, divina favente dementia. Grati
propterea sensus animi, quos hac de
causa prodis, iucunde excipimus, Deo-

* Acta Sanctee Sedis, vol. viii. p. 560

Text-Books in Catholic Colleges.

que cxhibemus, ut emolumentum Iseti-
tias a te concepts respondens dicecesi-
bustuis concedere velit. Acceptissimam
autem habemus eruditam epistolam a te
concinnatam de mixta latinse linguse
institutione. ' Scitissimc namque ab ipsa
vindicatur decus Christianas latinitatis,
quam multi corruptionis insimularunt
veteris sermonis ; dum patet, linguam,
utpote mentis, morum, usuum publico-
rum enunciationem, necessario novam
induere debuisse formam post invectam
a Christo legem, quae sicuti consortium
humanum extulerat et refinxerat ad spir-
ituaiia, sic indigebat nova eloquii indole
ab eo discreta, quod societatis carnal is,
lluxis tanium addictse rebus, ingenium
diu retulerat. Cui quidem observation!
sponte suffragata sunt recensita a te so-
let ter monumenta singulorum Ecclesise
sacculorum ; quae dum exordia novas
formse subjecerunt oculis, ej usque pro-
gressum et praestantiam, simul docue-
runt constanter in more fuisse positum
Ecclesiae, juventutem latina erudire
lingua per mixtatn sacrorum et classico-
rum auctorum lectionem. Quae sane
lucubratio tua cum diremptam iam dis-
ceptationem clariore luce perfuderit,
efficacius etiam suadebit institutoribus
adoiescentiae, utrorumque scriptorum
opera in eius usum esse adhibenda.
Munc Nos labori tuo successum omi-
namur ; et interim divini favoris auspi-
cem et praecipuae nostrae benevolentiae
testem tibi, Venerabilis Prater, univer-
soque Clero et populo tuo Benedictio-
nem Apostolicam peramanter imperti-
mus.

Datum Romac apud S. Petrum die i
Aprilis anno 1875, Pontificatus Nostri
anno Vigesimonono.

Pius PP. IX.

This very letter is an instance
of the results to which a thorough
and judicious mixed Latin classical
education will lead the student of
Latinity the resources of the
pagan Latin made classically avail-
able even to him who is secretary
to the Pope ab epis tolls Latlnis, to
which post are appointed those
who, with other proper qualifica-
tions, are good ' Latin scholars.
Some of these letters, especially

those issued under the pontificates
of Benedict XIV. and Pius VI. and
VII., are truly Ciceronian in style
and language.

We call the closest attention of
such of our readers as are not ac-
quainted with Latin to the follow-
ing translation of the above most
important document :

"To the REV. FATHER BARTHOLOMEW
D'AVANZO, Bishop of Calvi and Teano.

' Pius IX., Pope.

"Venerable Brother, health and Apos-
tolic Benediction : In proportion, Vene-
rable Brother, to the eager good-will
with which our proclamation of the Ju-
bilee has been received by the Catholic
world, is the harvest of good results we ex-
pect therefrom under favor of divine mer-
cy. Heartily, therefore, do we welcome
the sentiments of gratitude which you
express, and offer them to God, that he
may vouchsafe to your dioceses a share
in your joy. Most seasonable, moreover,
do we account the learned letter you
have written on the mixed teaching oi
the Latin language. For with great eru-
dition have you therein vindicated the
honor of Christian Latinity, which many
have charged with being a corruption of
the ancient tongue ; whereas it is clear
that speech, as the expression of ideas,
manners, and public usages, must ne-
cessarily have assumed a new garb after
the law introduced by Christ a law
which, while it elevated human inter
course, and refashioned it to spiritual
requirements, needed a new form of con-
versation, distinct from that which had
so long reflected the bent of a carnal
society swayed only by transitory things.
And truly the monuments you have skil-
fully gathered from the several ages of
the church afford a self evident proof of
our assertion ; for, while they lay before
the eyes of the reader the beginnings of
the new form, its progress and impor-
tance, they also aver it to have been an
established practice in the church to
train youth in the Latin tongue by a
mixed reading of sacred with classic
authors. And assuredly this your dis-
sertation, in throwing greater light on a
question already well ventilated, will the
more effectually urge upon the instruc-

198

Flywheel Bob.

tors of youth the advisability of call- your clergy and people, the Apostolic

ing to their aid the works of authors Benediction.

of both kinds. Such is the result we " Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, on
predict for your labors; and in the the ist of April, in the year 1875, the
meanwhile, as a pledge of divine favor twenty-ninth of our pontificate.''
and a token of our own good-will, we " Pius PP. IX."
most affectionately bestow upon your-
self. Venerable Brother, and upon all And thus Roma locuta est !

FLYWHEEL BOB.

BY THE AWTHOR OF " ROMANCE OF CHARTER OAK," " PRIDE OF LEXINGTOK," ETC., ETC.

DOWN in a dismal cellar, so poor-
ly lighted, indeed, that you could
scarce distinguish his tiny figure
when it came into the world, Bob
was born. Our little hero began
life where we all must end it un-
derground ; and certainly many a
burial-vault might have seemed a
loss grimy, gloomy home than his.
But Bob's wretchedness being co-
eval with his birth, he never knew
what it was to be otherwise than
wretched. He cried and crowed
pretty much like other infants,
and his mother declared he was the
finest child ever born in this cel-
lar. "And, O darling!" she sigh-
ed more than once, while he snugged
to her bosom " O darling ! if you
could stay always what you are."
It was easy to feed him, easy to
care for him, now. How would he
fare along the rugged road wind-
ing through the misty future ?

Nothing looked so beautiful to
his bab^ eyes as the golden streak
across the floor which appeared
once a day for a few minutes; and
as soon as he was able to creep he
moved towards it and tried to catch
it, and wondered very much when
the streak faded away.

Bob's only playmate was a poo-
dle dog, who loved the sunshine
too, and was able at first to get

more of it than he ; and the child
always whimpered when Pin left
him to go bask on the sidewalk.
But by and by, when he grew older,
he followed his dumb friend up the
steps, and would sit for hours be-
side him ; and the dog was very
fond of his little master, if we may
judge by the constant wagging of
his bushy tail.

When Bob was four years old his
mother died. This was too young an
age for him to comprehend what had
happened. It surprised him a little
when they carried the body away:
and when she breathed her last
words : " I am going, dear one ; I
wish I could take you with me,"
he answered : " Going where, mam-
my ?" " When is mammy coming
home?" he asked of several persons
who lodged in the cellar with him,
and stayed awake the first night a
whole hour waiting for her to re-
turn. But ere long Bob ceased to
think about his mother, and in the
course of a month 'twas as if she
had never been ; there was rather
more space in the underground
chamber than before, and now he
had all the blanket to himself.

Thus we see that the boy began
early the battle of life. When he
felt hungry, he would enter a
baker's shop near by, and stretch

Flywheel Bob.

199

forth his puny hand; and some- misfortune befell him which reallv
times he was given a morsel of smote his heart-the poodle dis-ip
bread, and sometimes he was not. peared. And now, for the first time

But Bob was too
down and starve.

spirited to lie

So, when the

in his life, Bob shed tears. Ik- in-
quired of everybody in the tene-

baker shook his head, saying, "You ment-house if they had seen him

come here too often," he watched a he put the same query to nearly

chance and stole peanuts from the every inhabitant of Mott Street

stand on the corner. The Ten Com- But all smiled as thpv a

mandments did not trouble him

smiled as they answered :
In a big city like New York a

the least; for he had never heard of lost dog is like a needle in a hay-
them. Bob only knew that there -**-* " *--

was a day in the week when the
baker looked more solemn than on
other days, and when the streets
were less crowded.

The one thing in the world Bob
cherished was Pin. And the feel-
ing was mutual ; for not seldom,
when the dog discovered a bone or
crust of bread among the rubbish-
heaps, he would let himself be de-
prived of the treasure without even
a growl. Then, when Christmas

stack." Many a day did Bob pass
seeking his friend. He wandered
to alleys and squares where he had
never been before, calling out,
Pin! Pin!" but no Pin came.
Then, when night arrived and he
lay down alone in his blanket, he
felt lonely indeed. Poor child !
It was hard to lose the only crea-
ture on earth that he loved the
only creature on earth, too, that
loved him. " I'll never forget you,"
he sighed "never forget you."

came round, Bob and the poodle And sometimes, when another dog
would stand by the shop-windows would wag his tail and try to make
and admire the toys together ; and

friends, Bob would shake his head
and say : "No, no, you're not ray
lost Pin."

It took a twelvemonth to become
reconciled to this misfortune. But
Time has broad wings, and on them
Time bore away Bob's grief, as it
bears away all our griefs ; other-
dime for it, which Bob accepted^ wise, one sorrow would not be
then forthwith turned the money able to make room for another
into gingerbread, which he shared sorrow, and we should sink down

the child would talk to his pet, and
tell him that this was a doll and
that a Noe's ark. Once he man-
aged to possess himself of a toy
which a lady let drop on the side-
walk. But he did not keep it long;
for another urchin offered him a

with Pin.

Such was the orphan's childhood.
He was only one vagrant amid
thousands of others. In the great
beehive of humanity his faint buzz
was unheard, and he was crowded
out of sight by the swarm of other

and die beneath our accumulated
burdens.

We have styled Bob a vagrant.
Here we take the name back, if
aught of bad be implied in it.
It was not his fault that he was
born in a cellar; and if he stole

bees. Still, there he was, a member peanuts and other things, 'twas only

of the hive ; moving about and when hunger drove him to it.

struggling for existence; using his Doubtless, had he first seen the

sting when lie needed it, and get- light in Fifth Avenue, he would

ting what honey he could. When have known ere this how to spell

the boy was in his seventh year, a and say his prayers; might have

200

FlywJiecl Bob.

gone, perhaps, to many a children's
party, with kid gloves on his deli-
cate hands and a perfumed hand-
kerchief for his sensitive little nose.
But Bob was not born in Fifth
Avenue. He wore barely clothes
enough to cover IMS nakedness.
His feet, like his hands, had never
known covering of any sort ; they
were used to the mud and the snow,
and once a string of red drops along
the icy pavement helped to track
him to his den after he had been
committing a theft. In this case,
however, the blood which flowed
from his poor foot proved a bless-
ing in disguise, for Bob spent the
coldest of the winter months in the
lock-up : clean straw, a dry floor,
regular meals what a happy
month !

As for not being able to read
why, if a boy in such ragged raiment
as his were to show himself at a
public school, other boys would jeer
at him, and the pedagogue eye him
askance.

But Bob proved the metal that was
in him by taking, when he was just
eight years of age, a place in a fac-
tory. " Yes," he said to the man
who brought him there, " I'd rather
work than be idle."

It were difficult to describe his
look of wonder when he first en-
tered the vast building. There
seemed to be no end of people old
men, young men, and children like
himself, all silent and busy. Around
them, above them, on every side of
t'n em, huge belts of leather, and rods
of iron, and wheels and cog-wheels
were whirring, darting in and out of
holes, clearing this fellow's head by
a few inches, grazing that one's
back so close that, if he chanced to
faint or drop asleep, off in an eye's
twinkle the machinery would whirl
him, rags, bones, and flesh making
one ghastly pulp together. And

the air was full of a loud, mournful
hum, like ten thousand sighs and
groans. Presently Bob sat down
on a bench ; then, like a good boy,
tried to perform the task set for
him. But he could only stare at
the big flywheel right in front of
him and close by ; and so fixed and
prolonged was his gaze that, by
common consent, the operatives
christened him Flywheel Bob.
Next day, however, he began work
in earnest, and it was not long ere
he became the best worker of them
all.

When Bob was an infant, we re-
member, he used to creep toward
the sun-streak on the cellar floor,
and cry when it faded away.

Now, although the building where
he toiled twelve hours a day was
gloomy and depressing, and the
sunshine a godsend to the spirits,
the boy never lifted his eyes for a
single moment when it shimmered
through the sooty windows. At
his age one grows apace; one is
likewise tender and easily moulded
into well-nigh any shape.

So, like as the insect, emerging
from the chrysalis, takes the color
of the leaf or bark to which it
clings, Bob grew more and more
like unto the soulless machinery
humming round him. If whisper-
ed to, he made no response. When
toward evening his" poor back would
feel wear)-, no look of impatience
revealed itself on his countenance.
If ever he heaved a sigh, no ears
heard it, not even his own; and the
foreman declared that he was a
model boy for all the other boys to
imitate so silent, so industrious,
so heartily co-operating with the
wheels and cog-wheels, boiler, valves,
and steam ; in fact, he was the most
valuable piece in the whole compli-
cated machinery.

Bob was really a study. There

Flywheel Bob.

201

are children who look forward to
happy days to come ; who often,
too, throw their mind's eye back-
ward on the Christmas last gone
by. This Bob never did. His past
had no Santa Glaus, his present had
none, his future had none. It were
difficult to say what life did appear
to him, as day after day he bent
over his task. Mayhap he never
indulged in thoughts about himself
what he had been, what he was,
what he might become Certainly,
if we may judge by the vacant,
leaden look into which his features
ere long crystallized, Bob was in-
deed what the foreman said a bit
of the machinery. And more and
more akin to it he grew as time
rolled by. Bob had never beheld
it except in motion ; and on Sun-
days, when he was forced to remain
idle, his arm would ever and anon
start off on a wild, crazy whirl;
round and round and round it
would go; whereupon the other
children would laugh and shout :
"Hi! ho! Look at Flywheel
Bob!"

The child's fame spread. In the
course of time Richard Goodman,
the owner of the factory, heard of
him. This gentleman, be it known,
was subject to the gout ; at least,
he gave it that name, which sound-
ed better than rheumatism, for it
smacked of family, of gentle birth ;
though, verily, if such an ailment
might be communicated through a
proboscis, there was not enough old
Madeira in his veins to have given
a mosquito the gout.

When thus laid up, Mr. Goodman
was wont to send for his superin-
tendent to inquire how business
was getting on ; and it was upon
one of these occasions that he first
'heard of Bob. Although not a per-
son given to enthusiasm, not even
when expressing himself on the

subject of money money, which lay
like a Kittle gold worm in the core
of his heart he became so exerted
when he was told about the modd
child, who never smiled, who never
sulked, who never asked for higju-r
wages, that the foreman felt a finle
alarm; for he had never seen his
employer's eyes glisten as they did
now, and even the pain in his left
knee did not prevent Mr. Goodman
from rising up out of the easy-chair to
give vent to his emotion. " Believe
me,'' he exclaimed, " this child is the
beginning of a new race of children.
Believe me, when our factories are
filled by workers like him, then we'll
have no more strikes; strikes will
be extinguished for ever!" Here
Mr. Goodman sank down again in
the chair, then, pulling out a silk
handkerchief, wiped his forehead.
But presently his brow contracted.
" There is some talk," he continued,
" of introducing a bill in the legisla-
ture to exclude all children from
factories under ten years of age.
Would such a bill exclude my
model boy ?"

" I can't say whether it would,"
replied the manager. " Bob maybe
ten, or a little under, or a little
over. I don't think he'll change
much from what he is, not if he lives
fifty years. His face looks just like
something that has been hammered
into a certain shape that it can't get
out of."

"And they talk, too, of limiting
the hours of work to ten per day
for children between ten and six-
teen years," went on Mr. Goodman,
still frowning ; "and, what's more,
the bill requires three months' (lav-
schooling or six months' night-
schooling. I declare, if this bill
becomes a law, I'll retire from busi-
ness. The public has no right to
interfere with my employment of
labor. It is sheer tyranny."

202

Flywheel Bob.

" Well, it would throw labor con-
siderably out of gear," remarked the
superintendent ; " for there are a
hundred thousand children employ-
ed in the shops and factories of this
city and suburbs."

" But, no; the bill sha'n't pass !"
exclaimed Mr. Goodman, thumping
his fist on the table. " Why, what's
the use of a lobby, if such a bill can
go through ?"

Here the foreman smiled, where-
upon his employer gave a responsive
smile ; then pulling the bell, " Now,"
said the latter, " let us drink the
model boy's health." In a few
minutes there appeared a decanter
of sherry. " Here's to Flywheel
Bob !" cried Mr. Goodman, holding
up his glass.

"To Flywheel Bob!" repeated
the other ; and they both tossed
off the wine.

" Flywheel Bob ! Why, what a
funny name !" spoke a low, silvery
voice close by. Mr. Goodman
turned hastily round, and there, at
the threshold of the study, stood a
little girl, with a decidedly pert
air, and a pair of lustrous black
eyes fixed full upon him ; they
seemed to say : " I know you told
me not to enter here, yet here I
am." A profusion of ringlets rip-
pled down her shoulders, and on
one of her slender fingers glittered
a gold ring.

" Daisy, you have disobeyed me,"
said her father, trying to appear
stern ; " and, what is more, you
glide about like a cat."

" Do I ?" said Daisy, smiling.
"Well, pa, tell me who Flywheel
Bob is ; then I'll go away."

" Something down at my factory
a little toy making pennies for
you. There, now, retire, darling,
retire."

" A little toy ? Then give me
Flywheel Bob ; I want a new play-

thing," pursued the child, quite
heedless of the command to with-
draw.

" Well, I'd like to know how
many toys you want?" said Mr.
Goodman impatiently. "You've
had dear knows how many dolls
since Christmas."

"Nine, pa."

"And pray, what has become of
them all, miss?"

"Given away to girls who didn'f
get any from Santa Claus."

" I declare ! she's her poor dear
mother over again," sighed the wi-
dower. " Margaret would give
away her very shoes and stockings
to the poor."

The sigh had barely escaped his
lips when the foreman burst into a
laugh, and presently Mr. Goodman
laughed too ; for, lo ! peeping from
behind the girl's silk frock was the
woolly head of a poodle. In his
mouth was a doll with one arm bro-
ken off, hair done up in curls like
Daisy's, and a bit of yellow worsted
twined around one of the fingers to
take the place of a ring. " Humph J
I don't wonder you've had nine
dolls in five months," ejaculated
Mr. Goodman after he had done
laughing. " Rover, it seems, plays
with them too ; then tears them
up."

"Well, pa, he is tired of dolls
now, and wants Flywheel Bob ;
and so do I."

" I wish I hadn't mentioned the
boy's name," murmured Mr. Good-
man. Then aloud : " Daisy dear, I
am going out for a drive by and
by ; which way shall we go ? To
the Park ?"

" No ; to Tiffany's to have my
ears pierced." At this he burst
into another laugh.

"Why, pa, I'm almost ten, and
old enough for earrings," added
Daisy, tossing her head and mak-

Flywheel Bob.

ing the pretty ringlets fly about in
all directions.

" Well, well, darling ; then we
will go to Tiffany's."

" And afterwards, pa, we'll get
Flywheel Bob."

" Oh ! hush, my love. You can-
not have him."

"Him! Is he a little boy, pa?"
Mr. Goodman did not answer.
"Well, whatever Flywheel Bob
is," she continued, "I want a new
plaything. This doll Rover broke
all by accident. And I scolded
you hard; didn't I, Rover?"
Here she patted the dog's head.
" But, pa, he sha'n't hurt Flywheel
Bob."

" Well, well, we'll drive out in
half an hour," said her parent, who
would fain have got the notion of
Flywheel Bob out of his child's
head, yet feared it might stick there.
" In half an hour," repeated
Daisy, feeling the tips of her ears,
while her eyes sparkled like the
jewels which were shortly to adorn
them. Then, going to the bell, she
gave a ring. Mr. Goodman, of
course, imagined that it was to
order the carriage. But when the
domestic appeared, Daisy quietly
said : " Jane, I wish the boned tur-
key brought here." No use to pro-
test to tell the child that this room
was his own private business room,
and not the place for luncheon.

In the boned turkey was brought,
despite Mr. Goodman's sighs.
But it was well-nigh more than he
could endure when presently, after
carving off three slices, she bade
Rover sit up and beg.

In an instant the poodle let the
doll drop, then, balancing himself
on his haunches, gravely opened his
mouth. "He never eats anything
except boned turkey," observed
Daisy in answer to her father's
look of displeasure. " Bones' are

bad
her

for his teeth."

203

Then, while

pet was devouring the duintv
! - ' " Pa," she i
yet admired

morsels: " Pa," she went on,

you
Rover's blue

haven't
ribbon.

"Umph! lie certainly doesn't
look at all like the creature he was
when you bought him three years
ago," answered Mr. Goodman.

" Well, pa, this summer I will not
go to the White Mountains. Re-
member !"

" Why not ?" inquired Mr. Good-
man, who failed to discern any pos-
sible connection between the poodle
and this charming summer resort.

''Because I want surf-bathing
for Rover. I love to throw your
cane into the big waves, then see
him rush after it and jump up and
down in the foam. This season we
must go to Long Branch." Her
father made no response, but turn-
ed to address a parting word to the
superintendent, who presently took
leave, highly amused by the child's
bold, pert speeches.

"Now, Daisy, for our drive,"
said Mr. Goodman, rising stiffly out
of the arm-chair.

But he had only got as far as the
door when another visitor was an-
nounced. It proved to be a mem-
ber of the Society for the Preven-
tion of Cruelty to Animals a society
which has already done much good,
and whose greatest enemy is the
ill-judged zeal of some of its own
members,

"What on earth can he want?'*
thought Mr. Goodman, motioning
to the gentleman to take a seat.

"I am come, sir," began the lat-
ter, " to inquire whether you would
accept the position of president of
our society? We have much to
contend with, and gentlemen like
yourself gentlemen of wealth and
influence in the community are
needed to assist us."

204

Flywheel Bob.

Mr. Goodman, who in reality
cared not a rush how animals were
treated, yet was ambitious 10 be
known as a citizen of influence,
bowed and replied : " I feel highly
honored, sir, and am willing to be-
come your president." Then, fill-
ing anew the wine-glasses, he called
out :

" Here is success and prosperity
to"

"Flywheel Bob," interrupted
Daisy. " For, pa, he is a little
boy, isn't he ? A little boy making
pennies?"

Mr. Goodman frowned, while the
child laughed and Rover barked.
But presently the toast to the so-
ciety was duly honored, after wnich
the visitor proceeded to speak of
several cruel sports which he hoped
would soon be put a stop to. " Tur-
key-matches on Thanksgiving day
must be legislated against, Mr. Pre-
sident." Mr. President bowed and
waved his hand. "And there is
talk, sir, of introducing fox-chases,
as in England. This sport must
likewise be prevented by law." An-
other bow and wave of the hand.

" Well, pa, you sha'n't stop me
killing flies; for flies plague Rover,"
put in Daisy, with a malicious twin-
Ide in her eye.

Again the poodle barked. Then,
clapping her hands, off she flew to
get her hat and gloves, leaving the
gentlemen smiling at this childish
remark.

" My darling," said Mr. Good-
man a quarter of an hour later, as
they were driving down Fifth Ave-
nue together " my darling, I have
been placed at the head of another
society a society to prevent cru-
elty to animals."

"I am glad," replied Daisy, look-
ing up in his face. "Everybody
likes you, pa; don't they?"

Daisy, let us here observe, was

the rich man's only child. His
wife was dead; but whenever he
gazed upon the little fairy at this
moment seatepl beside him, he
seemed to behold his dear Mar-
garet anew : the same black eyes,
the same wilful, imperious, yet
withal tenderly affectionate ways.
No wonder that Richard Goodman
idolized his daughter. To no other
living being did he unbend, did his
heart ever quicken.

But to Daisy he did unbend. He
loved to caress her, to talk to her,
too, about matters and things which
she could hardly understand. And
she would always listen and appear
very pleased and interested. Search
the whole city of New York, and
you would not have found another
of her age with so much tact when
she chose to play the little lady, nor
a better child, either, considering
how thoroughly she had been spoilt.
If Daisy was a tyrant, she was a
very loving one indeed, and none
knew this better than her father
and the poodle, who is now perch-
ed on the front cushion of the ba-
rouche, looking scornfully down nt
the curs whom he passe.s, and say-
ing to himself : " What a lucky dog
I am!"

" I am sure the Society to prevent
Cruelty to Animals will do good,"
observed Daisy, after holding up
her finger a moment and telling
Rover to sit straight. " But, pa, is
Flywheel Bob an animal or a toy ?
Or is he really a little boy, as I
guessed awhile ago?"

"There it comes again," mur-
mured Mr. Goodman. Then, with
a slight gesture of impatience, he
answered : " A boy, my love, a boy."

" Well, what a funny name, pa !
Oh ! I'm glad we're going to see
him."

" No, dear, we are going to Tif-
fany's to Tiffany's, in order to have

Flywheel Bob.

205

your darling ears pierced and ele-
gant earrings put in them."

" I know it, pa, but I ordered
James to drive first to the fac-
tory."

No use to protest. The coach-
man drove whither he was bidden.
But not a little surprised was he,

has

an-

ever honored us by a vir.it,'
swered the foreman.

"Am I?" exclaimed Daisy, not
a little gratified to have so man v
eyes fastened upon her. At chil-
dren's parties, pretty as she tfas,
she had rivals; here there were
none. And now, as she moved

when they arrived, to see his young daintily along, with her glossy curls

mistress alight instead of his mas-
ter.

" I am too lame with gout to ac-
company her," whispered Mr. Good-
man to the foreman, who presently
made his appearance. " It is an
odd whim of hers. Don't keep her
long, and take great care about the
machinery."

" I'll be back soon, pa," said
Daisy " very soon." With this she
and Rover entered the big, cheer-
less edifice, which towered like a
giant high above all the surround-
ing houses.

" Now, Miss Goodman, keep
dose to me and walk carefully,"
said her guide.

" Let me hold your hand," said
the child, who already began to feel
excited as the first piece of machin-
ery came in view. Then, pausing
at the threshold of floor number
one, " Oh ! what a noise," she
cried, " and what a host of people !
Which one is Flywheel Bob ?"

"Yonder he sits, miss," replied
the superintendent, pointing to the
curved figure of a boy we might
better say child ; for, in the two and
a half years since we last met him,
Bob has hardly grown a quarter of
an inch. "Why doesn't he sit

swaying to and fro, and her sleeves
not quite hiding the gold bracelets
on her snowy wrists, she formed in-
deed a bewitching picture. Pre-
sently they arrived beside Fly-
wheel Bob ; then Daisy stopped
and surveyed him attentively, won-
dering why he still refused to notice
her. " How queerly he behaves!"
she said inwardly, "and how pale
he is ! I wonder what he gets to
eat? His fingers are like spiders'
claws. I'd rather be Rover than
Bob." While she thus soliloquized
the poodle kept snuffing at the
boy's legs, and his tail, which at first
had evinced no sign of emotion,
was now wagging slowly from side
to side, like as one who moves with
doubt and deliberation. Mayhap
strange thoughts were flittingthrough
Rover's head at this moment. Per-
chance dim memories were being
awakened of a damp abode under-
ground ; of a baby twisting knots in
his shaggy coat ; of hard times,
when a half- picked bone was a
feast. Who knows ? But while the
dog poked his nose against the
boy's ragged trovvsers, while his tail
wagged faster and faster, while his
mistress said to herself: " I'll tell
pa about poor Bob, and he shall

Bob minds his

straight?" asked Daisy, approach- come to Long Branch with us," the

object of her pity continued as un-
moved by the attention bestowed
on him as if he had been that metal
rod flashing back and forth in yor
cylinder.

" How many hours does Bob
work?" inquired Daisy, moving

ing him.

* 4 Because, miss,
task/'

u Well, he does indeed; for he
hasn't looked at me once, while all
the rest are staring."

"You are the first young lady that

2O6

Flywheel Bob.

away and drawing Rover along by
the ear; for Rover seemed unwilling
to depart.

"Twelve, miss," replied the fore-
man.

" Twelve!" repeated Daisy, lifting
her eyebrows. "Does he really?
Why, I don't work two. My gover-
ness likes to drive in the Park, and so
do I ; and we think two hours long
enough."

"Well, I have seen him, pa,"
said Daisy a few minutes later, as
she and her father were driving
away. ^ '

" Have you ? Humph ! then I
suppose we may now go to Tif-
fany's," rejoined Mr. Goodman
somewhat petulantly.

" And, pa, Flywheel Bob isn't a
bit like any other boy I have ever
seen. Why, he is all doubled up;
his bony ringers move quick, quick,
ever so quick ; his eyes keep al-
ways staring at his fingers, and"
here an expression of awe shadow-
ed the child's bright face a moment
" and really, pa, I thought he said
* hiss-s-s' when the steam-pipe hiss-
ed."

" Humph !" ejaculated the manu-
facturer. Then, after a pause: "Well,
now, my dear, let us talk about
something else about your ear-
rings ; which shall they be, pearls
or diamonds?"

" Diamonds, pa, for they shine
prettier." Then clapping her hands :
" Oh ! wouldn't it surprise Bob if I
gave him a holiday ? He is making
pennies for me, isn't he ? You said
so this morning. Well, pa, I have
pennies enough, so Bob shall play
awhile ; he shall come to Long
Branch."

" My daughter, do not be silly,"
said Mr. Goodman.

" Silly ! Why, pa, if Rover likes
surf-bathing, I'm sure Flywheel
Bob'll like it too."

" He is too good a boy to idle
away his time, my love."

" Well, but, pa, I heard you say
that bathing was so healthy ; and
Bob doesn't look healthy."

" Thank heavens ! here we are at
Tiffany's," muttered Mr. Goodman
when presently the carriage came
to a stop. But before his daughter
descended he took her hand and
said : " Daisy, you love me, do you
not?"

Love you, pa? Of course I
do." And to prove it the child
pressed her lips to his cheek.

" Then, dearest, please not to
speak any more about Flywheel
Bob ; otherwise your governess will
think you are crazy, and so will
everybody else who hears you."

"Crazy!" cried Daisy, opening
her eyes ever so wide. Then turn-
ing up her little, saucy nose : " Well,
pa, I don't care what Mam'selle
thinks !"

" But you care about what /
think?" said Mr. Goodman, still
retaining her hand ; for she seemed
ready to fly away.

" Oh ! indeed I do."

" Then I request you not to men-
tion Flywheel Bob any more."

" Really ?" And Daisy gazed ear-
nestly in his face, while astonish-
ment, anger, love, made her own
sweet countenance for one moment
a terrible battle-field. It was all
she spoke ; in another moment she
and Rover were within the splendid
marble store.

As soon as she was gone Mr.
Goodman drew a long breath. Yet
he could not bear to be without his
daughter, even for ever so short a
time ; and now she was scarcely out
of sight when he felt tempted to
hobble after her. He worshipped
Daisy. But who did not? She was
the life of his home. Without her it
would have been sombre indeed;

Flywheel Bob.

for No. Fifth Avenue was a very
large mansion, and no other young
person was in it besides herself.
But Daisy made racket enough for
six, despite her French governess,
who would exclaim fifty times a day :
" Mademoiselle Marguerite, vous
vous comportez comme une bour-
geoise." If an organ-grinder pass-
ed under the window, the window
was thrown open in a trice, and
down poured a handful of coppers ;
and happy was the monkey who
climbed up to that window-sill, for
the child would stuff his red cap
with sugar and raisins, and send him
off grinning as he had never grinned
before.

" O darling ! do hurry back,"
murmured Mr. Goodman, while he
waited in the carriage, longing for
her to reappear. At length she
came, and the moment she was
beside him again he gave her an
embrace ; then the rich man drove
home, feeling very, very happy.

But not so Daisy. And this
afternoon she stood a whole hour
by the window, looking silently out.
In vain the itinerant minstrel play-
ed his finest tunes ; she seemed deaf
to the music. Rover, too, looked
moody and not once wagged his
tail ; nor when dinner-time came
would he touch a mouthful of any-
thing which, however, did not
surprise the governess, who observ-
ed : " Ma foi ! 1'animal ne fait que
manger." But when a whole week
elapsed, and Daisy still remained
pensive, her father said : " You need
change of air, my love ; so get your
things ready. To-morrow we'll be
off for Long Branch."

" So soon !" exclaimed Daisy. It
was only the first of June.

"Why, my pet, don't you long to
throw my cane into the waves, to
see Rover swim after it ?" Then, as
she made no response, " Daisy," he

207

went on, " why do you not laugh and
sing and be like you used to be ?
Tell me what is the matter."

Without answering, Daisy looked
down at the poodle, who turned his
eyes up at her and faintly moved
his tail.

"Yes, yes; I see you need a
change," continued Mr. Goodman.
" So to-morrow we'll be off for the
seaside. There I know you will
laugh and be happy."

"Is Flywheel Bob happy?" mur-
mured the child under her breath.

" A little louder, dear one, a little
louder. I didn't catch those last
words."

"You asked me, pa, not to speak
of Flywheel Bob to you ; so I only
spoke about him to myself."

"Well, I do declare !" exclaimed
Mr. Goodman in a tone of utter
amazement ; then, after staring at
her for nearly a minute, he rose up
and passed into his private room,
thinking what a very odd being
Daisy was. " She is her poor, dear
mother over again," he muttered.
" I never could quite understand .
Margaret, and now I cannot under-
stand Daisy."

Mr. Goodman had not been long
in his study when a visitor was an-
nounced. The one who presently
made his appearance was as unlike
the benevolent and scrupulous gen-
tleman who came here once to beg
the manufacturer to become presi-
dent of the Society for the Preven-
tion of Cruelty to Animals as un-
like him, we repeat, as a man could
possibly be.

This man's name was Fox; and
verily there was something of his
namesake about him. Explain it
as we may, we do occasionally meet
with human beings bearing a myste-
rious resemblance to some one of
the lower animals ; and if Mr. Fox
could only have dwindled in size,

208

Flywheel Bob.

then dropped on his hands and
knees, we should have fired at him
without a doubt, had we discovered
him near our hen-roost of a moon-
light night.

" Glad to see you, Mr. Fox," said
Mr. Goodman, motioning to him to
be seated. " I sent for you to talk
about important business."

" At your service, sir," replied the
other, with a twinkle in his gray eye
which pleased Daisy's father ; for it
seemed to say, " I am ready for any
kind of business."

" Very good," said Mr. Goodman ;
then, after tapping his fingers a
moment on the table : " Now, Mr.
Fox, I would like you to proceed
at once to Albany. Can you go ?"

Mr. Fox nodded.

" Very good. And when you
are there, sir, I wish you to exert
yourself to the utmost to prevent
the passage of a bill known as * The
Bill for the protection of factory
children.' "

Here Mr. Fox blew his nose,
which action caused his cunning
eyes to sparkle more brightly.
Then, having returned the hand-
kerchief to his pocket, " Mr. Good-
man," he observed, "of course you
are aware that it takes powder to
shoot robins. Now, how much, sir,
do you allow for this bird ?"

Mr. Goodman smiled ; then, after
writing something on a slip of pa-
per, held it up before him.

" Humph !" ejaculated Mr. Fox.
" That sum may do it may. But
you must know, sir, that this legis-
lature is not like the last one. This
legislature " here Mr. Fox himself
smiled "is affected with a rare
complaint, which we gentlemen of
the lobby facetiously call ' Ten-
Commandment fever '; and the
weaker a man is with, this com-
plaint, the more it takes to operate
on him."

" Then make it this." And Mr.
Goodman held up another slip with
other figures marked on it.

" Well, yes, I guess that'll cure
the worst case," said Mr. Fox, grin-
ning.

"Good!" exclaimed Daisy's fa-
ther. " Then, sir, let us dismiss the
subject and talk about something
else about a bill introduced by
the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals, of which soci-
ety I am president. It relates to
chasing foxes."

" And this bill you don't want
killed?" said Mr. Fox.

" Precisely."

" Well, sir, how much are you
willing to spend for that purpose?"

Again Mr. Goodman held up a
piece of paper.

"Why, my stars!" cried the
lobby-member, after glancing lA.
the figures " my stars ! isn't it as
important a bill as the other ?"

"I won't alter my figures," re-
plied Mr. Goodman.

"But remember, sir, you are
president of the So

" I won't alter my figures," re-
peated Mr. Goodman, interrupting
him.

" Then, sir, you cannot count on
a law to prevent people running
after foxes," answered Mr. Fox
dryly ; but presently, shrugging
his shoulders, " However, as much
as can be accomplished with that
small sum of money, I will accom-
plish."

" I don't doubt it," observed Mr.
Goodman ; then, turning toward
the table, "And now, sir, suppose
we drink a glass of wine, after
which you will proceed to Albany."

Accordingly, to Albany Mr. Fox
went, while Richard Goodman and
his daughter took wing for Long
Branch.

But, strange to relate, the change

Flywheel Bob.

209

of air did no work the beneficial to have held ye both, and in Pot
effects whieh her father had expect- ter's field thy weary body would
ed. i here was evidently something have found rest long ago
the matter with Daisy She had But Bob, instead of dying, lived
grown thoughtful beyond her years, and now behold him, in his eleventh
and would ever and anon sit down year, in the heart of this big factor/,

the biggest in the metropolis, and
the clatter and din of it are his
very life. Oh ! show him not a rose,
Daisy dear. Keep far from his
ears the song of the birds ! Let
him be, let him be where he is \
And O wheels and cogwheels, and

on the beach, and, with Rover's
head resting on her lap, gaze out
over the blue waters without open-
ing her lips for perhaps a whole
hour.

" What can ail my darling child ?"
Mr. Goodman often asked himself
during these pensive moods. Then

all ye other pieces of machinery !

he consulted three physicians who whatever name ye go by, keep on

happened to be taking a holiday at
the Branch ; one of whom recom-
mended iron, another cod-liver oil,
while the third doctor said : "Fresh
milk, sir, fresh milk."

While he was thus worried about
Daisy, the torrid, sunstroke heat ot
summer flamed down upon the city,
and more and more people followed
his example and fled to Newport
and the White Mountains, to Sara-
toga and Long Branch. But those
who went away were as a drop in
the ocean to those who remained
behind. The toilers are ever le-
gion. We see them not, yet they
are always near, toiling, toiling;
and our refinement, our luxury, our
happiness, are too often the fruit of
their misery. The deeper the mi-
ner delves in the mine, the higher
towers the castle of Mammon. So
in these sultry dog-days Flywheel
Bob's spider fingers were at work
for Richard Goodman's benefit, as
deftly as in the depths of winter
no holiday for those poor fingers.
Yet not even a sigli does Bob
heave, and he cares less now for
the blessed sunshine than he did
in his baby days, when it painted a
golden streak on the cellar floor.
O foolish boy ! why didst thou
not go with thy mother? There
was room enough in the pine box
VOL. xxiv. 14

turning and rumbling and

groan-

ing ; for Flywheel Bob believes with
all his heart and soul that he is one
with you, that ye are a portion of
himself. Break not his mad illu-
sion ! 'Tis the only one he has
ever enjoyed. And on the machin-
ery went on, on, on, all through
June, July, August, earning never
so much money before , and the
millionaire to whom it belonged
would have passed never so happy
a summer (for his manager wrote
him most cheering reports), if only
Daisy had been well and cheerful.

It was the ist of September
when Mr. Goodman returned to.
New York the ist of September ;
a memorable day it was to be.

Hardly had he crossed the thres- .
hold of his city home when he re-
ceived a message which caused him
to go with all haste to the factory.
What had happened? The ma-
chinery had broken down, come
to a sudden dead pause ; and UK
moment's stillness which followed
was not unlike the stillness of the
death-chamber just after the vital,
spark has fled, and when the mourn-
ers can hear their own hearts beat-
ing. Then came a piercing, a
nizing cry; up, up from floor to.
floor it shrilled. And lo ! Flywheel
Bob had become a raving maniac,

2IO '

Flywheel Bob.

and far out in the street his voice
could be heard : " Don't let the ma-
chine stop ! Don't let the machine
stop ! Oh ! don't, oh ! don't. Keep
me going ! keep me going !" Imme-
diately the other operatives crowded
about him ; a few laughed, many
looked awe-stricken, while one stal-
wart fellow tried to prevent his
arms from swinging round like the
wheel which had been in motion
near him so long. But this was
not easy to do, and the mad boy
continued to scream : " Keep me go-
ing, keep me going, keep me going !"
until finally he sank down from ut-
ter exhaustion. Then they carried
him away to his underground home,
the same dusky chamber where he
was born, and left him.

But ere long the place was throng-
ed with curious people, drawn thith-
er by his cries, and who made sport
of his crazy talk ; for Bob told them
that he was a flywheel, and it was
dangerous to approach him. Then
they lit some bits of candle, and
formed a ring about him, so as to
give his arms full space to swing.
And now, while his wild, impish
figure went spinning round and
hissing amid the circle of flicker-
ing lights, it was well-nigh impossi-
ble to believe that he was the same
being who eleven years before had
crept and crowed and toddled about
in this very spot, a happy babe, with
Pin and a sunbeam to play with.

It was verging towards evening
\vhen Mr. Goodman received the
message alluded to above ; and
Daisy, after wondering a little what
could have called her father away
at this hour, determined to sally
forth and enjoy a stroll in the ave-
nue with Rover. Her governess
had a headache and could not ac-
company her ; but this did not
matter, for the child was ten years
old and not afraid to go by herself.

Accordingly, out she went. But, to
her surprise, when she reached th?
sidewalk her pet refused to follow.
He stood quite still, and you might
have fancied that he was revolving
some project in his noddle. " Come,
come !" said Daisy impatiently. But
the dog stirred not an inch, nor even
wagged his tail. And now happen-
ed something very interesting in-
deed. Rover presently did move,
but not in the/ direction which his
young mistress wished up towards
the Park but down the avenue.
Nor would he halt when she bade
him, and only once did he glance
back at her. " Well, well, I'll fol-
low him," said Daisy. " He likes
Madison Square ; perhaps he is go-
ing there."

She was mistaken, however. Past
the Square the poodle went, then
down Broadway, and on, on, to
Daisy's astonishment and grief, who
kept imploring him to stop ; and
once she caught his ear and tried
to hold him back, but he broke
loose, then proceeded at a brisker
pace than before, so that it was ne-
cessary almost to run in order to
keep up with him. By and by the
child really grew alarmed ; for she
found herself no longer in Broad-
way, but in a much narrower street,
where every other house had a hil-
lock of rubbish in front of it, and
where the stoops and sidewalks
were crowded with sickly- looking
children in miserable garments, and
who made big eyes at her as she
went by. The curs, too, yelped at
Rover, as if he had no business to
be among them ; and one mangy
beast tried to tear off his pretty
blue ribbon. But, albeit no coward,
Rover paused not to fight ; steadily
on he trotted, until at length he
dived down a flight of rickety steps.
Daisy had to follow, for she durst
not leave him now ; she seemed to

Flywheel Bob,

211

be miles away from her beautiful
home on Murray Hill, and there
was no choice left, save to trust to
her pet to guide her back when he
felt inclined.

But it was not easy to penetrate
into the cavern-like domicile whith-
er the stairway led ; for it was very
full of people. The dog, however,
managed to squeeze through them;
and Daisy, who was clinging to his
shaggy coat, presently found her-
self in an open space lit up by half
a dozen tapers, and in the middle
of the ring a boy was yelling and
swinging his arms around with ter-
rific velocity, and the boy looked
very like Flywheel Bob.

"Hi! ho! Here's a fairy, Bob
a fairy !" cried a voice, as Daisy
emerged from the crowd and stood
trembling before him. u It's Cin-
derella," shouted another. " Isn't
she a beauty i" exclaimed a third
voice.

While they were passing these re-
marks upon the child, Rover was
yelping and frisking about as she
had never seen him do before ; he
seemed perfectly wild with delight*
But the one whom the poodle re-
cognized and loved knew him not.

"O Bob! Bob!" cried Daisy
presently, stretching forth her hands
in an imploring manner, " don't
kill my Rover! Don't, don't !"

There was indeed cause for alarm.
The mad boy had suddenly ceased
his frantic motions and clutched
her pet by the throat, as if to choke
him. Yet, although in dire peril of
his life, Rover wagged his tail, and
somebody shouted : " Bully dog !
He'll die game !"

" Come away, come away quick !"
said a man, jerking Daisy back by
the arm. Then three or four other
men flew to the rescue of the poo-
dle, and not without some difficulty
unbent Bob's fingers from their iron

grip; after which, still wagging his
poor tail, Rover was driven out of
the room after his mistress

Oh ! it seemed like heaven to
Daisy when she found herself once
more in the open air. But what
she had heard and witnessed in the
horrible place which she had just
quitted wrought too powerfully on
her nerves, and now the child burst
into hysterical sobs. While Daisy
wept, somebody she hardly knew
whether it was a man or woman
fondled her and tried to soothe
her, and at the same time slipped
off her ring,^earrings, and bracelets.
The tender thief was in the very
nick of time; for in less than five
minutes, to Daisy's unutterable joy,
who should appear but her father,
accompanied by a policeman and
the superintendent of the factory.
" O my daughter ! my daughter !
how came you here?" cried Mr.
Goodman, starting when he discov-
ered her. "Have you lost your
senses too?"

" Oh ! no, no, pa," answered Daisy,
springing into his arms. " Rover
brought me here."

Then after a brief silence, during
which her father kissed the tears
off her cheek : " And, pa," she add-
ed, " I have seen Flywheel Bob,
and do you know I think they have
been doing something to him ; for
he acts so very strangely. Poor,
poor Bob !"

While she was speaking the ob-
ject of her commiseration was car-
ried up the steps. Happily, he was
tired out by his crazy capers and was
now quite calm, nor uttered a word
as they laid him on the sidewalk.

" Dear Bob, what is the matter?
What have they done to you ?" said
Daisy, bending tenderly over him.
Bob ' did not answer, but his eyes
rolled about and gleamed brighter
than her lost diamonds.

212

Flywheel Bob.

"Don't disturb him, darling. He
is going to the hospital, where he
will soon be well again," said Mr.
Goodman.

"Well, pa, he sha'n't go back
to that horrid factory," answered
Daisy ; " and, what's more, now that
he is ill, he sha'n't go anywhere ex-
cept to my house."

" Darling, don't be silly," said Mr.
Goodman, dropping his voice.
"How could a little lady like you
wish to have him in your house ?"

" Why, pa, Bob is ill; look at the
foam on his lips. Yes, I'm sure he
is ill, and I wish to nurse him."

" Well, my child, you cannot
have him ; therefore speak no more
about it," replied Mr. Goodman,
who felt not a little annoyed at the
turn things were taking.

" Then, pa, I'll go to the hospital
too, and nurse him there ; upon my
word I will."

" No, you sha'n't."

"But I will. O father!" Here
the child 'again burst into sobs, while
the crowd looked on in wonder
and admiration, and one man whis-
pered : " What a game thing she is !"

Three days have gone by since
Daisy's noble triumph, and now, on
a soft, luxurious couch in an elegant
apartment, lies Flywheel Bob, while
by the bedside watches his devoted
little nurse. The boy's reason has
just returned, but he can hardly
move or speak.

" O Bob ! don't die," said Daisy,
taking one of his cold, death-mois-
tened hands in hers. You sha'n't
work any more. Don't, don't die !"
The physician has told her that
death is approaching.

" Where am I ?" inquired Bob
in a faint, scarce audible whisper,
and turning his hollow, bewildered
eyes on the child.

" You are here, Bob, in my home,
and nobody shall put you out of it ;

and when you get well, you shall
have a long, long holiday."

The boy did not seem to under-
stand ; at least, his eyes went roving
strangely round the room, and he
murmured the word " Pin."

" What do you mean, dear Bob ?"
asked Daisy.

" Pin," he repeated" my lost
Pin."

Here the door of the chamber was
pushed gently open and Rover
thrust his head in. The dog had
been thrice ordered out for whining
and moaning, and Daisy was about
to order him away a fourth time,
when Bob looked in the direction
of the door. Quick the poodle
bounded forward, and as he bound-
ed Flywheel Bob rose up in the bed,
and cried in a voice which startled
Daisy, it was so loud and thrill-
ing : " O Pin ! Pin ! Pin !" In an-
other moment his arms were twin-
ed round the creature's neck ; then
he bowed down his head.

Bob spoke not again Bob never
spoke again and when Daisy at
length discovered that he was dead,
she wept as if her heart would
break.

" Father, I think poor Bob would
not have died, if you had let me
have him sooner," said Daisy the
evening of the funeral.

"Alas! my child, I believe what
you say is too true," replied Mr.
Goodman. " But his death has al-
ready caused me suffering enough ;
do let me try and forget it. I pro-
mise there shall be no more Fly-
wheel Bobs in my factory."

" Oh ! yes, pa ; give them plenty
of holidays. Why, Rover, I think,
is happier than many of those poor
people." Then, patting the dog's
head : " And, pa, I am going now
to call Rover Pin ; for I am sure
that was his old name."

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

*' Perhaps it was, darling," said
Mr. Goodman, fondling with her
ringlets. Then, with a smile, he
added : " Daisy, do you know both
Mr. Fox and my superintendent be-
lieve that I am gone mad!"

"Mad? Why, pa?"

" Because I have sworn to undo
all I have done. Ay, I mean to
try my best to be elected president
of another society the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Chil-
dren ; and I will try to make them
all happy."

" Oh ! yes, yes, as happy as Pin
is," said Daisy, laughing. " Why, pa,
I only work two hours a day, and
Mam'selle is always pleased with

213

me." Then, her cherub face grow-
ing serious again : "And now," she
added, " I must have a pretty tomb-
stone placed, on Bob's grave, and 1
will pay for it all myself out of my
own money."

' Have you enough, darling?"

" Well, if I haven't, pa, you'll give
me more money ; for I wish to pay
for it all, all myself."

" So you shall, my love," said Mr.
Goodman, smiling. "But what
kind of a monument is it to be ?"

" A white marble cross, pa. Then
I'll often go and hang wreaths upon
it wreaths of beautiful flowers ; for
I never, never, never will forget
Flywheel Bob."

THE PONTIFICAL VESTMENTS OF EGYPT AND ISRAEL.

MUCH discussion has arisen
among commentators and archaeo-
logists with regard to the sacred vest-
melnts of the Jewish high-priest
and the Levites; and yet it does
not appear to have hitherto occur-
red to them to refer to the only
sources whence additional and au-
thentic information respecting these
vestments can be obtained namely,
the monuments of ancient Egypt.

Age after age have repeated at-
tempts been made to remake the
vestments of the Hebrew priesthood
solely from the descriptions given
in the Pentateuch ; but hitherto the
words of Moses have been subjected
to the most discordant interpreta-
tions. In a book by the Abbe An-
cessi, entitled Egypt and Moses* the
first part only of which has as yet
appeared, we at last obtain a lucid

* L*'Egyftcet Moise. Premiere Partie. Parl'Ab-
be Victor Ancessi. Faris; Leroux, Editeur, 28
Rue Boisaparte.

idea of the Mosaical directions, the
very vagueness of which testifies
that the great Lawgiver is speaking
of things already familiar to those
whom he addresses. So much in
this work is new, and so much is
suggestive of what farther discover-
ies may bring to light, that we
shall, with the kind permission of
the learned author, make free use
of it in the present notice.

At the very epoch to which
chronologists are wont to refer the
origin of the human race we find
on the borders of the Nile an al-
ready powerful nation. Most of
the peoples whose names were in af-
ter-times to be renowned in histo-
ry were then tribes of mere bar-
barians, dwelling in the depths of
forests, in caverns, or on the islets
of the lakes, their weapons rude
flint-headed axes and arrows, and
their ornaments the teeth of the
wild beasts they had slain in the
chase, a few amber beads or rings

214

The Pontifical Vestments af Egypt and IsraeL

of cardium, threaded on tendons
dried in the sun.

At this time the nobles of Egypt
inhabited sumptuous palaces, wore
necklaces of gold adorned with
brilliant enamels, and hung from
their girdles lamina of bronze, dam-
ascened in gold with marvellous
delicacy,* Already during a long
period had the Egyptians depicted
their annals, their symbolism, and
their daily life and surroundings on
the massive pages of stone which
fill the museums of two of the
greatest capitals of modern Eu-
rope, and on the rolls of linen and
papyrus which enfold their mum-
mies in the depth of those Eternal
Abodes \ whose sleep of ages has
been disturbed by our unsparing
hands. The bold chisel of the
Egyptian sculptors carved from the
hardest rock these statues of
strange aspect, these grave and
tranquil countenances of the sov-
ereigns contemporary with Abraham
or Moses, which, after long centu-
ries, passed in their own unchanging
and conservative clime, we find
amongst us, under our own change-
ful skies, and amid the noise and
unrepose of our modern exist-
ence.

The deciphering of inscriptions
has given an insight into the his-
tory of Egypt, and " there are," as
M. Ancessi observes, "kings of
the middle ages who are less
known to us than these Pharaos
of every dynasty," who, by way of
relaxation from the long, funereal
labors in the building of the Pyra-
mids imposed upon each prince by
the belief and traditions of his
ancestors, would ravage Africa or
Asia; then, returning from these

* The secret of this art was only recovered by
the engravers of Damascus in the time of the ca-
liphs.

t The name given by the Egyptians to their
tombs.

expeditions, exchange the fatigues
of arms for the pleasures of the
chase. In the desert or on Mount
Sinai we find them hunting the
lion and the gazelle, after having
carried their thank-offerings to the
temples of Memphis or of Thebes.

Thus we find in remote ages the
fame of Egypt reaching to dis-
tant regions, besides exercising an
immense influence on neighbor-
ing nations. It was what, later on,
Athens became, and after Athens
Rome an object of wonder, inter-
est, and envy for its power, its
wealth, and splendor.

Such were the position and in-
fluence of Egypt when the family
of shepherds which was one day to
become the Hebrew nation wan-
dered in the valley of the Jordan
and on the plains of Palestine
that family to whom those pastures,
streams, and mountain gorges were
already peopled with precious mem-
ories, and who were farther bound
to the land by the promises of God
and their own most cherished
hopes. Too feeble then to over-
come the races of Arnalec and
Chanaan, it was needful that this
tribe should be for a time withdrawn
into a country in which they would
forget their nomadic habits and be-
come habituated to the settled life
of civilized nations; in which, more-
over, they would be disciplined
and strengthened, and where their
numbers would increase, until the
time appointed should -arrive when
God would deliver into their hands
the country so repeatedly promised
to their race. This time being come,
he had recourse, if one may say so,
to a touching stratagem, and drew
the sons of Jacob into the land of
the Pharaos by placing Joseph on
the steps of the throne.

During the gradual transforma-
tion of a wandering tribe into a

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel. 2,5

settled people another process, no pelled to make brick, hew stor

less slow and difficult, was also pre- and handle the workman's ham

paring them for the future to which mer ; to build, to cultivate the

they were destined. ground> and in ite of ^

On the arrival of the patnarch tary repugnance which might eris*

Jacob m the fertile plains of the to suffer themselves to be initiated

Delta the great and powerful of into the arts and manufactures of

that day hastened to meet him with ancient Eo-ypt
royal magnificence. These shep- That which 'at first was onlv sub-

herds, accustomed only to the shel- milled to under coercion' soo

ter of the tents which they carried grew into the habits, tastes and

away at will on their beasts of customs of the Israelites They

burden, found themselves face to had entered upon a new phase of

face with palaces and temples of their existence, thence to issue

which the very ruins strike us with after a period of four hundred

amazement. years, transformed into a people

And farther, what marvels were ripe for a constitution, laws, gov-

in store for the strangers in the ernment, and national worship. A

various arts of civilization carried man alone was wanting to them,

on in the cities of Mizraim, where and this man God provided!

painting and music flourished, When Moses arose amongst them,'

where gravers and goldsmiths they were familiar with all the se-

p reduced their excellent works, crets of Egyptian art and manu-

where unceasingly resounded the facture. But it was not only by

hammers of those who wrought in the formation of skilful craftsmen

wood and stone, and the hum of that the influence of this mighty

a thousand looms, weaving those nation made itself felt. It pene-

wondrous tissues * famous alike in trated the whole of their daily life ;

the time of Solomon, of Ezechiel, and this indelible impression was

and of Pliny the " fine linen of not effaced when Israel had tra-

Egypt."

versed a career of well-nigh twenty

The sight of all this must have centuries. After the fall of Jerusa-

vividly struck the imagination of lem and the dispersion of the Jew-

the strangers ; nevertheless, the pre- ish people, it still attracted the

judices and antipathies of race attention of historians and thought-

which speedily declared them- ful men.

selves, doubtless on the occasion It did not even occur to those

of changes on the throne, would not well acquainted with the cus-

have kept them aloof from sharing toms of the Hebrews and of an-

in the pursuits by which they were cient Egypt, such as Tacitus, to

surrounded, had not their new separate the names of the two peo-

masters forced them away from pies, which were included by them

tending their flocks and herds in in one and the same judgment, mer-

the land of Goshen, and scattered iting in their eyes the same re-

tliem in the cities, mingling them preaches and together sharing the

with the Egyptian people.

scanty praise which their new mas-

They now found themselves com- ters allowed at times to fall from

their disdainful lips.

g u there Were Others, more at-
. . 1

tentive and better informed, who

* See Prov. via. 16 : " Intexui funibus lectulurn
meum,stravi tapetibuspictis exyEgypto " ; Ezech.

216

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

entered more deeply into the study
and comparison of the two races
to name only Tertullian, Origen, St.
Jerome, and St. Augustine. Euse-
btus had been attracted by the
problem, as is proved by the fe\v
almost parenthetical lines in his
great work, The Preparation of
the Gospel, where he says : "Dur-
ing their sojourn in Egypt the Is-
raelites adopted so completely the
habits and customs of the Egyp-
tians that there was no longer any
apparent difference in the manner
of life of the two peoples."*

Nearer to our own time the learn-
ed Kircher devoted long years to
searching out those points of resem-
blance which could not at that time
be studied by the light of original
documents. The severest censors
would be disarmed by the telling,
though somewhat barbaric, form in
which he has presented the true
relationship existing between the
Mosaic and Egyptian constitutions :
"Hebrsei tantam habent ad ritus,
sacrificia, caeremonias, sacrasque
disciplinas ^Egyptiorum affinitatem,
ut vel ^Egyptios hebraizantes, vel
Hebrseos segyptizantes fuisse, mi hi
plane persuadeam." f

Kircher is right. These men of
Asiatic race, born at Memphis, Ta-
nis, or Ramses, were practically
Egyptians, and had forgotten their
ancient habits, their pastoral life,
and the land where the ashes of
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were
awaiting them. They had grown
up and lived amongst a people
whose tongue they had learned, J
whose toils they shared, and whose

* Euseb., Evang. Prep., 1. vii. c. viii. ; Pat.
Grcc., 1. xxi. p. 530.

t '* The Hebrews have so much affinity with the
rites, sacrifices, ceremonies, and sacred customs of
the Egyptians that I an* fully persuaded we have
before us either Hebraizing Egyptians cr Egyptiz-
ing Hebrews.'

$ Exod. xii.

gods they worshipped.* The chil-
dren of Jacob could only be dis-
tinguished by the aquiline nose
and slight beard from the brick-
makers and masons of the coun-
try, as we see them frequently
represented in the monuments of
this epoch.

Moses,' who was to become their
lawgiver, was a learned and accom-
plished Egyptian in everything but
the fact of race. Early separated
from his family and countrymen, he
had grown up at the court of Pha-
rao, among the near attendants
and favorites of the king, and was
" instructed in all the wisdom of
the Egyptians." f He had beheld
the statues of the gods borne in
the long processions, and had en-
tered the now silent temples of
Memphis ; he had looked upon the
arks whereon were portrayed the
divine symbols, hidden under the
guarding wings of mysterious genii ;J
and he had been present when the
king, who was also sovereign pon-
tiff, removed on solemn occasions
the seals of clay from this sombre
abode where, veiled in mystery,
dwelt the name and the glory of
God.

Into this inner sanctuary, the
Egyptian Holy of Holies, the pon-
tiff alone entered, but Moses could
behold him from afar, when he
burnt the incense before the veiled
ark, where, concealing itself from
mortal sight, dwelt the invisible
majesty of Ra, " Creator and lord
of the world."

* The Apis of gold, worshipped by the Israelites
in the desert.

t Acts vii. 22.

% See in Sir J. G. Wilkinson's work, A P?J>ul*r Ac-
count of tke Ancient Egyptians, vol. i. pp. 267 and
270, two arks, covered with the symbols of divinity.
The long wings of the genii are there represented ar.
veiling the face of Ammon Ra and Ra Keper the
Creator-God and the Hidden God. The two genii
are face to face, and veil the divine mystery with
^their wings, like the cherubim over the Ark of the
Covenant.

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel. 217

by a perpetual mira-

Many a time must Moses have
been present when the Pharao ar-
rayed himself in the sacerdotal vest-
ments the long linen tunic and
the bright, engirdling ephod. With
his own hands he may have tied the
cords of the sacred tiara upon the
monarch's head, and clasped on his
shoulders the golden chains of the
pectoral. With the colleges of the
priests he had chanted the hymns
and litanies it was customary to
sing in procession around the sanc-
tuaries during the octaves and on
the vigils of great solemnities. He
was familiar with the legislative and
moral code of the Egyptians, and
all the ancient traditions of their
race. And after he had crossed
the frontier and the Red Sea, all
these things could not disappear
from his remembrance ; in fact,
they were intended to live in the
constitution, laws, and religious
ceremonial of the Israelites, but
purified and freed from the cor-
rupt elements of Egyptian myth-
ology.

To show this in detail is the ob-
ject of M. Ancessi's interesting
work, in which, with minute care
and research, he proceeds, in the
first place, to consider the material
portion of the worship the sacer-
dotal garments, the ark, the altars,
and the sacrifices with the inten-
tion later of approaching the moral
code, and, lastly, the literature of the
two peoples.

The first of the sacerdotal gar-
ments described by Moses is the
ephod. This vestment, conspicuous
for its richness, was woven of
threads of brilliant colors and
adorned with precious stones set in
gold. But it owed its peculiar ex-
cellence to the pectoral with the
Urim and Thummim, that mysteri-
ous organ of the divine oracles
which manifested God's care over

his people
cle.*

Tradition makes frequent men-
tion of this marvellous vestment.
After the ruin of the Temple, Orien-
tal writers gave free scope to their
imagination and to the influence
of family reminiscences in their
descriptions of the ephod. We
must not, however, take these as
guides by any means trustworthy,
but endeavor to arrive at the exact
meaning of the Mosaic descrip-
tion,! as this, though brief and ob-
scure, suffices to enable us to re-
cognize the representations of the
vestment which come to us from
those remote ages.

Referring to the Vulgate, we find
as follows : " Facient autem su-
perhumerale [ephod] de auro et
hyacintho et purpura, coccoque
bis tincto, et bysso retorta, opere
polynaito." J And farther on:
"Inciditque bracteas aureas, et
extenuavit in fila, ut possint tor-

* The following episode in the life of David
shows the importance and purpose of the ephod in
Israel : u Now when David understood that Saul
secretly prepared evil against him, he said to Abia-
thar the priest : Bring hither the ephod. And
David said : O Lord God of Israel, thy servant
hath heard a report that Saul designeth to come to
Ceila, to destroy the city for my sake: will the
men of Ceila deliver me into his hands ? and will
Saul come down as thy servant hath heard ? O
Lord God of Israel, tell thy servant. And the
Lord said: He will come down. And David
said : Will the men of Ceila deliver me, and my
men, into the hands of Saul ? And the Lord said :
They will deliver thec up.'' i Kings xxiii. 9.
See also i Kings xxx. 7, 8. Thus God answered by

t We find the following, for example, in Suidas,
under the word ephod : Ephod signifies _in He-
brew science and redemption. In the middle of
tlvs vestment there was, as it were, a star of gold ,
and on its sides two emeralds ; between the two
emeralds a diamond. The priest consulted God
by these stones. If Jehovah were favorable to the
projects of Israel, the diamond flashed forth light;
if they were displeasing to him, it remained in its
natural state ; and if he were about to strike his
people by war, it became the color of blood ; or by
pestilence, it turned black." (Suidas is here com-
menting upon Joscphus.) Ant. Jud. i. in. c.

' End.' nviii. 6: "And they shall make the
ephod of gold, and violet, and purple, and scarlet
twice-dyed, and fine twisted linen, embroidered
with divers colors.'

218

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

queri cum priorum colorum subteg-
mine."*

This gives us the tissue of which
the ephod was made namely, a rich
stuff of fine linen, composed of
threads of blue, purple, and scarlet
worked in with filaments of gold.
So far there is no difficulty. f In
the following verses Moses describ-
es its form, and his words are : " Duo
humeralia juncta erunt ei ad ejus
duas extremitates et jungetur"
that is to say, literally : " Two
joined shoulder-bands shall be fix-
ed to the ephod at its two extremi-
ties, and thus it shall be fastened."

Now, if we compare with this the
drawings representing the gods or
kings of Egypt in their richest ap-
parel, our attention is at once at-
tracted by a broad belt of precious
material and brilliant colors which
encircles the body from the waist
upwards to a little below the arms,
and is upheld by two narrow bands,
one passing over each shoulder,
and joined together at the top,
their lower extremities being sewn
to the vestment before and behind.
These are clearly the two humeralia
spoken of by Moses.

In the Egyptian paintings we
notice that the buttons by which
the bands are fastened together on
the shoulders are precious stones
in a gold setting, and fixed, not on
the top, but a little lower down to-
wards the front, and at the exact
place where Moses directs two
gems to be placed, each on a disc
of gold.

We know from Josephus that in
the vesture of the high-priest these
two uncut stones joined the shoul-

* Exod. xxxix. 3 : u And he cut thin plates of
gold, and drew them small into threads, that they
might be twisted with the woof of the aforesaid
color." (Douai).

t -Neither St. Jerome nor the LXX. are success-
ful in conveying any clear idea of the vestment.

der-bands of the ephod together ; *
the parallel is therefore complete.
Indeed, if we may believe Dom
Calmet, a reminiscence of ancient
Egypt is to be found even in the
form of the hooks affixed to the two
precious stones. These hooks, he
tells us, had the form of an asp
biting into the loop or eye of the
opposite shoulder-band : " Dicunt
Grseci uncum ilium exhibuisse for-
mam aspidis admordentis oram
hujus hiatus." f The head of the
asp is a favorite object in Egyptian
decoration. J This detail, however,
is not insisted on, but merely men-
tioned in passing, as we find no
allusion to it in the Pentateuch,
nor is it based upon a tradition of
ascertained authority.

We read further: "And thou
shalt take two onyx stones, and
shalt grave on them the names of
the children of Israel : six names
on one stone, and the other six on
the other, according to the order of
their birth. With the work of an
engraver and a jeweller thou shalt
engrave them with the names of
the children of Israel, set in gold
and compassed about : and thou
shalt put tJicm on both sides of the
ephod, a memorial of the children
of Israel. And Aaron shall bear
their names before the Lord upon
both shoulders, for a remem-
brance."

Our European museums, and
more so still that of Boulaq, near
Cairo, possess a large number of

* " In utroque humero, singuli sardonyches, auro
inclusi, fibularum vice epomidem adr.ectunt "
Antiq., lib. iii. c. vii.

t Calmet, Commentary upon Exodus, chap.
xxviii. v. 11, Edit, of Mansi. ,

+ The exquisite chain of gold found in the tomb
of Queen Aa Hotep is terminated by two hooks
shaped like the head of the asp. Many very sim -
lar ones are to be seen among the Egyptian antiqui-
ties in the Louvre and in the British Museum.
The eyes of the serpent, enamelled in blue and
black, have a striking effect-

Exod. xxviii. 9-12.

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel. 219

gems of every form, engraven with more than a cubit in width, and
mystic inscriptions or the names leaves open the middle of the chest
of the members of a noble family, in the space between the two
The exact destination of many of shoulder-bands and the upper edge

of the corselet. " It is there," adds
Josephus, "that the pectoral is

these stones is often unknown, and

it is probable that some of them

have belonged to sacerdotal gar- placed." This was a span square,

of the same fabric as the ephod, en-
riched with precious stones, and

merits, or may have adorned the
shoulder-bands we are considering,
In any case, we know not only that

called

(essenes), which

the Egyptians engraved precious signifies also \6yiov, oracle. This

stones with marvellous skill, but
also that they were in the habit of
dedicating, as ex voto, gems bearing
the names of a whole family, to
render each of its members always
present to the remembrance of the
gods. Thus many of the stones

exactly filled up the space left bare
by the ephod. It would be diffi-
cult to give a more accurate de-
scription of the Egyptian vestment.
In the eighth verse of the twenty-
eighth chapter of Exodus we read :
" And the belt of the ephod, which

now in the Louvre were offered by passes over it, shall be of the same

princely houses to the gods whose
protection they sought to secure.*

Moses, by the command of God,
adopted this idea in composing the
vestments of Aaron, placing on the
shoulders of the high- priest two
precious stones, upon which were
engraven the names of the twelve
tribes of Israel ; expressing under
this graceful symbolism the office
and character of the priesthood. He
thus reminded his people that the
priest is a mediator between God
and men, and that he presents him-
self before JEHOVAH in the name
and on behalf of this people, whose
whole weight, so to speak, he
seems to bear upon his shoulders.

stuff:

In the Egyptian paintings the
lower edge of the ephod is encircled
by a girdle usually made of the
same material as the corselet itself.
The resemblance in every particu-
lar between the Hebrew and the
Egyptian ephod is, in fact, perfect.

We must now proceed more fully
to consider the pectoral, the im-
portance of which renders it worthy
of very careful study.

"And thou shalt make the rational
of judgment," * ' the Lord God com-
mands Moses, " with embroidered work
of divers colors, according to the work-
manship of the ephod, of gold, violet, and
purple, and scarlet twice dyed, and fine
twisted linen. It shall be four-square

" The ephod," says Josephus, " is an d doubled : it shall be the measure of

a cubit in width, and leaves the
middle of the chest open." f These
words have been a great perplex-
ity to the learned, but are easily
explained when we look at the
Egyptian vestment, which is not

* Glass case No- 4, in the Salle Hhtorique dii
Musee Egyptien at the Louvre, contains jewels
found in the tomb of an Apis, and dedicated by a
powerful prince. Some of the most beautiful ob-
jects in the collection are contemporary with Moses.
See Notice du tMusee Egypt ien, by M. Rouge,
p. 64.

t. ?*</., lib. iii.c. 7n-S

a span both in length and breadth. And
thou shalt set in it four rows of stones : in
the first row shall be a sardius stone, a
topaz, and an emerald ; in the second a
carbuncle, a sapphire, and a jasper; in the
third a ligurius, an agate, and an amethyst;
in the fourth a chrysolite, an onyx, and a
beryl. They shall be set in gold by their
rows. And they shall have the name
the children of Israel : with twelve names
shall they be engraved, each
the name of one according to the

* Exod. xxviii. 15-22, 29.

22O The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

tribes. . . . And Aaron shall bear the
names of the children of Israel in the ra-
tional of judgment upon his breast, when
he shall enter into the sanctuary, a me-
morial before the Lord for ever."

This passage has been compared
by commentators with the follow-
ing from Elian : " Among the
Egyptians, from the remotest ages,
the priests were also the judges ; the
senior being chief, and judge over
all the rest. It was required of
him that he should be the most
just and upright of men. He wore
suspended from his neck an image
made of sapphire, and which was
called TRUTH."*

And Diodorus Siculus, respect-
ing the same symbol, writes as
follows : " The chief of the judges
of Egypt wore round his neck, sus-
pended from a chain of gold, a
symbol made of precious stones,
and called Truth. Until the judge
had put on this image no discus-
sion began." f

In examining the Egyptian mon-
uments we find that the personages
who are represented wearing the
vestment corresponding to that
which, by Moses, is designated the
ephod, usually also wear upon the
breast a square ornament adorned
with precious stones. It is placed
between the shoulder-bands, and
rests, as it were, on the upper edge
of the ephod, its position exactly
corresponding to that of the pectoral
of Aaron.

The museums of Boulaq and the
Louvre possess pectorals of rare
beauty. That of Boulaq was sent
to Paris, with the other jewels of
Queen Aa Hotep, to the Exhibi-
tion of 1867. It is a chef-d'oeuvre
of ancient jewelry. The frame,
which is almost square, encloses a
mythological scene much in favor

* Elian. Hist. Div., lib. xiv. c. 34.
t Diod. Sic., lib. i. c. 75.

with the Egyptians. King Amosis
is standing in a bark of lapis
lazuli and enamel, while two divini-
ties pour upon his head the waters
of purification.*

This pectoral, which belonged to
the mother of Amosis, is worthy of
particular notice, not only because
of its admirable workmanship, but
also because its date is known to
us as being to a certainty anterior
to Moses.

In the pectoral of Aaron the
precious stones were attached to
the rich stuff which formed the
foundation by little rings of fine
gold, instead of being held in place
by small plates of gold, as they usu-
ally are in the Egyptian pectorals.
There is, however, in the museum
at Boulaq, a splendid necklace, the
arrangement of which proves that
if the idea of the pectoral is Egyp-
tian, so also is the manner of its
workmanship. This necklace is
composed of a multiplicity of tiny
objects, garlands, twisted knots, ibur-
petalled flowers, lions, antelopes,
hawks, vultures, and winged vipers,
etc., all of which are arranged so as
to lie in parallel curves on the
breast of the wearer. Now, each one
of these objects forms a piece apart,
quite separate from the others, and
is sewn to the stuff serving for a
foundation by minute rings fastened
behind each. It seems to have
been by a similar arrangement that
the precious stones were attached

* u The workmanshio of this little gem." says M.
Mariette," is exceptionally admirable. The ground
of the figures is cut in open-work. The figures
themselves are designed in gold outlines, into which
are introduced small cuttings of precious stones ;
carnelian, turquois, lapis lazuli, something re-
sembling green feldspar, are introduced so as to
form a sort of mosaic, in which each color is sepa-
rated from its surrounding ones by a bright thread
of gold ; the effect of the whole being exceedingly
rich and harmonious.'' The fineness and precision
of the work en the back of this pectoral is as re-
markable as that on the front. Notice sur lei.
frincipaux monuments du Musec de Bottlaq, par
M. Mariette, p. 262.

221

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

to, or, to speak in more exact ac- as, for instance, in the seco
cordance with the meaning of the sponse for the Tuesday folb win ^
Hebrew, embedded m, the pectoral the third Sunday after Eis r -

find:" In diademate capitis Aaron
magmficentia Domini sculpta erat.
In veste poderis quam habe-
bat totus erat orbis terrarum et
parentum magnalia in quatuor or-
dinibus lapidum sculpta erant "
( Brev. Roma mi m ) .

The Egyptian pectorals, being
usually made with a ground-work

the weight

of the

precious

port
stones.

Some of these stones it is now
difficult to identify ; but we cannot
leave this part of the subject with-
out giving an abridged quotation
from the ingenious work of M. de
Charancey, Actes de la Socidte philo-
logique, v. iii. No. 5 : " De quel-
qiies I dees symboliques, " etc.

According to M. de Charancey,
the twelve stones of the pectoral
ought to be divided into two se-

of Aaron.

With regard to the word caphul

duplication : " it shall be square and

doubled\$n double] " it is, with our

present knowledge, impossible to

say whether Moses intended to di-
rect that the ornamentation of the

back of the pectoral was not to be

neglected, or that the stuff was to

be doubled, so as the better to sup- of metal, were simply suspended

from a gold chain which passed
round the neck ; but the foundation
of the Aaronic pectoral, being of
woven material, needed a different
kind of support to keep it stretched
out and in place. We accordingly
find exact directions given that to
each of the two upper corners
should be fastened a ring of pure
gold, and to each ring a chain, the
other end of which should be fixed
to one of the gems on the shoul-
ders. These gems are also directed

ries,* the first of seven stones, an- to be placed, not on the top of the

shoulders, but a little lower and
towards the front, exactly as we see
them in the sculptures and paint-
ings of Egypt. To the lower cor-
ners of the pectoral rings were also
attached, and again at the joining,
in front, of the bands with the
ephod, while a violet-colored fillet
passed through the two on the
right, and tied, and another simi-
larly through the two on the left.
The directions (Exod. xxviii. 13,
14, 23, 25) are so explicit as to
give evidence that we have here
some departure from the well-known
arrangements with which the Is-
raelites were familiar.

We must now consider the ques-
tion of the urim and thummim,
celebrated for its inextricable diffi-
culties ; but as no authoritative do-
cument has as yet given the solu-
tion of this problem, it is impossible

swermg, in accordance with Judaic
symbolism, to the celestial spheres
and the seven planets ; while the
second, of five stones, related to the
terrestrial sphere, to the five re-
gions of space, including the cen-
tral point ; the whole creation be-
ing gathered up, as it were, into
this microcosm, resplendent with
the wisdom and goodness of God
in the oracles of the urim arid thum-
mim.

It is in any case certain that the
church, in her liturgy, makes occa-
sional allusion to this symbolism ;

* A traditional symbolism attached the greatest
importance to this division of the twelve tribes and
the twelve stones into two unequal numbers. The
prophecy of Jacob is divided into two parts by the
exclamation into which he breaks forth after the
name of the seventh patriarch : " I will look for thy
salvation, O LORD " (Gen. xlix. 14). Ezechiel
also, in the last chapter of his prophecy, interrupts
his narrative after the mention of the seventh
tribe by the description of the temple, and then
resumes his enumeration of the territories.

222

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

to explain it with certainty. Jt
would be useless to take up the
reader's time with all the opinions
of the learned upon this subject,
especially as they are for the most
part as unsatisfactory as they are
diverse. The hypothesis advanced
by the Abbe Ancessi appears to
rest upon the most reasonable foun-
dation. We give it in his own
words :

"Without entering into lengthy phi-
lological discussions, it is easy to show
that the word urim must have originally
signified light. This is the sense of aor,
to sparkle, to shine ; it is the sense of
iara, which has a relationship with iara
to see, and with the analogous root of
the Indo-Germanic languages from which
come ordo, orior, Iris, Jour, Giorno, etc.,
etc. In Egyptian we also find this ra-
dical in the name of Horus, the Shining
One, the Morning Sun. With this root
again is connected iara, the river, the
sparkling, and in Hebrew tia/iar,* which
has the same sense.

" Besides, the meaning of the word
urim is scarcely contested, and it is
generally admitted that its original sig-
nification is lights, or beams.

" The word thummim, has jbeen less
easy to interpret.

*' The Egyptian radical turn signifies to
be shut up, veiled, hidden, dark, obscure.
This meaning reappears in the trilite-
rate form of the Semitic Tamam.\

"As from the radical aor the Egyptians
had made the god of light, so from the
radical turn they made the name of the
hidden god, the god veiled in ..darkness
and obscurity, who had not manifested
himself in the bright vesture of creation
the god Turn, hidden in the silence and
darkness of eternity, in opposition or
contrast to Horus, the god of the morn
ing of creation, shining in the sunbeams,
and glittering in the bright gems of the
midnight skies.

"Thus, according to the etymology of
these words, we have in the urim the

* With regard to the N pre-formative, see M.
Ancessi's Etudes sur la Grciinmaire compare'e
des Langues de Sent et de Ckam the S causa-
tive, and the subject N. Paris : Maisonneuve.

tOn the formation of trihterate radicals see, in
the above Etudes, " the fundamental law of the
triliterate formation."

lights, beams, or rays, and in the t/ium-
mini the obscurities and shadows, which
doubtless passed over the face of the pec-
toral. . . . The -high-priest grouped
the luminous signs according to a sys-
tem which remained one of the mysteries
of the tabernacle. This key alone could
give the interpretation of the will of
JEHOVAH, and this may explain the
curious episode in the time of the Judges
to which allusion has already been
made, when we find one of the tribes of
Israel hire a Levite to place the ephod
and interpret its oracles."

What rule was followed in inter-
preting the answers whether it was
formed by grouping all the luminous
letters, or only that one which was
brightest in the name of each tribe
we know not. We do not even
know whether the foregoing ex-
planation is the true one, although
we may safely allow that it answers
to all the requirements of the Scrip-
tural texts, as well as to the indica-
tions of tradition. It is thus that
Josephus explains the manner in
which the oracles were given by
the "rational of judgment," and
well-nigh the whole of Jewish and
Christian tradition follows in his
steps.

Some have found a difficulty in
the thirtieth verse of Exodus xxviii. :
" Thou shalt place on the pectoral
of judgment the urim and the thum-
mim,* which shall be upon the
heart of Aaron when he shall come
before the Eternal." But this text
opposes no serious difficulty, as it
is evident that Moses here speaks
of the twelve stones. Besides, he is
merely returning upon his subject
at the end of a description (as is so
frequently the case in the Penta-
teuch), as if to give a short sum-
mary of what he had previously
been saying.

We have now, as briefly as mny
be, to consider the remaining " or-

* In the Douai version translated a doctrine as 1 ?
truth."

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

naments of glory " exclusively ap- symbolical idea which

propnated to the high-priest, the people of Etrypt

l?T l^"^"^ ^ <*** ^ '***& either re-

22 3

it had for

zophet, is evidently too well known

present or even symbolize JEHO-

to those whom he is addressing to VAH ; nothing but the most holy

need description. We, however, have name itself could remind them of

unfortunately no means of forming the uncreated Essence, who, being

from this word any precise idea pure spirit, has no form Hence

of its form, and are able only to in- the great importance of the name

dicate some of its adjuncts. of Jehovah or, more exactly, YAH-

The Israelites were familiar with VEH in the history of Israel. The

the symbols and rich ornaments name of Him who dwelt in the most

which in Egypt characterized the holy place, whose glory shone above

head-dress of the deities and kings ; the mercy-seat this name alone,

each god and goddess wearing on with the ascription of sanctity, was
the head a particular sign indica-
tive of his or her attributes or func-
tions, and consecrated by a long
tradition. Among these symbols
that of most frequent occurrence is

the serpent Uraus, which encircles

engraven on the golden fillet on the
brow of his high-priest.*

" And the band shall be always
upon his forehead, that the Lord
may be well pleased witli him."

This idea of the abiding of God
with its coils the heads of kings, on the head of the pontiff-kings
raising broad, inflated chest was one very familiar to the Egyp-

tians, and has been expressed by
them in a variety of ways. For
example, we find the "divine Ho-
nes " forming with his wings a
graceful ornament on the head-at-

over the middle of the forehead.
The Uraeus, by some capricious as-
sociation, signified the only true
and eternal king, of whom all earth-
ly monarchs are but the image and
representative incarnation. At the
time the Hebrews were in Egypt
the form of this serpent had been
gradually modified into that of the
S which we so often find

tire of some of the statues of the
Pharaos, or again spreading his
wings upon them to communicate
the divine life.

The sign of the God of Israel

carved on the brow of kings and was placed on the forehead of the
sphinxes, springing from a fillet at
the border of the head-attire. In-
stead of passing round the head,
this fillet is only visible on the fore-
head, disappearing over the ears
in the folds of a kind of veil.

Now, Moses is directed to place
upon the forehead of Aaron a band
of gold engraven with the. name of
the Most Holy.

He gives to the high-priest not
only an ornament analogous to that
worn by the Egyptian kings that is
to say, the chiefs of the priesthood

and the representatives of the Dei- ^^^^o^ ^^so**
ty but he preserves also the same vary f om the Mosaic texts

high-priest, as if to overshadow
him with his majesty, and to give

* " Thou shalt make a plate of purest gold, where-
in thou shalt grave with engraver's work, HOLINE:
TO THE LORD. Thou shalt tie it with a violet fillet,
and it shall be upon the borders of the mitre, over the
forehead of the high-priest." Exod. xxviii. 36-38.
The description given by Josephus of the crown of
the high priest would lead to the supposition that
the fillet of Aaron did not always preserve its pri-
mitive simplicity. Speaking of a section of a
dem ornamented with the cups of flowers, whii
passed round the back of the head and reached
the temples, he adds, however, that in front
was only the golden band engraven with the nara
of Jehovah. The course of ages, broken by ca
tivity and troubles, as well as successive iaflu
first Assyrian and afterwards Greek, may have oc-
casioned some modification in the Torm of
vestments of the Temple ; and thus il

224

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

merit and value to his offerings ;
supplying what was lacking to the
perfection of the sacrifice by en-
veloping him who offered it with
iiis own glory.

Under the ephod was worn the
long tunic, called in Hebrew Meliil,
the most noticeable part of which
is its fringe, composed of little bells
of gold alternating with colored
^pomegranates. The description
given by Moses (Exod. xxviii. 31,
34) is very simple : " And thou shalt
make the tunic of the ephod all of
violet ; in the midst whereof above
shall be a hole for the head, and a
border round about it woven, as is
wont to be made in the outmost
part of garments, that it may not
easily be broken. And beneath, at
the feet of the same tunic, round
about, thou shalt make as it were
pomegranates, of violet, and purple,
and scarlet twice-dyed, with little
bells between : so that there shall
be a golden bell and a pomegranate,
and again a golden bell and a pom-
egranate."

The Mehil was not only the coun-
terpart of an Egyptian vestment
worn by the Pharaos, and which
we see represented with a broad
hem round the neck, but we find
upon it the same ornaments as
those mentioned in Exodus namely,
acorns or tassejs of colored threads
alternating with pendants of gold.*
There are in the Louvre some pom-
egranates of enamelled porcelain,
furnished with a ring by which to
hang, and which have evidently
formed part of the border of a gar-
ment or a very large necklace. We
find there blue, yellow, red, and
white oneSj of a shape that might
have been run in the very mould of
those which adorned the vestments
of Aaron. Others, again, are made

* See Wilkinson, vol. ii. ch. ix. p. 32.

in the form of an olive, encased in
a sort of network of colored threads.
Nor are the little golden bells want-
ing. Some of those which have
come down to us are of very pleas-
ing and varied design.

It must not be forgotten that there
was, in the ornamentation of the
period we are considering, a sin-
gular admixture of Assyrian with
Egyptian forms. Assyrian gar-
ments were also bordered with
heavy fringes, the tassels of which
sometimes take the form of pome-
granates. Moses -must , have seen
at the palace of the Pharaos, as
ambassadors, as tributaries, or as
captives, some of those Eastern
princes whose majestic counte-
nances and kingly garments long
ages have preserved to us on the
sculptured blocks of the palaces
of Babylon and Ninive.

In a fragment of a Coptic trans-
lation of the Acts of the Council of
Niccca, which has lately been dis-
covered by M. Revillout among the
Oriental MSS. of the Museum of
Turin, the fathers of the holy coun-
cil give the following advice to a
young man just entering into life :
" My son, avoid a woman who loves
gay clothing; for displays of rings
and little bells * are but her signals
of wantonness." f The piety of
the middle ages brought back
these ornaments to their ancient
and sacred uses. The memory of
Aaron's vestments gave the idea of
fastening long borders of little
bells to the edges of sacerdotal
garments. J

*HolketSckilkil.

\Concile de Nicte d'aprfs Ics textes Copies.
Par E. Reyillout. Journal Asiaiique, Fev.-Mars,

J 873-

jln a valuable MS. preserved in the library of
Tournus we read : " In aurifedo sancti Filiberti
sunt xlix. tintinnabula : inter stolam nigram et mani-
pulum, xxi.; inter stolam rubram et mampulum, xx. ;
in Candida vero cum manipulo, xxviii.; manipulns
unus restat, ubi sunt tredecim baltei cum quinqua-
ginta tintinnabulis."

The Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel.

Claude Quitton, librarian of Clair-
vaux, passing by the Chateau de
Larrey in Burgundy, the 5th and 6th
of September, 1744, saw there cer-
tain rich vestments, among others a
chasuble, closed everywhere, save at
the top to pass the head through, and
having little bells (grelots) hanging
all round its lower edge or border.

Thus through a long series of
ages this custom of adorning vest-
ments with bells has come, almost
without a break, down to these lat-
ter centuries.

The other vestments of the high-
priest were common also to the Le-
vites, and, as well as the striking an-
alogies between the Egyptian and
Mosaic manner of offering sacrifice,
may furnish matter for considera-
tion at some future time. Mean-
while, we will close the present no-
tice with the appropriate words
of St. John Chrysostom : " Deus
ad errantium salutem his se coli
passus est quibus dcemonas gen-
tiles colebant aliquantulum ilia in
melius inflectens" "God, for the
salvation of the erring, suffered
himself to be honored in those
VOL. xxiv. 15

225

things which had served in the
worship of idols, modifying them
in some measure for the better."
And, continues this great doctor,
God, by thus introducing into
his temple all that was richest in
the vestments of the Egyptians, all
that was most solemn in their sanc-
tuaries, most elevated in their sym-
bolism, and most impressive in
their ceremonies, willed that his
people should feel no regret, and
experience no want or void, in their
worship of him, when, amid the
new ceremonial, they should call
to mind that which they had seen
in Egypt : " Ne unquam postea
^Egyptiorum aut eorum quae apud
^Egyptios fuerant experti civpidi-
tate tangerentur." It was not
only fitting but also necessary that
the worship of the Lord JEHO-
VAH should not in any point ap-
pear inferior to that of idols ; for
the unspiritually-minded nation of
whom Moses was the leader was
incapable of appreciating the great-
ness and majesty of God, except in
some proportion to the splendor of
his worship.

226

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

ORLEANS, Feb. 15, 1868.

DEAR, sweet Kate, I have seen
Sainte-Croix again, and now I write
to you. The general installation
lias scarcely begun ; great agita-
tion and noise in all directions.
Everybody is surprised to see me
so soon settled down and quiet, but
Marianne and Antoine are of a
fairy-like agility. Rene is busy;
Marcella still asleep, having watched
till very late by her little Anna, who
was rather feverish.

Therese and Madeleine will reg-
ularly attend catechism at Sainte-
Croix during some weeks, unless
their mother consents to their
speedy departure. This good and
amiable Berthe has promised the
superior of to send her daugh-
ters to her for a year at the time
of their First Communion ; now she
hesitates, and none of us, to say the
truth, persuades her to send them
they are so gentle and sweet, so
truly two in one.

This is but a sign of life, dear sis-
ter. Good-by for the present.

FEBRUARY 17.

My good paralytic showed much
pleasure at seeing me again. It^s
arranged that Marcella and I are
to go to her by turns, and Gertrude,
who ardently desires some active
occupation, claims her share of
presents of poor. Not a minute is
wasted here, dear Kate. We are
keeping the twins, not wishing to
place them under any external in-
fluence ; and although Arthur has
entered at the Jesuits', the good

abbe has consented to remain per-
manently the guest of Mme. de
T , as preceptor to these lova-
ble children, whom he finds so at-
tractive. Marcella is giving them
lessons in Italian. How learned
they are already ! Every month,
in accordance with Adrien's deci-
sion, there are solemn examinations.
The delicate little Anna studies
with zeal, finding herself very igno-
rant by the side of the twins.

I have knelt again before Notre
Dame des Miracles, and have done
the honors of Recouvrance to our
fair Roman. Did I tell you that
Margaret is a little jealous ? " Keep
me at least a tiny little corner in
your heart, which I see invaded
from so many quarters." Her hap-
piness- has undergone no alteration ;
she is expecting and wishing for
me. . . .

Read Emilia Paula, a story of the
Catacombs. Mgr. La Carriere, for-
merly Bishop of Guadaloupe, will
preach the Lent, and Mgr. Dupan-
loup will speak in the reunions of
the Christian Mothers. It is also
said, though it is not very likely,
that the great bishop will this year
deliver the panegyric of Joan of
Arc.

Marcella is in a state of enthusi-
asm. Her heart opens out in the
warm atmosphere created for her
by our friendship. Anna is well
still a little shy; the delicate tem-
perament of the dear orphan hav-
ing for so long kept her at a dis-
tance from anything like noisy play.
Marguerite and Alix teach her her

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

227

lessons. What pretty subjects for
my brush !

We all communicated this morn-
ing, the anniversary of Mine, de
T^- 's marriage. O my God !
what can the soul render to thee
to whom thou givest thyself? Oh !
how I pity those who know thee
not, who never receive thee as
their Guest, who never weep at thy
feet like Magdalen, who return
not to thee like the prodigal, who
lean not upon thy heart like St.
John. Oh ! with the divine and fiery
beams of thy bright dawn illumi-
nate this earth, wherein the evil
fights against the good.

Still more deaths, dear Kate.
See what Isa writes to me : " My
grandfather suffers continually more
and more from fearful pain and
extreme weakness. His patience
and resignation are admirable. We
pray together; I read him the Imi-
tation ; the Sick Mans Day, by Oza-
nam, which Lizzy has translated
for me, since your friendly kindness
made me acquainted with Eugenie
de Guerin ; also a book most effec-
tually consoling, and to which my
grandfather listens with tears. We
make Novenas. He has received
the ' Bread of the strong,' and the
help of Heaven cannot fail this
manly soul, who has passed through
life so nobly." Jenny has lost her
sister-in-law another house disor-
ganized and without its soul. The
little nephew is given to the two
sisters, who are going to bring him
up and educate him; and Jenny,
who had a horror of Latin, is
going to learn it in order to
lessen its difficulties to the pretty
darling.

Mother St. Andre is in heaven.
It makes my heart bleed to think
of the grief of Mother St. Mau-
rice. It is so cruel a sorrow to lose
one's mother, and such a mother

an exceptionally holy soul, friend
of the saintly foundress, dtstined
by Providence to such great things ;
who has known the brightest joys
and the most deadly sorrows, seeing
her children die after she had given
them up to God. What holy joy
gladdened her soul on that day
when, herself a religious, she beheld
her two daughters clothed in the
livery of Christ, and her son, her
third treasure, the third pearl in
her maternal crown, a priest ! What
a family of chosen ones, and what
sorrows ! Oh ! when this mother, at
the same time austere and tender,
was called upon to close her chil-
dren's eyes, were there not, side by
side with the feelings of the Chris-
tian and the saint, those also of the
wifv and mother? Dear Kate, I can
understand that a religious 'loves
more deeply than other women. The
love of God, sanctifying her affec-
tions and rendering them almost di-
vine, communicates to them some-
thing of the infinite, which is not
broken without indescribable suf-
fering.

I am writing to Mother St. Mau-
rice. How much I pray God that
He may console her he, the Com-
forter above all others, who alone
touches our wounds without wound-
ing us still more !

Rene is sending you a volume.
The affection of all those who love
you would fill many. May all good
angels of holy affections protect you,
dear Kate !

FEBRUARY 26, 1868.
Behold me with ashes on my
brow ashes placed there by the
great bishop. tk Memento, homo, qnia
pitlvis cs, et in piilvcrcm rewferis."
But, O my soul ! it is but the en-
velope of flesh and clay which must
return to dust. The immaterial
being escapes the corruption of

228

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to Jier Sister.

the grave ; my soul, come from God,
must ascend again to him.

Yesterday the dressed-up figures
going about the streets were any-
thing but attractive, but there were
others elsewhere at which the angels
would smile. M. I'Abbe' Baunard,
director of the cattchisme of Sainte-
Croix, a few days ago organized a
lottery, with the produce of which
some little girls, disguised as scul-
lions, gave yesterday an excellent
dinner to the old people of the Lit-
tle Sisters of the Poor. This feast
of charity was a charming idea,
bringing together under the eye
and the blessing of God smiling and
happy childhood with suffering and
afflicted decrepitude poverty and
riches, two sisters in the great
Catholic communion. And the
twins were not there! Our good
cure in Brittany requested as a
favor that they might make their
First Communion in his church.
Tne good abbe is preparing them
for it, and the ceremony is fixed for
the 2d of July, the Feast of the
Magnificat.

We are all in deep mourning for

my Aunt de K , and neither visit

nor receive company this winter ;
thus we shall have more leisure for
our different works. Adrien and
Raoul were present at the funeral.
My mother feels this death very
much.

Bought a pamphlet by the great
bishop. It is admirable worthy
of Bossuet. What a portrait of
the Christian Frenchwoman ! What
vehement and sublime indignation
against those who would make this
noble type disappear from our
France ! What nobility of soul !
Oil ! if all fathers, if all mothers,
heard these accents, which pro-
ceed from a more than paternal
heart, how they would reflect upon
themselves, and long to become

worthy of the mission entrusted to
them by Providence. Poor France !
what will become of her ? I was
glad to hear one of the vicaires of
Sainte-Croix, M. Berthaud, in speak-
ing of the horoscope of the im-
pious against religion, say: "Pro-
phecy for prophecy. I prefer to be-
lieve the words of the Count de
Maistre, the noble genius who saw
so deeply and so far into the events
of the present time, and who said
fifty years ago : ' In a hundred
years France will be wholly Chris-
tian, Germany will be Catholic,
England will be Catholic ; all the
peoples of Europe will go into the
basilica of St. Sophia at Con-
stantinople to sing a Te Deum of
thanksgiving.' " God grant it may
be so ! Lizzy announces to me the
mourning of Isa, who is not well
enough to write to me. " There is
a yoke upon all the children of
Adam." These words of Holy
Scripture often come into my
mind as I see all around me
darkened by mourning. Spcs iini-
ca ! Hope remains, and the love
of God shows heaven open. Dear
sister of my life, this letter, begun
yesterday, is to contain yet a third
funereal announcement : Nelly has
been suddenly summoned from this
world. I know how much you lov-
ed her. Thus this time of penitence
opens for us. Dead ! Nelly, in her
spring-time, her grace, her youth ;
dead, after a long and holy prayer,
which had preceded a walk with
Madame D .

Imagine the distress of this poor
mother, roused from her sleep by
the cry : " Mother, I think I am
dying!" Mme. D rushes, ter-
rified, into Nelly's room; her child
embraces her with only these words:
" Adieu on high heaven ! ..."
and expires.

The whole town is in consterna-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

229

tion. Margaret is inconsolable ; all be turned

our friends are weeping. What a

into joy a joy divine,
eternal, infinite, ineffable, of which

death! God has spared her all none can deprive us for ever "
suffering. Let us pray for her, or May God guard you, dear Kate,

and may he guard our Ireland, her
cradles and her tombs !

rather for her unhappy mother ; for
I cannot believe that Nelly is not
in heaven. Do you recollect that
she used to be called the Angel
in prayer ?

MARCH 8, 1868.

Beautiful sunshine; your Geor-

Rene wishes me to stop here, gina in the drawing-room ; Rene -u

Adieu, dear Kate. the piano, making the children sin*

a quartette. This harmony pene-

MARCH 5, 1868. trates my heart AU th j ^

have been rather ill, dear Kate, had overwhelmed me ; I have now

and to-day I am beginning to get recovered my balance of mind. Oh!

up. The doctor forbids me emo- it is undeniably sad to see so many

tion, but as soon might he forbid sister-souls disappear; but they go

me to live. Marcella has nursed to God. Each day brings us nearer

me like a sister. Anna is growing to the eternal reunion; and your

stronger. How pretty she was, Georginasays, with Mine. Swetchine,

playing with her doll near my bed, that "life is fair and happy, and

silently and gravely, without any yet more and more happy, fair, and

demonstrative gayety, but often rais- full of interest."

ing her beautiful eyes to look at me ! Yesterday Monsignor preached

I have thus missed the two first at Saint-Euverte ; I wished very

Lenten sermons. Rene has never much to go, but the wish was not

left me a moment. Dear, kind reasonable. I must wait until Sat-

Rene ! how thoughtful he
about the smallest details.

is, even urday for my ecstasy. Heard a
strange bishop this evening. " I will

A letter from Isa : still in bed; give thee every good thing." "The

weak, very weak, but wishing to eye of man hath not seen, nor his

live, that she may be a comfort to ear heard, nor his heart conceived

her much-tried family. "Aunt what God hath prepared for them

D finds no peace but when she that love him." The preacher

is with me. Oh ! I can truly say with employed a profusion of words,
St. Augustine that the Christian's thoughts, and images which inter-
life is a cross and martyrdom !" fered with his principal idea; and it

Hear what Rene was reading to was only with the greatest difficulty

me this morning: " Every Chris- that one could keep hold of it under

tian," says Mgr. de Segur, " receives this overflow, this torrent, this ava-

in baptism the all-powerful lever lanche of expressions, which, al-

of faith and love, capable of moving though rich and well chosen, were

more than the world. Its fulcrum far too superabundant. Monsignor

is heaven ; it is Jesus Christ him- was there. Ho\v well he would

self, the King of Heaven, whose have treated this fruitful subject!

love brings him down into the heart With what genius would he have

of each one of his faithful. The depicted the immense suffering of

prospect of eternity keeps us from man, who, being made for heaven,

fainting. How everything there finds happiness nowhere upon earth,

will change its aspect ! Tears will is never satisfied, whilst everything

230

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

around him is at rest. " Without
being Newton, every man is his
brother, and, in proceeding along
the paths of science, he can repeat
that we are crushed beneath the
weight of the things of which we
are ignorant."

Lamurtine describes this when
he says :

'iMon ame est un rayon de lumiere et d'amour,
Qui du flambeau divin detache pour un jour,
Lie desirs de"vorants loin de Dieu consumed
Brule de remonter a sS source enflamme'e !" *

Dear, sweet Kate, all the lovable
little singing party salutes you. God
be with you !

MARCH TI, 1868.

Dear Kate, again there are sepa-
rations and adieux !

George and Amaury are enter-
ing La Trappe !--an unmistakable
vocation, I assure you. Adrien
and Gertrude are so far above na-
ture since they have seen Pius IX.
and suffered for him, that they gave
their consent at once. Grandmo-
ther clasps her hands and utters the
fat of Job. Brothers and sisters
wonder and admire. Happy fam-
ily ! All three chosen, all three
marked with the seal of God ! I
should regret them, if I were their
mother so young, so handsome,
rich in every gift of heart and un-
derstanding. O life of mothers !
Calvary and Thabor !

1 knew nothing of it ; they feared
I should feel it too much. We all
went to Communion this morning,
and this evening they leave us.

W T hat ! have I not yet spoken
to you about Benoni, who says my
name so prettily, and who is grow-
ing superb ? It is an unpardonable
forgetfulness on my part. It was

* My soul is a ray of light and love, which, being
separated for a day from the torch of divinity, far
from God, is consumed by ardent aspirations, and
burns to reascend to its fiery source.

a pleasure to see this baby again,
and his parents also, so sincere in
their gratitude for the little that a
kind Providence has allowed me to
do for them !

Evening. They are gone. Ad-
rien accompanies them ; and Ger-
trude, whom I have just been to
see, said to me simply : " Dear
Georgina, now I can say Nunc di-
mittis. Will you thank God with
me?" I knelt down by her side,
breathless with admiration. O this
scene of the adieux! Those two
noble heads bent down to receive
their grandmother's blessing; the
assembled family; the emotion of
all ; the last pure kisses all this
may be felt, but cannot be describ-
ed. I know, I understand, how the
Christian cannot render too much
to God, who has given him all ; but
my heart is struck by the contrast
between La Trappe and the world.
On the one side austerities, silence,
anticipated death, manual labor,
and forgetfulness oft earth ; on the
other a great name, a large for-
tune, easy access to any position,
renown, and glory. Oh ! how well
they have chosen.

How I love you, dear Kate !
How I love Ireland ! I speak of
it to the children, and love to hear
them say to me, as the multitudes
of Ireland said to our great O'Con-
nell : " Yes, we love it ; we love Ire-
land!"

MARCH 14, 1868.

Before going to rest, my belov-
ed sister, I want to tell you that I
was this morning at Saint-Euverte,
and that I have heard the great
bishop. Marcella was with me,
especially happy, she said, because
of the joy which she read in my
looks. I sent back the horses,
and we came home by the longest
way, as the charming Picciola says,
under a bright sun, which illumi-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

nated our bodily eyes, whilst the
sunshine of the holy and noble
words we had just heard illuminat-
ed the vision of our souls and
opened out to us vistas of beauty.
Dear sister of my life, sister un-
speakably beloved, I found you on

23'

myself also under the sheltering
wing of the invisible Guardian.

1 salute yours, and embrace you
dearest Kate.

MARCH 16, 1868.
" As on high, so also here below,
re-entering a whole packet of let- to love and to be loved this is hip
ters, in which at first I saw only piness." Oh ! how truly he speaks
your dear handwriting. How truly and how I realize it every day !
it is yourself! I gave your beauti- Your tender affection, dearest Kate!
ful pages to Gertrude : she will tell that of Rene, and of all the kind
you herself what effect they have
produced. Then Madame D

with a photograph of the depart-
ed child of ' Nelly dead ! How

hearts around methis is heaven,
or, at least, that which leads one
thither.

Mid-Lent, and the Feast of St.

well I recognized her ! This image Joseph this sweet and great saint,
of death moved me with pity for so powerful in heaven. O most
the poor mother, but I felt nothing glorious patriarch,
like fear. Why should death make
me afraid ? Would the exiled son
returning to his father fear the rapid
crossing which would restore him
to his country, his affections, and
his happiness? And where is our
country, where are our affections
and happiness to be found, except
in heaven, in God, who alone can
satisfy our desires? Mother St.
Maurice only sends me a few words,
but so kind and tender. Marga-
ret writes me the sweetest things;
she complains of my silence, and
informs me that the little cradle
she is adorning with so much care
and love will soon receive its ex-
pected guest. Karl is coming to
us ; reasons of fitness and of affec-
tion have detained him, but his de-
sire is more ardent than ever. Oh !
to think of seeing him without El-
len. Kate, what is life ?

I am going to sleep, but first I
wish to ascertain whether Anna is
free from fever. Marcella was un-
easy this evening.

They are both asleep, beautiful
enough to charm the angels. The
little one's breathing is calm and
gentle. I prayed by her, placing

who didst be-
hold, and bear in thy arms the
Messias desired by thy fathers, fore-
told by thine ancestor David and
all the prophets, how favored wert
thou of the Lord ! Marcella said to
me : " I have a particular devotion
for St. Joseph, and a boundless
confidence in him ; I have often
thought that he must have known
a multitude of things about our
Lord which no one has ever known."
O St. Joseph ! remember those
who invoke you in exile. What an
admirable existence ! What a long
poem from the day when the rod
of the carpenter blossomed in the
Temple to that when Joseph expires
in the arms of Jesus and Mary, the
two whom every Christian would
wish to have by him when on his
death-bed ! Never did any man
receive a mission more divine than
was entrusted by the Almighty to
St. Joseph. I love to picture him
to myself, grave, recollected, seraph-
ic, accompanying Mary, that sweet
young flower whom the angels loved
to contemplate, leading her over the
mountains to Hebron, to the abode
of Elizabeth, then to Bethlehem and
the Crib, then into Egypt a long

2 3 2

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

and painful journey through the
desert. Did those who met the
Patriarch, the humble and holy
Virgin, and her dear Treasure
suppose that it was the Salvation
of the world who was passing by ?

Evening. Karl is here, dear Kate,
more grave and saintly than ever ;
his feet on earth, his heart in
heaven ! He gives us a week.
Adrien arrived at the same time
two souls formed to understand
one another. Letters from Ireland,
where Karl's departure is causing
general regret. We spoke of Ellen
an inexhaustible subject. Karl was
moved as he listened to me ; there
are so many memories of my child-
hood to which those of Ellen are
united, making them doubly sweet.

Marcella, Rene, and Karl are
wanting this letter to send to the
post. Good-night, dear sister.

MARCH 21, 1868.
Dear Kate, I send you my notes,
freshly made; you will kindly re-
turn them to me, that I may send
them off to Margaret. We are vis-
iting the churches with Karl.
Anna and all the dear little people
salute Mme. Kate. God guard you
from all harm, dear sister !

MARCH 25, 1868.
Dearest Kate, what will you think
of your Georgina getting the Con-
ferences aux Femmes du Monde* into
a religious house ? But my Kate
understands me ; that is enough for
me. O arnica mca, gaudium meum
et corona mea ! The beautiful Sat-
urday did not end at Saint-Euverte :
splendid festival at Sainte-Croix, the
fiftieth anniversary of the priesthood
of the good cure. It was magnifi-
cent, and the music also like the
hymns of heaven. To-day tne An-

* Conferences for Women in the World.

nunciation, the commencement of
the Redemption. What a feast !
How I should like, as in our child-
hood, to spend the day in prayer !
O sweetest Virgin, what a most fair
memory in your glory ! Gabriel,
one of the seven archangels contin-
ually at the feet of the Eternal,
spreads his wings, and from the
heights of the everlasting hills de-
scends into the valleys of Judea.
Celestial messenger, you doubtless
cast a glance of pity on the abodes
of opulence and the vanities of the
world ; or rather, you saw them not.
Absorbed in your admiration at the
mercy of the Almighty, you adored
and gave thanks. And now a Virgin
of Nazareth, in the tranquillity of
prayer and love, is suddenly dazzled
by an unknown light, and the arch-
angel salutes her in the sublime
words which will be repeated by
Catholic hearts to all generations :
" Ave, gratia plena /" O Mary !
from this day forth you are our
Mother, the Mother of our Salva-
tion. O Handmaid of the Lord,
humble and sweet Mother ! obtain
for my soul humility and love

Hail to the spring, the swallows,
the periwinkles, all the renewal of
nature ! How good is God, to have
made our exile so fair ! Oh ! how I
enjoy everything, dear Kate.

Presented Karl with the portrait
of Ellen, painted from memory.
His silent tears expressed his
thanks. I have made him also sit
for his likeness ; it will be a pre-
cious remembrance of this true
friend. Who knows whether we
shall ever meet again in this world ?
Thus the days pass away, shared
between regret and hope.

The good abbe is delighted with
the progress of his pupils. Anna
grows visibly stronger. I am read-
ing Dante with Rene. Ah ! dearest,
how magnificent it is. Marcella

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

speaks Greek and Latin, and wishes
me to read Homer and Virgil in the
original. Wish me good success,
dear. A long walk ; met a little
beggar, whom Picciola fraternally
embraced. What a pretty scene,
and how I afterwards kissed my
dear pet !

Love me always, dear Kate.

MARCH 28, 1868.
Darling Kate, I send you my
notes without adding anything, be-
cause we have Karl with us for only
one more day. O these departures !
Laus Deo always, nevertheless.

MARCH 30, 1868.

Dear sister, Karl is gone! I am
not sorry ; 1 shall see him again,
and he will then be nearer to God.
How happy it is to feel that God is
the bond of our souls! Yesterday,
Sunday, his last in the life of the
world, we went together to Sainte-
Croix, where we heard a long ser-
mon, a veritable encyclopaedia:
Godfrey de Bouillon at Jerusalem ;
Maria Theresa in Hungary, with the
shout of the magnates in French and
in Latin ; the proud Sicambre lis-
tening to the Bishop Remy ; St.
Elizabeth on the throne, and then
in penury ; St. Thomas writing sub-
lime pages before his crucifix ; St.
Francis of Assisi receiving the stig-
mata; St. Bernard; St. Catherine of
Genoa; the Crusaders; Magdalen
at the foot of the cross ; Veronica
wiping the face of our Saviour, etc.,
etc., appearing in it by turns. A
day of unspeakable serenity. Karl
sang the Lcetatus for his adieu.
Dearest sister, ho\v happy Ellen
must be !

You will see Karl. Tell me if
you do not find him transfigured.
We read, during his too short stay
with us, the life of Mine. St. Not-
burg, byM. deBeauchesne another

233

saint in Protestant Germany, a
French saint, though her tomb is
there. I have asked Karl to take
you this book ; read, and see how
excellent it is !

And so the month of St. Joseph
is ended ! O protector of temporal
things! guard well all whom I love.

Marcella, my winning MarcelL, is
a poet; I ought to have told you
this. I gave her a surprise: her
most feeling lines have been printed
m a newspaper, which I managed to
put before her eyes. She blushed*
and grew pale the first emotion of
authorship. Poor heart ! for so long
severed from love, and which so
soon lost that whereon it leaned.
'' O Madonna mia ! how good God
is," she often repeats with ecstasy
in admiring her beautiful little Anna,
who grows wonderfully. I think
this child was too much kept in a
hot-house, when she had need of
air, space, and movement. I can
understand how her mother may
well doat on her: she has a way of
looking at you, kissing you, and of
bending her forehead to be kissed,
quite irresistible. Carissima, how I
love her, and how fondly I love my
Kate !

Rene is writing to you ; every-
body would like to do the same.

APRIL 3, 1868.

Feast of the Compassion. Stabat
Mater Dolorosa ! Have I mention-
ed to you the new frescoes of Re-
couvrance, dear Kate ? the birth
and espousals of the Blessed Virgin.
The first does not impress me ; but
the second ! The high-priest is ad-
mirable ; his purple robe gleams like
silk. Mary is not so beautiful as
in Raphael's pictures. I have un-
dertaken a painting on ivory which
I wish to send to the amiable Chate-
laine in Brittany, whom I think you
cannot have forgotten. I am mak-

234

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

ing Anna sit for her portrait, she
looks so sweet.

M^r. de Segur, author of the
posm of St- Francis, has just written
a tragic poem, St. Ceciliu. What
a line subject, and how well the
writer has been inspired ! Isa must
read it. You see whether my life
is occupied or not. Gd, the
poor, the family, friendship, study
my mind is full !

The language of Homer no long-
er appears to me so difficult as at
'first. But Latin oh ! this is charm-
ing, and I delight in it ; in the first
place, because I am still ztrosa and
rosarium. What a head Marcella
has ! She has learnt everything, and
sings like Nilsson. If only you
could hear her in La Juive ! This is
profane music ; but we have pious
also, and Marcella enjoys Hermann.

This note will be slipped into the
envelope destined for Karl. Lizzy
announces to me her visit. Good-
night, carissima sorella.

APRIL 5, 1868.

And so we are in Holy Week, my
sister. I have here a blessed palm,
sweet and gracious souvenir of
the Saviour's entry into Jerusalem.
O King of Peace ! bring peace to
souls. Have pity upon us ; as-
semble together at thy holy table
both the prodigal sons and the
faithful ; grant peace to thy church !
To all 'troubled hearts, to all those
who suffer, to those who are op-
, pressed and persecuted, give the
hope of heaven of that eternal
dwelling where all tears will be
wiped away, where all lips will
drink of the stream of delights, and
where every heart will receive the
fulfilment of its desires. Why does
Lent come to an end ? I could
listen for ever to the lovely chants
of the Miserere, the Attende., the
Stabat Mater, and the Parce Do-

mine. No sermon, to my mind,
equals the Stabat Mater, sung al-
ternately by the choir- boys, with
their pure, melodious, aerial voices,
and the men who fill the nave, and
who, varying in their social posi-
tion, fortune, and a thousand things
besides, are one in the same faith,
the same hope, and the same cha-
rity.

Dear Kate, I shall send you on
the day of Alleluias my journal of
the week. Thanks for having al-
lowed me to come to you as usual
during this Lent ; to read you and
talk to you is a part of my life.

A thousand kisses, my very dear-
est.

APRIL 6, 1868.

My sweet sister, I have just come
in with Rene from Mass. We com-
municated side by side, like the
martyrs of the catacombs. As we
came out, and while still under the
deep impression of the presence of
God, Rene proposed to me a sac-
rifice that of not speaking to each
other, at any rate without absolute
necessity, during this week. My
heart felt rather full it will cost
me so much; but how could I help
consenting? Oh! but ho\v love
longs to speak to the object loved.
I shall have to throw myself into a
whirl of things, and absorb myself
in them, that I may not find this
privation quite insupportable.

7th. Yesterday evening, at
Sainte-Croix, Monsignor spoke for
about twenty-five minutes. I was
too far off to hear, but I was none
the less happy. I am reading Mgr.
de Segur ; his teaching is gentle
and loving, even when he speaks of
self-renunciation and sacrifice. No-
thing is more comforting than his
little work, Jesus Living in Us. I
remarked this thought of Origen's:
" Thou art heaven, and thou wilt go
to heaven!" Confession. How

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

well the good father was inspired !
What wise directions ! I came out
strengthened and courageous; but
alas ! alas ! poor, sorrowful me, on
coming in I found a letter await-
ing me a letter from Margaret.
Liz/y is greatly indisposed, and
obliged to give up her journey.

235

martyrdom. So far, thanks to our
good angels, we have not
found out, and we have not said a
single word to each other.

9th. What emotions ! My poor
and venerable paralytic has just
died in my arms. I return to pass
the night by her. Gertrude under-

This made me shed tears, and, as took to obtain Rene's permission
Rene did not ask the cause of my She communicated this morning in

ecstasy, and blessed us afterwards.
As I observed something unusual
about her, I begged Marianne to go
several times. A long walk to the
different sepulchres in the churches
with our tram of little angels, and
without Rene, who avoids me,
from which we returned home at
six o'clock. I found a line from
Marianne, entreating me to join
her as soon as possible ; so I hur-
ried away with Gertrude. The
dear sufferer had scarcely a breath
of life left. '' I was waiting for
you that! might die. . . . Thanks!
. . . May God reward you!" Dear
Kate, I was ready to drop from fa-
tigue, but I know not what excit-
ing power sustains me.

loth. O Christ Jesus! who
saidst: "When I shall be lifted up
from the earth, I will draw all unto
me," draw all hearts for ever unto
thyself. Rene passed the night
by the lowly couch with me, and
we came home together, still
without speaking. This evening,
at Sainte-Croix, heard Mgr. l)u-
panloup. The force and authority
of his language make a deep im-
pression upon his hearers. " There
is in Christianity everything which
can naturally go to the heart of
man." How he speaks of the Crib
and of Calvary; of the Mother

pain, I repented for a moment that
I had undertaken so hard a sacri-
fice. Dear Kate, it was very wrong,
and your Georgina is always the
same.

8th. Letter from Sarah, full of
joy ; her sister Betsy is to be mar-
ried on the 22d, and wishes for
me to be at her wedding. Kind
friend ! God grant that she may
be happy ! Until this present time,
with the exception of the terri-
ble strokes of death which have fal-
len not far from her on the friends
of her childhood, her life has been
calm and happy, almost privileged.
She has never left her mother.

Marcella, Lucy, and I are pre-
paring an Easter-tree for all the
darlings. I have been studying
very much lately; Marcella mia
assures me that I make wonderful
progress.

Benoni does not expect to share
in the festivity, but he must ; and
how joyfully he will clap his hands
at the sight of the playthings hung
there for him ;

My paralytic told me yesterday
that she would like to make her
Easter Communion next Thursday
that is, to-morrow. Gertrude and
I must rise with the dawn to make
an escort for the gentle Jesus, the
Comforter of the infirm and poor.
Ah ! dear Kate, how much I should
dislike the life of a Chartreux. To
see Rene and not be able to speak
to him, when I feel such a want to
pour out my thoughts to him, is a

whom we find with the Holy Child
at Bethlehem, and again with him
upon the cross ! When the clock
struck eight, he stopped. How
eloquent he is ! He quoted our

236

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

Lord's words, " He who shall say
Lord, Lord, will not, for that reason
only, enter into the kingdom of
heaven, but he that shall do the
will of my Father who is in hea-
ven " ; " The same shall be to me
as a brother, a sister, a mother ";
and this thought of Rousseau's :
" There is in Christianity some-
thing so divine, so intensely inimi-
table, that God alone could have
been its author. If any man had
been able to invent such a doctrine,
he would be greater than any hero,"
Mgr. la Carriere preached an
hour and a half. Remarked this
passage : " Pilate washes his hands.
Oh ! there is blood upon those
hands. Were the waters of the
Deluge to pass over them, still would
they keep the stain of blood !"
This reminds me of Macbeth, where,
looking on his murderous hands, he
savs :

4 What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine

eyes.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will

rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red."

nth. Was present at the funeral
of this saintly friend, whom God
had given me through Helene.
Looked through Marcella's manu-
script books, in one of which she
wrote a year ago : " Cymodoceus
said : * When shall I find again my
bed of roses, and the light of day,
so dear to mortals ?' And all this
harmonious page put in his mouth
by Chateaubriand. And I, for my
part, say : When shall I again find
heaven, from whence I feel that I
came ? When shall I find the hap-
piness of which I dream, and which
I know too well there is no possi-
bility of finding here below ? When
shall I find eternal beauty, eternal
light, eternal life ? But before that

hour grant, O Lord ! that in this
world I may find, in the shadow
of thy cross, that peace which thou
hast promised to men of good-will ;
grant that, for myself and my child,
I may find a little rest after the
storm ! Give us the heavenly man-
na ; overshadow us with the bright
cloud ; grant us, above all, to be
beloved by thee !"

St. Teresa used to say : " The
soul ought to think that there is
nothing in the world but God and
herself." Rene must have medi
tated on that.

1 2th. Alleluia! dear Kate, Al-
leluia/ No more penance, no more
of ~ this torturing silence which so
resembles death ; but now talking
to each other without ceasing, soni^s
letters, walks and always prayers.

What will you think of my week,
carissima? Oh! I could not have
borne it longer ; I found Rene too
holy for my unworthiness. Not a
word, not a look. It was like the
visible presence of my guardian
angel. How delightful it is to hear
his voice again !

Went to the Mass for the gen-
eral communion of the men ; no
spectacle on earth can be more ad-
mirable or -more touching. This
scene was worth far more than a
sermon this multitude of men, so
perfectly attentive and earnest, sing-
ing heartily the sweet hymns they
all had sung on the day of their
First Communion ! And what joy
to see in this Christian assembly
those to whom I am bound by af-
fection, and to feel myself united
in the grand fraternity of the faith
to all these happy guests at the
Lord's table !

The benediction was all that can
be imagined of religious and mag-
nificent. What singing, w r hat al-
leluias, making one think of those
of the angels ! Why do such days

Letters of a Young- IrisJiivoman to her Sister.

ever end ? O risen Saviour ! grant
that \ve may rise with thee.

Benoni was out of himself with
joy. The meditative Anna jumped
about in her delight. The festivity
was perfect, and, to crown it, news
arrived which I will send you as
my adieu. Margaret is at the sum-
mit of happiness, the

Dou.v bercean, qii 1 une main jalouse
Orne et visite a chaque instant^
Char me des songes < epou<se
Doux nid, ou Pespe'rance attend, *

has received the little stranger sent
by Heaven. Let us bless God, dear
Kate ! Alleluia ! Christ is risen !
Happy they who live and die in his
love! Alleluia!

APRIL 16, 1868.

Thanks, dear sister ! I have
translated Mgr. Dupanloup at
Saint-Euverte for Isa. Lizzy is
better; they had been too much
alarmed about her, but they are ex-
pecting us there. Lord William
sends us the most pressing and
affectionate appeals. Sarah also
writes to me, gravely this time:
" My sister's marriage will separate
her from us. Two sisters will
henceforth be wanting to this fami-
lr group; the one, and that the
happiest, enkindled with love for
the Best-Beloved of her soul, left
the Avoiid for God and his poor,
and, shortly afterwards, the poor for
eternity ; the other is going into
Spain."

Imagine Margaret's joy I Dear,
sweet friend, how, with her, I bless
(rod ! " No baptism without Geor-
gina." Oh ! how I long to embrace
the dear little creature, to whom I
send my guardian angel a hundred
times a day. I am so anxious he
should live !

* " Soft cradle which a jealous hand
Adorns and visits every hour,
Charm of the wife's imaginings,
Soft nest, whereby hope waits.'

237

Walk in the country, alone with
Rene, who read me sonic letters
from Karl, George, and Ainaury :
the latter will write to their uncles
no more. What detachment ! Rent-
read to me also this beautiful pas-
sage from Madame Swetchine from
the notes of Helene : " The day of
the Lord is not of those days which
pass away. Wait for it without im-
patience ; wait, that God may bless
the desires which lead you toward
a better life, more meritorious and
less perilous; wait, that he may
give abundant work to your hands
from henceforth laborious, for the
opportunity of labor is also a grace
by which the good-will of the la-
borer is recompensed. Let not your
delays and miseries trouble you ;
wait, learn how to wait. Efforts
and will, means and end submit
all to God."

It is not Monsignor who will
preach the panegyric. The great
bishop waits until next year. It
appears that various beatifications
are about to be taken under consid-
eration, amongst others those of
Christopher Columbus and Joan of
Arc. The first discovered a world,
the second saved France by deliv-
ering it from a foreign yoke living
as a saint and dying as a martyr ;
the former, a marvellous genius,
was tried and persecuted, like every-
thing which is specially marked
with the seal of God in this world.
I have seen persons smile when any
one spoke before them of the possi-
bility of the canonization of Joan
of Arc. What life, however, was
more extraordinary and more mir-
aculous ? Would this shf])licrtl'.'ss
of sixteen years old, so humble,
gentle, and pious, have quilted her
hamlet and her family for the
stormy life of camps, without the
express will of God, manifested to
her bv the voices / Poor Joan ! How

233

Letters of a Young 1 Irishwoman to her Sister.

often have I pictured her to myself,
after the saving of the gentil dau-
phin who had trusted in her words,
weeping because the king insisted
on her remaining. From that mo-
ment her life was a preparation for
martyrdom. She knew that shortly
she should die.

Adrien lias given me the history
of Christopher Columbus in Eng-
lish. You are aware that this son
of Genoa, this heroic discoverer,
wore the tunic and girdle of the
Third Order when he landed on that
shore, so long dreamed of, which
gave a new world to the church of
God. It is said that this great
man had at limes ecstasies of faith
and love. What glory for the fam-
ily of the patriarch of Assisi !
Edouard assured me yesterday that
Raphael and Michael Angelo were
also of the Third Order. Tnis aus-
terity appears naturally to suit the
painter of the Last Judgment, but
I cannot picture to myself the
young, brilliant, and magnificent
Sanzio in a serge habit. What cen-
turies were those, my sister, when
power and greatness and splendor
sought after humility as a safeguard,
and followed in the footsteps of the
chosen one of God, who, in the lofty
words of Dante, had espoused on
Mount Alverna noble Poverty, who
had had no spouse since Jesus
Christ had died on Calvary ! Po-
etry was not wanting to the crown
of the Seraph of Assisi, himself so
admirable a poet. Lopez de Vega
was also of the Third Order.

Adrien says that our age has had
its Francis of Assisi in the heavenly
Cure d'Ars, who is perhaps the
greatest marvel in this epoch, fertile
as it is in miracles. How much
we regret not having seen .him, es-
pecially as we passed so near !

Picciola has the measles. This
pretty child is attacked by a violent

fever ; it is sad to see her, but she
will not suffer herself to be pitied.
" Our Lord suffered much more,"
she says. " What is this ?" You see,
sister, that hereabouts the children
of the saints have not degenerated.

Anna, who had the measles last
year, faithfully keeps the sick child
company. I overheard them talk-
ing just now. " Would you like to
get well quickly ?" asked the Ita-
hana. " Oh ! no, I am not sorry to
suffer a little to prepare for my
First Communion." " For my part,
though, I pray with all my heart
that you may soon get up; it is too
sad to see you so red under your
curtains, whilst the sun r is shining
out there." "Listen to me, dear :
ask the good God to help me to
suffer well, without my mother be-
ing troubled about it. We are not
to enjoy ourselves in this world, as
M. 1'Abbe says, but to merit hea-
ven." I slipped away, lest my tears
should betray me : I am afraid that
Picciola may also leave us.

Pray for your Georgina, dear
Kate.

APRIL 22, 1868.

The wish of this little angel has
been granted : her measles torture
her ; there are very large spots
which greatly perplex the doctor.
She is as if on fire, but always smil-
ing and thoughtful, and so grateful
for the least thing done for her!
What "an admirable dispositiun she
has ! Last night the femme de
chambre, whose duty it was to watch
by her, went to sleep, and the poor
little one was for six hours without
drinking ; the doctor having or-
dered her to take a few spoonfuls
of tisane every quarter of an hour.
It was the sleeper who told us of
this ; and when I gently scolded the
darling Picciola, she whispered to
me : u Dear aunt, I heard you men-
tion what the good gentleman said

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

who founded the company of St.
Sulpice : ' A Christian is another
Jesus Christ on earth.' Let me,
then, suffer a little in union with
our Lord."

What do you say to this heavenly
science, this perfect love, in a child
of twelve years old ? O my God !
is she too pure for this world ?
They assure me that there is no

239

Kate, dearest,
for us.

arnica win, pray

APRIL 26, 1868.

She is better; the ninth day was
good. God be praised ! Last night,
while watching by the sweet child.
I turned over Marcella's manu-
script. How the thorns have
wounded her ! Oh ! it is a name-
less grief, at the age of twcntv

danger, but my heart is in anguish, years, when the soul is overflowing

Kate, I do so love this child! - :ii - irr *

It is to-day that Betsy becomes

madame. What a day for her !

Yesterday she was still a young

girl, to-morrow will begin her life

as a wife ; she will begin it by

sacrifice. Oh ! why must we quit

the soft nests which have witnessed

our childhood and our happiness ?

Why comes there an hour when we
must bid adieu to those who, with
their love and care, protected our
first years ? Poor mothers ! you
lose your much-loved treasures ;
they will some day belong to others.

Pere Gratry was received at the
Academy on the 26th of March.
On his reception he made a magni-
ficent discourse. He was present-
ed by Mgr. Dupanloup.

" Gentlemen," said the father
on beginning his address, " it is
not my humble person, it is the
clergy of France, the memories of
the Sorbonne and the Oratory, which
you have intended to honor in
deigning to call me to the seat oc-
cupied by Massillon.

"Voltaire, gentlemen, who occu-
pied the same, thus finds himself, in
your annals, between two priests of
the Oratory, and his derision of
mankind is enclosed between two
prayers for the world, as his cen-
tury itself will also be, one day in
our history, enclosed between the
great seventeenth century and the
age of luminous faith which will love
God and man in spirit and in truth."

with life and love, to be forced to
shrink within one's self, to hide
one's sufferings and joys, and re-
press all the ardor of youth which
is longing to break forth. Every-
where in these rapidly-written pages
I find this prayer : " Lord, grant me
the love of the cross ; give me the
science of salvation ! St. Bonaven-
ture used to say that he had learnt
everything at the foot of the cru-
cifix ; St. Thomas, when he did
not understand, was wont to go and
lean his powerful head against the
side of the tabernacle; and Sua-
rez, who devoted eight hours a day
to study and eight to prayer, loved
to say that he would give alb his
learning for the merit of a single
Ave Maria. My God, my God !
will the desires which thou hast im-
planted within me never be real-
ized ? Must I lead always a wan-
dering and isolated existence, be-
neath distant skies, mourning my
country and my mother, and seeing
around me nothing which could in
some little measure replace these
two blessings? Must the sensi-
tiveness of my thoughts and feel-
ings be hourly wounded ? Lord, thy
will be done ! And if this is to be
my cross, then give me strength to
bear it lovingly, even to the end,
until the blessed time when thy
merciful Providence shall reunite
me to my mother !"

My beloved Kate, Rene is writ-
ing to you, and I send this sheet

240

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

with his. Whenever I read any-
thing beautiful, I long to show it to
you.

God guard you, my second mo-
ther !

APRIL 30, 1868.

Complete and prosperous conva-
lescence laus Deo ! I sent you a
few words only, dear Kate, on the
morning of the 26th. This was a
most happy day. Heard three
Masses; received, with deep joy,
him who is the Supreme Good, It
was the Feast of the Adoration.
The cathedral was splendid. Ser-
mon by M. Berthaud on the Real
Presence. It contained some ad-
mirable passages, especially on Lu-
ther and the Mass of the Greeks.

On the 2yth was at the Benedic-
tion. Heard a Quid Retribuam and
Regina Cceli which carried one away.
In the evening Rene read with me
a page of Helene's journal ; I should
like to enshrine all the thoughts of
this exquisite soul. Last year, at
Paris, she wrote the following :

" Was present this morning at the
profession of Louise de C . Ser-
mon by the Pere G . I was much

moved when the sisters sang the
De Profundis whilst Sister St.
Paul, prostrate under the funeral
pall, consecrated to God for ever
her being and her life ; then the
priest said aloud : 'Arise, thou who
art dead ! Go forth from among the
dead !' Happy death ! Henceforth
Louise lives no more for the world ;
it is no longer anything to her. She
is here below as if alone with God,
and with God alone. Happy, says
Pope, the spotless virgin who, ' the
world forgetting/ is 'by the world
forgot.' O religious life ! how ad-
mirable and divine. I remember
that a few years a^o, in the youth-
ful and poetic ardor of my enthu-
siastic soul, I wondered that the
world was not an immense convent,

that all hearts did not burn with
the love of Jesus, and thought it
strange that any should affiance
themselves to man instead of to
Christ. What disappointments and
misery are in all terrestrial unions !
Even in such as are sanctified and
blessed is there not the shadow
which, on one side or another, dark-
ens all the horizon of this world ?
No union, could be ever more per-
fect than that of Alexandrine and
Albert, and Alexandrine had ten
days of perfect happiness, of un-
mixed felicity ten days ; and
afterwards, how many tears for this
admirable wife by her suffering
Albert, and, later, over his tomb !
O joys of this world ! do you deserve
the name ?

" My family has been greatly
privileged hitherto, so united, so
happy ! But I am going away, mix-
ing wormwood with the honey in
my mother's cup. How Aunt Geor-
gina will also suffer ! O grief to cause
so many griefs! This evening I
went to Ernestine's with mamma.
The mother and two daughters were
magnificent just ready to go to the
ball. What a contrast ! This morn-
ing the Virgin of the Lord, this
evening the world and its pomps.

Mme. de V looked like a queen ;

my two friends were in clouds of
tulle. May all the angels protect
them ! Are there angels at a ball ?
Oh! it is there above all that we
need to be guarded. Blessed are
the pure in heart, for they shall
see God!"

Dear Kate, you can understand
how such reading as this consoles
Gertrude. Oh ! how good God is.

We are going to have great fes-
tivities. The Coticours Regional*
begins on the 2d ; the emperor
and empress will be here on the

* Provincial Exhibition.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

loth. On the i2th Rene and I are
going to see you, dear Kate, while
all the rest of the family take flight
into Brittany. Then, after the
best and happiest day of the twins,
in July, we shall, I hope, go all to-
gether to see " merry England " and
our dear Ireland.

Good-night, dear Kate ; I have
studied so much to-day that my
head feels heavy. Adieu, my dear
heart, as Madame Louise used to
say.

MAY 3, 1868.

The month dear to poets, and
still dearer to pious hearts, is come.
Three Masses, visits, a walk on the
Mall, a family concert after the
month of Mary this, dearest, is
my day. Yesterday Rene set out
at dawn on an excursion with Ad-
rien. They have a passion for
these long walks through the woods.
While waiting until Marcella could
receive me, I plunged into the His-
tory of St. Paula, which my mother-
in-law has given me. This beauti-
ful book is written by M. 1'Abbe"
Lagrange. A disciple of the great
bishop is easily recognizable in
these magnificent pages. St. Jerome,
whom M. de Montalembert calls
the lion of Christian polemics, is
there fully portrayed. " This ar-
dent soul which breathes of the de-
sert." Remarked this passage in
the introduction : " God has not
bestowed all gifts upon them ''
(women), " nor spared them all
weaknesses ; but it is the privilege
of their delicate and sensitive na-
tures that the faith, when it has
penetrated them, not only enlight-
ens but enkindles them it burns ;
and this sacred gift of passion and
enthusiasm carries them on to won-
drous heights of virtue."

And elsewhere: "Will not the
accents of St. Jerome, filled as they
are, according to the expression of

VOL. XXIV. 16

241

an illustrious writer, with the tears
of his time, wonderfully impress
souls wearied by the spectacles
with which we are surrounded,
and which have within them, as the
poet says, the tears of all things ?
For those who have other sadness-
es and other tears, inward sorrows,
hidden wounds, some of those sor-
rows of which life is full these, at
least, will not weary of contemplat-
ing a saint who has herself suffered
so much, and who was transfigured
in her sufferings because she had
the secret of knowing how to
suffer, which is knowing how to
love."

Do you not seem to hear Mgr..
Dupanloup in this? "There are-
times when a struggle is necessary, t
and when, in spite of its bitterness ;
and dangers, we must plunge into,
it, cost what it may. No doubt
that, as far as happiness is, concern-
ed, tranquillity and repQse would
be far preferable repose, allowable
for timid hearts incapable of de-
fending a cause and i holding a flag,
or of comprehending a wide range
of view, or the generosity of mili-
tant souls ; bii we ought, to know
how to respect an4 honor those
who engage in, the combat often at
the price- of unspeakable inward :
sorrows, and even at times giving
evidence .of weakness and human
passion in the cause of truth and
justice."

How fine- it is ! I want to read
this book with Rene. Reading is a
delightful relaxation. I sometimes
read to my mother, who finds her-
self more solitary since I became
so studious, and since the house
is changed into an academy. High-
ly educated herself, she takes much
interest in our studies, but is quick-
ly fatigued, What pleasure it is^ to
sit at her feet o-n a footstool which
her kind hawls have worked for

242

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

me, whilst she leans back her fine,
intellectual head in her large easy-
chair ; to listen to her narratives,
and to revisit the past with her !
How truly she is a mother to me !
Marcella has an enthusiastic vene-
ration for her, and calls her by the
same name that we do. Was not
our meeting at Hyeres providential,
dear Kate ?

Picciola is pressing me to go out.
Good-by, dearest.

MAY 8, 1868.

What splendid festivities, dear sis-
ter ! Sumptuous carpets and hang-
ings of velvet have been sent from
the crown wardrobe. The cathe-
dral resembled the vestibule of
heaven ; and yet I prefer the aus-
tere grandeur of the bare columns
to all this pomp. It was a beau-
tiful sight, nevertheless, with the
paintings, the banners, the escutch-
eons. It was imposing, but the pre-
sence of the Creator was forgotten
in the vanities of earth ; people
were talking and laughing in this
cathedral, usually full of subdued
light and of silence.

The panegyric was equal to the
occasion. I was delighted. What
eloquence ! It was the Abbe Bau-
nard, the gentle author of the Book
of the First Communion and of the
Perseverance, who pronounced it.

This quiet city is in a state of
agitation not to be imagined ; the
streets are encumbered with stran-
gers, and there is noise enough to
split one's head. Last year there
w;is a general emulation to point
out to me the minutest details of
\\\e fete ; to-day Marcella was the
heroine. I like to see her, radiant,
enchanted, eager, while the deli-
cate Anna clings to my arm, her
large eyes sparkling with pleasure.
We are so numerous that we divide,
in order to avoid in some degree

the looks of curiosity. My dear
Italians are much disputed for.

The Twins care no more to be
here. Brittany has for them an
invincible attraction. Happy souls,
who are about to live their fairest
day ! Pray for them and for us,
dear Kate !

MAY TO, 1868.

Dearest, the sovereigns are come
and gone. Did I tell you about the
Concours Regional? Every day I
take the little people thither; there
is a superb flower- show, orange-
trees worthy of Campania, etc.

M. Bougaud pronounced a dis-
course upon agriculture, and with
admirable fitness quoted our La-
mart in e :

" Objets mamma's, avez-vous done une ame,
Qui s'attache a notre ame et la force d' aimer ?" *

But I shall see you soon a hap-
piness worth all the rest, dear Kate.
Shall I own to you that I regret Or-
leans because of Sainte-Croix, Notre
Dame des Miracles, and our poor,
besides so many things one feels
but cannot express in words?

Benoni cries as soon as he hears
us speak of going away. I observed
in the Aimales the following gloomy
words by M. Bougaud : " Gratitude
is in great souls, but not in the vul-
gar ; and as the soul of human na-
ture is vulgar, it is only allowable
in childhood to reckon upon the
gratitude of men ; but when we
have had a nearer view of them, we
place our hopes higher, since only
God is grateful." May God pre-
serve me from learning this truth
by experience ! Hitherto I have
found none but good hearts, the
poor of Paradise !

Margaret presses me affection-
ately to make all diligence to go
and embrace her baby. Isa is look-

* Objects inanimate, have you, then, a soul, vrhicb
binds itself to ours and forces it to love?

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

in.g for me "as for a sunbeam."
Lizzy also unites her reiterated en-
treaties. Betsy is installed at Cor-
dova, and praises her new country
so highly that I am longing to
see it.

Dear Kate, the twins are just
come to me as a deputation to say
that I am waited for, to go in choir
to the exhibition of the Society of
the Friends of Art at the Hotel de
Ville; it appears that there is no
one just now. . , .

Later I will return to you.

I will not conclude without giv-
ing you another quotation from M.
Lagrange : " Great sacrifices, which
touch all that is most delicate, ten-
der, and profound in the heart,
even to the dividing asunder of the
soul, according to the words of Ho-
ly Scripture, possess a sternness
which cannot be measured or even
suspected beforehand. There is a
strange difference between wishing
to make a sacrifice and making it.
In vain we may be ready and reso-
lute; the moment of accomplishment
has always something in it more
poignant than we had thought; the
stroke which cuts away the last tie
always gives an unexpected wrench.
Every great design of God here be-
low would be impossible, if the souls
whom he chooses were always to
let themselves be stopped by human
obstacles." Kate, Helena, Ellen,
Karl, Georgina, have felt this !

Did I mention to you the im-
pression made on me by a story in
the Revne^ " F 1 am i n i a " ? 1 1 i s s i n g u -
lady beautiful, and quite in agree-
ment with my belief.

Would you believe that here there
arc Jews and a synagogue, and also
an " Evangelical Church "? They
say that the minister is very agree-
able, and that he goes into society.
Protestants inspire me with so much
compassion ! A Protestant board-

243

ing-school was pointed out to me.
What a pity that one cannot snatch
away these poor young girls from a
loveless worship !

Good-by, dear Kate, until the
day after to-morrow. Rene sends
all sorts of kind messages.

MAY 25, 1868.

f Our oasis is resplendent, dear
sister. Your good angel Raphael
has sweetly protected us ; not the
smallest inconvenience; the deli-
cious sensation that our sister-souls
are more united than ever. To be
alone with Rene, who is worth a
thousand worlds what delight!
The air was pure, the country
bright with fresh verdure, the birds
Joyous. Charming journey ! At
Tours a letter from Gertrude ap-
prises me that all the W family

is in villeggiatura at X . We

hasten thither, and are received
like welcome guests. What a happy
meeting ! an enchantment which
lasted two days, at the end of which
we bade a tearful adieu. But the
arrival here oh ! what heart-felt
joy ! Everybody out to meet us,
with flowers, shouts, and vivats.
Dearest Kate, earth is too fair !

Marcella is in love with Brittany,
our coasts and wild country-places.
Everything around us is budding or
singing; the children run about in
the fields of broom. We read, we
play music ; and our poor are not
forgotten. The twins are prepar-
ing themselves with great earnest-
ness. M. r Abbe gives them ser-
mons, to which we all listen with
much profit. Kate, do you remem-
ber my First Communion ? Good-
by, carissiiua.

MAY 28, 1868.

Rene is gone away to see h:s
farms. Why am I so earthly that
a single hour without him should

244

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

be painful? Adrien was just now
reading that fine page of St. Augus-
tine where he says : " Human life is
full of short-lived joys, prolonged
sorrows, and attachments which are
frail and passing."

When, will heaven be ours, that
the joys of meeting again may never
end? We are preparing some
beautiful music for Sunday. Why
are not you to be there with your
sweet voice, dear sister ? My mo-
ther would have liked to see you,
but she made the sacrifice of not
doing so that we might have the
pleasure of a tete-d-tele. What do
you think of that! Dear, kind
mother ! Do you know she had a
charming and idolized daughter,
who died at the age of sixteen?
She died here, where everything
speaks of her; and it is for this

reason that Mme. de T likes to

return hither, and goes daily to the
cemetery. I am told that I resem-
ble her, this soul ascended to hea-
ven, and every one finds it natural
that there should be the perfect in-
timacy which exists between my
mother and myself.

Marcella and Greek are waiting
for me. Long live old Homer, long
live Brittany, long live Kate !

Evening. It is ten o'clock, and
Rene is not come in. Adrien and
Edouard are gone to wait for him,
while I am dying of anxiety. Pray-
ers without him seemed to me so
sad ! My mother also is uneasy.
Where is he ? Oh ! where can he
be?

2 ^th. : The night has been a long
one. Adrien and Edouard came
back after having sought for him in

all the neighborhood. The ser-
vants were sent out in different
directions. I went in and out,
listening to the slightest noise. . . .
Nobody! My mother sent every
one away and was praying. Im-
possible to remain in any one place.
I was full of the most terrible con-
jectures. At last, at four o'clock
in the morning, I hear a carriage.
It is he ! it is Rene ! poor Rene,
covered with dust, more anxious
than we, on account of our alarm.
Would you like to know the cause
of this delay ? It is like the para-
ble of the Good Samaritan. Rene
met with a poor old man who had
hurt himself in cutting wood, and,
after binding up the wound with
some herbs and a pocket-handker-
chief he put him in the carriage
and took him back to his cottage,
which was at a great distance off.
There he found a dying woman,
who asked for a priest. To hasten
to the nearest village and fetch the
curt was Rent's first thought.
There was no sacristan, so Rene
took the place of one, and passed
the whole night between the dying
woman and the wounded man.
The good cure 1 had other sick to
attend to, but at two o'clock he ar-
rived, and relieved God's sentinel*
(this is what the sweet Picciola
calls him), who started homewards
at a gallop.

You may imagine whether I am
not very happy at this history.
And yet I suffered very much ; I
feared everything, even death.

Love us, dear Kate.

* Le factionnaire du Bon Dieu.

TO BE CONTINUED.

How Rome stands To-day.

245

HOW ROME STANDS TO-DAY.

SEVERAL articles have been pub-
lished in THE CATHOLIC WORLD on
the subject of which this paper is
to treat the condition of the Sov-
ereign Pontiff consequent on the
seizure of Rome, which thereby
became the capital of the kingdom
of Italy. As these articles marked
the successive stages in the novel
relations of the Head of the church,
they could not fail to excite the in-
terest of our readers. We look to
a like interest, and invite it, for the
present article, because it tells of
new phases, and of the logical re-
sults of the schemes which their
authors were bold enough to say
were initiated " to secure the spiri-
tual independence and dignity of
the Holy See." With this cry the
attempts against Rome were begun,
were carried on, and their success
finally secured. So familiar, in fact,
is this profession of zeal for the
welfare of the Sovereign Pontiff,
that we do not stop to cite one of
the thousand documents in which
it appeared, from the letter of Vic-
tor Emanuel, presented to Pius IX.
by Count Ponza di San Martino,
down to the instructions of the
ministers to their subordinates or
the after-dinner speeches of Italian
politicians. Nor need we persuade
ourselves that no one believed such
an assertion any more than did
those who first uttered it, nor than
do we, who know what a hollow
pretext it was and what fruit it has
produced. Twenty years of revo-
lution in Italy, and a vast igno-
rance of political matters, of the
relations between church and state,
rendered many in Italy and else-

where ready dupes of the cunning
devisers of Italian independence
and clerical subjugation. These
went with the current ; and though
not a few have had their eyes open-
ed, and now deplore the excesses
against religion they are doomed to
witness, they are impotent to re-
medy what they aided in bringing
about, and behold their more de-
termined and less scrupulous com-
panions hurry onward with the ir-
resistible logic of facts. Now and
then some voice even among these
latter is heard above the din, ask-
ing : Dove andiamo? Whither are
we going ? That is a question no
one can answer. The so-called di-
rectors of revolutionary movements
often look with anxiety at the effects
of the raging passions they have let
loose ; but as for guiding them per-
manently, that is out of the ques-
tion, for they have a way of their
own. The skilful manipulators of
revolution ride with the tide ; they
now and then see a break by which
the waters may be diverted, and
they succeed in making them take
that course, but stop them they
cannot. They can only keep a
sharp look-out for what comes
next, and trust to fortune to bet-
ter matters for themselves or others.
And so it is just now with the state
of Italy. Things are taking their
logical course, and every one who
can lay claim to a little knowledge
of politics and a moderate share
of common sense will say what
Cavour, in perhaps more favorable
circumstances, remarked : " He is
a wise statesman who can see two
weeks ahead."

246

How Rome stands To-day.

We are not going to dwell on the
political and financial state of Italy
in itself; on the fact of its Cham-
ber of Deputies representing only
the one hundredth part of its peo-
ple ; on the saying, now an adage,
as often in the mouths of liberals
as in those of the clerical party,
"that there is a legal Italy and a
real Italy," the former with the
government and the deputies, the
other with the ancien regime and
the church ; nor on the debt im-
mense for so impoverished a land
the exhausting taxation, and the
colossal expenditures for army,
navy, and public works that add
every day to the debt, and weigh as
an incubus on the people, increas-
ing to a fearful extent poverty and
crime, peculation, brigandage, sui-
cide, and murder. This would of
itself require all the space at our
disposal. Nor is it necessary, when
we have one of the most accredit-
ed liberal papers of Rome, the Li-
beria of Sept. 3, speaking of the
trial of the Marchese Mantegazza,
who was accused of forging the
signature of Victor Emanuel to
obtain money, that tells us : "Too
truly and by many instances does
our society show that it is ailing,
and it is needful that justice take
the matter in hand, and strive to
stop the evil with speedy and effica-
cious cure."

We propose, therefore, to confine
our remarks to the condition of the
Sovereign Pontiff at the present
moment; to the consequent neces-
sary examination of the relation of
the state with the church; and to
a look into the future, as far as
events will justify us.

What is the condition of the
Pope ? Is he a prisoner or is he
not ? We had better start out with
establishing what the word prisoner
means ; otherwise some misunder-

standing may arise. Webster gives
us a triple meaning of it. Accord-
ing to him, it means " a person
confined in prison ; one taken by
an enemy ; or a person under ar-
rest." Ogilvie, besides the above,
adds as a meaning " one whose
liberty is restrained, as a bird in a
cage." Let us see if any of these
meanings apply to the condition
of the Pope ; for if any one of them
do, then the Pope is a prisoner.

The Holy Father, in his letter
to the bishops immediately after
Rome was taken by the Italian
army, declared himself to be sub hos-
tili dominatione constitutes that is,
subjected to a power hostile to him.
And this is the fact; for friendly
powers do not come with an army
and cannon to batter down one's
gates and slay one's faithful de-
fenders. Any one who is taken
by a power that, like the Italian
government, did batter down walls
and kill his defenders, it seems to
us, looking at the matter calmly,
would be declared by thinking peo-
ple everywhere sub hostili domina-
tione constitutes subjected to a hos-
tile power. After a course like
this one might as well say that
Abdul Aziz was made to abdicate
his throne, and put out of the way
suicided, as the phrase goe-s to
farther his own interests, as to as-
sert that Pius IX. was dethroned
and deprived of the free exercise
of the prerogatives he lays claim
to in order to secure his indepen-
dence and protect his freedom of
action. Under this title, then, of
"having been taken by an enemy,"
Pius IX. is a prisoner.

But it is said Pius IX. is not in
a prison ; he- is in the splendid
palace of the Vatican, with full
liberty to come out when he will.
With due respect to the sincerity
of many who say this, we beg leave

How Rome stands To-day.

2 47

to remark, first, that there are revolution ; that he no longer pro-
prisoners who are not necessarily tested against the violations of the

Jaw embodied

confined in jail ; and, secondly, that
there are excellent reasons for styl-
ing the residence of Pius IX. his

divine and natural
in the Italian code, which one of
Italy's public men declared, a short
prison. To illustrate the first point, time ago, to be made up of the pro-
there are prisoners on parole ; there positions condemned in the Sylla-
are, or were under the Crispi law,

in Italy, men condemned to the
domicilio coatto to a forced sojourn
in some place other than that in
which they habitually dwelt be-
fore, just as the venerable Cardi-
nal de Angelis was compelled to
leave his see, Fermo, and reside
for years at Turin. It is plainly
not necessary, then, that, in order
to be a prisoner, a man should be
obliged to live in a building erect-
ed for penal purposes. It is enough
that there should be powerful mo-
tives, such as honor, or conscien-
tious duties, or just fear of conse-
quences, to prevent the free use of
his physical power of going from
one place to another, to render him
really a prisoner. In the case of
Pius IX. there do exist such pow-
erful motives in the highest degree.
There exist powerful motives of
honor. Pius IX. is under oath not
to give up, or do any detriment to,

the rights of

bus. Talk about parole after such
a picture ! Parole regards the per-
sonal honor only ; but the motives
of Pius IX. not only regard honor,
but the highest interests of mankind.
Again, a further effect of Pius
IX. 's leaving the Vatican would be
trouble in the city. Had we not
facts to prove this, there might be
many who would doubt it. On oc-
casion of the T's Deum, on the re-
currence of the anniversary of his
elevation and coronation, in June,
1874, the Sovereign Pontiff, who had
been present, unseen, in the gallery
above the portico of St. Peter's, on
reaching his apartments chanced
momentarily to look from the window
at the immense crowd in the piazza.
His figure, clad in white, against the
dark ground of the room behind
him, attracted the attention of some
one below and excited his enthu-
siasm. His cry of Viva Pio Nono,
Pontifice e Re ! had a magical effect.
It was taken up by the thousands

the Roman Church

and of the universal church. He present, whose waving handker-
inherited vested rights from his
predecessors, and, as far as depends
on him, he is bound to transmit
them unimpaired to his successor.
He is a man of honor, pre-eminently
so, and will not, cannot prove false
lo his oath or fail in protecting the
rights entrusted to his keeping.
The effect of Pius IX.'s leaving the
Vatican and going about Rome,
as he did in former times, would
be a persuasion in the minds of all
that he had accepted the situation
created for him by the act of the

Italian government; that he was, by, who, after giving
in fact, coming to terms with the trumpets the triple intimatic

chiefs produced the effect, to use
the words of a young American
poet present, of a foaming sea. In
vain the agents of the government
scattered through the mass of peo-
ple genifannes and questurini did
their best to stop the demonstra-
tion and silence a cry guaranteed
by law, but discordant to the liberal
ear, and significant of opposition to
their views. They could not suc-
ceed. They had recourse to the
soldiery. A company of Bersaglieri
was called from the barracks near
with their

248

How Rome stands To-day.

disperse, charged with fixed bayo-
nets, and drove the people out of
the piazza. The arrests of men
and of ladies, and the resulting
trials, with condemnation of the
former, but release of the latter, are
fresh in our memories. How, in
the face of a fact like this, could the
Pope come out into the city ? espe-
cially when we consider his posi-
tion, the delicate regard due it, the
danger, not only of harm to those
who favor him, but of injury to the
respect in which people of all classes
hold him. Even those who would
be the first to turn such an act to
their account at his expense can-
not withhold the respect his virtues,
consistency, and courage exact.
These, however, are prepared for
the first mistake; they are ready
to give him a mock triumph at the
very first opportunity. But they
have to do with a man who knows
them ; who, being in good faith him-
self, learnt his lesson in 1848, and
understood what reliance is to be
placed on European revolutionists.
We conclude, then, this portion of
our paper by saying that the con-
dition created for the Pope by the
taking of Rome, added to consid-
erations of the highest order, has
kept Pius IX. from putting his foot
outside the Vatican since Septem-
ber 19, 1870, and that conse-
quently " his liberty is restrained "
and he is a prisoner.

Having thus shown that Pius IX.
is a prisoner, we can safely draw
the inference that the place in
which circumstances oblige him to
remain is his prison prisoner and
prison being correlative terms. He
is " a prisoner in his own house,"
though certainly we know that
house was not built for penal pur-
poses. But we have more than in-
ference, logical as it is. We have
facts to show that the same pre-

cautions were and still are used
that it is the custom to adopt with
regard to ordinary prisons. For
example, it is well known that in the
beginning of the Italian occupa-
tion of Rome the utmost surveil-
lance was kept up on all going into
or coming out from the Vatican.
One met the Piedmontese sentinel
at the entrance, and by him the
government police ; people were
occasionally searched ; and the
guards had orders not to allow per-
sons to show themselves from the
windows or balconies of the palace.
The lamented Mgr. de M erode,
almoner to the Sovereign Pontiff,
a soldier by early education, could
hardly give credit to the facts that
proved this. Full of indignation,
he went himself to the spot, and
from the balcony looked down up-
on the street below where the sen-
tinel stood. He was at once sa-
luted with the words, "Go back!"
Again the command was repeated,
and then the levelled rifle admon-
ished the prelate that further refu-
sal to obey was imprudent. The
affair made a good deal of noise at
the time, and the guards were re-
moved from close proximity to the
palace, remaining only a few hun-
dred feet away. All things, then,
considered, Pius IX. is a prisoner
and the Vatican is his prison.

But not only is the liberty of the
Sovereign Pontiff directly interfer-
ed with in this way ; he is tram-
melled also in purely spiritual mat-
ters. The Pope, the rulers of
Rome say, may talk as he pleases
in the Vatican, as we cannot pre-
vent him, and he will not be put
down ; nay, he may even promul-
gate his decrees, encyclicals, and
constitutions by putting them up
as usual at the doors of the basili-
cas of St. Peter and St. John Late-
eran ; but any one who dares to

How Rome stands To-day.

249

reprint them will do so at his
peril ; his paper will be sequestrat-

opinion, and promising cost no-
thing, have been broken. From

ed, if the document published be that time to this the bishops named
judged by the authorities of the by the Pontiff, but not approved of
Italian kingdom to contain objec- by the royal government, have been

tionable matter, and he will be tried
by due course of law. This mode
of proceeding has been put in
practice ; the seizure of the issue

put in the strangest and most un-
just position in the world. It is
hardly needful to recall that the
first and principal guarantee in the

of the Unita Cattolica for publishing law of May 13, 1871, was that by
an encyclical is well known, and was which the government renounced,
remarkable for an amusing feature, throughout the whole kingdom, the

right of naming or presenting for
the conferring of the greater bene-
fices (bishoprics, etc.) Well, after
May, 1875, the bishops who were
without the exequatur were treated
with two weights and two measures :
they are not to be considered as
bishops with respect to the Civil
Code and the code of civil proce-
dure, of equity and logically ; but
they are to be looked on as such
with regard to the Penal Code, the
code of criminal procedure, and
the whole arsenal of the fiscal laws
of the Italian kingdom."

Incredible, but true. Let us see
the proofs.

Mgr. Pietro Carsana, named Bi-
shop of Como, instituted a suit
against the Administration of the
Demain to have acknowledged as

The edition for the provinces es-
caped the vigilance of the fiscal
agents, and the Florentine liberal
press, anxious to show how much
freedom was allowed the Pope, on
getting the Unita, printed the docu-
ment. To their surprise, their is-
sues were sequestrated. The letter
of instruction on the subject of
papal documents, and of surveil-
lance, by the police, of the Catholic
preachers, issued by the late minis-
try, to our knowledge never was
recalled, and is therefore still in
force ; worse is contemplated, as
we shall see later on. This coer-
cion of his freedom of action ex-
tends also to the Pope's jurisdic-
tion in spirituals and in temporals.
The first instance of this is th-e
exaction of the royal exequatur.

We cannot do better than cite the exempt from conversion into gov-

words of the able legal authority,
Sig. A. Caucino, of Turin, who has
lately written a series of articles on
the law of guarantees, passed by
the chambers and confirmed by the
king, of which we are speaking.
On this subject of the exequatur he

eminent bonds, and from the tax
of thirty per cent., a charitable
foundation by the noble Crotta-
Oltrocchi, assigned to the Bishop
of Como for the time being, that
the revenues of it might be used
for missions to the people and for

After the discourse of the the spiritual retreat or exercises of

the clergy. The Demain rai
the question as to whether Mgr.
Carsana had the character required
for the prosecution of such a cause
before the tribunal. The tribunal

tees has been changed, and that all of Como was for the bishop;
the promises solemnly made when the Court of Appeal of
it was necessary to forestall public cided in favor of the

writes :

avvocato Mancini, on the 3d of
May, 1875, and the 'order of the
day ' by the deputy Barazzuoli, no
one wonders that the nature of the
application of the law of guaran-

250

How Rome stands To-day.

the following reasons, drawn up on
June 28, 1875: "It cannot be
doubted but that the episcopal see
of Como is to be held as still vacant
as to its civil relations, since Mgr.
Pietro Carsana, named to that see
by the supreme ecclesiastical au-
thority, lias not yet received the
royal exequatur, according to the re-'
quireraents of the sixteenth article
of the laws of May 13, 1871.* If
the act of the supreme ecclesiasti-
cal authority " we call attention to
that word supreme " directed to
providing an occupant for the first
benefice of the bishopric of Como,
by the nomination of Mgr. Carsana,
has not obtained the royal exequa-
tur, as peace between the parties
requires, this act before the civil
law is null and of no effect, the ap-
pointment to the said benefice is to
be looked on as not having taken place,
and the episcopal see of Como is
to be considered as still vacant,
and the legitimate representation
of it, in all its right, belongs to
the vicar-capitular " ( Unita CattoL,
July 25, 1876). A like decision
was given by the Court of Appeal
of Palermo, October 16, 1875.
Thus, to use the words of this
writer, "the Pope has a right to
name the bishops to exercise their
episcopal functions, but, as far as
their office has a bearing affecting
external matters of civil nature, bi-
shops without the exequatur cannot
exercise it." These external mat-
ters of a civil nature, which might
be misunderstood, be it said, are
none other than the acts without
which the temporalities of a bishop-
ric cannot be administered. The

* Art. XVI. "The disposition of the civil laws
with regard to the creation and the manner of exis-
tence of ecclesiastical institutions, ar.d the aliena-
tion of their property, remains in force." There is
no mention of the exequatur being required for a
bishop to plead before a court ; that is, to begin to
act under the provisions of Art. XVI-

bishop may say Mass, preach, and
confirm, but not touch a dollar of
the revenues of his see.

It needs no great acumen to per-
ceive how the Sovereign Pontiff is
thus hampered in his jurisdiction.
His chief aids are his bishops ; but
they are not free unless they sub-
ject themselves, against conscience,
to the civil power. Every exe-
quatur is an injustice to the church,
no matter whether exacted by con-
cordat or no. The church may
submit under protest to the injus-
tice, but the nature of the act of
those requiring such submission
does not change on that account.
Hence it is clear that the Pope is
at this moment most seriously ham-
pered in the exercise of his spiritual
jurisdiction. If to this fact of the
exequatur we add the election of
the parish priests by the people,
favored by the government, the
case becomes still clearer. But of
this we shall speak fully at the end
of the article.

To the impediments put in the
way of the exercise of the Sovereign
Pontiff's spiritual jurisdiction are
to be added those of a material
nature, resulting from the heavy pe-
cuniary burdens he, his bishops,
and his clergy are obliged to bear.
The scanty incomes of the clergy
of the second order are in many
cases reduced to two-thirds, while
living costs one-fifth more than it
did before Rome was taken. The
very extensive suffering, from po-
verty, stagnation of business, the
necessity of supporting the schools
of parishes and institutions estab-
lished to supply the place of those
suppressed by the government, or
whose funds have gone into the
abyss of public administration all
have the effect of keeping the peo-
ple from giving as largely to the
clergy as they used to give, al-

How Rome stands To-day.

251

though that source of revenue to
them was not very great, as nearly

no one can practise law or medi-
cine, or any other liberal profession.

everything was provided for by Moreover, every youth, boy or' girl'
foundations. With reference to the must undergo an examination be!
bishops, and the Sovereign Pontiff fore examiners deputed by the st-ite
especially, the j:ase is much more It stands to reason that no one can

teach unless lie have a patent or
certificate from the state. Now,
what does this mean? It means

aggravating. Those prelates who
have not obtained the exequatur
have no means of support, as the

temporalities of their sees are with- simply that the most powerful en-
held. Pius IX., whose trust in gine for moulding the mind of man,
Providence has been rewarded with poisoning it, prejudicing it eivina

i- /->. i-i ^1 ^ . r. , 1 !-, *J _/* _ a* ***ii O * o o

wonderful abundance of offerings
from the faithful throughout the
world, came to the assistance of

it the bent one wants, is in the
hands of the avowed enemies of the
church ; moreover, that those who

these persecuted successors of the are so acted on by this mighty
apostles. Out of his own resources, agency are the spiritual subjects

the gratuitous generosity of his of Pius IX. ; and that this is being

flock everywhere, he gives to each done not only in all Italy, but espe-

one of them five hundred francs a

month. The drain on the papal

treasury by this and other neces-
sary expenses forced upon him by

the taking of Rome, amounts in the

gross, yearly, to $1,200,000, which,

as the Pope consistently refuses to

take a sou of the $640,000 offered

him by the government, comes from

the contributions of the faithful

given as Peter-pence. In this way

are the Catholics of the whole world

taxed by the action of the Italian

government.

Besides this direct action on the

Head of the church and on her

pastors that interferes with their

freedom, there are other modes of

proceeding which we hardly know

whether we are justified in styling

indirect, so sure and fatal are their government affects a comparatively

effects on the spiritual jurisdiction small number in time of peace ; but

in time of war the number remains
no longer small. Besides, the un-
certainty of being able to pursue
their career must have a bad effect
on young men, while the associa-
tions which they are obliged to see

cially in Rome. The most strenu-
ous efforts are being made to re-
medy this evil, with a good deal of
success ; and the success will be
greater farther on. But in the
meantime a vast harm is done and
a generation is perverted.

The next of these indirect means
is the conscription, which seizes
on the young men even who have
abandoned the world and embraced
the ecclesiastical life. At first sight
one may be inclined to think the
damage done not so extensive, as
only a certain percentage after all
will be taken. Even were this so,
the injustice done to the persons
concerned, and the harm to the
church, would not the less be real.
The fact is that this course of the

and power of the Pope.

The first of these is the claim on
the part of the state, enforced by
every means in its power, to direct
the education of the young. No
education is recognized except that

given by the state schools. With- around them, if they undertake

out state education no one can year of voluntary service

hold office under the government, the conscription, must often have a

252

How Rome stands To-day.

result by no means beneficial to
their vocation. Facts are in our
possession to show deliberate at-
tempts to corrupt them and make
them lose the idea of becoming
priests. What is more weighty
than these reasons is the fact of
the diminishing number- of voca-
tions for the priesthood in Italy.
The army of the government is
swelling, while the army of Pius
IX. in Italy is decreasing.

A late measure of the government
has also a tendency to diminish
the fervor of attachment in the peo-
ple to their religion, and that mea-
sure is the prohibition of public
manifestation of their belief outside
the churches. A circular letter
from the Minister of the Interior to
the prefects of Italy forbids reli-
gious processions in the public
streets. This in a Catholic country
is a severe and deeply-felt blow at
the piety of the people. Proces-
sions have always been one of the
most natural and favorite ways of
professing attachment to principles,
and this is particularly true of re-
ligious processions. They have a
language of their own that goes
straight to the heart of the people.
The discontinuance of them will
have a dampening effect, on those
especially who are a little weak ;
while those who go to church as
seldom as possible, or rarely, will
be deprived of a means of instruc-
tion that constantly served to recall
to their minds the truths of reli-
gion ; and instead of the enjoyment
that came from beholding or assist-
ing at some splendid manifestation
of their faith, and from the accom-
panying festivities never wanting,
will be substituted forgetfulness of
religion and religious duties, the
dissipation of the wine-shop and
saloon, and those profane amuse-
ments, often of the most question-

able character, that are beginning to
be so frequent on days of obliga-
tion, offered to the masses at hours
conflicting with those of religious
ceremonies. What has especially
shocked every unprejudiced person,
even liberals and non-Catholics, is
the prohibition of the solemn ac-
companiment of the Blessed Sacra-
ment. Besides the ordinary carry-
ing of the Viaticum to the sick, and
occasional communion to those un-
able to come to the church, some
three or four times a year the Bless-
ed Sacrament was borne to the
bedridden with much solemnity,
the most respectable people of the
parish taking part in the procession
or sending those who represented
them. It was always an imposing
and edifying spectacle to Catholics.
This has been put a stop to. In
Frascati, where, after prohibition
of public processions had been no-
tified to all, the Blessed Sacrament
was carried to the sick with only
the ordinary marks of respect, that
there might be no violation of the
unjust and illegal order, there was
an exhibition of the animus of the
authorities that almost exceeds be-
lief. The people, to honor the
Blessed Sacrament, were present in
greater numbers than usual, and, as
is the custom, prepared to follow it
to the houses of the sick persons.
The government authorities deter-
mined to prevent them. Hardly
had the priest come out of the
church, with the sacred pix in his
hands, when he was accosted by
the police officer, was laid hold of by
him, and made to come from under
the canopy, which from time im-
memorial is used during the day
for the ordinary visits for the com-
munion of the sick at Frascati.
He was permitted to go with some
four or five assistants. The people
persisted in following, whereupon

How Rome stands To-day.

the troops were called and they
dispersed the crowd. The result
was a spontaneous act of reparation
to the Blessed Sacrament in the
form of a Triduum in the cathedral,
at which the first nobility of Rome,
very numerous in the neighborhood
of this 'city, assisted, while the at-
tendance in the church was so great,
including even liberals, that many
had to kneel out on the steps and
in the piazza. The effect on good
Catholics thus far, though painful,
has been beneficial ; but the con-
tinuation of this course on the part
of the government, with the means
of coercion at their disposal, cannot
but be hurtful to the cause of reli-
gion, and cannot but diminish the
respect and obedience of the people
to their pastors. All this, as a mat-
ter of course, has a decided effect
on the power and influence of the
Pope himself. There are indeed
Catholics to whom God has vouch-
safed so great an abundance of
faith that, no matter what happens,
they rise under trial and show a
sublimity of trust and courage that
extorts admiration even from their
enemies ; but, unfortunately, these
are not the majority. Faith is a
gift of God, and requires careful cul-
tivation and fostering watchfulness ;
negligence, and above all wilful ex-
posure to the danger of losing it,
ordinarily weaken it much, and not cern
unfrequently in these days bring nest
about its total loss. This is one
reason, and the principal one, why
the church prays to be delivered
from persecution, because, though
some die martyrs or glorify God by
a noble confession and unshaken
firmness, many, very many, fall
away in time of danger. History
is full of instances of this. The
fapsi in the early centuries were
unfortunately a large class, and in
the persecutions of China and Ja-

253

pan, in our day, we hear, indeed, of
martyrs, but we hear, too, of large
numbers that fall away at the sight
of torture or in the presence of
imminent peril.

Such is the state of things in
Italy - '-'

he rules : persecution, oppression,
hate, are the portion of Catho-
lics and their Head ; protection, fa-
voritism, and aid, that of all who
are adversaries of the church, from
the latest-come Protestant agents
of the Bible societies of England
or America to the most avowed
infidel and materialist of Germany
or France. A Renan and a Moles-
chott are listened to with rapture ;
a Dupanloup or a Majunke are
looked on as poor fanatics who
cling to a past age. We do not
wish to weary our readers with fur-
ther instances of tyrannical action ;
though readily at hand, we may
dispense with them, for the matter
cited above is enough for our pur-
pose, and certainly speaks for it-
self. We simply ask, What prospect
lies before us ? What is the promise
of the future? On such a founda-
tion can anything be built up that
does not tell of sorrow, of trouble,
and of ruin ? Of a truth no one
who loves virtue and religion can
look upon the facts without con-
; and that concern for an ear-
Catholic will increase a hun-
dred-fold, if he take into consid-
eration the plans just now showing
themselves for the warfare of to-
morrow. These prove the crisis to
be approaching, and that far great-
er evils are hanging over the Papacy
than yet have threatened it, demon-
strating more evidently and lumi-
nously than words what a pope
subject of another king or people
means.

Any one who is even a super-

254

How Rome stands To-day.

ficial observer of matters in Italy
cannot fail to see how closely Ital-
ian statesmen and politicians ape
the ideas and the measures of
Germany, particularly against the
church. There, it is well known,
strenuous efforts are being made to
construct a national church, and with
partial success. The pseudo-bishops
Reinkens in the empire and Her-
zog in Switzerland are doing their
utmost to give form and constitu-
tion to the abortions they have pro-
duced. The example is followed
in Italy. The apostate Panelli, in
Naples, made an unsuccessful at-
tempt to begin the chiesa nazionah ;
but disagreement with his people
caused him to be supplanted,
though .he still styles himself na-
tional bishop. Agreeing with him
in sentiments are a certain number
of ecclesiastics, insignificant if com-
pared with the clergy of the Catho-
lic Church in Italy ; yet to these
men, who certainly did not and do
not enjoy the esteem of the sanior
pars, the wiser portion of the peo-
ple, the government, holding power
under a constitution the first arti-
cle of which declares that the Ro-
man Catholic and apostolic religion
is the religion of the state, show fa-
vor and lend aid and comfort. Let
us listen for a moment to their lan-
guage and to that of their support-
ers.

Sig. Giuseppe Toscanelli is a
deputy in the Italian parliament,
and a man of so-called liberal views,
an old soldier of Italian indepen-
dence, and an old Freemason. He
has the merit of seeing something
of the inconsistency and injustice
of the action of the authorities, in
parliament and out of it, with re-
gard to the church, is a ready
speaker, and has the courage to
say what he thinks, thus incurring
the enmity of his fellow-Masons,

some of whom, in 1864, in the lodge
at Pisa, declared him unworthy of
their craft, and cast him out of the
synagogue. We are not aware that
he troubles himself much about tho
matter, nor that he looks on him-
self as any the less an ardent sup-
porter of united Italy. When the
law of guarantees for the Sovereign
Pontiff was up for discussion, Tos-
canelli said : ** Report has it that
in 1 86 1 some public men of Lom-
bardy conceived the idea of a na-
tional church, which they made
known to Count Cavour, and urg-
ed him to bring it about ; and that
Count Cavour decidedly refused to
do so. In 1864 this idea showed
itself again, and a bill in accord-
ance with it was presented in par-
liament. The civil constitution of
the church was most strongly main-
tained by the Hon. Bonghi. At
present we see papers, some most
closely connected with the govern-
ment, printing articles professedly
treating of a national church, even
to the point of going to the ex-
tremes Henry VIII. reached."

But not only papers favor the
project. We have heard lately of
cabinet ministers using the same lan-
guage. The head of the late min-
istry, Sig. Marco Minghetti, did so
at Bologna in a public speech.
Yet he was the leader of the so-
called moderate party. It is there-
fore not surprising that the recog-
nized prince of Italian lawyers, Sig.
Stanislas Mancini, the Minister of
Public Worship of the present radi-
cal cabinet, should speak in the
same style. We have a letter of
his to a notorious person, Prota
Giurleo, President of the Society
for the Emancipation of the Cler-
gy, vicar-general of the national
church, in the Liberia Cattolica of
August 2, 1876. It is worth trans-
lating :

How Rome stands To-day.

" HONORED SIR : Hardly hnd I taken
the direction of the ministry of grace,
justice, and worship, when you, in the
name of the society over which you pre-
side, thought fit to send me a copy of
the memorandum of Nov. 9, 1873,
which, under the form of a petition, I
had myself the honor of presenting to
the Chamber of Deputies, recalling to
my mind the words uttered by me at
the meeting of Dec. 17 of that year,
when I asked and obtained that the ur-
gency of the case should be recognized,
and demanded suitable provision.

" It is scarcely necessary for me to say
that I remembered very well the expres-
sions used by me on that occasion, be-
cause they give faithful utterance to an
old, lively, and deep feeling of my soul.

"As minister I maintain the ideas and
the principles I defended as deputy.
Still, I did not conceal ihe fact that the
greatest and most effectual measures
were to be obtained only by way of leg-
islation, without omitting to say, how-
ever, that by way of executive action
something might be done. To day, then,
faithful to this order of ideas, I have no
difficulty in opening my mind on each
of the questions recapitulated in the
memorandum.

"ist. The first demand of the worthy
society over which you preside was
made to the Chamber of Deputies, in
order that steps might be taken to frame
a new law to regulate definitively the
new relations between the state and the
church, in accordance with the changed
condition of the political power and of
the ecclesiastical ministry. On this
point I am happy to assure you that this
arduous problem constitutes one of the
most important cares, and will form part
of study and examination, to which the
distinguished and competent men called
by me to compose the commission
charged with preparing the law re-
served by the eighteenth article of the
law of May 13, 1871, for the rear-
rangement and preservation of ecclesias-
tical property, will have to attend.

"2d. In the second place, this merno-
randum asks the revindication, for the
clergy and people, of the right to elect
their own pastors in all the grades of
the hierarchy. You are not ignorant
that such a proposition made by me in
parliament, during the discussion of
the above-mentioned law of May 13,
1871, relative to the nomination of

255

bishops, did not meet with success, nor
would there be reasonable hope, at pre-
sent, of a different legislative decision.
It results from this, therefore, that efforts
in this direction must be limited to pre-
paring by indirect ways the maturity of
public opinion, which is wont, sooner
or later, to influence the deliberations of
parliament. The manifestation of the will
of the people in the choice of ministers
and pastors, that recalls the provident
customs and traditions of the pr rnitive
church, to which the most learned and
pious ecclesiastics of our day it is
enough to name Rosmini earnestly de-
sire to return, must first be the object of
action to propagate the idea, in the or-
der of facts, by spontaneous impulse,
and by the moral need of pious and be-
lieving consciences ; and afterward, when
these facts become frequent and general,
it will be the duty of the civil power to
interfere to regulate them, and secure
the sincerity and independence of them,
without prejudice to the right of eccle-
siastical institution.

" Already seme symptoms have shown
themselves, and some examples have
been had, in certain provinces of the
kingdom, and I deemed it my duty not
to look on them with aversion and dis-
trust, but at the same time to reconcile
with existing discipline regarding bene-
fices all such zeal and -the protection
that could be given to the popular vote
and to ecclesiastics chosen by it, not
only by providing for these the means
needed for the becoming exercise of their
ministry, but also to benefit at the same
time the people by works tending to
their instruction and assistance. I will
not neglect opportunities of aiding by
other indirect measures the attainment
of the same end. The future will shovr
whether this movement, a sign of the
tendencies of the day, may be able to
exercise a sensible influence on religious
society and claim the attention of the
legislator.

"3d The same commission referred
to above will be able to examine how.
by means of opportune expedients, some
of the dispositions of the forthcoming
law on the administration of the ecc c
siastical fund may be made serve to n
Heve and encourage the priests and 1
men belonging to associations the aim
of which is^ to "fulfil scrupulously at one
and the same time the duties of religioi
and of patriotism. Still, despite the fact

2$6

How Rome stands To-day.

that the actual arrangement and the ac-
customed destination of the revenues of
vacant benefices succeed with great diffi-
culty in meeting the mass of obligations
that weigh upon them, I have earnestly
sought for the readiest and most availa-
ble means to afford some help and en-
couragement to the well-deserving so-
ciety over which you preside, especially
to promote the diffusion of the earnest
and profound studies of history and ec-
clesiastical literature ; and I am only
sorry that insuperable obstacles have
obliged me to keep within very modest
limits. I will not neglect to avail my-
self of every favorable occasion to show
the esteem and the satisfaction of the
government with respect to those eccle-
siastics and members of the association
who join to gravity of conduct the merit
of dedicating themselves to good eccle-
siastical studies, and render useful ser-
vice to their fellow-citizens.

"4th. In the fourth place, by this me-
morandum the demand is presented that
one of the many churches in Naples,
once conventual, be assigned to the so-
ciety, endowing it with the property ac-
quired by the laws affecting the title to
such property of February 17, 1861, July
7, 1866, and August 15, 1867. On this
point I have to say that many years ago
there was brought about a state of things
which certainly is not favorable to the
granting of the demand ; for the twenty-
fourth article of the law of February 17,
1861, was interpreted in the sense that
churches formerly conventual should be
subject, as regards jurisdiction, to the ar-
chiepiscopal curia. Notwithstanding this,
and although I intend to have examined
anew the interpretation given to Article
24, seeing in the meantime that this
state of things be not in the least chang-
ed for the worse, I will immediately put
myself in relation with the prefect of the
province, to know whether, keeping in
view the facts as above, there be in your
city a church we may dispose of that
presents all the conditions required, in
order that it may be given for the use of
the society. It is hardly necessary to
speak of the absolute impossibility of
assigning an endowment from the pro-
perty coming from the laws changing
the title to such property, because, everi
apart from any other reason, the very laws
themselves determine, in order, the use to
which the revenues obtained by the con-
sequent sale of the property are to be put

" 5th. Finally, as regards guarantee-
ing efficaciously, against the arbitrary
action of the episcopate, the lower clergy
who are loya* <o the laws of the country
and to the dynasty, I do not deem it
necessary to make any declarations or
give any assurances, because my princi-
ples and the first acts of my administra-
tion are a pledge that, within the bounds
allowed me by law, and urging, if need-
ful, the action of the courts, in accord-
ance with the law of May 13, 1871, I
shall not fail to show by deeds that the
government of the king is not disposed
to tolerate that good ecclesiastics of
liberal creed should be subject to abuse
on the part of their ecclesiastical supe-
riors, when the legal means are in their
power to prevent it.

" Be pleased to accept, honored sir,
the expression of my esteem and con-
sideration.

" The Keeper of the Seals,
" MANCINI."

We shall adduce only one other
document as prefatory to what we
are going to say, and that is the
letter of a certain Professor Sbar-
baro, who is a prominent writer of ex-
treme views, possessing a frankness
of character that makes him attack
the government at one time, even
in favor of the church, though
through no love of it, at another
launch forth against it an amount
of invective and false accusation
that would warrant us in looking
on him as the crater of the revolu-
tionary volcano. This personage
has written quite recently one of
his characteristic letters, in which
he uses all his eloquence against
the church, recommending every-
where the establishment of Protes-
tant churches and schools; because,
he says, this is the only way to de-
stroy the Catholic Church, the im-
placable enemy of the new order
of things. Every nerve must be
strained to effect this. There can
be no peace till it be accomplished,
and the edifice of Italian unity and

How Rome stands To-day.

freedom tower over the ruins of
ecclesiastical oppression.

With the express declaration of
the deputy, Sig. Giuseppe Tosca-
nelli, the letter of his Excellency
the Keeper of the Seals and that
of Professor Sbarbaro, before our
eyes, we are prepared to see some
fact in accordance with the ideas
and sentiments therein expressed.
The fact is at hand ; it is a move-
ment set on foot to obtain adhe-
sion and subscriptions to the scheme
of electing, by the people, to their
positions ecclesiastics even of the
highest grade. The Sovereign Pon-
tiff himself alluded to this in his
discourse to the foreign colleges,
July 25, 1876, when he warned
them that steps were taking to pre-
pare the way to a popular election,
" a tempo suo, anche at maggior bene-
fitio dclla chiesa " " at the proper
time, to even the first benefice of
the church "in other words, the
Papacy. It is worth while exam-
ining this question, because the
agitation having begun, specious
arguments having been advanc-
ed, and illustrious names, such as
that of Rosmini who, it is well
known, retracted whatever by over-
zeal he had written that incurred
censure at Rome having been
brought forward to support such
views, it is not unlikely that else-
where we may hear a repetition of
them. Say what people may, Rome
is the centre of the civilized world ;
the agitations that occur there, es-
pecially in the speculative order,
are like the waves produced by
casting a stone in the water : the
ripples extend themselves from the
centre to the extreme circumfer-
ence. So thence the agitations
strike France and Germany and
Spain, extend to England, Russia,
the East, and finally reach us and
the other extra-European nations.
VOL. xxiv. 17

257

The errors on this subject
of popular election in the church
where they are not affected, come
from a confusion of ideas and a
want of knowledge of what the
church is. Protestantism has had
the greatest part in misleading men ;
for it completely changed the es-
sential idea of this mystic body of
Christ. Our Lord, when founding
his church on earth, spoke of it
continually as his, as his kingdom,
as his house, as his vineyard. He
told his disciples that to him all
power had been given in heaven
and on earth. Nowhere do we see
him giving to any one a title that
would make him a sharer in that
power; the unity of command sig-
nified by the idea of the kingdom,
the absolute power of imposing
laws, is his, his alone, and is en-
trusted to those he selected to
continue his work. His words to
his apostles were : '* As the Father
hath sent me, I send you " the ful-
ness of power I have I bestow upon
you, that you may act in my name,
in such a way that " he who hears
you hears me; and he who will
not hear you, let him be to you
as the heathen and the publican."
He makes the distinction between
those who are to hear and those
who are outside his church ; he con-
stitutes in his kingdom, his church,
those who are to command with
his authority and those who are
to obey: the apostles and their
successors the Sovereign Pontiff
with the bishops and the people
or the laity. The duty of the laity
is to obey, not to command, not to
impose, not to exact, much less to
name those who are to hold posi-
tions in the church an act proper
of its nature only to those who
hold power of command, just as in
a kingdom the naming to offices re-
sides with the king or with those

255

Hoiv Rome stands To-day.

he may depute for such purpose.
The duty of the laity is summed
up in the words of the Prince of the
Apostles : Obedite prcepositis vestris
Obey your prelates. Such is the
divine constitution of the church,
and, like everything of divine right,
that constitution is unchangeable.
Alongside of this fact, however, we
find another that apparently con-
flicts with it. We see the people,
even in the first period of the
preaching of Christianity, taking
part in the election of those who
were to hold places in the church,
and this at the instance of the
apostles themselves. It is, however,
not the rule, but the exception, in
the sacred text ; for we find the
apostles acting directly, themselves
selecting and bestowing power of
orders and jurisdiction ; as, for ex-
ample, when St. Paul placed Tim-
othy over the church of Ephesus,
and Titus over those of Crete.
This is in accordance with what
we might expect from the consti-
tution of the church. Had the
election to such places been of
divine right, St. Paul would have
violated that right in so naming
both Timothy and Titus. It fol-
lows, then, that this power of taking
part in the election of prelates,
priests, and deacons was introduced
by the apostles and used in the
early church as a matter of expedi-
ency, the continuation or interrup-
tion of which would depend upon
circumstances. What was the
meaning of it ? Was it a confer-
ring of power, a naming to fill a
place, or a presentation, a testi-
mony of worth of those thus select-
ed, which the apostles and their
successors sought from the people ?
It was a testimony of worth only.
This is evident from the words of
St. Peter to the one hundred and
twenty gathered with him for the

nomination of St. Matthias. It is
St. Peter who regulates, orders
what is to be done, and commands
the brethren to select one from
their number. They could not
agree on one ; -two were nominat-
ed, and the prayer and choice by
lot followed. This was, of course,
an extraordinary case, and we do
not see this mode of election after-
wards resorted to, leaving the mat-
ter t be decided by the power of
God. What we do see here that
is of interest to us is the act of the
Prince of the Apostles prescribing
what was to be done ; this shows
his supreme authority, and is the
source of the legality of the posi-
tion of St. Matthias. The testi-
mony of the people was required to
ascertain his worth and fitness. It
was very natural that this testi-
mony of the people should be re-
sorted to, especially in the early
church, in which affairs were admin-
istered and the work of the Gospel
carried on rather through the spirit
of charity, " that hath no law," than
by legal enactments; though we
begin to see quite early traces of
these, as required by the nature of
the case. This example of the
apostles continued in use in the
church for centuries, the testimony
of the people to the worth of their
bishops being required ; for it has al-
ways been an axiom in the conduct
of affairs in the church that the
bishop must be acceptable to his
people ; nor is any great examina-
tion needed to arrive at such a
conclusion, for the office of a bi-
shop regards the spiritual interests
of his flock, and such interests
cannot be furthered by one against
whom his people have just cause
of complaint and dissatisfaction.
To obtain such testimony, or to be
able to present an acceptable and
worthy bishop to a flock, there is

How Rome stands To-day.

259

no one essentially necessary way.
Provided testimony beyond excep-
tion can be had, it matters little by
what channel it comes. In pro-
cess of time, when persecution, and
persistent struggle with paganism
for centuries after persecution,
ended, "the charity of many hav-
ing grown cold," the strife that
too often ensued in the choice of bi-
shops, and the success of designing
men through bribery or intrigue,
brought about the change in the
discipline of the church. We find
the eighth general council legis-
lating with regard to elections to
patriarchates, archbishoprics, and
bishoprics. We see that the pow-
erful were making use of the means
at their command either to influ-
ence the people in the choice, where
this was possible, or by their own
authority placing ecclesiastics in
possession of sees. The council
was held in the year 869, and was
called on to act against Photius,
the intruded patriarch of Constan-
tinople. It drew up and promul-
gated these two canons :

" CAN. XII. The apostolic and syno-
dical canons wholly forbidding promo-
tion and consecration of bishops by the
power and command of princes, we con-
cordantly define, and also pronounce
sentence, that, if any bishop have receiv-
ed consecration to such dignity by in-
trigue or cunning of princes, he is to be
by all means deposed as having willed
and agreed to possess the house of the
Lord, not by the will of God and by ec-
clesiastical rite and decree, but by the
desire of carnal sense, from men and
through men.

" CAN. XXII. This holy and universal
synod, in accordance with former coun-
cils, defines and decrees that the pro-
motion and consecration of bishops are
to be done by the election and decree of
the college of bishops ; and it rightly pro-
claims that no lay prince or person pos-
sessed of power shall interfere in the elec-
tion of a patriarch, of a metropolitan,
or of any bishop whatsoever, lest there

should arise inordinate and incongruous
confusion or strife, especially as it is fit-
ting that no prince or other layman have
any power in such matters " (Version
of Anastasius).

In the Roman Church, however,
while the active interference of
secular princes and nobles, despite
the canons of the church, continu-
ed to be the rule during the middle
ages, to the great harm of religion
and dishonor of the See of Peter,
to the intrusion even of unworthy
occupants who scandalized the
faithful, the popes -and the clergy
wished to have the people present
as witnesses of the election, and
consenting to it, that in this way
there might be a bar to calumny,
affecting the validity of it, and an
obstacle to the ambition of the sur-
rounding princes. Still, the elec-
tion proper belonged to the clergy,
the people consenting to receive
the one so elected. Prior to the
pontificate of Nicholas II. the peo-
ple, so often the willing servants of
the German emperors or of their
allies, used not unfrequently to im-
pose their will on the clergy, or
made Rome the theatre of factional
strife. To put a stop to this, Nicho-
las, having called a council of one
hundred and thirteen bishops at
Rome, published in it the follow-
ing decree :

i. "God beholding us, it is first de-
creed that the election of the Roman
Pontiff shall be in the power of the car
dinal bishops ; so that if any one be en-
throned in the apostolic chair without
their previous concordant and canonical
election, and afterwards with the con-
sent of the successive religious orders,
of the clergy, and of the laity, he is to be
held as no pope or apostolic man, but
as an apostate."

In the centuries of contention
between the lay powers and the
ecclesiastical authorities, the disci-

260

How Rome stands To-day.

pline on the subject of election to
'the higher benefices became more
and more strict, till finally the
selection has, as a rule, come to
be reserved to the Sovereign Pon-
tiff, to whom, even after election
by chapter, the confirmation be-
longs. The Council of Trent has
been very explicit on this point.
In ch. iv. of sess. xxiii. we read :

" The holy synod, moreover, teaches
that, in the ordination of bishops, priests,
and of the other grades, the consent, or
call, or authority neither of the people
nor of any secular power and magistracy
is so required that without this it be in-
valid ; nay, it even decrees that those
who ascend to the exercise of this min-
istry, called and placed in position only
by the people or lay power and magis-
tracy, and who of their own rashness as-
sume them, are all to be held, not as
ministers of the church, but as thieves
and robbers who have not come in by
the door."

Can. vii. of this session con-
demns those who teach otherwise.

We are, therefore, not surprised to
find duly promulgated the follow-
ing document referring to the " Ita-
lian society for the reassertion of
the rights that belong to Christian
people, and especially to Roman
citizens," under whose auspices the
movement for election to ecclesi-
astical benefices by the people has
been set on foot. The Sacra Peni-
tentiaria is the tribunal to which
cases of conscience are submitted
for decision, and its answers are
given according to the terms of the
petition or case submitted. We
give the case as submitted, and the
reply :

" MOST EMINENT AND REVEREND SIR :
Some confessors in the city of Rome
humbly submit that, at the present mo-
ment, there is in circulation in it a pa-
per containing a printed programme,
with accompanying schedules of asso-
ciation, by which the faithful are soli-
cited to join a certain society, established

or to be established to the end that, on
the vacancy of the Apostolic Sea, the
Roman people may take part in the elec-
tion of the Roman Pontiff. The name
of the society is : Societa Caltolica per la
rivendicazione del diritti spettanti*al popolo
cristiano ed in ispecie al popolo Romano.
Whoever gives his name to this society
must expressly declare, as results from
the schedules, that he agrees to the doc-
trines set forth in the programme, and
contracts the obligation, before two wit-
nesses, of doing all he can to further the
propagation of these doctrines and the
increase of the society. Wherefore, the
said confessors, that they may properly
absolve, when by the grace of God they
come to the sacrament of penance, those
who have been" the promoters of this
evil society, or have subscribed their
names thereto, and other adherents and
aiders of it, send a copy of the programme
and schedules to be examined by the
Sacred Penitentiary, and ask an answer
to the following questions :

" i. Whether each and all, giving their
names to this society, or aiding it, or in
any way abetting it, or adhering to it, by
the very fact incur the penalty of the
major ex-communication ?

" 2. And if so, whether this excommu-
nication be reserved to the Sovereign
Pontiff?"

"The Sacred Penitentiary, having
considered all that has been laid
before it, and duly examined into
the nature and end of this society,
having referred the foregoing to
our most holy lord, Pius IX., with
his approbation, replies to the pro-
posed questions as follows :
"To the first, affirmatively.
" To the second : The excommu-
nication is incurred by the very
fact, and is in a special manner re-
served to the Roman Pontiff.

" Given at Rome, in the Sacred
Penitentiary, August 4, 1876.

" R. CARD. MONACO,/?/- the

Grand Penitentiary.
" HIP. CANON PALOMBI, S. P.
Secretary."

Such is the state of things we
have to present to our readers as a

A Glimpse of the Adirondack*.

261

result of the triumph of Freema-
sonry in Italy and of the seizure
of Rome: the Pope a captive ; his
temporal power gone ; his spiritual
power trammelled; his influence sub-
ject to daily attacks that aim at its
destruction; and, to crown all, loom-
ing up in the distance, a possible
schism, resulting from interference,
patronized by the Italian govern-
ment, in the future election of the
Head of two hundred millions of
Catholics throughout the world,
whose most momentous interests

are at stake. Surely nothing could
be of more weight to show how
impossible a thing a pope under
the dominion of a sovereign is ;
nor could we desire anything IK-I-
ter adapted to show the necessity
of the restoration of his perfect in-
dependence in the temporal order.
We believe this will be ; and, as
things are, we can see no other
way possible than by the restora-
tion of his temporal power ; how,
or when, is in the hands of divine
Providence.

A GLIMPSE OF THE ADIRONDACKS.

LAKE GEORGE, Sept. , 1876.

MY DEAR FRIEND : Not content
with being told that we enjoyed
our trip immensely, you demand a
description of, at least, the chief
part of it. Now, an adequate de-
scription of any kind of scenery is
by no means an easy thing. I have
read since my return those Ad-
ventures of a Phaeton which your
high praises made me promise to
try. And, certainly, the author's
plan is admirably executed ; his
pages are fragrant with rural fresh-
ness ; but can you aver that your
mind carries away a single picture
from his numerous descriptions ? I
have, as you know, the advantage
over you of having visited some of
the places through which he con-
ducts the party, particularly Oxford
and its vicinity; but I assure you,
had I not seen old Iffley, for in-
stance, with its church and mill,
the strokes of his pen would have
given me no idea of them.

Poets understand description bet-
ter than other writers. Lord Byron
is the greatest master of the art in

our language, and, I venture to say,
in any. What is their secret ? To
go into the least possible detail
sketching but a few bold outlines,
and leaving you to contemplate, as
they did. I shall make no apology,
then, for following in their wake.

Well, the time we spent in the
woods proper or mountains pro-
per, if you prefer it was barely
five days. It took us a whole day
to voyage down Lake George and
part of Lake Champlain, and then
stage (or vehicle) it to a place with
the euphonious name of Keene
Flats. Lake George looked as love-
ly as it always does under a clear
morning sky; and when the Minnc-
haha had finished her course, we
found something new to us a rail-
way station, and a train waiting to
convey us to Lake Champlain. I
cannot deny that the unromantic
train is an improvement on the
coach-ride of other days ; for the
old road was so absurdly bad, one
had to hold on to the coach like
grim death to avoid being jolted
off.

262

A Glimpse of the Adirondack*.

The Champlain boats are all that
can be desired. Besides other ac-
commodations, they serve you with
a dinner which is well worth the
dollar you pay for it. The lake it-
self, though, makes a very poor show
after the beautiful George; and on
this occasion what charms it had
were veiled by a thick smoke
from Canadian forests (we were
told). We had not more than, time
for a post-prandial cigar before we
readied Westport, our aquatic ter-
minus. Landing, we found it no
difficult matter to discover the stage
for Keene Flats. Two men, if not
three, vociferously greeted us with
" Keene Flats !" '" Stage for Keene
Flats !" The stage we had expected
to meet was not there. It ran only
Tuesdays and Fridays, they said
or Mondays and Fridays, I forget
which and this was Wednesday.
So we took the only one to be had,
and started on a journey of some
twenty- four miles, but which lasted
over five hours

The journey was broken by hav-
ing to change vehicles at Elizabeth-
town a strikingly pretty place, and
evidently popular. The drive thus
far had been through a continuous
cloud of dust, and the thickest of
its kind I was ever in. The re-
maining fourteen miles were really
delightful. While evening fell soft-
ly from a cloudless sky, the scen-
ery grew bolder and wilder. The
heights on either side took a deep-
er blue, the woods a darker green.
And presently the chill air made
us wrap ourselves against it. Very
long seemed the drive, and weary ;
but many a violet peak beguiled us
with its beauty, and the large star
drew our thoughts from earth, till
at last, as we descended into Keene
Valley, the moon rose to light us to
our rest.

It was after nine o'clock when we

alighted at Washbond's. Mine host
had gone to bed, but was not slow to
answer our summons ; and then his
wife and daughter came down to
get us supper. We did justice to
the repast, which was simple but
well served, and in the meantime
made arrangements with Trumble,
the guide, whom we were fortunate
in finding at home. Our beds were
in a new house Washbond had just
built. Everything was clean and
comfortable, and I need not say
we slept.

Breakfasting about eight next
morning, we made preparations for
our tramp through the woods. The
guide was very useful tons in know-
ing what provisions to get. His
younger brother, too himself train-
ing for a guide came along with
us, for a consideration, to help car-
ry our load.

Taking one more meal at Wash-
bond's, we started in the heat of
noon. A couple of miles brought
us to the woods proper. Here the
character of the road changed, of
course, and the " pull " began. It
was surprising how cool the air of
the woods was when we stopped
to breathe and sat down with our
packs ; whereas, wherever the sun
got at us through the trees, he "let
us know he was there." But had
the fatigue of those first miles
through the woods been twice or
ten times as great, it would have
been more than repaid when, sud-
denly, a turn in the road brought
us in view of the Lower Au Sable
Lake.

One of our trio, whom we called
Colonel (for we thought it wise to
travel incog. the second being
Judge, and myself Doctor), had run
on ahead of rtie guides a practice
he kept up throughout the trip. We
heard him shout as he came upon
the lake, and he told us afterwards

A Glimpse of the Adirondack*.

263

that he had taken off his hat and
thanked God for having lived to
see that view. There lay the
water in the light of afternoon,
long, narrow, and winding out of
sight. To either shore sloped a
mountain, wooded, clear-cut, pre-
cipitous.

It was quite romantic to be told
we had to navigate this lake. But
first there were the Rainbow Falls
to see. Our end of the lake (not
included in the above view) was
choked up with fallen timber.
Crossing on some trunks to the
other shore, we had but a few min-
utes' walk before we came into a
rocky hollow of wildest beauty,
where, from a cliff some hundred
and fifty feet high, leapt the torrent
scarcely " with delirious bound,"
nor, of course, with the bulk it
would have had in winter, yet with
terrible majesty into a channel be-
low us. It did not wear the rain-
bow coronal, the time of day being
too late. But the glen was well
worth a visit, and deiiciously cool
from the spray.

The boat we were to voyage in
was the property of the guide a
light craft, and rather too crank to
be comfortable, particularly with a
load of five on board, to say noth-
ing of the dog and the baggage ; so
that, in fact, our passage along the
lake and between the giant slopes
was not as pleasant as it might have
been. After some difficult naviga-
tion at the other end of the lake,
the crew was safely landed with
the baggage, and the boat hidden
in some bushes. Then a trudge
through the woods again for a
couple of miles at least (distances,
by the bye, are peculiar in these
regions), till we issued on the bank
of the An Sable River where it
leaves the Upper Lake. It was
during this march that the Colonel

(who had brought his gun) got a
shot at a certain bird, and knocked
too many feathers from her not to
have killed her, though neither he
nor the dog could find her; and
this was, positively, the only game
he sighted the whole trip through.

But here a second boat was found
hidden and ready, and one a little
larger than the first. And now
came the scene of our excursion.
We seemed to have entered an en-
chanted land to be floating on a
veritable fairy lake. The vision
stole over us like a dream. Then,
too, it was "the heavenliest hour
of heaven " for such a scene : the
sun set, and twilight just begun. The
picture, as a whole, will ever re-
main in my memory as, of its kind,
the loveliest it has been my happi-
ness to see. But, my dear friend, it
"beggars all description." I can
only ask you to imagine it, while I
jot down a few points of detail.

The Upper Au Sable differs strik-
ingly from the Lower, although, of
course, equally formed by, and a
part of, the same river. It is less
long, but also less narrow ; and
while to the left, as you glide up it,
there stands but one mountain
from shore to sky, to the right you
behold other majestic summits tow-
ering above the wooded slope. So,
again, on looking back, you see a
gap of fantastic grandeur, and,
fronting you, is a wide opening, re-
lieved by a single peak. This
peak, as we then saw it, wore the
bewitching blue that distance and
evening combine to " lend " a
charm which I, for one (and surely
all lovers of nature), can never
enough feast my eyes upon. The
summits to the right and behind
us were also robed in various
shades of "purple," which deepen-
ed with the twilight. The glassy
water was covered here and there

264

A Glimpse of the Adirondacks.

with yellow-blossomed lilies. Even
the green of the woods partook
with the sky

tl That clear obscure^
So softly dark, and darkly pure."

Along the right bank two camp-
fires were burning brightly. To-
ward one of these our guide was
steering. He knew that his camp
(constructed by himself, and there-
fore his by every right) was occu-
pied, but was bent on turning the
intruders out. We found a guide
sitting calmly by the fire, and
awaiting the return of his party to
supper. They had gone up " Mar-
cy," he said, and two of them
were ladies, and it would be very
hard for them to have to seek an-
other camp after their day's climb.
He had supposed our camp wQuld
not be wanted. There was one of
his own on the other side, just as
good, and we could have that.
Well, of course, we three, when we
heard of ladies, used our influence
with Trumble, who slowly relented,
and then rowed us over to the
other shore. Yes, the camp was
as good, and all about it; but we
were on the wrong side for seeing the
moon rise, and felt not a little dis-
appointed.

While the guide was making the
fire the Colonel proposed that we
should row up the lake and look
for der. So we went ; but not a
sign of any sucli quadruped could
we sfce. Our view of the lake,
though, repaid us ; and when we
returned, we found a splendid fire
and a savory supper. These fires
.are kept up all night. They are
close in front of the camp. This
species of " camp " is a hut or shed,
built of logs and securely roofed
with birch bark. Sloping up-
ward from behind, it stands open
to the air in front. The floor is

strewed with spruce boughs, or
some other equally suitable ; and
when over this covering a " rubber
blanket " is placed, you have quite
a comfortable bed. Did we sleep,
though ? Very fairly for the first
night out.

And here I am tempted to end
this epistle ; for no other day of
our whole trip brought anything to
compare with the exquisite sur-
prises of this first day in the woods.
But I know you will not be satisfied
if I fail to take you up Mt. Marcy
and round through Indian Pass.

Well, then, we started for " Mar-
cy " (as the guides call it) next
morning, right after breakfast. Our
breakfast, by the way, was unusu-
ally good for Friday. The Colo-
nel and Trumble had risen early
and caught a nice string of brook
trout. The brook was near the
head of the lake. We also supped
on trout, which the Colonel and I
got from Marcy Brook, a mountain
stream we reached about noon.

The ascent from the lake was
decidedly a "pull," the more so, no
doubt, from the reluctance with
which we took leave of the lake.
We felt the climb that day more
than any climb we had afterward.
A mile, too, of this kind seems
equal, in point of distance, to three
or four miles on ordinary ground.
Having rested by Marcy Brook for
dinner, we pushed on in the after-
noon for Panther Gorge, where we
found a good camp unoccupied,
which served us for the night. The
Judge was very eager to scale
Marcy that evening, in order to get
the view from it by moonlight. We
met a gentleman coming down, who
said he had been on Marcy the
night before, and described the
moonlight view as the finest sight
he had ever witnessed. We also
met some ladies belonging to the

A Glimpse of the Adirondack*.

265

same party. Still, I think it was as
well we did not go up that night ;
for it would have sorely taxed our
strength. I have recently been
told of persons who brought on dis-
ease, and died within a year or two
after, by rash exertion among these
mountains. This sort of thing seems
to me consummate folly. More
than that, it is a sin. We had come
on the excursion not only to see,
but, equally, to gain vigor. Having,
then, plenty of time and ample pro-
visions, there was no use in strain-
ing ourselves to gratify vanity or
anything else.

Panther Gorge must have taken
its name from that truculent animal
having " infested " there (as Josh
Billings would say). But the bounty
set on beasts of prey current in
these woods seems to have made
them very scarce ; for the only spe-
cimen we met with all the way was
a dead bear rotting in a trap. The
gorge itself is wild, but not particu-
larly romantic. We got a view of
it from a place called " The Notch,"
near the summit of Mt. Marcy,
where we rested to dine. There is
a sort of camp "at this spot, but a
poor tiling to pass a night in. There
is also a most convenient spring.
Indeed, we had reason to be very
grateful for the springs and rills of
delicious water which abounded all
along our line of march.

The ascent of Marcy is singularly
easy for a mountain of such height
one of the highest, indeed, this side
of the Rocky range. I confess I had
rather dreaded the climb, from an
experience of Black Mountain, on
Lake George. I was therefore quite
agreeably surprised. On the other
hand, I was almost equally disap-
pointed by the view from the
Cloud-splitter's top. (Tahawus
/.*., Cloud-splitter is the old Indian
name for the mountain. What a

pity it was changed ! nearly as
barbarous as giving the name of
one of Thackeray's" Four Georges "
to the beautiful Lac du Sairit-Sac-
rement. Far better to have restor-
ed the Indian name Horicon,
Holy Lake.) It is rarely, I sup-
pose, that a perfectly clear view is
to be had from these mountains.
We, probably, saw little more than
half the horizon commanded by the
height at which we stood. What
we did see was worth seeing, cer-
tainly. Still, I, at least, remembered
an incomparably finer view from
the well-named Prospect Mountain
at the head of Lake George.

Lake George we could not see,
but only where it Avas. A number
of small lakes were pointed out to
us by the guide, among them the
" Tear of the Clouds," one of the
reputed sources of the Hudson.
This wretched little pond for sucli
it proved when we passed it on our
way towards Lake Golden that after-
noon looked far from deserving of
its poetical name, even at a distance ;
for we could see that it was yellow,
being, in fact, a very shallow affair,
and more like a stagnant marsh
than a crystalline tear. They might
as well have given some sidere-
al appellation to the sun-reflector
which Mr. Colvin has erected on the
exact apex of Marcy a few sheets
of tin, some of which had been torn
off; for when, three days later, we
were many miles away, we beheld
this apparatus glittering like a star
in the rays of the setting sun.

But here let me moralize a mo-
ment. Those to whom u high moun-
tains are a feeling," as they were to
the " Pilgrim poet," will not scale
them purely for the view they af-
ford, much less for the sake of
vaunting a creditable feat. They
will understand the longing so no-
bly expressed by Keats :

266

A Glimpse of the Adirondacks.

" To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world and worldling meant."

That is, they will feel at home on
mountain-tops, because uplifted from
the transitory and the sordid, and
reminded what it is to belong to
eternity. But then, on the other
hand, unless, with Wordsworth, they
u have ears to hear "

" The still, sad music of humanity,"

they will miss the real lesson which
the " wonder-works of God and Na-
ture's hand " are meant to teach
to wit, the infinitely greater worth
and beauty of a single human soul,
even the lowest and most degraded,
as a world in which are wrought,
or can be wrought, the " wonder-
works " of grace. The love of Na-
ture never yet made a misanthrope.
The poet who could write

"Tome

High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture,"

had been stung into misanthropy
before lie " fled " to Nature, and
would rather have found in Na-
ture's bosom a sublime and tender
love of mankind, had he not pos-
sessed (as some one has well said
of him) " the eagle's wing without
the eagle's eye" so that " while he
soared above the world " he " could
not gaze upon the sun of Truth."

Such having been my cogitations
as I stood on Mt. Marcy, you will
not think it pedantry that I record
them here.

Descending, we returned to the
camp at the Notch, where we had
left our baggage, then struck into
the trail for the Iron-Works (of
which anon). This trail, though
well worn, is very tiresome, owing
to the number of trees that have
fallen across it, obliging you to
crawl a good deal. But we were
glad to have seen the " Flumes " of
the "Opalescent" another poetic

name, which obviously means "be-
ginning to be opal," or resembling
that hue. But, unfortunately, there
are various kinds of opal; and
since the water had nothing of a
milky tinge, the bestower of the
name must have meant the brown
opal, an impure and inferior sort.
I therefore deem the name infelici-
tous. The only color-epithet for
clear and shallow waters, whether
running or still, is amber. Witness
Milton, in Paradise Lost :

lk Where the river of bliss through midst of heaven
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her mnbtr stream."

And again, in Co tuns :

" Sabrina fair !

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

1 he loose train of thy aw^r-dropping hair !"

The " Flumes " are fine too fine to
be called flumes, according to the
dictionary sense of the term. They
are chasms of considerable depth
and length. But I must hasten on,
like the river by which we are loi-
tering.

Our camp that night was on the
shore of Golden Lake quite a
pretty little lake of its kind. But
all lakes seemed (to me, at least)
apologies for lakes after the Upper
Au Sable. From our camp we
could see where Lake Avalanche
lay not a mile, we were told, from
Golden.. The Judge and Golonel
made an agreement with the guide
to visit Lake Avalanche next morn-
ing early: but, when the time came,
they found slumber too sweet, as I
had anticipated they would, /had
no hankering to accompany them,
because, for one thing, they would
have had to trudge through a re-
gular swamp, the guide said a kind
of walking I particularly dislike ;
while, for another thing, it was easy
to imagine the lake from the slop-
ing cliffs that shut it in. These re-

A Glimpse of the Adirondacks.

26;

minded us of the Lower Au Sable, was able to let us have enough pro-

\\\\\: lifincr Knrp nnrl Qrnrr^rl wrnl/-1 rir.i~~ . r ,. i

but, being bare and scarred, would
have evidently a very inferior ef-

visions for the remainder of our
tramp; but when we came to

feet. So Avalanche, like " Yarrow," foot " the bill, it was unexpectedly

\vpnf " imvtcit^rl " "^(-^^.^ " T i '

went " unvisited."

It was a matter of necessity now
to push on to the Iron-Works. Our

steep." People must "make,"
you see, in a place like this.

Starting after breakfast that Mon-
provisions had run out; so we day morning, we took the shorter
made the seven miles that Sunday route by way of Lake Henderson
morning, and reached our destina- We were not sorry to get a good
tion in good time for dinner. The view of this lake, but our voyage
trail was the best we had seen yet. on it was far from pleasant/ A

We passed " Calamity Fond," so
called from a Mr. Henderson, one
of the owners of the Iron-Works,

guide from M 's came with us.

He had two boats : one a sort of
"scow" with a paddle, the other

having shot himself there acciden- a boat like T rumble's, only lighter
tally. He laid his revolver on a and smaller. Trumble and broth-
rock near the pond, and, on taking er, dog and baggage, went in the

it up, discharged it into his side.
On this rock no\v stands a neat
monument erected by filial affection.

scow; we three in the other, with
the guide for oarsman. Our boat
was loaded to within three inches

lage

As we entered the deserted vil- of the water's edge, and, there be-
still called the Iron-Works ing a slight breeze, it was the great-
( though said works have been aban- est risk I ever ran of an upset,
doned twenty years), a shower of
rain fell the first we had met.
(Such a run of fine weather as we

Had the breeze increased, we must
have gone over. All three of us
could swim; but to risk a drench-

had been favored with is very rare ing with its consequences, and un-
der such circumstances, seemed to
me the most provoking stupidity,
who, while disclaiming to One of us might easily have gone

in the Adirondacks.) The only
occupied house belongs to a Mr*

M-

keep an inn or public- house of any
kind, accommodates passing tour-
ists, and even boarders. The table

in the scow. The guide was to
blame, for he knew the boat's ca-
pacity. However, through the

was good enough, especially after favor of Our Lady and the angels,

our frugal meals in 'the woods; but
I cannot say as much for the beds
in comparison with the camps. He
had to put us for the night in an-
other house belonging to him, but
which had not been used, he said,
this year, and looked as if it had
not been used for several years.
The bedsteads, too, surprised us by

under whose joint protection our
excursion had been placed, we were
safely landed, and soon found our-
selves in the woods once more, and
on a trail that seemed made for
wild-cats.

But now our fears of rain were
verified. The menacing west had
not hindered us from setting out;

not breaking down in the night ; but we found the shelter of trees
and two of us had to occupy one inadequate, and, of course, they

bed. However, we contrived to kept dripping upon us after the
sleep pretty well, and rose next shower had passed over. In short,

Indian

morning quite ready for
Pass." Fortunately, Mrs.

we got wet enough to feel very un-
comfortable ; and the sun could not

268

A Glimpse of the Adirondacks.

penetrate to us satisfactorily. We
had hoped the rain was a mere
thunder-shower; but when we saw
more clouds, dense and black, we
made up our minds that we were
" in for it." Trumble put forth the
assurance that nobody ever caught
cold in the woods. But I, less con-
tented with this than the others, re-
solved to try the supernatural. I
vowed Our Blessed Lady some
Masses for the souls in purgatory
most devoted to her ; and behold, as
each succeeding cloud came reso-
lutely on, the sun broke through it
triumphantly, till, after an hour or
two, all danger had disappeared,
and we were left to finish our jour-
ney under a cloudless sky. Of
course this favorable turn may have
been due to purely natural causes ;
but I mention it as what it seemed
to me, because I know you believe
in "special providences," and al-
ways rejoice in acknowledging Our
Blessed Mother's goodness and
power.

The trail became more perilous
to eyes and ankles than any we had
followed yet. Indeed, it was a con-
stant marvel that we met with no
sprain or fracture. Such an accident
would have been extremely awk-
ward, remote as we were from the
habitations of men, to say nothing
of surgical aid. But, of course, we
took every care, and the prayers
of friends, together with our own,
drew Heaven's protection round us.

At last we came in sight of the
gigantic cliff which forms the west-
ern side of the pass very grand,
certainly, but not what we had an-
ticipated from the glowing accounts
of brother-pilgrims. Then, too, we
saw but that one side ; being on the
other ourselves, and not between
the two, as we had supposed we
should be. When we reached
* Summit Rock," we stopped for

dinner. The view that met our re-
trospection from this rock repaid
our climb. In fact, it was this view
alone that made us think anything
of" Indian Pass." " Summit Rock,"
though, is not easy to scale and I,
having taken the wrong track, in
turning to descend had the narrow-
est escape from a very serious fall.
I shall always feel grateful for that
preservation when I recall our Adi-
rondack experiences. How forci-
bly and consolingly the words of
the Psalmist came to me then, as
they do now : " Quoniara angelis
suis mandavit de te, at cnstodiantte
in omnibus viis tuis. In manibus
portabunt te, ne forte offendas ad
lapidem pedem tuum " (Ps. xc. u,
12.*

We camped that afternoon, and
for the night, at a spot about "half
way " that is, half way between the
Iron-Works and North Elba (a dis-
tance of eighteen miles) ; for the
pass proper is of no great length.
The camp there is excellent. We
readied it in time for the Judge and
myself to get a capital bath, while
the Colonel caught a string of trout,
before supper. We did not cook
all the fish for that meal, but kept
a supply for the morrow's breakfast.
The trout thus reserved were hung
upon a stump about fifteen yards
from the camp, at the risk of hav-
ing them stolen in the night by
some animal. And, sure enough,
some animal was after them in the
night, for the dog got up and
growled, and went outside ; but thi>
scared the marauder away, for we
found the fish untouched in the
morning.

Tuesday dawned serenely, and
we lost no time after breakfast in

* " For he hath given his angels charge over thee,
to keep thee in all thy ways. In their hands they
shall bear thee u/>, lest, perchance, thou dash thy
foot against a stone. "

A Glimpse of the Adirondack*.

269

getting under way for Blinn's Farm
our chosen destination in North
Elba County. The walk seemed
interminably long, but was almost
all down-hill, and over ground cov-
ered with dried leaves. We lunch-
ed, rather than dined, on the march ;
for we knew a good dinner was to
be had at the farm. The last diffi-
cult feat to be performed was cross-
ing our old friend the Au Sable,
which flows between the hill we
had descended and the slope lead-
ing up to Blinn's. We had to take
boots and socks off, and make our
way over a few large stones, some
of which were awkwardly far apart.
The others managed it all right. /
might as well have kept boots and
socks on ; for just as I got to the
last stone but one, and where a
jump was necessary, I slipped and
came down on my hands, sousing
boots and socks under water. Even
this, though, was preferable to slip-
ping ankle-deep into black mud, as
I had done again and again on the
tramp ; and when we gained the
house and changed our things, I
was as well off as anybody.

Fortunately, they had room for
us. Very pleasant people. And
they got us up a first-rate dinner,
the most delectable feature whereof
was (to me, at least) some rashers
of English bacon. This and the
farm itself, with its look of peace
and honest toil, took me back to

long ago to my first English home;
for the pretty little parsonage where
I was born was close to two farm-
houses. But farm, dinner, and all
were nothing to the view command-
ed by this spot the most exquisite
panorama of mountains it had ever
been my happiness to contemplate.
Facing us, as we turned to look
back on the wilderness we had es-
caped from, was Indian Pass, the
true character of which is best seen
from this distance. To the left
of us stood Marcy in majestic si-
lence. Between him and the pass
were the "scarped cliffs " of Ava-
lanche. From south to west was a
lower line of heights, apparelled in
a thick blue haze. And when, an
hour later, we saw the sun set along
this line, the evening azure settled
on the other peaks around us, and
Marcy 's signal gleamed and flashed
like a red star.

And here I must bid you adieu,
my dear friend. However poorly
1 have complied with your request,
it has been no small pleasure to me.
I hope you will catch a fair glimpse
of the Adirondacks, which is all I
pretend to give. But I must add
that when we three travellers got
back to this dear old lake, we were
unanimous in declaring that, after
all we had seen, there was nothing
to surpass Lake George, nor any-
thing that would wear so well.
Vale.

270

Sir Thomas More.

SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF TUB PKINCESSE DE CRAON.

XV.

As the night wore away the bon-
fires lighted in the public places
were extinguished. Quiet and si-
lence succeeded the tumult, the
shouts, dances, and the surging
waves of an excited populace rush-
ing wildly through the streets of the
capital. The ladies had deposited
their borrowed charms upon the
ebony and ivory of their solitary
and hidden toilets. Themselves
wrapped in slumber within the
heavy curtains of their luxurious
couches, their brocade robes and
precious jewels still waited (hang-
ing up or thrown here and there)
the care of the active and busy
chambermaids. Of all the sen-
sation, triumphs, and irresistible
charms there was left nothing but
the wreck, disorder, and faded flow-
ers. And thus passes everything
appertaining to man. Beauty lives
but a day; an hour even may be-
hold it withered and cut down.

The sun had scarcely risen when
a number of carts, mounted by
vigilant upholsterers,, were driven
up, in order to remove the scaffolds,
the triumphal arches, and strip them
of their soiled drapery and wither-
ed garlands. The avenues of the
palace were deserted, and not a
courtier had yet appeared. One
man, however, all alone, slowly sur-
veyed the superb apartments of the
Tower. He paused successively
before each panel of tapestry, ex-
amining them in all their details, or
he took from their places the large

chairs with curved backs, that he
might inspect them more closely;
he then consulted a great memoran-
dum-book he held in his hand.

" Ah ! Master Cloth, you are not
to be cheated. It is not possible
that Signer Ludovico Bonvisi has
sold you this velvet at six angels the
piece ; and six hundred pieces more,
do you say ? But I will show you I
am not so easily duped as you
would think by the thieving mer-
chants of my good city. The
rascals understand very well how
to manage their affairs; but we will
also manage to clip some of their
wings."

And Henry VIII. gave a stroke
with his penknife through the
column he wished to diminish ; it
was in this way he made his addi-
tions.

" The devil ! This violet carpet
covering the courtyard is enor-
mously dear.

" Mistress Anne, your reception
here has ruined me. We must find
some means of making all this up.
These women are full of whims,
and of very dear whims too. A
wife is a most ruinous tiling ; every-
thing is ruinous. They cannot
move without spending money. It
has been necessary to give enor-
mous sums right and left to doc-
tors of universities, to Parliament;
and all that is an entire loss, for
they will clamor none the less loud-
ly. There are men in Parliament
who will sell themselves, and yet

Sir Thomas More.

271

they will ridicule me just as much
as the others, in order to appear
independent. Verily, it is terror
alone that can be used to advan-
tage ; with one hand she replenishes
the purse, while with the other she
at the same time executes my com-
mands.

"This fiinge is only an inch
wide ; it cannot weigh as much as
they say it does here. I counted on
the rest of the cardinal's money;
but nothing he had not a penny, or
at any rate he has been able to hide
his pieces from me, so that I could
not find a trace of them.

"Northumberland has written
me there was nothing at Cawood
but a box, where he found, carefully
tied up in a little sack of red linen,
a hair shirt and a discipline, which
have doubtless served our friend
Wolsey to expiate the sins I have
made him commit." And as these
reflections were passing through his
mind, the king experienced a very
disagreeable sensation at the sight
of a man dressed in black, who ap-
proached him on tip toe. Henry
VIII. did not at all like being sur-
prised in his paroxysms of suspicion
and avarice.

" What does that caterpillar want'
with me at this early hour?" he
said, looking at Cromwell, who was
in full dress, frizzled, and in his
boots, as though lie had not been to
bed, and had not had so much to
do the day before.

The king endeavored to conceal
the memorandum he held in his
hand ; but who could hide anything
from Cromwell ? He was delighted
to perceive the embarrassment and
vexation of his master, because it
was one of his principles that he
held these great men in his power,
when favor began to abate, through
the fear they felt of having their
faults publicly exposed by those

greatest

who had known them intimately.
He therefore took a malicious
pleasure in proving to the king that
his precautions had been useless,
and that he knew perfectly well the
nature of his morning's occupation,
for which he feigned the
admiration.

"What method !" he exclaimed.
" What vast intellect ! How is
your majesty able to accomplish
all that you undertake, passing
from the grandest projects to the
most minute details, and that al-
ways with the same facility, the
same unerring judgment ?"

Henry VIII. regarded Cromwell
attentively, as if to be assured that
this eulogy was sincere ; but he ob-
served an indescribable expression
of hypocrisy hovering on the pinch-
ed lips of the courtier. He con-
tracted his brow, but resolved to
carry on the deception.

"Yes," he said, "I reproach my-
self with this extravagance. I
should have kept the furniture of
my predecessors. There are so
many poor to relieve! I am over-
whelmed with their demands; the
treasury is empty, I cannot afford
it, and I have done very wrong in
granting myself this indulgence."

"Come!" replied Cromwell,
" think of your majesty reproaching
yourself for an outlay absolutely
indispensable. Very soon, I sup-
pose, you will not permit yourself
to buy a cloak or a doublet of Flan-
ders wool, while you leave in the
enjoyment of their property these
monks who have never been favor-
able to your cause. The trea-
sury is empty, you say; give me
a fortnight's time and a commis-
sion, and I will replenish it to
overflowing."

The king smiled. " Yes, yes, I
know very well ; you want me to
appoint you inspector of my

272

Sir TJiomas More.

monks. You would make them dis-
gorge, you say."

" A set of drones and idlers ! "*
cried Cromwell. "You have only
to drive them all out, take posses-
sion of their property, and put it in
the treasury ; it will make an im-
mense sum. They are to be found
in every corner. When you have
dispossessed them, you will be able
to provide for them according to
your own good pleasure, your own
necessities, and those of the tru-
ly poor. Give me the commis-
sion !"

Cromwell burned to have this
commission, of which he had
dreamed as the only practicable
means of enriching himself at his
leisure, and making some incalcu-
able depredations ; because ho\v
could it possibly be known exactly
how much he would be able to ex-
tort by fear or by force ? Having the
king to sustain him and for an ac-
complice, he had nothing to fear.
He had already spoken of it to him,
but in a jesting manner, apparently ;
it was his custom to sow thus in the
mind of Henry VIII. a long time
in advance, and as if by chance,
the seeds of evil from which he
hoped ultimately to gather the
fruits.

At the moment tins idea appear-
ed very lucrative to the king ; but
a sense of interior justice and the
usage of government enlightened
his mind.

" This," said he, " is your old hab-
it of declaiming against the monks
and convents. As for idleness,
methinks the life of the most indo-

* These words, which we find in the mouth of this
hypocrite, the impious Cromwell, have been the
watchword from all time of those who wished to
attack the monks and destroy them. Well-inform-
ed and educated persons know, by the great num-
ber of works coming from their pens, whether they
were idlers, and the poor in all ages will be able to
say whether they have ever been selfish or unchari-
table.

lent one among them would be far
from equalling that which your-
self and the gallants of my court
lead every day in visits, balls, and
other dissipations. Verily, it can-
not be denied that these religious
live a great deal less extravagantly
than you, for the price of a single
one of your ruffs would be sufficient
to clothe them for a whole year.
All these young people speak at ran-
dom and through caprice, without
having the least idea of what they
say. I love justice above all
things. Had you the slightest
knowledge of politics and of gov-
ernment, you would know that an
association of men who enjoy their
property in common derive from
it much greater advantages, because
there are a greater number to par-
take of it. These monks, who are
lodged under the same roof, lighted
and warmed by the same fire, nurs-
ed, when they are sick, by those who
live thus together, find in that com-
munion of all goods an ease and
comfort which it would be impos-
sible to attain if they were each
apart and Separated from the
other. If, now, I should drive
them from their convents and take
' possession of their estates, what
would become of them ? And who
would be able so to increase in a
moment the revenues of the coun-
try as to procure each one indi-
vidually that which they enjoyed in
common together ? And, above all,
these monks are men like other
men ; they choose to live together
and unite their fortunes : I see not
what right I have to deprive
them of their property, since it has
been legally acquired by donations,
natural inheritance, or right of
birth. * These church people mo-
nopolize everything,' say the crack-
brained fools who swarm around me;
and where would they have me look

Thomas More.

2/3

for men who are good for some-
thing? Among those who know
not either how to read or write,
save in so far as needs to fabri-
cate the most insignificant billet, or
who in turn spend a day in endeav-
oring to decipher it ? I would
like to see them, these learned gen-
tlemen, holding the office of lord
chancellor and the responsibility
of the kingdom. They might be
capable of signing a treaty of com-
merce with France to buy their
swords, and with Holland to pur-
chase their wines. These cox-
combs, these lispers of the " Ro-
mance of the Rose," with their
locks frizzled, their waists padded,
and their vain foolishness, know
naught beyond the drawing of their
swords and slashing right and left.
Or it would be necessary for me to
bring the bourgeois of the city,
seat them on their sacks, declaring
before the judge that they do not
know how to write, and sending to
bring the public scribe to announce
to their grandfathers the arrival of
the newly born. Cromwell, you
are very zealous in my service; I
commend you for it; but some-
times and it is all very natural
you manifest the narrow and con-
tracted ideas of the obscure class
from whence you sprang, which
render you incapable of judging
of these things from the height
where I, prince and king, am
placed."

Cromwell felt deeply humiliated
by the contempt Henry VIII. con-
tinually mingled with his favor in
recalling incessantly to his recollec-
tion the fact of his being a. parvenu*
sustained in his position only by
his gracious favor and all-powerful
will, and then only while he was
useful or agreeable. He hesitated
a moment, not knowing how to re-
ply ; but, like a serpent that unfolds

VOL. XXIV. 18

his coils in every way, and whose
scales fall or rise at will at the
i^ame moment and with the sam-
facility, he said :

" Your Majesty says truly. I am
only what you have deigned to
make me; I acknowledge it with
joy, and I would rather owe all I
am to you than possess it by any
natural right. I will be silent, if
your majesty bids me ; though I
would fain present a reflection that
your remark has suggested."

" Speak," said the king, with a
smile of indulgence excited by this
adroit admission.

"I will first remark that your
majesty still continues to sacrifice,
yourself to the happiness and pros-,
perity of your people; consequent-,
ly, it seems to me that they should;
be willing, in following the grand
designs of your majesty, to. yield,
everything. Thus they would only
have to unite the small to the great-
er monasteries, and oblige them to
receive the monks whose property
had been annexed to the crown.
The treasury would in this way.be
very 'thoroughly replenished, and
no one would have- a right to com-
plain or think himself wronged."

" But," said, the king, " they are
of different orders."

However, he made this objection
with less firmness; and it appeared
to Cromwell that his mind was be-
coming familiarized with this lumi-
nous idea of possessing himself of
a number of very rich and well-cul-
tivated ecclesiastical estates, which,
sold at a high price, would produce
an enormous sum of money.

Cromwell, observing his success,
feared to compromise himself and
make the king refuse if he urged
the matter too persistently ; pro-
mising himself to return another
time to the subject, he said nothing
more, and, adroitly changing the

274

Sir Thomas More.

conversation, spoke of all that had
occurred the day before, and dwelt
strongly on the enthusiasm of the
people.

"Oh!" said the king, "that en-
thusiasm affects me but little !
The people are like a flea-bitten
horse, which we let go to right or
left, according to circumstances ;
and I place no reliance on these
demonstrations excited by the view
of a flagon of beer or a fountain of
wine flowing at a corner of the
street. There are, nevertheless,
germs of discord living and deeply
rooted in the heart of this nation.
Appearances during a festival day
are not sufficient, Cromwell. Lis-
ten to me. It is essential that all
should yield, all obey. I am not a
child to be amused with a toy !"
And he regarded him with an ex-
pression of wrath as sudden as it
was singular.

" Think you," he continued with
gleaming eyes, " that I am happy,
that I believe I have taken the right
direction ? It is not that I would
retract or retrace my steps ; so far
from that, the more I feel convinc-
ed that it is wrong, the more resolv-
ed am I to crush the inspiration
that would recall me. No ! Henry
VIII. neither deceives himself nor
turns back ; and you, if ever you re-
veal the secret of my woes, the vio-
lence and depth of your fall will
make you understand the strength
of the arm you will have called
down on your head."

Cromwell felt astounded. How
often he paid thus dearly for his
vile and rampant ambition ! What
craft must have been continually
engendered in that deformed soul,
in order to prevent it from being
turned from its goal of riches and
domination, always to put a con-
straint upon himself, to sacrifice in
order to obtain, to yield in order

to govern, to tremble in order to
make himself feared !

" More," he said in desperation.

" More !" replied the king. " That
name makes me sick! Well, what
of him now ?"

"Sire," replied Cromwell vehe-
mently, " you speak of discords and
fears for the future ; I should be
wanting in courage if I withheld the
truth from the king. More and
Rochester these are the men who
censure and injure you in the esti-
mation of your people. There are
proofs against them, but they are
moral proofs, and insufficient for
rigid justice to act upon. They re-
fuse to take the oath, and it is impos-
sible to include them in the judgment
against the Holy Maid of Kent.
They would be acquittedunanimous-
ly. However, you have heard it from
her own lips. You know that she is
acquainted with them, has spoken
to them ; this she has declared in
presence of your majesty. They
were in the church ; she had let
them know she was to appear at
that hour. Well, it is impossible
to prove anything against them ;
they will be justified, elated, and
triumphant. Parliament, reassured,
encouraged by this example of
tenacity and rebellion, will recover
from the first fright with which the
terror of your name had inspired
them. They will raise their heads;
your authority will be despised ;
they will rise against you ; they will
resist you on every side, and compel
you to recall Queen Catherine back
to this palace, adorned by the pres-
ence of your young wife. And then
what shame, what humiliation for
you, and what a triumph for her !
And this is why, sire, I have not
been able to sleep one moment last
night, and why I am the first to en-
ter the palace this morning, Avhere
I expected to wait until your ma-

/V T/w;ni$ More.

2/5

jesty awoke. But," ne continued,
44 zeal for your glory carries me, per-
haps, too far. Well then you will
punish me, and I shall not mur-
mur."

" Recall Catherine !" cried the
king, who, after this name, had not
heard a syllable of Cromwell's dis-
course ; and he clenched his fists
with a contraction of inexpressible
fury. " Recall Catherine, after hav-
ing driven her out in the face of all
justice, of all honor! No, I shall
have to drink to the dregs this bit-
ter cup I have poured out for my-
self; and coming ages will forever
resound with the infamy of my
name. Though the earth should
open, though the heavens should
fall and crush me, yet Thomas More
shall die ! Go, Cromwell," he cried,
his eyes gleaming with fury; "let
him swear or let him die ! Go,
worthy messenger of a horrible
crime ; get thee from before my eyes.
It is you who have launched me
upon this ocean, where I can sus-
tain myself only by blood. Cursed
be the day when you first crossed
my sight, infamous favorite of the
most cruel of masters ! Go, go ! and
bring me the head of my friend, of
the only man I esteem, whom I still
venerate, and let there no longer
remain aught but monsters in this
place."

Cromwell recoiled. " Infamous
favorite!" he repeated to himself.
" May I but be able one day to
avenge myself for the humiliations
with which you have loaded me, and
may I see in my turn remorse tear
your heart, and the anger of God
punish the crimes I have aided you
in committing!" He departed.

Henry VIII. was stifled with rage.
He crushed under his foot the
upholsterer's memorandum ; he
opened a window and walked out
on the balcony, from whence the

view extended far beyond the limits
of the city. As he advanced, he-
was struck by the soft odor and
freshness which was exhaled by the
morning breeze from a multitude of
flowers and plants placed there.
He stooped down to examine them,
then leaned upon the heavy stone
balustrade, polished and carved like
lace, and looked beyond in the dis-
tance.

The immense movement of an
entire population began in every
direction. There was the market,
whither flocked the dealers, the
country people, and the diligent
and industrious housewives. Far-
ther' on was the wharf, where the
activity was not less ; soldiers of the
marine, cabin boys, sailors, ship-
builders, captains all were hurry-
ing thither. Troops of workmen
were going to their work on the
docks, with tools in hand and
their bread under their arms. The
windows of the rich alone remained
closed to the light of day, to the
noise and the busy stir without.
There they rolled casks; here they
transported rough stones, plaster,
and carpenter's timber. Horses pull-
ed, whips cracked in a word, the
entire city was aroused ; every min-
ute the noise increased and the ac-
tivity redoubled.

" These men are like a swarm of
bees in disorder," said Henry VIII. ;
"and yet they carry tranquil
minds to their work, while their
king is suffering the keenest tor-
tures in the midst of them ; yet is
there not one of them who, in
looking at this pnlace, does not set at
the summit of happiness him who
reigns and commands here. ' if
I were king ! ' say this ignorant
crowd when they wish to express
the idea of happiness and supreme
enjoyment of the will. Do they
know what it costs the king to accom-

Sir ^Thomas More.

plish that will? Why do I not be-
long to their sphere ? I should at
least spend my days in the same
state of indifference in which they
sleep, live, and die. They are
miserable, say they ; what have
they to make them miserable ? They
are never sure of bread, they re-
ply ; but do they know what it is to
be satiated with abundance and
devoured by insatiable desires ?
Then death threatens us and ends
everything that terrible judgment
when kings will be set apart, to be
interrogated and punished more se-
verely. More, the recollection of
your words, your counsel, has never
ceased to live in my mind. Had I
but taken your advice, if I had sent
Anne away, to-day I should have
been free and thought no more of her;
while now, regarded with horror by
the universe, I hate the whole
world. But let me drown these
thoughts. I want wine drunken-
ness and oblivion." And pro-
nouncing these words, he rushed
suddenly from the balcony and dis-
appeared.

In the depths of his narrow pri-
son there was another also who
had sought to catch a breath of
the exhilarating air with which the
dawn of a beautiful day had reani-
mated the universe. It was not
upon a balustrade of roses and
perfumes that he leaned, but upon
a miserable, worm-eaten table, black-
ened by time, and discolored by the
tears with which for centuries it had
been watered. It was not a power-
ful city, a people rich, industri-
ous, and submissive, that his eyes
were fixed upon, but the sombre
bars of a small, grated window,
whose solitary pane he had opened.

He sat with his head bowed upon
one of his hands. He seemed tran-
quil, but plunged in profound mel-
ancholy ; for God, in the language

of holy Scripture, had not yet
descended into Joseph's prison to
console him, nor sent his angel be-
fore him to fortify his servant. And
yet, had any one been able to com-
pare the speechless rage y the fright-
ful but vain remorse, which corrod-
ed the king's heart, with the deep
but silent sorrow that overwhelmed
the soul of the just man, such a
one would have declared Sir Tho-
mas More to be happy. And still
his sufferings were cruelly intense,
for he thought of his children ; he
was in the midst of them, and his
heart had never left them.

" They know ere this," ho said
to himself, " that I shall not return.
Margaret, my dear Margaret, will
have told them all !" And he was
not there to console them. What
would become of them without
him, abandoned to the fury of the
king, ready, perhaps, to revenge him-
self even upon them for the obsti-
nacy with which he reproached
their father ?

Whilst indulging in these harrow-
ing reflections he heard the keys
cautiously turned in the triple locks
of his prison ; and soon a man ap-
peared, all breathless with fear and
haste. It was Kingston, the lieu-
tenant of the Tower. He entered,
and, gasping for breath, held the
door behind him.

" My dear Sir Thomas," he cried,
" blessed be God ! you are acquit-
ted, your innocence is proclaimed.
The council has been assembled
all night, and they have decided
that you could not in any manner
be implicated in the prosecution.
Oh ! how glad I am. But the Holy
Maid of Kent has been condemned
to be hanged at Tyburn. Judge
now if this was not a dangerous
business ! I have never doubted
your innocence ; but you have some
very furious and very powerful ene-

Sir Thomas More.

2 77

mies. That Cromwell is a most
formidable man. My dear Sir Tho-
mas, how rejoiced I am !"

A gleam of joy lighted the heart
of Sir Thomas.

" Can it be ?" he cried. " Say it
again, Master Kingston. What ! I
shall see my children again? I
.shall die in peace among them ?
No, I cannot believe in so much
happiness. But that poor girl is
she really condemned ?"

" Yes, "cried Kingston; " but here
are you already thinking of this nun.
By my faith, I have thought of no-
body but you. And the Bishop of

Penetrated by this sentiment, he
took the keeper's hand. " My dear
Kingston," he said, " you are right
you would surely compromise your-
self; for my case is not entirely de-
cided yet. As you say, I have some
very powerful enemies. However,
they will be able to do naught
against me more than God permits
them, and it is this thought alone
that animates and sustains my
courage."

*' Nay, nay, you need not be un-
easy," replied Kingston ; " they can
do nothing more against you. I
have listened to everything they

Rochester has also been acquitted." have said, and have not lost a single
"He has, then, already been in word. You will 1^ ^ a * i;i^

" He has, then, already been
the Tower ?" cried More.

" Just above you door to the
left No. 3," replied Kingston brief-
ly, in the manner of his calling.

"What!" cried Sir Thomas, "is
it he, then, I have heard walking
above my head ? I knew not why,
but I listened to those slow and
measured steps with a secret anx-
iety. I tried to imagine what might
be the age and appearance of this
companion in misfortune; and it-
was my friend, my dearest friend !

my dear Kingston ! that I
could see him. I beg of you to
let me go to him at once !"

" Of what are you thinking ?" ex-
claimed Kingston " without per-
mission ! You do not know that

1 have come here secretly, and if
they hear of it I shall be greatly
compromised. The order was to
hold you in solitary confinement;
it has not been rescinded, and al-
ready I transgress it."

" Ah ! I cannot see him," re-
peated Sir Thomas. " I am in soli-
tary confinement" And his joy
instantly faded before the reflection
which told him that the real crime
of which he was accused had not
been expiated.

word. You will be set at liberty
to-day, after you have taken an
oath the formula of which they
have drawn up expressly for you,
as I have been told by the secre-
tary."

"Ah! the oath," cried Sir Tho-
mas, penetrated with a feeling of
the keenest apprehension. " I know
it well!"

" Fear naught, then, Sir Thomas,"
replied Kingston, struck by the al-
teration he observed in his counte-
nance, a moment before so full of
hope and joy. " They have ar-
ranged this oath for you; they
know your scrupulous delicacy of
conscience and your religious sen-
timents. This is the one they will
demand of the ecclesiastics, and you
are the only layman of whom they
will exact it. You see there is no
reason here why you should be
uneasy."

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas, whose
heart was pierced by every word
of the lieutenant, "you are greatly-
mistaken, my poor Kingston. It is
to condemn and not to save me
they have done all this. The oath-
yes; it is that oath, like a ferocious
beast, which they destine to devour
me. Ah ! why did the hope of es-

r TJiomas More.

caping it for a moment come to
gladden my heart ? My Lord and
my God, have mercy on me !"

Sir Thomas paused, overcome by
his feelings, and was unable to utter
another word.

"My dear Sir Thomas," said
Kingston, amazed, "what means
this? Even if you refuse to take
this oath they will doubtless set
you at liberty. Cromwell has said
as much to the secretary. But what
should prevent you from taking it,
if the priests do not refuse ?"

" Dear Kingston," replied Sir
Thomas, " I cannot explain that to
you now, as it is one of the things I
keep between God and myself. I
know right well, also, that these
prison walls have ears, that they
re-echo all they hear, and that one
cannot even sigh here without it
being reported."

" You are dissatisfied, then, with
being under my care!" exclaimed
Kingston, who was extremely nar-
row-minded, and whose habit of
living, and still more of command-
ing, in the Tower had brought him
to regard it as a habitation by no
means devoid of attractions.

" You may very well believe,
Sir Thomas," he continued, " that I
have not forgotten the many favors
and proofs of friendship I have re-
ceived from you ; that I am entirely
devoted to you ; and what I most
regret is not having it in my power
to treat you as I would wish in
giving you better fare at my table.
Fear of the king's anger alone pre-
vents m-e, and I at least would be
glad to feel that you were satisfied
with the good-will I have shown."

More smiled kindly : for the de-
licate sensibility and exquisite tact
which in an instant discovered to
him how entirely it was wanting in
others never permitted from him
other expressions than those of a

pleasantry as gentle as it was re-
fined.

" In good sooth, my dear lieu-
tenant, I am quite contented with
you ; you are a good friend, and
would most certainly like to treat
me well. If, then, I should ever
happen to show any dissatisfaction
with your table, you must instantly
turn me out of your house." And
he smiled at the idea.

" You jest r Sir Thomas," said
Kingston.

" In truth, my dear friend, I have
nevertheless but little inclination
to jest," replied More.

" Well, all that I regret is not
having it in my power to treat you
as I would wish," continued King-
ston in the same tone. "I should
have been so- happy to have made
you entirely comfortable here !"

"Come," said Sir Thomas, "le":
us speak no more of that ; I am
very weW convinced of it, and I
thank you for the attachment you
have shown me to-day. I only re-
gret that I cannot be permitted to
see the Bishop of Rochester for a
moment."

" Impossible !" cried Kingston.
"If it were discovered, I should
lose my place."

"Then I no longer insist," said
Sir Thomas; "but let me, at least,
write him a few words."

Kingston made no reply and
looked very thoughtful. He hesi-
tated.

" Carry the letter yourself," said
Sir Thomas,. " and, unless you tell
it, no person will know it."

"You think so?" said Kingston,
embarrassed. " But then my Lord
Rochester must burn it immedi-
ately ; for if they should find it in
his hands, they would try to find
out how he received it ; and, Sir
Thomas, I know not how it is done,
but they know everything."

Sir Thomas More.

279

" They will never Le able to find
this out. O Master Kingston !"
said More, " let me write him but
one word."

" Well, well, haste, then ; for it is
time

from you what happiness in my aban-
doned condition ; for they will not per-
mit Margaret to visit me. I am in soli-
tary confinement. They will probably
let me die
these

I should go. If they came publicity of a trial ; and men so quickly

_ 1 J /* 1 C 1 fr\vrm+ 4-V. s^ f 1 1 * J

for S et thos e who disappear from before
their eyes. God, however, will not for-

and asked for me, and found
not, I would be lost."

Sir Thomas, fearing he might re-
tract, hastened immediately to write you written in my hand; and a mother
the following words on a scrap of shall forget her child before I forget the

soul that seeks me in sincerity of heart.'
Farewell, dear friend ; let us pray for each
love and cherish you in our

paper :

" What feelings were mine, dear friend,
on learning that you are imprisoned here
so near me, you may imagine. What a
consolation it would be to clasp you in
my arms ! But that is denied me ; God
so wills it. During the first doleful
night I spent in this prison my eyes
never once closed in sleep. I heard
your footsteps ; I listened, I counted them

other.

Lord Jesus Christ, our precious Saviour

and our only Redeemer.

" THOMAS MORE."

Meanwhile, Rumor, on her airy
wing, in her indefatigable and ra-
pid course, had very soon circulat-

most anxiously. I asked myself who this ed throughout the country reports

unfortunate creature could be who, like of Henry's enormities. The great
myself, groaned in this place ; if it were multitudes of people who prostrated

the cross, car-

long since he had seen the light of hea-
ven, and why he was imprisoned in this
den of stone. Alas ! and it was you.
Now I see you, I follow you everywhere.
What anguish is mine to be so near you.
yet not be able to see or speak to you !
Rap from time to time on the floor in
such a manner that I may know you are
speaking to me ; my heart will under-
stand thine. It seems to me the voice
of the stones will communicate your
words. I shall listen night and day for
your signals, and this will be a great
consolation to me."

" Hasten, Sir Thomas," said King-
ston. " I hear a noise in the yard ;
they are searching for me."

" Yes, yes," replied Sir Thomas.

" My friend, they hurry me. Do you
remember all you said to me at Chel-
sea the night you urged me not to ac-
cept the chancellorship? O my friend !
how often I have thought of it. And
you you also will be a victim, I fear.
They hurry me, and I have so many
things to say to you since the time I saw
you last ! I fear you suffer from cold in
your cell. Ask Kingston for covering;
for my sake he will give it you. Implore
him to bring me your reply. A letter

themselves before
ried it with reverence in their
hands, and elevated it proudly
above their heads, were astonished
and indignant at these recitals of
crime. Princes trembled on their
thrones, and those who surrounded
them lived in constant dread.

Thomas More, the model among
men, the Bishop of Rochester, that
among the angels these men cast
into a gloomy prison, separated
from all that was most dear to
them, scarcely clothed, and fed on
the coarse fare of criminals such
outrages men discussed among
themselves, and reported to the
compassionate and generous hearts
of their mothers and sisters.

Will, then, no voice be raised in
their defence? Will no one en-
deavor to snatch them from the
tortures to which they are about
to be delivered up ? Are the Eng-
lish people dead and their intellects
stultified ? Do relatives, friends,
law, and honor no longer exist

280

Sir Thomas More.

among this people? Have they
become but a race of bloodthirsty
executioners, a crowd of brutal
slaves, who live on the grain the
earth produces, and drink from
the rivers that water it? Such
were the thoughts which occupied
them, circulating from mouth to
mouth among the tumultuous
children of men.

But if this mass of human be-
ings, always so indifferent and so
perfectly selfish, felt thus deeply
moved, what must have been the
anguish of heart experienced by the
faithful and sincere friend, what
terror must have seized him, when,
seated by his own quiet fireside, en-
joying the retreat it afforded him, the
voice of public indignation came to
announce that he was thus stricken
in all his affections! For he also,
a native of a distant country, loved
More. He had met him, and im-
mediately his heart went out toward
him. Who will explain this sub-
lime mystery, this secret of God,
this admirable and singular sympa-
thy, which reveals one soiTl to an-
other, and requires neither words
nor sounds, neither language nor
gestures, in order to make it intelli-
gible ? "I had no sooner seen
Pierre Gilles," said More, " than I
loved him as devotedly as though
I had always known and loved him.
Then I was at Antwerp, sent by
the king to negotiate with the prince
of Spain ; I waited from day to day
the end of the negotiations, and
during the four months I was sepa-
rated from my wife and children,
anxious as I was to return and em-
brace them, I could never be recon-
ciled to the thought of leaving him.
His conversation, fluent and inte-
resting, beguiled most agreeably
my hours of leisure ; hours and
days spent near him seemed to me
like moments, they passed so rap-

idly. In the flower of his age, he
already possessed a vast deal of
erudition ; his soul above all his
soul so beautiful, superior to his
genius inspired me with a devotion
for him as deep as it was inviolable.
Candor, simplicity, gentleness, and
a natural inclination to be accom-
modating, a modesty seldom found,
integrity above temptation all vir-
tues in fact, that combine to form
the worthy citizen were found
united in him, and it would have
been impossible for rne to have
found in all the world a being
more worthy of inspiring friend-
ship, or more capable of feeling and
appreciating all its charms."

In this manner he spoke before
his children, and related to Mar-
garet how painful he found the
separation from his friend. Often
during the long winter nights, when
the wind whistled without and heavy
snow-flakes filled the air, he would
press his hand upon his forehead,
and his thoughts would speed
across the sea. In imagination lie
Avould be transported to Antwerp,
would behold her immense harbor
covered with richly-laden vessels,
her tall roofs and her long streets,
and the beautiful church of Notre
Dame, with the court in front, where
he so often walked with his friend.
Then he entered the mansion of
Pierre Gilles; he traversed the court,
mounted the steps ; he found him
at home in the midst of his family ;
it seemed to him that he heard him
speak, and he prepared to give him-
self up to the charms of his con-
versation.

The cry of a child, the movement
of a chair, came suddenly to blot
out this picture, dispel this sweet
illusion, and recall him to the real-
ity of the distance which separated
them. An expression of pain and
sorrow would pass over his features;

Sir Thomas More.

281

and Margaret, from whom none of
her father's thoughts escaped, would
take his hand and say : " Father, you
are thinking about Pierre Gilles !"

A close correspondence had for
a long time sweetened their mutual
exile ; but since the divorce was
set in motion the king had become
so suspicious that he had all let-
ters intercepted, and one no longer
dared to write or communicate with
any stranger. Thus they found
themselves deprived of this conso-
lation.

Eager to obtain the slightest in-
telligence, questioning indiscrimi-
nately all whom he met merchants,
strangers, travellers Pierre Gilles
endeavored by all possible means
to obtain some intelligence of his
friend Thomas More. Whenever a
sail appeared upon the horizon and
a ship entered the port, this illus-
trious citizen was seen immediately
hastening to the pier, and patiently
remaining there until he had ascer-
tained whether or not the vessel
hailed from England ; or else he
waited, mingling with a 'crowd of
the most degraded class, until the
vessel landed. Alas! for several
months all that he could learn only
increased his apprehensions, and he
vainly endeavored to quiet them.
He had already announced to his
family his intention of making the
voyage to England to see nis friend,
when the fatal intelligence of More's
imprisonment was received.

Then he no longer listened to
anything, but, taking all the gold
his coffers contained, he hastened
to the port and took passage on
the first vessel he found.

"O my friend!" he cried, "if I
shall orly be able to tear you from
their hands. This gold, perhaps,
will open your prison. Let them
give you to me, let my home be-
come yours, and let my* friends be

your friends. Forget your ungrate-
iul country; mine will receive you
with rapturous joy."

Such were his reflections, and
for two days the vessel that bore
him sailed rapidly toward England ;
the wind was favorable, and a light
breeze seemed to make her fly over
the surface of the waves. The sails
were unfurled, and the sailors were
singing, delighted at the prospect
of a happy voyage, while Pierre
Gilles, seated on the deck, his back
leaning against the mast, kept his
eyes fixed on the north, incessantly
deceived by the illusion of the
changing horizon and the fantastic
form of the blue clouds, which seem-
ed to plunge into the sea. He was
continually calling out: "Captain,
here is land !" But the old pilot
smiled as he guided the helm, and
leaning over, like a man accustom-
ed to know what he said, slightly
shrugged one shoulder and replied :
" Not yet, Sir Passenger."

And soon, in fact, Pierre Gilles
would see change their form or dis-
appear those fantastic rocks and
sharp points which represented an
unattainable shore. Then it seem-
ed to him that he would never ar-
rive, the island retreated constant-
ly before him, and his feet would
never be permitted to rest upon
the shores of England.

" Alas !" he would every moment
say to himself, " they are trying
him now, perhaps. If I were
there, I would run, I would beg, 1
would implore his pardon. And
his youthful daughter, whom they
say is so fair, so good into what an
agony she must be plunged! All
this family and those young chil
dren to be deprived of such a
father!"

Pierre was unable to control him-
self for a moment ; he arose, walk-
ed forward on the vessel ; he saw

282

Sir Thomas More.

the foaming track formed by her
rapid passage through the water
wiped out in an instant, effaced by
the winds, and yet it seemed to him
that the vessel thus cutting the
waves remained motionless, and
that he was not advancing a fur-
long. "An hour's delay," he
mentally repeated, " and perhaps it
will be too late. Let them banish
him ; I shall at least be able to
find him!"

Already the night wind was blow-
ing a gale and the sea grew turbu-
lent; a flock of birds flew around
the masts, uttering the most mourn-
ful cries, and seeming, as they
braved the whirlwind which had
arisen, to be terrified.

" Comrades, furl the' sails !" cried
the steersman; "a waterspout
threatens us ! Be quick," he cried,
" or we are lost."

In the twinkling of an eye the
sailors seized the ropes and climb-
ed into the rigging. Vain haste,
useless dexterity; their efforts were
all too late.

A furious gust of wind groaned,
roared, rent the mainmast in twain,
tore away the ropes, bent and
broke the masts ; a horrible crash
was heard throughout the ship.

" Cut away ! Pull ! Haul down !
Hold there ! Hoist away ! Let go !"
cried the captain, who had rushed
up from his cabin. " Bravo ! Cou-
rage, there ! Stand firm !"

" Ay, ay !" cried the sailors.
A loud clamor arose in the midst
of the horrible roaring of the winds.
The sailor on watch had fallen into
the sea.

" Throw out the buoy ! throw
out the buoy!" cried the captain.
" Knaves, do you hear me ?"

Impossible ; the rope fluttered in
the wind like a string, and the
tempest drove it against the sides
of the vessel. They saw the un-

fortunate sailor tossing in the sea,
carried along like a black point on
the waves, which in a moment dis-
appeared.

" All is over ! He is lost !" cried
the sailors. But the howling winds
stifled and drowned their lamenta-
tions.

In the meantime Pierre Gilles
bound himself tightly as he could to
a mast ; for the shaking of the ves-
sel was so great that it seemed to
him an irresistible power was try-
ing to tear him away and cast him
whirling into the yawning depths of
the furious element.

" The mizzen-mast is breaking!"
cried the sailors ; and by a com-
mon impulse they rushed toward
the stern to avoid being dragged
down and crushed by its fall.

The gigantic beam fell with a
fearful crash, catching in the ropes
and rigging.

"Cut away! Let her go!" cried
the captain.

He himself was the first to rush
forward, armed with a hatchet, and
they tried to cut aloose the mast
and let it fall into the Avater.

But they were unable to suc-
ceed ; the mast hung over the side
of the ship, which it struck with
every wave, and threatened to cap-
size her. Every moment the posi-
tion of the crew became more dan-
gerous. The shocks were so vio-
lent that the men were no longer
able to resist them; they clung to
everything they could lay hold of;
they twined their legs and arms in
the hanging ropes. All efforts to
control the vessel had become use-
less, and, seeing no longer any hope
of being saved, the sailors began to
utter cries of despair.

Pierre Gilles had fastened him-
self to the mainmast. k ' If this also
breaks," he thought, u well, I shall
die by the same stroke die without

Sir Thomas More.

283

seeing him !" he cried, still entirely
occupied with More. " He will not
know that I have tried to reach
him, and will, perhaps, believe that
I have deserted him in the day of
adversity. Oh ! how death is em-
bittered by that thought. He will
say that, happy in the bosom of my
family, I have left him alone in his
prison, and he will strive to forget
even the recollection of my friend-
ship. O More, More ! my friend,
this tempest ought to carry to you
my regrets."

Looking around him, Pierre saw
the miserable men tossing their
arms in despair ; for the night was
advancing, their strength nearly
exhausted, while the vessel, borne
along on the crest of the waves,
suddenly pitched with a frightful
plunge, and the water rushed in on.
every side.

The captain had stationed him-
self near Pierre Gilles ; he contem-
plated the destruction of his ship
with a mournful gaze.

" Here is this fine vessel lost all
my fortune, the labor of an entire
life of toil and care. My children
now will be reduced to beggary!
Here is the fruit of thirty years
of work," he cried. " Sir," he said
to Pierre Gilles, " I began life at
twelve years ; I have passed suc-
cessively up from cabin-boy, mari-
ner, boatswain, lieutenant, captain
finally, and now the sea. I shall
have to begin anew !"

"Begin anew, sir?" said Pierre
Gilles. " But is not death awaiting
us very speedily ?"

" That remains to be seen," an-
swered the captain, folding his arms.
" I have been three times shipwreck-
ed, and I am here still, sir. It is
true there is an end to everything ;
but the ocean and myself under-
stand each other. We shall come
out of it, if we gain time. After the

storm, a calm; after the tempest,
fine weather." Here he attentive-
ly scanned the heavens. ' k A feu-
more swells of the sea, and, if we
escape, courage ! All will be well."

" HoM fast, my boys !" he cried ;
" another sea is coming."

He had scarcely uttered the
words when a frightful wave ad-
vanced like a threatening moun-
tain, and, raising the vessel violent-
ly, swept entirely over her ; but the
ship still remained afloat. Other
waves succeeded, and the unfortu-
nate sailors remained tossing about
in that condition until the next
morning. However, as the day
dawned, hope revived in their
hearts; the horizon seemed bright-
ening ; the wind allayed by degrees.
Pierre Gilles and his companions
shook their limbs, stiffened and be-
numbed by the cold and the wa-
ter which had drenched them, and
thought they could at last perceive
the land. They succeeded in re-
lieving the vessel a little by throw-
ing the mast into the sea. Every
one took courage, and soon the
coast appeared in sight. There
was no more doubt : it was the
coast of England. There were the
pointed rocks, the whitened reefs.
They were in their route ; the tem-
pest had not diverted the ship from
its course. On the fourth day they
entered the mouth of the Thames.

The poor vessel, five days before
so elegant, so swift, so light, was
dragged with difficulty into that
large and beautiful river. Badly
crippled, she moved slowly, and
was an entire day in reaching Lon-
don. Pierre Gilles suffered cruel-
ly on account of this delay, and
would have made them put him
ashore, but that was impossible.
Besides, he wished to arrive more
speedily at London, and that would
not hasten his journey. From a

284

Sir Thomas More.

distance he perceived the English
standard floating above the Tower,
and his heart swelled with sorrow.
" Alas ! More is there," he cried.
" How shall I contrive to see him ?
how tear him from that den ?" Ab-
sorbed in these reflections, lie reach-
ed at length the landing-place. He
knew not where to go nor whom
to address in that great city, where
lie had never before been, and
where he was entirely unacquaint-
ed. He looked at the faces of
those who came and went on the
wharf, without feeling inclined to
accost any of them.

Suddenly, however, he caught the
terrible words, " His trial has com-
menced"; and, uncertain whether
it was the effect of his troubled
imagination or a real sound, he
turned around and saw a group of
women carrying fish in wicker bas-
kets, and talking together.

" At Lambeth Palace, I tell you.
He is there ; I have seen him."

"Who?" said Pierre in good
English, advancing in his Flemish
costume, winch excited the curiosity
and attention of all the women.

" Thomas More, the Lord Chan-
cellor," answered the first speaker.

" Thomas More !" cried Pierre
Gilles, with a gesture of despair and
terror which nothing could express.
" Who is trying him ? Speak, good
woman, speak ! Say who is trying
him ? Where are they trying him ?
Conduct me to the place, and all
ray fortune is yours !"

The women looked at each other.
" A foreigner!" they exclaimed.

" Yes," he replied, " a stranger,
but a friend, a friend. Leave your
fish I will pay you for them and
show me where the trial of Sir
Thomas is going on."

The fisherwoirum, having observ-
ed the gold chain he wore around
his neck, his velvet robe, and his

ruff of Ypres lace, judged that he
was some important personage, who
would reward her liberally for her
trouble; she resolved to accompany
him. She walked on before him,
and the other women took up their
baskets, and followed at some dis-
tance in the rear.

Meanwhile, Pierre Gilles and his
conductress, having followed the
quay and walked the length of
the Thames, crossed Westminster
Bridge, and he found himself at last
in front of Lambeth Palace.

A considerable crowd of people,
artisans, workmen, merchants, idlers,
began to scatter and disperse. Some
stopped to talk, others left ; they
saw that something had come to an
end, that the spectacle was closed,
the excited curiosity was satisfied.
The juggler's carpet was gathered
up, the lottery drawn, the quarrel
ended, the prince or the criminal
had pa'ssed ; there was nothing more
to see, and every one was anxious
to 'depart careless crowd, restless
and ignorant, which the barking of
a dog will arrest, and a great mis-
fortune cannot detain !

" Here it is, sir," said the woman,
stopping; "this is Lambeth Palace
just in front of you, but I don't
believe you can get in." And she
pointed to a large enclosure and a
great door, before which was walk-
ing up and down a yeoman armed
with an arquebuse.

Standing close to one of the sec-
tions of the door was seen a beau-
tiful young girl, dressed in black,
and wearing on her head a low
velvet hat worn by the women of
that period. A gold chain formed
of round beads, from which was sus-
pended a little gold medal orna-
mented with a pearl pendant, hung
around her neck, and passed under
her chemisette of plaited muslin
bordered with narrow lace. She

Sir Thomas More.

285

stood with her hands clasped, her Your friend !" replied Margaret

dea , th : Dancing immediately toward".,!

J lien a feeling of suspicion arrested

and her arms stretched at full
length before her, expressive of the
deepest sorrow. Near her

was

her. .She stepped back and fixed
her eyes on the stranger, whose

seated a handsome young man, who Flemish costume attracted her at-

And

from time to time addressed her.
Pierre Gilles approached these

two persons.

" Margaret," said Roper, " come."
"No," said the young girl, "I

will not go; I shall remain here un-

tention. "And who," she said,
"can you be? Oh! no; lie is not
here. Sir Thomas More has no
friends. You are mistaken, sir,"
she continued ; "it is some one else
you seek. My father no, my father
il night. 1 will see him as he goes has no longer any friends ; has

out ; I will see him once more ; I
will see that ignoble woollen cover-
ing they have given him for a cloak ;
1 will see his pale and weary face.
He will say : ' Margaret is standing
there !' He will see me."

" That will only give him pain,"
replied Roper.

" Perhaps," said the young girl.
" Indeed, it is very probable !" And
a bitter smile played around her
lips.

"If you love him," replied Ro-
per, " you should spare him this
grief."

" I love him, Roper ; you have
said well ! I love him ! What would
you wish? This is my father!"

Pierre Gilles, who had advanced,
seeking some means of entering,
paused to look at the young girl,
and was struck by the resemblance
he found between her features and
those of her father, his friend, who
was still young when he knew him
at Antwerp.

"Can this be Margaret?" mur-
mured the stranger.

"Who has pronounced my name?"
asked the young girl, turning haugh-
tily around.

Pierre Gilles stood in perfect
amazement. " How much she re-

any

one when he is in irons, when the
scaffold is erected, the axe shar-
pened, and the executioner getting
ready to do his work ?"

"What do you say?" cried the
stranger, turning pale. " Is he, then,
already condemned ?"

" He is going to be!"

" No, no, he shall not be ! Pierre
Gilles will demand, will beseech ;
they will give him to him ; he will
pay for him with his gold, with his
life-blood, if necessary."

" Pierre Gilles !" cried Margaret;
and she threw herself on the neck
of the stranger, and clasped him in
her arms.

"Pierre Gilles! Pierre Gilles! it
is you who love my father. Ah !
listen to me. He is up there; this
is the second time they have made
him appear before them. Alas !
doubtless to-day will be the last ;
for they are tired tired of false-
hoods, artifices, and base, vile ma-
noeuvres; they are tired of offering
him gold and silver he who wants
only heaven and God; they are
weary of urging, of tormenting this
saintly bishop and this upright
man, in order to extort from them
an oath which no Christian can or
ought to take. Then it will be ne-

sembles him! Pardon me, dam- cessary for these iniquitous and pur-

sel," he said; " I have been trying
to get into this place to see my
friend, Sir Thomas More."

chased judges to wash out their
shame in blood. They must crush
these witnesses to the truth, these

286

New Publications,

defenders of the faith ! My father,
child of the martyrs, will walk in
their footsteps, and die as they
died ; Rochester, successor of the
apostles, will give his life like them;
but Margaret, poor Margaret, she

will be left ! And it is I, yes, it is
I, who am his daughter, and who
is named Margaret!" As she said
these words, she clasped her hands
with an expression of anguish that
nothing can describe.

TO BE CONTINUED.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SERMONS ON THE SACRAMENTS. By Tho-
mas Watson, Master of St. John's Col-
lege, Cambridge, Dean of Durham,
and the last Catholic Bishop of Lin-
coln. First printed in 1558, and now
reprinted in modern spelling. With
a Preface and Biographical Notice of
the Author by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett,
of the Congregation of the Most Holy
Redeemer. London : Burns & Gates.
1876. (For sale by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society.)

After Father Bridgett's beautiful work,
Our Ladys Dowry, we may be sure
that whatever he puts forth, whether ori-
ginal or edited, will repay perusal. He
has a penchant for forgotten treasures of
England's Catholic past, and spares him-
self no pains to give us the benefit of
his researches. Not content with edit-
ing the present volume, he has gone to
the trouble of a biographical notice, and
quite a long one, of his author. We can-
not do better than let him speak for him-
self in the opening lines of his preface :
" Here is a volume of sermons, print-
ed more than three centuries ago in
black letter type and uncouth spelling,
and the existence of which is only
known to a few antiquarians. Why,' it
will be asked, have I reprinted it in
modern guise and sought to rescue it
from oblivion ? I have done so for its
own sake and for the sake of its author.
It is a book that deserves not to perish,
and which would not have been forgot-
ten, as it is, but for the misfortune of
the time at which it appeared. It was
printed in the last year of Queen Mary,
:md the change of religion under Eliza-
beth made it almost impossible to be
procured, and perilous to be preserved.
The number of English Catholic books
is not so great that we can afford to lose
one so excellent as this.

" But even had it less intrinsic value,
it is the memorial of a great man, little
known, indeed, because, through the ini-
quity of the times, he lacked a biogra-
pher. I am confident that any one who
will read the following memoir, i^per-
feet as it is, will acknowledge that I have
not been indulging an antiquarian fancy,
but merely paying, as far as I could, a debt
of justice long due, in trying to revive
the memory of the last Catholic bishop
of Lincoln."

Father Bridgett further explains that
these sermons belong to the class which
"are written that they may be preached by
others." Their author undertook to write
them as a " Manual of Catholic Doctrine
on the Sacraments," and in compliance
with the order of a council under Car-
dinal Pole in December, 1555.

" Being intended for general preach-
ing or rather, public reading these ser-
mons are, of course, impassioned and
colorless. We cannot judge from them
of Bishop Watson's own style of preach-
ing. We cannot gather from them, as
from the sermons of Latimerand Leaver,
pictures of the manners and passions of
the times. They scarcely ever reflect
Watson's personal character, except by
the very absence of invective and the
simple dignity which distinguishes them.
As specimens of old English before the
great Elizabethan era, they will be inter-
esting to students of our language, es-
pecially as being the work of one of the
best classical scholars of the day" (Pre-
face, p. xii.).

Father Bridgett characterizes the^e
sermons as "eminently patristic." "I
have counted," he says, " more than four
hundred marginal references to the fa-
thers and ecclesiastical writers ; and I may
say that they are in great measure woven
out of the Scriptures and the fathers."

TV Publications.

287

Then, after remarking that, "with re-
gard to their doctrine, it must be re-
membered that they were published be-
fore the conclusion of the Council of
Trent," he tells us : "I have added a
few short theological notes only ; for the
doctrine throughout these sermons is
both clearly stated and perfectly Catho-
lic. As they certainly embody the tradi-
tional teaching of the English Church
before the Council of Trent, they are an
additional proof that Catholics of the
present day are faithful to the inheri-
tance of their forefathers."

From what we have had time to read
of these pages, we have been struck with
at once the fulness and simplicity of the
instructions they contain. The style, too,
in our eyes, has both unction and charm.
We thank Father Bridget! that he has
" exactly reproduced the original, with
the exception of the spelling." " No
educated reader," he says, " will find
much difficulty in the old idiom. The
sentences, indeed, are rather long, like
those of a legal document ; yet they are
simple in construction, and, when read
aloud, they can be broken up by a skil-
ful reader without the addition of a word."
We will only add that, perhaps, not the
least attractive feature of these sermons
(to the modern reader) is their brevity.

THE CONSTITUTIONAL AND POLITICAL
HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. By
Dr. H. von Hoist, Professor at the
University of Freiburg. Translated
from the German by John J. Lalor and
Alfred B. Mason. 1750-1833. State
Sovereignty and Slavery. Chicago :
Callaghan & Co. 1876.
The efforts of Europeans to study and
write upon the American Constitution
and the political life of our people, though
partial and somewhat prejudiced, have
always been interesting and instructive.
De Tocqueville, in his Democracy in Ame-
rica, studied rather to teach us than to
learn from oar theory of government and
its practice, and this from his transient
observations as a tourist. Professor von
Hoist resided in this country from 1867
to 1872, and thus may be supposed to
have studied more profoundly our sys-
tem, and to have seen more thoroughly
our practice. No one, however, could
rightly judge of our political history or
the system of our government who had
not seen and known us both before and
after our civil war. De Tocqueviilc saw

us before, and Von Hoist after, that great
crisis in our history. Hence we think
that both authors should be read, in
order to appreciate the efforts of learned
and distinguished foreigners to comment
upon a theme so difficult to any Euro-
pean. This is especially desirable now,
as in this case the Frenchman and the
German are not admirers of each other's
respective political systems. The present
volume, however, is able, spirited, and
well written, and shows a remarkable
acquaintance with our history and insti-
tutions, and with the lives and charac-
ters of our public men. The author is
not in love with our government, and
yet is not without sympathy for it and
for our people. He is, no doubt, more
in sympathy with our present than with
our past. From his vigorously-written
pages Americans may learn something
of their virtues and of their faults. The
animus and style of the work might be
inferred from the title of the second chap-
ter: "The Worship of the Constitution,
and its real Character." We have cftcn
been accused of making the Constitution
our political bible, and Washington our
political patron saint. Such seems to Le
the impression of Professor von Hoist.
But it must be said that his able and in-
teresting work is well calculated to pro-
mote the study of the American republi-
can form of government ; for we are cer-
tainly a terra incognita to most Euro-
peans. Having ably studied his sub-
ject, he has ably and learnedly commu-
nicated his researches to his countrymen
and to the world. His work will appear
in a series of volumes, of which we have
now only the first, and the English trans-
lation will hereafter appear in this coun-
try simultaneously with the original Ger-
man publications. The work seems to
deal exclusively with political questions,
and handles them ably. We commend
its perusal to our readers.

ALICE LEIGHTON. A Tale of the Seven-
teenth Century. London : Burns ,>:
Gates. 1876. New York : The Ca-
tholic Publication Society.
This story of the wars between Ro
head and Cavalier will prove an agree
able disappointment to the reader who
contrives to wade through its first few
pages, which are rather silly. We trem-
ble for the fate of a story which in the
very first page tells us of its youthful
hero : " His brow was, however, clouded,

288

New Publications.

cither with emotion or with sorrow, pjr-
chance u>it/i both ; and a careful observer
might have marked a tear in his soft
dark eyes as he turned his gaze upon the
fair view before him." In the second
page the hero tells us, or rather nobody
in particular, that eighteen summers have
at last passed over him, whereupon he
proceeds to deliver a page of an address
to his " own dear home," in the course
of which he remarks that " the accents of
a dethroned monarch are calling for assis-
tance," but " the long-listened-to max-
ims " of his childhood hold him back
from joining the king. In the third page
he encounters a mild sort of witch, who
is gifted with that very uncertain second
sight that has been the peculiar property
of witches from time immemorial, and
who prophesies to him, in Scotch dia-
lect, in the usual fashion of such pro-
phets.

Nothing could be more inauspicious
than such a beginning ; and yet as one
reads on all this clap-trap disappears,
and a very interesting story, though by
no means of the highest order, unfolds
itself. There is abundance of incident,
battle, hair-breadth escape, varying for-
tunes, misery, ending with the final hap-
piness of those in whom we are chiefly in-
terested. Some of the characters are very
well drawn, and the author shows a com-
petent knowledge of the scenes, events,
and period in which the story is laid. It af-
fords a healthy and agreeable contrast to
the psychological puzzles generally given
us nowadays as novels. It looks to us
as though the writer were a new hand.
If so, Alice Leighton affords every promise
of very much better work in a too weak
department of letters Catholic fiction.
If the writer will only banish for ever
that antiquated deus or dca ex machind,
the witch, especially if she speak with a
Scotch accent, give much more care than
is shown in the present volume to Eng-
lish, not force, fun for fun's sake, we shall
hope soon to welcome a new volume
from a lively, pleasant, and powerful pen.

," MY OWN CHILD." A Novel. By Flo-
rence Marryat. New York : D. Ap-
pleton & Co. 1876.

Florence Marryat has become, and de-
servedly, quite a popular novelist. She
has, we understand, become something
in our opinion very much better a Ca-

tholic. We see no reason why her faith
should interfere with the interest or
power of her stories. On the contrary,
it should steady her hand, widen her
vision, chasten her thought, give a new
meaning to very old scenes and types
of character ; and we have no doubt at
all that such will be the case. J\Iy Own
Child is neither her best story nor her
worst. It is a very sweet and pathetic
one, simple in construction and plot, yet
full of sad interest throughout, lighten-
ed here and there by bits of lively de-
scription or pictures of quaint character.
It is easy to recognize a practised hand
in it. The chief characters of the story
are Catholics. We have only one fault
to find, but that a very serious one. It
is too bad to make a young lady, and
so charming a young lady as May Power
is represented to be, talk slang. Where
in the world did she learn it, this bright,
beaming, Irish, Catholic girl ? Certainly
not from her mother, for she never in-
dulges in it, and surely not from the
good Sisters in Brussels by whom she
was educated. Yet she bounds out of
the convent perfect in slang ! For in-
stance: "' I'll get some nice, jolly fellow
to look after it [her property] for us,
mother.' ' You'll never get another
Hugh !' I exclaimed indignantly. ' Well,
then, we'll take the next best fellow we
can find,' replied my darling." The
first "best fellow," the Hugh alluded to,
happened to be the " darling's " dead
father. The same darling, only just out
of convent, is anxious to make her first
appearance "with a splash and a dash."
It is only natural that she should discov-
er her mother looking " rather peaky "
when that lady is threatened with an ill-
ness that endangers her life.

This is to be regretted. Young ladies
are much more acceptable as young ladies
than when indulging in language sup-
posed to be relegated to " fast " young
women. Slang is bad enough in men's
mouths, whether in or out of books; but,
spoken by a woman, it at once places her
without the pale of all that is sweet and
pure and calculated to inspire that admi-
ration and reverence in men which are
the crown and pride of a Christian wo-
man's life. Miss Marryat is clever enough
to dispense with such poor material.
Meanwhile, what becomes of this slangy
young lady the reader will discover for
himself.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV., No. 141. DECEMBER, 1876.

THE UNITARIAN CONFERENCE AT SARATOGA.*

THE Unitarians in September
last held at Saratoga their biennial
conference, and we have looked
over the issues of the Liberal
Christian, a weekly publication of
this city, for a full report of its pro-
ceedings, and looked to no pur-
pose. It has, however, printed in
its columns some of the speeches
delivered in the conference, and
i;iven /;/ extenso the opening ser-
mon of the Rev. Edward E. Hale.
Hefore the conference took place
the Liberal Christian spoke of Rev.
Edward E. Hale "as one of the
few thoroughly-furnished and wide-
ly-experienced men in their ranks."
This notice prepared us to give spe-
cial attention to the opening ser-
mon, and to expect from it a
statement of Unitarian principles
or beliefs which would at least
command the assent of a consider-
able portion of the Unitarian de-
nomination. More than this it
would have been unreasonable to
anticipate; for so radical and ex-

' " A Free-born Church." The sermon preached
before the National Conference of Unitarian and
other Christian Churches at Saratoga, Tuesday
evening, Sept. 12. The Liberal Christian^
New York, Sept. 16, 1876.

treme are their divergencies of
belief that it may be said Unita-
rians agree on no one common ob-
jective truth ; certainly not, if Mr.
Frothingham and the section which
the latter gentleman represents are
to be ranked within the pale of Uni-
tarianism.

The Rev. Edward E. Hale has
not altogether disappointed our
anticipations, for he has given ex-
pression to some of the ideas most
prevalent among Unitarians; but
before entering upon the considera-
tion of these there are certain pre-
liminary statements which he makes
deserving some attention.

In the closing sentence of the
first paragraph of his sermon Mr.
Hale gives us a noticeable piece of
information. He says :

" We were taught long since by Ma-
caul ay, in fervent rhetoric, that the re-
public of Venice is new in comparison
with the papacy, and that the Roman
Church was in its vigor when Augustine
landed in Kent in the sixth century. So
it was. But earlier than all this, before
there was a bishop in Rome, there were
independent Christian churches, liberal
in their habit and Unitarian in their
creed, in Greece, in Asia, and in Cyprus,

2 9

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

Nay, before those churches existed there
had gathered a group of peasants around
the Saviour of men, and he had said to
them : ' Fear not, little flock ; it is your
Father's good pleasure to give you the
kingdom.' The Congregational Church
order, with the Unitarian theology, is the
eldest Christian system known to history."

What authentic history goes back
of the account given in the New
Testament of the founding of the
Catholic Church and her hierarchy
by Christ the Rev. Mr. Hale does
not deign to inform us. When he
does, it will be time enough to pay
attention to the assertion, " The
Congregational Church order is the
oldest Christian system known to
history." The church is in pos-
session ; the plaintiffs must make
out their case. Until then, "quod
gratis asseritur gratis negatur" ; for
;ui assertion without proof counts
for nothing.

But he does attempt to prove his
assertion about " Unitarian theolo-
gy " by what follows :

"I make no peculiar partisan claim
or boast in this statement. As to the
statement of theology, I do but condense
in a few words the statement made by
the Roman Catholic writer in highest
esteem among Englishmen to-day. He
.-says what I say, that he may argue from
at that you require the development of
doctrine which only the perpetual inspi-
ration of a line of pontiffs gives you,
unless you choose to hold by the simple
Unitarian creeds of the fathers before
Constanitine."

From which of the many volumes
of the writings of Dr. Newman Mr.
Hale has ventured to condense his
language we are not told ; but we
are led to suppose that it was writ-
ten by Dr. Newman since he be-
came a Catholic, for he speaks of
him as "the Roman Catholic writer
in the highest esteem among Eng-
lishmen to-day/* As a Catholic,
Dr. Newman never used language

which could be condensed by a
"thoroughly-informed "man to what
Rev. Mr. Hale has made him say ;
and we have our doubts whether
before he was a Catholic he used
it. It would not be amiss if Mr.
Hale had something of Dr. New-
man's clearness of thought and ac-
curacy of expression. If he had,
of this we are sure : he would never
venture to utter in a public speech or
put in print that any Catholic writer
who has any claim of being a theo-
logian believed or maintained "the
perpetual inspiration of a line of
pontiffs."

In the next paragraph Rev. Mr.
Hale literally quotes a passage from
Dr. Newman's writings to sustain
his thesis, but he fails. Here is the
quotation :

"The creeds of that early day," says
Dr. Newman, " make no mention in their
letter of the Catholic doctrine of the
Trinity at all. They make mention, in-
deed, of a three, but that there is any
mystery in the doctrine, that the three
are one, that they are co-equal, co-eternal,
all increate, all omnipotent, all incom-
prehensible, is not stated, and never
could be gathered from them."

He fails, because he proceeds on
the supposition that the Catholic
Church teaches that her creeds
contain the whole body of truth of
the Christian faith. The Catholic
Church at no time or nowhere
taught this. Her creeds never did
contain explicitly the whole body
of the Christian faith, they do not
even now; for such was not her
intention or purpose. Had it not
been for the errors of Arius and his
followers, the Christian doctrine
of the Trinity might not have been
contained in the creeds of thechurch
explicitly, even down to our own
day. The supposition, however,
that the mystery of the Trinity was
not believed in the church "before

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

Coils tan tine " is as absurd as to
suppose that the necessity of good
works for salvation, or there being
a purgatory, was not believed and
maintained in the Catholic Church
before the lime of Charles V., or
that Papal Infallibility was not
believed and held in the church
before the time of William of Prus-
sia, the German kaiser ! The dis-
cussions and definitions of the
councils render Christian truths
more explicit and intelligible than
they were before; this is a matter
of course, but who is so ignorant
as to suppose that the councils ori-
ginated these truths ?

That the creeds "before Con-
stantine " implied the Trinity and
intended it Dr. Newman would have
taught the Rev. Edward E. Hale,
if he had ingenuously quoted the
two sentences which follow his ex-
tract. Dr. Newman continues thus :
" Of course we believe that they
[the early creeds] imply it [the
Trinity], God forbid we should
do otherwise!"* Rev. Edward E.
Hale ought to know that the Catho-
lic Church repudiates with instinc-
tive horror the idea of adding to,
or taking away from, or altering in
the least, the body of the Christian
truth delivered once and for all to
her keeping by her divine Founder
when upon earth. The mistakes
he makes on these points arise from
his viewing the church solely as
an assembly, overlooking that she
is also a corporated body, informed
by the indwelling Holy Spirit, and
the constitution given to her by
Christ includes the commission to
" teach all things whatsoever he
commanded."

Following what has gone before,
the Rev. Mr. Hale makes another
surprising statement. He says :

* An Essay on the Development of Christian
Doctrine, p. 14. Appleton, N. Y.

2 9 I

"It was not to be expected nor, in
fact, did anybody expect-that a religion
so simple and so radical should sweep
the world without contaminating its own
simplicity and blunting the edge of its
own radicalism in the first and second
contact, nay, in the contact of centuries
Least of all did Jesus Christ himself ex-
pect this. Nobody so definite as he in
the statement of the obscurities and
defilements which would surround his
simple doctrine of 'Love God and love
men.' "

In all deference to Mr. Hale,
this is precisely what everybody
did expect from the church of
Christ to teach the truth with
purity and unswerving fidelity,
" without contamination in the con-
tact," for all "centuries." For this
is what the promises of Christ led
them precisely to expect when he
founded his church. He promised
that " the gates of hell shall not pre-
vail against //."* He promised
also that he would be with his
church through all ages: "Be-
hold, I am with you all days, even

to the consummation of the world. " f
Does Mr. Hale read the Holy
Scriptures and believe what he
reads ? Listen, again, to St. Paul's
description of the church. After
saying that "Christ is the head of
the church," and " the church is
subject to Christ," he adds : " Christ
also loved the church, and deliver-
ed himself up for it, that he might
sanctify it, cleansing it by the laver
of water in the word of life; that
he might present it to himself a
glorious church, not having spot
or wrinkle, nor any such thing." J
Now, although the Rev. E. E. Hale
has thrown overboard the belief in
the divinity of Christ and the su-
pernatural inspiration of the Holy
Scriptures, nevertheless the words
of Christ and his apostle, measured

* Matt. xvi. 18. t Matt, xxviii. 18.

% Eph. v. 25, 26, 37.

2 9 2

T/te Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

only by the standard of personal
holiness and learning, ought to be
esteemed, when speaking of God's
church, of equal authority, at least,
to his statement, even though he
ranks "as one of the few thoroughly-
furnished and widely-experienced
men " among Unitarians.

But how did the church of Christ
become " contaminated " ? This is
an important point, and here is the
Rev. E. E. Kale's reply to it :

" And, in truth, so soon as the church
met with the world, it borrowed while it
lent, it took while it gave. So, in the
face of learned Egypt, it Egyptianized
its simple Trinity ; in the face of powerful
Rome it heathenized its nascent ritual ;
in the face of wordy Greece it Hellenized
its dogmatics and theology ; and by way
of holding well with Israel it took up a
rabbin's reverence even for the jots and
tittles of its Bible. What history calls
* Christianity,' therefore, is a man-adorn-
ed system, of which the methods can be
traced to convenience, or even to heathen
wisdom, if we except that one majestic
method by which every true disciple is
himself ordained a king and a priest,
and receives the charge that in his daily
life he shall proclaim glad tidings to
every creature."

The common error of the class
of men to whom the Rev. E. E.
Hale belongs, who see the church,
if at all, only on the outside, is to
" put the cart before the horse."
It is not the Egyptians, the Greeks,
the Romans, who teach the church
of Christ, but the church of Christ
which teaches the truth to the
Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Ro-
mans. Christ came to teach all
nations, not to be taught by them.
Hence, in communicating his mis-
sion to his church, he said : " All
po\ver is given to me in heaven
and in earth. Going, therefore,
teach ye all nations."* The church,
in fulfilling this divine commission

St. Matt, xxviii. 18, 19.

of teaching all nations, utilizes their
gifts in bringing out the great truths
committed to her care by her di-
vine Founder. It is in this co
operation with the work of the
church that the different nations
and races of men find the inspira-
tion of their genius, the noblest
employment of their highest facul-
ties, and the realization of their
providential mission upon earth.
For the scattered rays of religious
truth which were held by the differ-
ent nations and races of men un-
der paganism were derived from
primitive revelation, and it is only
when these are brought within the
focus of the light of universal truth
that their complete significance is
appreciated, and they are seen in
all their original splendor. The
Catholic Church, in this aspect, is
the reintegration of natural reli-
gion with the truths contained in
primitive revelation and their per-
fect fulfilment. Moreover, there
is no truth contained in any of
the ancient religions before the
coming of Christ, or affirmed by
any of the heresies since that event,
or that may be hereafter affirmed,
which is not contained, in all its
integrity, in Catholicity. This is
only saying, in other words, The
Catholic Church is catholic.

But these men do not see the
church, and they appear to regard
Christianity as still an unorganized
mass, and they are possessed with
the idea that the task is imposed
upon them to organize the Chris-
tian Church; and this work occu-
pied and perplexed them not a
little in their Unitarian biennial
conference held in the town of
Saratoga, in the United States of
North America, in the month of
September, in the year of our
Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-
six !

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

293

' Poor wanderers ! ye are sore distrest
To find the path which Christ has blest,

Tracked by his saintly throng ;
Each claims to trust his own weak will
Blind idol ! so ye languish still,
All wranglers, and all wrong." *

Were the veil taken from their
spiritual eyes, and did they behold
the church as she is, they would

and the Romans, so also the mo-
dern Franks and Celts, have served
by their characteristic gifts to the
development and progress of Chris-
tian truth. In like manner the
Saxons, with their peculiar genius
and instincts, will serve, to their
own greater glory, in due season,

easily comprehend that her unbro- in the same great cause> perhapS|

ken existence for nineteen centuries by giving a greater development
alone, saying nothing of what glory and a more sc i ent ific expression to

the mystic life of the church, and
by completing, viewed from intrin-

is in store for her in the future, is a
more evident and conclusive proof
to us of the divinity of her Found-

sic grounds, the demonstration of

er than the miracle of his raising the truth of her divine m i ssion>

Lazarus from the dead was to those
who were actual witnesses to it.
For, in raising Lazarus from the
dead, he had but to deal with pas-
sive matter, and that for only an
instant ; whereas in founding his

Leavingaside other misstatements
and errors contained in the first
part of this sermon from want of
space, we pass on to what may be
termed its pith. Mr. Hale starts
with the hazardous question,

church he had to exert his power "What is the Unitarian Church
and counteract all the attacks of f or ?" As far as we can make out
the gates of hell, combined with the f rom repeated reading of the main
persecutions of the world and the portion of the sermon for there
perversities of men, during succes- re igns a great confusion and inco-
herence in his ideas the Unitarian
Church has for its mission to certify

sive centuries until the end of all
time. None but the living God
could be the author of so potent

anew and proclaim the truth that

comprehensive, and indestructible " God is in man." " God in man,"

a body as the Catholic Church, he says, " is in itself the basis of the

Of all the unanswerable testimo- whole Gospel." Undoubtedly "God

nies of the divinity of Christ, there j s in man," and God is in the brute,

is none so forcible as that of the and God is in every grain of sand,

perpetual existence of the one, holy, and God is in all things. God is

Roman Catholic Church. She is in all things by his immensity that

the standing miracle of Christ.
The reverse sense of the state-

is, by his essence, and power, and
presence. But this is a truth

ment of the Rev. Edward E. Hale known by the light of human rea-
on this point contains the truth, son, and taught by all sound phi-
The Catholic Church welcomes all losophers, heathen and Christian.

There was no need of the Gospel,
nor of that "fearlessness" which.
he tells us, "was in the Puri-
tem, not by way of reunion or com- tan blood," nor of the Unitarian

nations and races to her fold, and
reintegrates the scattered truths
contained in every religious sys-

position, but by simplicity and unity
in a divine synthesis; and as the
ancient Egyptians, and the Greeks,

* Dr. Newman.

Church, to teach this evident and
common truth to mankind.

The Gospel message means more
than that, and the Rev. Mr. Hale
has some idea that it does mean

2 9 4

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

more. He adds: "Every man is
God's child, and God's Spirit is in
every life." Again: " Men are the
children of God really and not
figuratively "; " The life of God is
their life by real inheritance." After
having made these statements, he
attempts to give the basis and
genesis of this relation of God as
father to man as child, as follows :

" That the force which moves all nature
is one force, and not many, appears to all
men, as they study it, more and more.
That this force is conscious of its own
existence, that it is conscious of its own
work, that it is therefore what men call
spirit, that this spirit has inspired and
still inspires us, that we are therefore not
creatures of dumb power, but children
of a Father's love this is the certainty
which unfolds itself or reveals itself, or
is unfolded or is revealed, as higher and
higher marl ascends in his knowledge of
what IS."

That man, by the light of his rea-
son, can, by the study of nature, at-
tain to this idea of God and his
principal attributes, as Spirit, as
Creator, upholder of the universe,
and as Providence, is no doubt true ;
but that, by the study of " the force
which moves all nature," our own
consciousness included, we can
learn that we are the "children of
a Father's love," does not follow,
and is quite another thing. It is
precisely here that Unitarianism as
a consistent, intelligible religious
system crumbles into pieces. Nor
can Unitarians afford to follow the
Rev. Edward E. Hale in his attempt
to escape this difficulty by conceal-
ing his head, ostrich-like, under the
sand of a spurious mysticism, and
virtually repudiating the rational
element in religion by saying : " The
mystic knows that God is here now.
He has no chain of posts between
child and Father. He relies on no
long, logical system of communica-
tion," etc. The genuine mystic, in-

deed, " knows God is here," but he
knows also that God is not the
author of confusion, and to ap-
proach God he does not require of
man to put out the light of his rea-
son. He will tell us that the rela-
tion of God to all things as created
being, and the relation of God to man
as rational being, and the relation
of God to man as father to child,
are not one and the same thing, and
ought not, therefore, to be confound-
ed. The true mystic will further
inform us that the first relation, by-
way of immanence, is cornmon to all
created things, man included ; the
second, by way of rationality, is com-
mon to the human race ; the third,
by way of filiation, is common to
those who are united to God
through the grace of Christ. The
first and second are communicated
to man by the creative act of God,
and are therefore ours by right of
natural inheritance through Adam.
The third relation is communicat-
ed to us by way of adoption through
the grace of the new Adam, Christ,
who is " the only-begotten Son of
God." This relation is not, there-
fore, ours by inheritance. We " have
received from Christ," says St. Paul
to the Romans, " the spirit of adop-
tion, whereby we cry : Abba, Fa-
ther."* " By whom also we have
access through faith into this grace,
wherein we stand, and glory in the
hope of the glory of the sons of
God."f It is proper to remark
here that it is an error very
common among radicals, ration-
alists, and a certain class of Unita-
rians to suppose that the relation
of the soul to God by way of
filiation, due to Christ, is intended
as a substitute for our natural re-
lations to God by way of imma-
nence and rationality ; whereas

*Rora. viii. 15.

t Ibid. v. 2.

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

295

Christianity presupposes these, re-
affirms, continues, completes, and
perfects them, by this very gift of
filiation with God. For it is a max-
im common to all Catholic theolo-
gians that gratia supponit et per-
ficit naturam.

Our intelligent mystic would not
stop here. Proceeding further, he
would say that to be really and
truly children of God by inheri-
tance implies our being born with
the same identical nature as God.
For the nature of a child is not a
resemblance to, or an image of, that
of his father, but consists in his
possessing the same identical es-
sence and nature as his father. If
the son is equal to his father by
nature, then he is also equal to his
father in his capacities as such.
Now, if every man, by nature, has
the right to call God father, as the
Rev. Mr. Hare and his co-religion-
ists pretend, then all men by nature
are equal to God, both in essence
and attributes ! Is this what Uni-
tarians mean by " the divinity of
human nature"? The Rev. E. E.
Hale appears to say so when he
tells us : " What we are struggling
for, and what, if words did not fail
us, we would fain express, is what
Dr. James Walker called ' the iden-
tity of essence of all spiritual being
and all spiritual life.' " All, then,
that the believers in the divinity
of Christ claim exclusively for him
is claimed by Unitarians equally
for every individual of the human
race. But the belief in the divin-
ity of Christ is " the latest and
least objectionable form of idola-
try" so the Rev. H. W. Bellows
informs us in his volume entitled
Phases of Faith. The Unitarian
cure, then, for the evil of idola-
try is by substituting an indefinite
multitude of idols for one single
object of idolatrous worship.

There is one ciass of Unitarians,
to whom the author of this sermon
seems to belong, who accept boldly
the consequences of their premise,
and maintain without disguise thai
all men are by nature the equals of
Christ, and that there is no reason
why they should not, by greatei
fidelity, surpass Christ. Up to this
period of time, however, they have
not afforded to the world any very
noiable specimen of the truth of
their assertion. Another ciass at-
tempt to get over the difficulty by
a critical exegesis of the HoJy
Scriptures, denying the authenti-
city or the meaning of those parts
which relate to the miraculous con-
ception of Christ, his miracles, and
his divinity. A representative of
the extreme wing on the right of
Unitarianism replied, when this
point was presented to him: "Oh !
we Unitarians reject the idea of
the Trinity as represented by Cal-
vinists and other Protestants, for
they make it a tritheism ; but we
accept the doctrine as holy mo-
ther Church teaches it"; while a
leader of the extreme left admitted
the difficulty, and in speaking of
Dr. Channing, who championed the
idea of the filiation of man to
God, he said : " No intelligent
Unitarian of to-day would attempt
to defend the Unitarianism of Dr.
Channing." He was right; for no
Unitarian, on the basis of his be-
lief, can say consistently the Lord's
Prayer; for the Catholic doctrine
of the Incarnation is a rigorous
necessity to any one who admits
the infinite and the finite, and the
necessity of a union of love be-
tween them which authorizes the
finite to call the Infinite Father!
One may bestow sympathy upon
the pious feelings of that class of
Unitarians of which Dr. Channing
is the representative, but the less

296

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

said about their theological science
the better.

Our genuine mystic would not
stop here. He would continue and
show that the denial of the Incar-
nation involves the denial of the
Trinity, and the denial of the
Trinity reduces the idea of God to
a mere abstraction. For all con-
ception of real life is complex. In-
tellectual life in its simplest ele-
ments, in its last analysis, will be
found to consist of three factors :
Man as the thinker, one factor ; the
thing thought, the second factor;
and their relation, the third factor
or the lover, the beloved, and
their relation ; again, the actor,
the thing acted upon, and their re-
lation. Man cannot think, love,
or act where there is nothing to
think, to love, or to act upon. Place
man in an absolute vacuum, where
there is nothing except himself, and
you have man in posse, but not
man as being, as existing, as a liv-
ing man. You have a unit, an ab-
straction, nothing more. But pure
abstractions have no real existence.
Our conception of life in accor-
dance with the law which governs
our intelligence is comprised in
three terms subject, object, and
their relation. * There is no pos-
sible way of bringing out of a mere
unit, as our absolute starting point
of thought, an intellectual concep-
tion of life. But the Unitarian idea
of God is God reduced to a sim-
ple, absolute unit. Hence the Uni-
tarian idea of God is not the con-
ception of the real, living Go'd,

* u Liquido tenendum est, quod omniares, quam-
cumque cognoscimus, congenerat in nobis notitiam
sui. Ab utroque enim notitia paritur, a cognoscente
etcognito." St. Augustine, De Trinitate^ s. ix. c.
xii. Wherefore it must be clearly held that every-
thing whatsoever that we know begets at the same
time in us the knowledge of itself ; for knov/ledge is
brought forth from both, from theknower and from
the thing known. Again, " Behold, then, there are
three things : he that loves, and that which i:, lov
ed, and love." s. viii. c- x., ibid.

but an abstraction, a non-existing
God.

Our genuine mystic would pro-
ceed still further ; for infused light
and love from above do not sus-
pend or stultify the natural action
of our faculties, but quicken, ele-
vate, and transform their operations.
He would apply, by way of analogy,
the same process of thought in con-
firmation of the Catholic doctrine
of the Trinity. If there had been
a time, he would say, when there
was no object before God, then
there would have been a period
when God was not the real, living
God, but only God in posse, non-
existing. But this is repugnant to
the real conception of God ; there-
fore the true idea of God involves
a co-eternal object. If, however,
this co-eternal object was not equal
to God in substance as well as in
attributes, then there would have
been a period when God did not
exist in all his fulness. Now, this
object, co-eternal and equal to God
the Father, is what the Catholic
doctrine teaches concerning Christ,
the only-begotten Son of the Fa-
ther, "begotten before all ages,
consubstantial with the Father."
But the Father and the Son being
co-eternal and co-adequate, their re-
lations to each other must have
been eternal and equal, outflowing
toward each other in love, com-
mensurate with their whole nature.
This procession of mutual love be-
tween Father and Son is what the
Catholic doctrine teaches concern-
ing the Holy Spirit. Thus we see,
however imperfectly, that the Cath-
olic doctrine concerning the Trinity
presents to our minds nothing that
is contrary to our reason, though it
contains an infinite abyss beyond
the present scope of our reason, but
which we shall know When our
reason is increased, as it will be, by

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

297

the gift of the light of glory.

But all human things tend towards disso-
every mystery of Christianity lias lution and backward to the Tein
an intelligible side to our natural of old chaos.
reason, and by the light of faith it
is the privilege and joy of a Chris-

We give another characteristic
statement of the Rev. Edward E.

tian while here upon earth to pene- Male's opening sermon which
trate more deeply into their hidden, have grated harshly on the ears

divine truth.

Again, the Unitarian is mistaken
when lie supposes that Catholics, in
maintaining the Trinity, exclude
the divine Unity. They include
both in one. Herein again is
found in man an analogy. Man is
one in triplicity. Man is thought,
love, and activity, and at the same
time man is one. He thinks, he
loves, he acts ; there are not three
distinct men, one who thinks, an-
other who loves, and still another
who acts. There is, therefore, a
sense in which man is one in three
and three in one. So there is in
the Trinity. The Unitarians are
right in affirming the divine Unity;
their error consists in excluding
the divine Trinity. All heresies
are right in what they affirm, and
wrong in what they exclude or
deny ; which denial is the result of
their breaking away from that di-
vine Unity in whose light alone
every truth is seen in its co-relation
with all other truths.

Our true mystic would not be
content to rest here, but, soaring up
upon the wings of divine light and
love, and taking a more extended
view, he would strive to show that
where the doctrine of the Trinity
is not held either explicitly or im-
plicitly, there not only the theory of
ourrnental operations and the intel-
lectual foundation of religion dis-
solve into a baseless fabric of a vis-
ion ; but that also the solid basis of
society, the true idea of the family,

must
of

the more staid and conservative
portion of his audience ; it is under
the head of " The immanent pres-
ence of God." He says :

" The Roman Church will acknowledge
it, and St. Francis and St. Vincent and
Fenelon will illustrate it. But, at the
same time, the Roman Church has much
else on her hands. She has to be con-
tending for those seven sacraments, for
this temporal power, all this machinery
of cardinals and bishops, and bulls and
interdicts, canon law and decretals, so
that in all this upholstery there is great
risk that none of us see the shrine. So
of the poor little parodies of the Roman
Church, the Anglican Church, the Lu-
theran Church, and the rest of them."

Again :

"All our brethren in the other con-
fessions plunge into their infinite ocean
with this hamper of corks and floats,
water-proof dresses lest they be wet,
oil-cloth caps for their hair, flannels for
decency, a bathing-cart here, a well-
screened awning there so much machi-
nery before the bath that one hardly
wonders if some men refuse to swim !
For them there is this great apology, if
they do not proclaim as we must pro-
claim, God here and God now ; nay, if
they do not live as we must live, in the
sense of God here and God now. For
us, we have no excuse. We have strip-
ped off every rag. We have destroyed
all the machinery."

The Rev. Mr. Hale regards the
seven sacraments, the hierarchy,
the canon law briefly) the entire
visible and practical side of the
church as a "hamper," "ma-
chinery," "rags," and thinks there

the right conception of the state and " is great risk that none of us see the
its foundations, and the law of all shrine." The difficulty here is not
genuine progress, are wanting, and where Mr. Hale places it.

298

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

"Night-owls shriek where mounting larks should
sing."

The visible is not the prison of the
invisible, as Plato dreamed, but its
vehicle, as St. Paul teaches. " For
the invisible things of God, from
the creation of the world, are clear-
ly seen, being understood by the
things that are made, his eternal
power also and divinity."* The
author of this sermon is at least con-
sistent in his error ; as he believes
in an abstract God, so he would
reduce " the church of the living
God," " the body of Christ," to an
abstract non-existence. Suppose,
for example, that the Rev. Edward
E. Hale had reduced " all the ma-
chinery " of his curiously-devised
body to an abstraction before the
Unitarian biennial conference was
held at Saratoga; the world would
have been deprived of the know-
ledge of that " simplicity which it
is the special duty of the Unitarian
Church to proclaim." Think of
the loss ! For it was by means of
the complex " machinery " of his
concrete body that the Rev. E. E.
Hale came in contact with the
** machinery " of the Unitarian bi-
ennial organization at Saratoga, and,
thus " upholstered," he publicly
rants against all "machinery."

There may be too complex an
organization, and too many appli-
cations of it, and too much made of
these, owing to the necessities of our
times, in the Catholic Church, to suit
the personal tastes and the stage of
growth of the Rev. Edward E. Hale.
But the Catholic Church does not
exist solely for the benefit of Mr.
Hale, or for any peculiar class of
men, or any one race alone. He
has and should have, and they all
have, their own place and appro-
priate niche in her ^//-temple ; for

* Romans i. ao.

the Catholic Church takes up in
her scope every individual, and the
human race entire. But there are
others, with no less integrity of
spiritual life and intelligence than
he, who esteem those things of
which he speaks so unappreciat-
ingly as heavenly gifts and straight
pathways to see more clearly the
inner shrine and approach more
nearly to the divine Presence. Are
the idiosyncrasies of one man,
though "thoroughly furnished and
widely experienced," to be the
norm of all other men, and of
every race ? Men and races differ
greatly in these things, and the
church of God is not a sect or
conventicle; she is Catholic, uni-
versal, and in her bosom, and in
her bosom alone, every soul finds
its own place and most suitable
way, with personal liberty and in
accord with all other souls and the
whole universe, to perfect union
with God.

The matter with the Rev. E. E.
Hale is, he has missed his vocation.
His place evidently was not in the
assembled conference at Saratoga;
for his calling is unmistakably to a
hermit life. Let him hie to the des-
ert, and there, in a forlorn and naked
hermitage, amid "frosts and fasts,
hard lodgings and thin weeds," in
an austere and unsociable life, " un-
swathed and unclothed," inpurisna-
turalibis," triumphantly cease to be."
The Rev. E. E. Hale isone-sided, and
seems to haveno idea that the Catho-
lic Church is theorganization of that
perfect communion of men with
God and each other which Christ
came to communicate and to estab-
lish in its fulness upon earth, and is
its practical realization. God grant
him, and others like him, this light
and knowledge !

But we would not have our read-
ers think that all Unitarians agree

The Unitarian Conference at Saratoga.

with the Rev. E. E. Hale in his esti-
mate of the visible or practical side
of the church. We quote from a
leading article in the Liberal Chris-
tian of August last, under the head
of " Spirit and Form in Religion,"
the following passage :

" It seems painfully indicative of the
still undeveloped condition of our race
that no truce or medium can be approxi-
mated in which the two great factors of
human nature and society, the authority
and supremacy of spirit and the neces-
sity and usefulness of form, are recon-
ciled and made to serve each other or a
common end. Must inward spirituality,
and outward expression of it in forms
and worship, be lor ever in a state of un-
stable equilibrium? Must they ever be
hostile and at cross-purposes ? Must all
progress be by a displacement in turn
of each other now an era of honored
forms, and then of only disembodied
spirituality? There is probably no en-
tire escape from this necessity. But,
surely, he is the wisest man who
can hold this balance in the evenest
hand ; and that sect or school, whether
political, social, or religious, that pays
the finest justice and the most impartial
respect to the two factors in our nature,
spirit and form, will hold the steadiest
place and do the most good for the lon-
gest time, This is the real reason why
Quakerism, with all its exalted claims to
respect, has such a feeble and diminish-
ing importance. It has oil in the lamp
of the purest kind, but almost no wick,
and what wick it has is made up of its
t/iCi'-ing and //iote-ing, and its straight
coat and stiff bonnet. These are steadi-
ly losing authority; and when they are
abandoned, visible Quakerism will dis-
appear. On the other hand, Roman Ca-

299

tholicism maintains its place against the
spirit of the age, and in spite of a load
of discredited doctrines, very largely
because of its intense persistency in
forms, its highly-illumined visibility, its
large-handed legibleness ; but not without
the unfailing aid and support of a spirit
of faith and worship which produces a
devoted priesthood and hosts of genuine
saints. No form of Christianity can boast
of lovelier or more spiritual disciples, or
reaches higher up or lower down, in-
cluding the wisest and the most igno-
rant, the most delicate and the coarsest
adherents. It has the subtlest and the
bluntest weapons in its arsenal, and can
pierce with a needle, or mow with a
scythe, or maul with a mattock."

The same organ, in a later num-
ber, in speaking of the Saratoga
conference, says :

" The main characteristic of the meet-
ing was a conscientious and reverent
endeavor to attain to something like a
scientific basis for our faith in absolute
religion, and in Christianity as a consis-
tent and concrete expression of it,"

and adds that the opening sermon
of the Rev. Mr. Hale "had the
merit of starting us calmly and
unexcitedly on our course." Our
readers will form their own judg-
ment about what direction the
course leads on which the Rev.
Edward E. Hale started the Uni-
tarians assembled at Saratoga in
their seeking after a " scientific
basis" for "absolute religion, and
Christianity as a concrete expres-
sion of it" !

300

Six Sunny Months.

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THS HOUSE OF YORKE," " GRAPES AND THORNS, " ETC.

CHAPTER VII.
AN 7 UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.

THE next morning coffee was
brought to the bed-rooms at the first
peep of dawn, and when the little
party went out for their walk the
sun had only just begun to set the
sea-line on fire.

They stepped for a moment into
the Franciscan church next door,
then went down the road leading
past it to the Campagna. Fresh
and sweet the morning air touched
them as they sauntered along not
the morning breeze of New Eng-
land, simple in associations as the
breath of a newly-created being,
but like the breath of one, immor-
tally beautiful, about whom Calliope,
Clio, and Erato have circled in their
stately dance through the unfading
centuries. Not only every spot of
earth, but every waft of air, was
haujited.

Mr. Vane stopped them present-
ly with a silent gesture, and point-
ed to a near height, where a soli-
tary cloud, softly resplendent in all
its beautiful undulations, was slowly
and loathly detaching itself to float
upward and disappear in the sky,
as if the door of a sapphire palace
had opened to receive it. " Is it
Diana?" he whispered.

" The Jew has touched nature
with a pen of fire," the Signora said
as they walked on again ; " but
the pagan has dominated, and still
in a certain sense possesses that
beautiful realm. If, as Milton sings,
' the parting genius was with sigh-
ing rent ' from tree and grove at
the birth of Christ, its ghost stiil

haunts the spot, and Milton him-
self uses pagan language when he
sings the beauties of nature. Why
does not some Christian Job
dislodge these * mythic fancies,' and
make nature live with a life that is
something more than the rustling
of a garment ? Job made the light-
nings go and return at the com-
mand of God, saying, * Here we are ! '
and he speaks of the * store-houses
of the snow.' The Christian poet
seems to fear his imagination, to
find it tainted, and, instead of puri-
fying it, and setting it flying, like
a bird or a butterfly, through the
garden of the earth, lie puts it in a
cage or under a glass along with
the pagan images he only glances
askance at. Now and then one
meets with a saint whose heart
overflows in that direction, like
St. Francis of Assisi, calling the
birds his sisters. Blessed Fra Egi-
dio made the flowers bear witness,
as when he proved the miraculous
motherhood of the Virgin to the
doubting Predicatore. At each of
the three strokes of his staff in the
road, following his three assertions
of Our Lady's purity, up sprang a
beautiful lily. Our Lord set the
example in his reference to the
lilies of the field : they toiled not,
neither did they spin, yet the Crea-
tor had arrayed them as Solomon
in all his glory was never arrayed.
Did he talk to his mother about
the flowers, I wonder? When the
boat was tossed by a tempest, he
spoke to the waves, as to living

Six Sunny Months.

301

creatures, saying, ' Peace, be still !'
I )o spirits troublesome and troubled
take shape, or, stretching their in-
visible hands, catch the shapes of
nature as weapons, and lash with
foam or strike with lightning? We
cannot know, and we need not
know ; and we must not assert. It
is not, however, forbidden to fancy.
Nature may serve as the play-
ground wherein our imagination
and fancy shall exercise themselves
and prepare our minds for the
wonders of the spiritual life. Fancy
and imagination are as really a
part of ourselves, and as truly and
wisely given by God, as reason and
will. They are the sweet little en-
ticements inviting us to fly off

'" ' From the dark edges of the sensual ground,'

as the bird-mother coaxes her
young to try its wings in little flights
from twig to twig before it soars
into the heavens. No, it is not
forbidden to the fancy to play
around the mysterious life that
makes the bud swell into the flower
and the seed grow into the lofty
tree, so long as we see all in God,
and see in God the Trinity, and, in
the aspiring flame of created ador-
ing spirits, behold Maria Santissi-
ma as the white point that touches
the foot of the throne."

The Signora had been speaking
slowly and dreamily, pausing now
and then ; but at the last, growing
earnest, had, as it were, waked her-
self, and become aware that she
was talking aloud and was listen-
ed to.

Smiling, and blushing too a little,
" Ssusino/" she said. "I cannot
help it. I preach as the sparks fly
upward."

" I speak for a seat in your meet-
ing-house for the rest of my life,"
Mr. Vane replied promptly.

"Apropos of meeting-houses,"
she said, "what do you think of

those for spires ?" pointing to four
gigantic cypresses in the villa they
were passing.

This villa was a strange, desert-
ed-looking place just above the
Cainpagna. Nothing in it flourish-
ed but the four cypresses, which
rose to a magnificent height, their
huge cones sloping at the top to a
feather so slender that it was always
tipped to one side. Stern, dark,
and drawn close together, they
looked down on the place as if they
had cursed it and were waiting to
see the consummation of its ruin.
All their shadows were full of a
multitudinous grit of cicali voices
that sounded like the sharp grating
together of teeth. At their feet
stood the house, half-alive, half-dead,
hidden from the street by the walls
it was not high enough to overlook.
It was like the upper part of a house
that the earth had half swallowed.
At each side of the door stood a
statue dressed in some antique
fashion, hat on head and sword or
thigh. They might have been two
men who were petrified there long
before. At each side of the gate,
inside, a stone dog, petrified too,
in the act of starting up with open
jaws, crumbled in a blind rage, as
if a paralyzed life yet dwelt under
the lichen-covered fragments, and
struggled to pour forth its arrested
anger.

A little farther on was another
decaying villa, where green moss
and grasses grew all over the steps,
half hid the paving-stones of the
court, and choked the fountain
dry. The house, once a gay and
noble mansion, had now got its
shutters decently closed over the
sightless windows, and resigned
itself to desolation. The long, dim
avenues had a damp, unhealthy
breath, and not a flower was to be
seen.

They went in and seated them-

302

Six Sunny Months.

selves on the steps, where the
shadow of the house, covering a
verdant square in the midst of the
sunshine, looked like a block of
verd-antique set in gold.

" It reminds me of the funeral
we went to in St. Peter's," Mr. Vane
said, glancing about the sombre
place, and over the walls into the
outside splendor. " The mournful
pageant looked as small in that
bright temple as this villa in the
landscape."

The two girls gathered grasses
and leaves and bits of moss, bind-
ing them into tiny bouquets to keep
as mementos, and Bianca made a
sketch of the two villas. They
talked but little, and, in that silent
and quiescent mood, perceived far
more clearly the character and in-
fluence of the scene the melancholy
that was not without terror ; the
proud beauty that survived neglect
and decay, and might at any time
burst into a triumphant loveliness,
if but some one should care to call
forth the power hidden there ; the
dainty graces that would not thrust
themselves forward, but waited to
be sought. Yet it needed that
summer and sunshine should be all
about to keep the sadness from
being oppressive. With those
cheering influences so near and so
dominantly larger, the touch of
melancholy became a luxury, like
a scattering of snow in wine.

Isabel came back to the steps
from her ramble about the place,
and found her father and the Sig-
nora sitting there with no appear-
ance of having uttered a word since
she left them.

" It is just the time to read some-
thing I found and brought with me
from Rome," she said. " I tucked
it into my note-book, see, and some-
thing at this moment reminded me
of it. Bianca was saying that if the
place should be sprinkled with holy

water, she did not doubt that flowers
would immediately begin to grow
again, and the track was not long
from her notion round to this poem.
It had no name when I found it.
but I call it 'At Benediction.' The
Signora told me that it was rude
and unfinished; but no matter."
She read :

AT BEMEOICTION.

" Like a dam in which the restless tide

Has washed, till, grain by grain,
It has sapped the solid barrier

And swept it down again,
The patience I have built and buttressed

Like a fortress wall,
Fretted and undermined, gives way,

And shakes me in its fall.

u For I have vainly toiled to shun

The meaner ways of life,
With all their low and petty cares,

Their cold and cruel strife.
My brain is wild with tangled thoughts,

My heart is like to burst !
Baffled and foiled at every turn

My God, I feel accursed !

"It was human help I sought for,

And human help alone ;
Too weary I for straining

To a height above my own.
But thy world, with all its creatures, holds

Nor help nor hope for me ;
I fly to sanctuary,

And cast myself on Thee !

4i The priest is at the altar

Praying with lifted hands,
And, girdled round with living flame,

The veiled Presence stands.
Wouldst thou kindle in our dying hearte

Some new and pure desire,
That thou com'st, my Lord, so wrapt about

In robes of waving fire ?

"** Hast thou come, indeed, for blessing,

O silent, awful Host ?
Thou One with the Creator,

One with the Holy Ghost !
Hast thou come, indeed, for blessing,

pitying on of Man ?
For if that thou wilt bless me,

Who is there that can ban ?

" Hast thou come, indeed, for blessing,

Within whose knowledge rest
The labyrinthine ways of life,

The cares of every breast ?
My doubting hope would fain outshake

Her pinions, if she durst ;
For if truly thou wilt bless me,

1 cannot feel accursed !

" The Tantum Ergo rises

In a chorus glad and strong,
And, waking in their airy height,

The bells join in the song.
And priest, and bells, and people,

As one, in loud accord,
Are pouring forth their praises

Of the Sacramental Lord.

Six Sunny Months.

303

u 'Tis as though, from eut of sorrow stepping,

And a darksome way,
The singers' eyes had caught the dawn

Of the celestial day.
'Tis as though, behind them casting off

Each clogging human load,
These happy creatures, singing, walked
The open heav'nly road.

" The hymn is stilied, and only

The bells ring on above.
Oh ! bless me, God of mercy ;

Have mercy, God of love !
For I have fought a cruel life,

And fallen in the fray.
Oh ! bless me with a blessing

That shall sweep it all away !

" It is finished. From the altar

The priest is stepping down ;
His incense-perfumed silver train

Brushes my sombre gown.
The mingled crowd of worshippers

Are going as they came ;
A nd the altar-candles drop to darkness,

Tiny flame by flame.

" Silence and softly-breathing Peace

Float downward, hand in hand,
And either side the threshold,

As guardian angels stand.
I see their holy faces,

And fear no face of man ;
For when my God has blessed me,

Who is there that can ban ?"

The Signora rose rather hastily.
"If we are going to Monte Corn-
pat ri this afternoon, we have no
time to linger about reading rhymes,"
she said.

They went out into the sunshine,
already burning hot, and stole along,
one by one, in the shadow of the
high wall, walking over crowds of
little pale, pink morning-glories, that
crept humbly on the ground, not
knowing themselves to be vines
with a power to rise and climb to
the height of a man, any more than
dear Hans Andersen's ugly duck
knew that he was a swan, though
at one point they might have seen,
through an opening in the stone-
work, better-instructed morning-
glories climbing hedge and shrub,
and blowing out a rhythmic joy
through their great white trumpets

with its pretty pink cheek against
a gray bit of stone. The whole
ground blushed softly with their
sweet humility.

They entered the shaded avenue
that circles the lower part of the
town, and saw the beautiful city
climbing on the one hand, and the
beautiful Campagna spread out on
the other; passed the little wooden
chalet where Garibaldi was holding
his court a wooden house is such
a wonder in Italy ! and the public
garden, sweet with the infantine
breath and bright with the infan-
tine hues of countless petunias,
and at length found refuge in
Villa Torlonia.

Thick and dark, the lofty trees knit
their branches over the seats where
the travellers sat and looked at the
grand fountain-front, with its stone
eagle and rows of huge stone vases
along the top, and its beautiful cas-
cade and basin in the centre. At
either side this cascade, in the ten
or twelve niches, tall stone vases
overflowed with wild-flowers that
had once overflowed with water,
the masks above still holding be-
tween their dry lips the pipes from
which the sunny streams had sprung.
Far above could be seen, in the rich
green gloom of overarching trees,
cascade after cascade dancing down
the steep slope, and, farther yet, the
top of a great column of water that
marked the uppermost fountain.

" It is too late to go up now,"
the Signora said ; " but you can
see the way. It goes round in a
circling avenue, or up the steps
that are at each side of the ten
cascades. I think there are ten.
But the steps at the right are con-

far up in the air. The greatest stantly wet with the spray, and cov-

pride or aspiration these little ered with ferns and moss. You go

creatures seemed capable of was up at the left, which the sun some-

when, now and then, one grew, times touches, and which is always

breath by breath, over some small dry. Below here, too, there are

obstacle in its path, and bloomed two ways of going up, either by

304

Six Sunny Mont/is.

the parting avenues or by the little
dark door you see beside the cas-
cade. That door leads through a
dim passage, where the walls are
all a green tremble with maiden-
hair fern growing as thick as feath-
ers on a bird, and up a little dim
winding stair that brings you out
beside the stone eagle there. I
gathered one of those ferns once
that was half a yard long. You
see they build palaces here foV wa-
ters as well as for princes."

The day went by like a dream,
steeped in dazzling light, embalm-
ed with the odors of flowers grow-
ing in a luxuriance and beauty new
to their northern eyes, sprinkled
over with a ceaseless fountain-
spray, sung through by countless
larks, and made magnificent by
palace after palace, and by con-
stantly-recurring and incomparable
views. For many a year to come
they would remember the honey-
snow of the orange-trees and the
clustered flames of the pomegra-
nates ; they would compare their
rose-bushes with the tree which, in
one of these gardens, held its tea-
roses nodding over their heads, nor
love their own shyer gardens the
less, indeed; and in their trim
walks, and loath and delicate bloom-
ing, they would sometimes think
with longing of the careless pro-
fusion of the land where the best
of nature and the best of art dwelt
together in the familiar and grace-
ful intercourse of daily life.

An hour before sunset they were
again in their carriage, and, after a
short drive, found themselves fol-
lowing the long loops of the road
that lead leisurely up the side of
Monte Compatri, through the rich
woods, through the pure and ex-
quisitely invigorating air, with all
the world unrolling itself again be-
fore their eyes in a view almost
equal to that of Tusculum.

They were obliged to alight in
the piazza of the fountain ; for the
steep and narrow streets did not
admit of carriages. From this
piazza the streets straggled, climb-
ing and twisting, breaking constant-
ly into little flights of stairs, and
sometimes ending in a court or at
a door.

" Prepare to be stared at," the
Signora said, as they took their way
up the Via Lunga. "We a're the
only ladies in the town whose head-
gear is not a handkerchief; and as
for Mr. Vane, they are very likely
to take him for Prince Borghese.
And, come to think of it," she
said, looking at him attentively,
"you are very much like the prince,
Mr. Vane."

The gentleman smiled quietly,
without answering. He recollected
what the Signora had forgotten
that she had once expressed the
greatest admiration for Prince
Borghese. He took the lady's
parasol and travelling-bag from her
hand, and offered his arm, which
the steep way and her fatigue made
acceptable, and the two girls follow-
ed, searching on every side with
bright and curious eyes, and mur-
muring little exclamations to each
other. The irregular stone houses,
so near each other, face to face,
that one could easily toss a ball
from window to window across the
street, were quite vacant, except
for pigeons that flew in at the win-
dows, or a cat that might be seen
sleeping on a chair or window-
ledge, or, perhaps, for a few hens
searching for crumbs. The fami-
lies were all out of doors. In one
little corner portico sat a handsome
woman, with her dark hair beauti-
fully plaited, and a bright handker-
chief laid over her massive shoul-
ders. Her hands were folded in
her lap, and she sat smiling, chat-
ting with a neighbor now and

Six Sunny Months.

305

then, and enjoying a conscious
queenship of the place. At either
side of her was a young girl, slim,
dark, and bright, a mere slip of the
mother. These girls kept their
eyes cast down, and appeared to
think only of their knitting. On
the next step was Carlin's group.
Further on, a young mother stead-
ied her year- old child between her
knees and a chair, while she darned
a stocking. One perceived that
the whole and snowy-white stock-
ings worn even by the poorest were
not kept in order without constant
care and labor. Near by, an old
woman with a distaff spun flax,
and entertained a company of men
with her lively talk. This antique
goddess was, perhaps, the wit of
the place. She was, however, in
no manner allied to the graces ; for
the thin gray hair gathered tightly
with a comb to the top of her head,
and entirely uncovered, and the
white kerchief knotted round her
neck, instead of being draped in
the becoming Italian fashion, show-
ed that she had long since ceased
to hold by even the shadow of a
personal charm. Outside the door
of a little cafe\ the only one in the
place, half a dozen men. sat at
tables, drinking coffee and smoking,
while on the door-step a man with
a furnace and rotary stove, and a
basket of charcoal beside him, roast-
ed coffee to keep up the supply,
lazily turning the crank while he
listened to the gossip going on at
the tables. On a neighboring step
were gathered several women in a
little sewing-circle. To these came
ii woman up the street, bearing on
her head a tub covered over with
nodding fern-leaves, which she set
down on the wide top of the balus-
trade. The circle suspended their
work while the woman displayed a
sample of her wares twelve frogs
VOL. xxiv. 20

run on to a stick. She was met with
shrugs and exclamations of disap-
proval.

" Poor frogs !" said Isabel. "They
look like little white babies."

They were very poor little babies
indeed, thin and small as spiders.

The frog-merchant, nothing dis-
concerted, laid aside her first sam-
ple and displayed another. " Oh !
those are better," the women cried,
and immediately began to chaffer
about the price.

Children swarmed everywhere.
The close little town was as full of
them as the shoe where the old
woman we all know so well dwelt
with her tribe of young ones. It
did not need a powerful imagina-
tion to picture the place boiling
over like a pot some day, with a
many-colored froth of tombim down
the mountain-side. It was out of
the question that there should be
room for the rising generation to
stay in the town when they should
have become a risen generation ; for
they were six or seven in a family,
and already the houses were full.

" Perhaps one of them will go to
America, and set up on some side-
walk a furnace for roasting chest-
nuts," Bianca said. " And perhaps,
some day, ten or fifteen years hence,
we may stop and ask such a person
what part of Italy he came from,
and he will answer, 'From Monte
Compatri'; and we will say, 'Ah!
we have been there, at such a time;
and perhaps it was you we saw
playing in Via Lunga or in the
piazza T and he will brighten an
instant, and then, all at once, begin
to cry. And Isabel will almost cry
for him, and will give him her best
handkerchief to wipe his tears awny.
perhaps wiping them for him; and
I will buy all his chestnuts, which
will be cold by the time we get
home, and papa will slip some

306

Six Sunny Months.

money into his hand, and ask him
if he wants work to do, and we will
all tell him where we live, and to
come to us if he should get into
trouble. And then we will go home
and talk for all the rest of the day
about nothing but Italy, and that
clay we went up Monte Compatri.
And Isabel will insist that she re-
cognizes the fellow perfectly, and
try to coax papa to take him for a
gardener or something."

" And then," resumed Mr. Vane,
continuing the story, " we shall have
the lazy vagabond coming to us
every day begging, and we shall
miss things out of the room where
lie is left alone a few minutes, and
Isabel will give him my clothes, till
I shall have nothing left to wear."

" Meantime, what will the Sig-
nora be doing?" that lady demand-
ed, finding herself left out. " Is
she to have no part ?"

She did not see the pleasant
glance that fell on her from the
eyes of the gentleman at her side.
She was looking down, a little hurt,
she hardly knew why. For was it
not a matter understood that her
home was in Italy, and theirs in
America ?

"Why, you," said Isabel "you
will be in Casa OttanfOtto, thou-
sands of miles away, and we shall
be writing you all about it."

" Not so !" Mr. Vane said. "She
will be with us at the time, I think,
and will correct all our mistakes,
and reward all our well-doing with
her approbation."

" There, that sounds comforta-
ble," the lady said, smiling. " I was
really feeling neglected and left out
in the cold."

They had come to the street that
encircles the town, and on the out-
side of which a row of houses hangs
on the mountain-edge. In one of
these they were to spend the night,
and, as she spoke, the Signora look-

ed up brightly, and beckoned some
one in a window above to come
down and open the door for them.

Mr. Vane spoke rather hastily
in answer to her remark, and ap-
parently for her ear alone. "If
you should be outside, the cold will
then be inside the circle," he said.
" It is you who are to choose."

" Oh ! thank you," she replied
lightly. "And now mind the steps.
They are rather dark."

The street from which they en-
tered this house was so narrow,
and the houses so joined, that they
seemed to be still in the heart of
the town ; but when they had pass-
ed the dusky stairs, and entered the
long, low sala at the head of them,
they found the place like a nest in
a tree-top. The mountain-side
dropped sheer from under the very
windows, and the view swept round
from Rome and the sea to Palesti inu
and the mountains.

In this sala the whole family of
the padrone had assembled to wel-
come and stare at the strangers be-
fore giving the room up to their
use. A dozen or so smiling faces,
full of good-will and curiosity, clus-
tered about without the slightest
sign of any thought that they might
be intruding, or that there was to
be any limit to the free use of
their eyes. An old woman leaning
on a cane muttered unintelligible
blessings and made innumerable
little bows right and left, a hale
young matron talked and welcom-
ed, a servant smiled unceasingly, a
young girl with a baby in her ;mns
asked abrupt questions in a loud
voice, and children of all ages filled
up the gaps.

The young ladies resigned their
clothes to examination, and began
shyly petting the little ones, and
the Signora gave orders for their
entertainment. While she was talk-
ing the servant and two of the

Six Sunny Months.

307

boys ran sku Frying out of the room
and presently returned with an air of
great pride, bearing in their hands
beautiful white pigeons, which they
caressed while displaying.

The young ladies admired them
and smoothed their snowy plumage,
without being in the least aware
why they had been brought.

"They are for our dinner to-
morrow," the Signora remarked
with great composure.

There was a little duet of dis-
mayed exclamations. " I thought
they were family pets!" Bianca
said, recoiling.

"And so they are, my dear," was
the reply. " They pet them up to
the moment of killing them, and
praise while they are eating them.
Their fondness never ceases. And
now let us take off our bonnets and
have supper."

The room was long, low, and pav-
ed with coarse red bricks. The
ceiling, crossed by several large
beams, was papered in compart-
ments representing squares of blue
sky with light clouds floating over,
and a bird or two here and there
in the space, and the flowery walls
were nearly hidden by great press-
es holding linen, by sideboards la-
den with dishes, and by the high
backs of patriarchal old chairs, very
picturesque to look at and very
penitential to sit in.

All the centre of this room was
taken up by a long table, at one
end of which their supper was
speedily prepared. There was
bread, as good as could be had in
Rome, and such a salad as could
scarcely be had in any city, the oil
as sweet as cream, and the lettuce
so crisp and delicate that it could
be almost powdered between the
hands. Just as they sat down a
large decanter of gold-colored wine,
ice-cold from the grotto, was placed
before them. For in these little

Italian

towns, however they may
lack the necessities of life, they are
never without the luxuries.

They sat down merrily, only one
of the family remaining to wait
on them, the others hovering about
the door, and watching the faces of
their guests as they ate, to see how
the food pleased them.

"Papa," said Isabel, pointing to
a plate before her, on which a small
onion shone like silver, " do you
recognize that vegetable ?"

"I recog<v<? it," replied Mr.
Vane, who would sometimes play
upon words.

"Well, I propose that we agree
to divide it in four parts, each a
little larger than the last, the lar-
gest for you, the smallest for Bian-
ca, and that we all eat our portions,
and so find no fault with each
other."

Bianca instantly declined the
invitation, and blushed deeply when
they rallied her on her daintiness.

" These onions are very delicate
and sweet," the Signora said. " I
used to avoid them, till one day I
received a call from a personage of
the most dignified position and un-
exceptionable manners, from whose
breath I perceived, in the course of
the conversation, that he had been
eating these little onions. But the
faint odor that reached me as he
spoke was as though a rose and an
onion had been grafted together.
Since then I have eaten without
scruple."

But Bianca still declined, still
blushing. Why ? Was it that her
affection for the friend ever tender-
ly remembered had so consecrated
her to him that nothing but what
was sweetest and purest must touch
where his image was enshrined,
whether he were present or absent ?
She was quite extreme enough in
her sensitive delicacy for such a
thought.

308

Six Sunny Mont/is.

Supper over, they went out into
a loggia attached to their sala and
overhanging the steep mountain-
side, and watched the sun go down
over the sea. The globe of fire
had already touched the water-line,
that by day showed only like a line
of purple cloud, and kindled it to
an intense lustre ; and, as they look-
ed, there was half a sun above the
horizon, and another half visible as
though seen through the transpa-
rent edge of the world over which it
disappeared ; then, without dimin-
ishing, it dropped out of sight, leav-
ing an ineffable, silent glory over
the scene. The fire of the sea fad-
ed to a faint gold, the rosy violet of
the Campagna changed to a deep
purple, and Earth, raising her sha-
dowy hands, put aside the curtain-
ing light of day, and looked out at
the stars.

The sisters withdrew presently,
and left the two elders to admire
the beauties of nature at their lei-
sure. Isabel, screened off in one
corner of the sala, made volumi-
nous notes of her experiences, and
planned a wonderful story, into
which they should all be woven.
Seated on a footstool, with a brass
lamp hanging to the back of a chair
near her, and her writing on her
knees, she saw one character after
another emerge from the shades and
take form and individuality before
her eyes, as if they grew there inde-
pendent of her will. They spoke and
moved of themselves, and she only
looked and listened. Now and
then some trait, some feature, some
word, was such as she had seen in
real life, but these people were not
portraits, though they might have
such resemblances, and even might
have been suggested by persons she
had known. The shades grew
more and more alive, gathering in-
to substance. Stone walls built
themselves up silently and with a

more than Aladdin-like celerity, and
gardens burst into instantaneous
bloom. If she willed the sea pre-
sent, its waves rolled up to her feet
in foam, or caught and tossed her
in their strong arms; if she called
for forests, swiftly their darkening
branches shut her in, and her light
feet trod their dry, crackling twigs
and rich, disordered flowers. The
very accidents of a great pine-cone
to stumble over, or an unexpected
lizard running across the path, were
there. The dull walls of the room
she sat in, the rough bricks under
her feet, the crowded town about
her, were as though they were not.
She was free of the world.

O precious gift of the magical
lamp ! which, at a touch, calls about
its possessor all that men wish, and
work, and strive for of earthly
good, without the pain or responsi-
bilities of earthly possession ; which
gives the rose without its thorn, the
wine without its lees, the friend
without the doubt, the triumph
without disappointment ! Happy
they who, when what we call real
life presses too hard or becomes
too dull, can put it aside for the
time, and enter a world of their
own, for ever beautiful and satisfy-
ing, who, walking the common
street, see things unseen of com-
mon eyes, and for whom many
a beauty smiles under an ugiy
mask.

Bianca was in no such exalted
mood of fancy, but, withdrawn to
the chamber she was to occupy
with the Signora, was lifting the
holier eyes of faith, and, with
childlike simplicity and confidence,
laying all her heart open to God,
sending up her petitions for earthly
happiness on a cloud of the Acts,
said after her own manner : " O
my God ! I believe in thee, I hope
in thee, I love thee, I thank thee,
and I am sorry for having offended

Six Sunny Months.

309

thee " ; and then, as a thought or
wish more earthly thrust itself for-
ward, presenting it, unafraid and
undoubting. Living and dead,
friends and strangers, the poor, and
those who had no one to pray for
them all were remembered by this
tender heart; but ever, like the re-
frain of a song, came back the peti-
tion, "Bless, and guard from all ill
of soul or body, him who is so
much more to me than all other
men, and, if it be thy will, give him
to me for a friend and companion
as long as I shall live."

The two in the balcony, left
to themselves, were talking quietly,
having no mind to separate. The
Signora found in the society of Mr.
Vane a pleasure altogether new to
her the pleasure of being able to
depend on some one. It was only
now, when she was surrounded
with a constant, friendly care, that
she became aware how unprotected
and unhelped her former life had
been, and how sweet was that re-
pose which the protected enjoy.
Besides, Mr. Vane's care was of a
particularly agreeable kind. It did
not, by watching and seizing on
opportunities of serving, suggest
the existence of an emotional care
which might change to neglect, but
was simply a calm readiness, which
assumed, as a matter of course, that
it should help when help was
needed.

" I shall never be sufficiently
thankful for having been led to
make this European journey," Mr.
Vane said after a little silence. " It
has done me good in many ways,
and promises more even than it has
performed as yet."

" I am glad you say thankful in-
stead of glad," the Signora said,
smiling. " Perhaps, too, I should
say, I am thankful you say so."

He thought a moment before
speaking, and recollected that only

a few months before he would not
have used the word. The change
had come so gradually that he had
scarcely been aware of it. "Yet
I believe that I always recog-
nize the Source from which all
good flows," he resumed seriously.
"At least, I never denied it. Here
religion is such a household affair,
one falls after awhile into the habit
of expressing what before was only
felt, and felt, perhaps, unconscious-

" It is better so," was the reply.
"We strengthen a true feeling when
we give it utterance. Besides, we
may thus communicate it to others."

"One of my causes of thankful-
ness," he resumed, " is that my
daughters should be associated
with you. I wish you could make
them more like yourself, and I am
sure that their admiration and af-
fection for you will lead them natu-
rally to imitate you and to receive
your instructions willingly. They
have been to me a source of great
anxiety, and I feel myself utterly
incapable of directing them ; for,
while I wish them to be modest and
womanly, on the one hand, I as
certainly wish them to be capable of
finding in life an object and a hap-
piness which shall not depend on any
other person. It would please me
to see them well married ; but God
forbid that an unmarried life should
be for them a disappointed life !
What I could do for them I have
done, but with an immense self-dis-
trust ; and I have felt safer when
leaving them to themselves than
when interfering or seeking to guide
them."

" I should think you had done
well both in guiding and in leaving
them free," the lady replied. " Many
parents do too much either one
way or the other. Does not the
result satisfy you so far ?"

She was surprised at the emotion

Six Sunny Months.

with which he spoke, not knowing
anything of his married life.

" The result is not yet. Every-
thing depends on their marriage,
or their reason for not marrying."
He hesitated, then went on, as if
incapable of keeping silence longer
on a subject of which he had never
spoken : " The fate of their mother
is to me a constant warning and a
constant pain. In one respect I
can save them from that ; for I
shall never urge them to marry, and
shall never oppose any choice of
theirs, unless it should be a mani-
festly bad one. But I cannot
guard them from the tyranny of
some mistaken sense of duty, or
mistaken pride or delicacy which
they might conceal from all the
world."

Startled by this half-revelation,
his companion kept silence, waiting
for him to speak. It was impossi-
ble he should not speak after such
a beginning.

" I do not know which was the
more deeply wronged, I or my
poor Bianca," he said presently. " It
all came from the blundering coarse-
ness of parents who overstepped,
not their authority for they never
commanded her but their power
to influence, which, with one like
her, was quite as strong. Their mis-
take has taught me to interfere and
control less the gentle, silent one
than the one who speaks her mind
out clearly and loudly. I have al-
ways thought that the mother of
my daughters had some preference
which she never acknowledged.
Often, more often than not, these
preferences come to nothing and
are soon forgotten ; but not always.
She did not wish to marry me, but
she consented without hesitation,
and I believed that the slight re-
serve would vanish with time. Per-
haps she believed it too. Her con-
science was as pure as snow. She

did perfectly, with all her power,
what she believed to be her duty.
But that preoccupation, whether for
another person or for a single life,
was never vanquished. You have,
perhaps, chased a butterfly when
you were a child, beaten it with
your hat from flower to flower, and
at last imprisoned it under a glass ;
or you have caught a humming-
bird that has strayed into your
room, and flown from you as long
as it had strength. Neither resist-
ed when it was caught; but the
down was brushed off the butter-
fly's wings, and the bird was dead
in your hand. My wife omitted
nothing that a good will could ac-
complish. She was grateful for my
efforts to make her happy ; she was
calm, and even cheerful; and I am
sure that she never said to herself,
even, that she was sorry for having
married me. But the only beaming
smile I ever saw on her face was
when she knew that she was going
to die."

His voice trembled a little, and
he stopped a moment, as if to steady
it before going on.

" Was not I wronged too ? Was
not the unwilling jailer as unfortu-
nate as the unwilling prisoner ? I
say nothing of my own personal
disappointment, though that was
great. The mutual confidence, the
delightful companionship, the per-
fect union, to which I had looked
forward, and which were my ideal
of marriage where were they ? In
place of them I never lost the feel-
ing that I had a victim for ever at
my side. I felt as if I had been
unmanly and cruel ; yet the fault
was not mine. She gave herself to
me in all that she could, yet she
was never "mine."

He paused again ; yet this time
his voice trembled more in resum-
ing than in leaving off his story.

" I rejoiced in her release ; and I

Six Sunny Months.

look forward to no future meeting
with her that shall be different from
that meeting which we are permit-
ted to look forward to with all the
good in heaven. If other husbands
and wives expect some closer part-
nership in heaven, I neither expect
nor wish it. I have resigned her
absolutely and for ever. I do not
think that I am morbid. You
should know her peculiar character
to understand well how I could be
made to feel that crystal wall that
always stood between us. I felt it
so that I really believe, if the chil-
dren were not demonstrative in
their affection for me, I should not
have the courage to show any fond-
ness for them. I used, when they
were little ones, to look at them
sometimes with a kind of terror
when I came home, to see if they
would smile brightly, and run to
me as if they were glad from the
heart to see me. I always waited
for them, and, thank God ! they
never failed me. Duty and submis-
sion are there, but a perfect affection
makes them almost unnecessary."

Finishing, he glanced for the
first time at his companion, and saw
that she was in tears.

"My dear friend!" he exclaim-
ed, " how selfish I have been !
Forgive me !"

" No," she replied gently, wiping
her eyes, "you are not selfish. It
seems to me that you are one of the
least selfish of men. I am glad you
have confidence enough in me to
tell me such a story, which, I can
well believe, you seldom or never
speak of. It is quite natural that
you should confide it to some one,
and you could not expect any one
to hear it unmoved."

What an exquisite moonlight
covered the world, and made a

fairy-like, silvery day in the little
balcony where the two sat ! The
air sparkled with it, and one tear
still hanging to the Signora's eye-
lashes shone like a diamond in its
beams.

" You are the first person to
whom I have ever spoken on this
subject, and the only person to
whom I could confide it," Mr. Vane
said. " Can you guess why, Sig-
nora ?"

She looked at him with a startled
glance and read his meaning, and,
in the first astonishment and con-
fusion, was utterly incapable of re-
plying.

" Shall I tell you why ?" he asked.

She rose hastily, blushing and
distressed.

"Do not say any more!" she
exclaimed, and was on the point
of leaving him abruptly, but check-
ed herself, and, turning in the open
low window, held out her hand to
him. " You have called me friend.
Let us remain friends," she said.

He touched the hand, and re-
leased it without a word, and they
separated.

Half an hour afterward Bianca's
face peeped out into the moonlight.
"Are you still here, papa?" she
said, and went to him, " Good-
night, dear."

He embraced her gently, and
echoed her good-night, but did not
detain her a moment.

"What ! papa romancing here all
alone?" exclaimed Isabel in her
turn. " It isn't good for your com-
plexion nor for your disposition.
Late hours and too much thinking
make one sad."

" Therefore you should go to bed
directly," was his reply.

She kissed him merrily and left
him alone.

TO BB CONTINUED.

3 I2

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

MIVART'S CONTEMPORARY EVOLUTION.'

IF in our contemporary evolu-
tion a great genius shoi'ld appear,
worthy to continue the work of St.
Thomas, it would be requisite that
he should combine in himself the
gifts and acquirements of a meta-
physician, a theologian, and a mas-
ter of natural science. We accen-
tuate strongly the last of these re-
quisites, because we are not so
much in need of pure metaphysics
and theology, possessing both al-
ready in a state of high perfection
and completeness, as we are of the
mixed science in which the rela-
tions of the higher and the lower
orders of being, truth and good, are
developed and manifested. There
have been some men already, since
the modern period began, who
have combined metaphysical and
natural science in a remarkable de-
gree. Such a man was Leibnitz.
The famous Jesuit Boscovich was
perhaps superior intellectually, as
he certainly was morally, even to
this prodigy of talent and learning.
He was a great mathematician and
physicist, a great metaphysician, and
a great statesman, besides being
eminent in Christian perfection and
apostolic zeal. Balmes was a man
of a similar stamp, though espe-
cially eminent in social science.
Among living men a high place
belongs to Father Bayma as a
metaphysician, mathematician, and
physicist, although he has publish-
ed little under his own name, ex-

* Contemporary Evolution. An Essay on some
Recent Social Changes. 63" St. George Mivart.
(Dedicated to the Marquis of Ripon.) Henry S.
King & Co., London. 1876. (An American edition
of the work is announced by the Messrs. Appleton.)

cept his remarkable work on Mole-
cular Mechanics. Such men are in-
valuable at the present time. And
for all those who are aiming at a
thorough education for important
positions in the service of the
church and humanity, the conjoin-
ed cultivation of these various
branches of science, in the due pro-
portion for acquiring what we have
called the mixed science, is of the
highest importance. We are hap-
py to know that it is not neglect-
ed, and is likely to be advanced to
a higher and more extensive state
of excellence in the near future.
One who has the chance of looking
over the theses in physics whicli
are prepared for the examinations
at Woodstock will be convinced
that there is one Catholic seminary,
at least, in this country where such
matters receive due attention. The
articles published from time to
time in the Catholic reviews of Eu-
rope, as well as an occasional vol-
ume from the pen of a Catholic
professor, are another evidence of
what we have stated. The Eng-
lish hierarchy, aided by the band
of gifted and learned priests and
laymen who adorn the Catholic
Church of England, is distinguish-
ing itself in the promotion of this
scientific culture. Dr. Mivart is
one of this band. We have, in
former numbers, taken occasion to
notice several of his works, and ex-
press our high estimation of the
courage and ability with which he
is constantly laboring for the ad-
vancement of true, Catholic science.
Dr. Mivart's specialty is natural

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

3*3

science ; but he is not a mere phy-
sicist or scientist. He has the
genuine philosophical spirit, and
shows in his writings that he has
studied to some purpose metaphy-
sics, theology and ethics, history,
politics, and belles-lettres. The es-
says contained in the volume we
are at present reviewing were first
published in the Contemporary Re-
view, with the exception of the last
one, which appeared in the Dublin
Review. We propose, at present,
to do little more than give an an-
alysis of their contents and of the
author's argument.

The title informs us that his topic
of discussion is, " Some great Social
Changes." These social changes, in
his idea, are very deep and uni-
versal alterations in the social fab-
ric which have been going on dur-
ing the entire post-mediaeval period,
are still in progress, and are likely
to proceed much further as. time
goes on. It is in view of their
bearing on the perpetuity and
action of the Catholic Church that
they are considered. In the intro-
ductory chapter a general view is
taken of their nature, origin, causes
and probable development, and the
plan to be followed in pursuing the
particular scope of the essay is laid
down. The second chapter is on
Political Evolution. The third
presents the three ideals of social
organization, which are proposed
by as many different classes of po-
litical philosophers : i. The pagan,
or monistic. 2. The civic, or that
which is based on some maxims of
natural right and expediency. 3.
The theocratic or mediaeval. The
fourth chapter treats of Scientific
Evolution, the fifth of Philosophi-
cal and the sixth of ^Esthetic Evo-
lution.

We may as well premise a state-
ment of Dr. Mivart's idea of evolu-

tion before we proceed to analyze
his argument. It is a procession
from an indefinite, incoherent ho-
mogeneity to a definite, coherent
heterogeneity, whose origin is God
as first cause, whose ultimatum is
God as final cause or end, whose
principle of continuity is the intelli-
gent volition of God as ruler, em-
bracing all the phenomena of the
universe, physical, biological, politi-
cal, moral, and religious, in one en-
chainment of activities, which rise
in a graduated series from the low-
est to the highest toward their Ideal
in God.* A similar idea is laid by
Leo at the foundation of his Uni-
versal History : " The Christian
view of the history of the world
takes all facts, not as something new
superadded by the power of man to
the creative act of God, but only as
a further evolution of the facts of
creation." f In the introductory
chapter Dr. Mivart begins by not-
ing the fact that there are crises or
great epochs in this historical evo-
lution, and expressing his convic-
tion that the present is one of
these, and particularly marked by
being a period of conscious develop-
ment. As the outcome of the
changes occurring in the past, he
traces its logical connection with
the periods of the French Revolu-
tion, the revolt of the sixteenth cen-
tury, the Renaissance, and the con-
flict of Philip the Fair with the
Holy See. The process of this
evolution is designated as a struggle
of reviving paganism to reject the
domination of mediaeval theocracy,
which, gradually obtaining success,
is likely to be carried to a much
further point than it has yet reach-
ed. Two questions are proposed
for consideration : i, " The effect on
Christianity of the further develop-

*Seep. 194.

t Lehrb. a'er Univ. Genet... voL i p. 17.

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

ment of the great movement." 2.
" The probable result of the renewed
conflict between such a modified
Christianity and a revived pagan-
ism."

In order clearly and fully to un-
derstand the author's method of
treating these questions, it is neces-
sary to place and keep distinctly in
view with whom he is arguing and
on what principles. It is not with
professed Christians or Catholics
that he primarily intends to discuss
these topics, on their principles, but
with those who are mere naturalists,
and who admit nothing but what is
evident or provable by purely sci-
entific and rational arguments. The
truth of revelation and the Catholic
faith is therefore left on one side,
and nothing is taken into considera-
tion except "obvious or admitted
tendencies of known natural forces
and laws." It is the author's pur-
pose to extort from the enemies of
revelation and the Catholic Church,
by using their own principles and
ideas, evidence for the ability of
the church to cope with, overcome,
and bend to her own superior force
of intelligence and will the new
and hostile environments, political,
scientific, and philosophical, by
which she is surrounded. In re-
spect to the political aspect of the
question, he argues that, supposing
the changes in this order to proceed
in their evolution until a complete
disintegration of the mediaeval, theo-
cratic system is effected, an interior,
latent capacity will be evolved in
the church, by which she will be
integrated and strengthened for a
more complete and extensive tri-
umph than was ever before achiev-
ed. Briefly, his argument amounts
to this : Violent, red-republican,
or despotic subversions of the liber-
ty of the masses and social order
cannot be lasting. Some kind of

basis for liberty with ordei must be
found in natural law and right, con-
sisting of maxims ot ethical truth
and expediency. The political
maxims of England and the United
States are referred to for illustra-
tion, and the author anticipates for
the English-speaking nations, their
maxims of policy and their language,
an universal, predominating influ-
ence in the future. Now, the
church, he argues, can avail herself
of this liberty. The laboring classes,
once liberated from and raised
above that misery and oppression
which are the active cause of their
hostility against both the hierarchy
and the aristocracy, can be won
over to the cause of the church.
Religious orders, founded on pov-
erty and labor, whose members are
drawn from these classes and asso-
ciated with them, can gain new life,
power, and extension. Opposition
and persecution will only purify
and invigorate the intellectual and
moral constitution of the church,
and intensify its unity of organic
life and action. That part of society
which is corrupted by pagan im-
morality will be weakened and di-
minished by its errors and vices,
while the Catholic portion will be-
come always stronger and more
numerous by the effect of its ethical
maxims carried out in practice.
The past history of the church en-
ables us to augur for her future
history that there are no circum-
stances, however difficult and ap-
parently destructive to her life,
which she cannot surmount, and
over which she cannot achieve a
complete triumph, in virtue of the
organic strength which she pos-
sesses. At the end of his long and
minute process of argument, in
which he says he has " endeavored
dispassionately to estimate what, at
the very utmost, must be the de-

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

structive effects on Christianity of
the greatest amount of anti-theocra-
tic change which can possibly be
anticipated, " the author considers
that a Catholic may be fairly enti-
tled to express the following con-
viction : " By the continuance, then,
of this evolutionary process, there is
plainly to be discerned in the dis-
tant future a triumph of the church
compared with which that of me-
difleval Christendom was but a
transient adumbration a triumph
brought about' by moral means
alone, by the slow process of ex-
hortation, example, and individual
conviction, after every error has
been freely propagated, every de-
nial freely made, and every rival
system provided with a free field
for its display a triumph infinitely
more glorious than any brought
about by the sword, and fulfilling at
last the old pre-Christian prophe-
cies of the kingdom of God upon
earth."*

One-half of the volume is taken
up with the consideration of poli-
tical evolution and the three poli-
tical ideals. Nevertheless, the au-
thor considers that the questions re-
specting science and philosophy are
much the most important. For,
although he concludes from his
course of reasoning that political
changes will be harmless to the
church, and even give her increased
strength, coherence, and efficiency,
so that a Catholic may reasonably
expect for her all that triumph
which he thinks her Author has
foretold, in spite of such changes ;
yet, in arguing with an unbeliever,
such a ground of confidence cannot
be assumed. If the claims of the
church to authority, and the dog-
matic truth of her doctrine, can be
successfully assailed by science and

* P. 121.

philosophy, then scientific and phi-
losophical evolution must be fatal
to Christianity, and political changes
will facilitate and hasten the catas-
trophe, though they are powerless
to produce it by their own solitary,
unaided force. Here we arrive at
that part of the subject which is to
us the most interesting, and which
the author has treated in the most
satisfactory manner. On this field
Dr. Mivart is at home ; for it is his
own peculiar ground, where he has
already labored with eminent suc-
cess, and where we confidently hope
he will hereafter gather a still great-
er and richer harvest.

We anticipate a great revolution
in the attitude of what is in com-
mon parlance rather incorrectly
called " science " i.e., the complex
of various branches of physics to-
ward the Catholic Church. A hos-
tile attitude is wholly unnatural.
Second-class scientists, sciolists in
knowledge, men of an imperfect
and one-sided culture, are intellec-
tually swamped in the morass of
facts, theories, and hypotheses in
which they pass their lives. The
imperfect beginnings of natural sci-
ences present phases of apparent
contradiction to revealed truths.
Imperfect theological systems, and
opinions which rest on merely hu-
man authority, but are erroneously
supposed to be revealed doctrines,
frequently clash with science, or
with scientific hypotheses which are
more or less probable or plausible.
But there is in genuine natural sci-
ence, in the methods by which it
proceeds, in the spirit which ac-
tuates its great masters, something
eminently favorable to genuine sa-
cred science and akin to it. The
wild, anti-Christian hypotheses which
are put forth under the name of
science are not unfrequently crush-
ed by the masters in science, even

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

though they are not themselves
Christians. Inductive science is
modest, calm, impartial, slow, and
just, in its procedure. It is like the
law in its accepting and examining
evidence on all sides of every ques-
tion. The masters in science who
are unbelievers are so in spite of,
and not because of, their scientific
spirit and method. If they are ac-
tively hostile to Christianity, it is
because of some false philosophy
which is accidentally connected witli
their science, or by reason of their
ignorance of real Christianity. No
false system can stand the applica-
tion of the genuine principles and
method of scientific inquiry. It is
precisely by that method and those
principles that the truth of the Ca-
tholic Church is established, corro-
borated, and confirmed. An amia-
ble friend, a Unitarian minister,
once remarked to us that men's
minds were going back, by a cir-
cuitous route, to the Catholic Church.
This is what Dr. Mivart endeavors
to show. Having tried all false
routes and traced up all errors to
their ending in No-Land, men work
back across lots and through thick-
ets to the old travelled road which
they abandoned through caprice.

In respect to physical science,
Dr. Mivart's principal line of argu-
ment goes to show that it has no-
thing to do directly with theology,
because it is conversant exclusively
with "phenomenal conceptions."
Facts as to the coexistences and se-
quences of phenomena do not fur-
nish the philosophy by which they
are to be explained. This p^iloso-
phy, and the theology which rests
on it as its natural basis, have their
own distinct sphere. It is only
where theology affirms something
as a revealed truth respecting facts
of this kind e.g., that the sun re-
volves around the earth, that crea-

tion began four thousand years be-
fore Christ, and was completed in
six literal days that it comes upon
the common ground where it can
clash with physical science. In
regard to Catholic doctrine, he
shows that such affirmations are bui
few, and that none have ever been
made into dogmas by the authority
of the church which have been
afterwards proved by scientific evi-
dence to be false. The complete
revolution in cosmology effected by
the demonstration of the Coperni-
can system is referred to as an in-
stance of apparent conflict between
science and dogma which turned
out to be no conflict at all. So,
also, the apparent conflict between
evolutionary biology and Christian
dogma, which the author has more
fully discussed in other works, is
succinctly treated. The antago-
nism between physics and theology,
though of long standing, is acciden-
tal, and "physical science should
be considered, alike by the philo-
sophic Christian and anti-Christian,
as neutral and indifferent." The
only influence, therefore, which phy-
sical science can have on Chris-
tianity is through the philosophy
which is connected with it. It is
philosophy which affords the real
battle-ground for the final and de-
cisive conflict between the Chris-
tian and anti-Christian forces. Not-
withstanding the narrow-minded,
ignorant, and absurd contempt for
philosophy which many modern sci-
entists express, and which has been
quite common for some time past,
the author thinks that the scientists
themselves, even by their destruc-
tive efforts, are aiding powerfully in
bringing about a great philosophic
reaction. The author most justly
observes that fundamental questions
of philosophy underlie all physical
science, and that, for this reason,

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

the great development and wide
popularity of physical science must
drive many minds into philosophy.

317

Europe. have come to be universal-
ly appreciated. One or two testi-
monies to the grandeur of the me-

Reviving paganism, which is only a diaeval philosophy from distinguish-

return to the old Aryan predilec- ed opponents are given. The wide-

tion for pantheistic naturalism, and

is theoretically based on ancient

philosophical ideas revived in new

dresses by modern sophists, can

only come into that internecine con- valric enthusiasm for scholastic phi.

flict with Christianity, after which it losophy is of itself a signal instance

spread and earnest revival of the
same among Catholics all over the
world is a fact too patent to need
any proof. Dr. Mivart's almost chi-

pants, on the ground of philosophy.
Both sides must therefore give them-

of a movement in this direction
from a new quarter i.e., from the

selves to philosophical study and ranks of the devotees of physical
discussion, and they have already science. It would seem that he
to do so. The supreme himself has been led through sci-
ence to philosophy, and therefore
his views and reasonings on the
matter have a peculiar interest. He
presents two distinct phases of the
question. One represents the in-
ability of the anti-Christian scien-

begun

question, therefore, in respect to
the movement of contemporary evo-
lution, is the philosophical direction
it is likely to take.

We arrive, then, at the last topic
but one considered by Dr. Mivart

viz., Philosophic Evolution, and the tists to construct a philosophy which
process by which he endeavors to may successfully oppose Christian-

" form. a final judgment as to the
result of the great conflict between
reviving paganism and the Chris-
tian church."

In Dr. Mivart's opinion one in
which we need not say we most
heartily concur what is needed is a
return, " not to a philosophy, but to
the philosophy. For if metaphysics
are possible, there is not, and never
was or will be, more than one phi-
losophy which, properly understood,
unites all speculative truths and
eliminates all errors : the philoso-
phy of //^philosopher Aristotle."'
Moreover, he declares his convic-
tion that evolution will infallibly
bring about this return. In his view,
scholastic philosophy simply went
out of fashion in the same way that
mediaeval architecture came to be
despised as barbarous, and will
again resume its sway just as the
architectural glories of northern

P. 179.

ity. The other presents positive
tendencies in scientific evolution
toward the peripatetic philosophy
of the Christian schools. In respect
to the first, his line of argument
shows that these anti-Christian
scientists are at war with each
other and can never agree upon
any one system ; furthermore, that
their reasonings end in absolute
scepticism, and thus undermine their
own foundations. Human nature
and common sense invariably cause
a reaction against idiotic and sui-
cidal systems of this sort. Even
the cultivation of natural science,
therefore, must produce a tendency
to seek for a satisfactory system of
psychology and ontologv. And as
the philosophy which Des Cartes
brought into vogue, ending with
the transcendentalism of Kant and
his successors, is no better ^than a
philosophy of scepticism, it seems
that a return to the mediaeval and
Grecian school, to Aristotle and St.

318

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

Thomas, is unavoidable. There is
but one other system which holds out
the promise of a refuge from materi-
alism and scepticism that of the
Ontologists. This system, however,
is too contrary to the spirit and me-
thod of the natural sciences to offer
any attractions to minds seeking for a
synthesis of the spiritual and the ma-
terial. The exposition of positive ten-
dencies toward Catholic philosophy
in the evolutionary processes of mo-
dern thought is on too abstruse and
extensive a range to admit of being
more compendiou-sly treated than
it actually is in the author's text.
We will, therefore, content ourselves
with quoting his own words, in
which he summarily expresses the
result of his arguments in his con-
clusion : " Glancing backward over
the course we have traversed, it
seems borne in upon us that the lo-
gical development of that process
which Philip the Fair began is pro-
bably advancing, however slowly, to
a result very generally unforeseen.
But if such result as that here in-
dicated be the probable outcome
of philosophical evolution, Chris-
tianity has once more evidently
nothing whatever to fear from it.
A philosophy which as a comple-
ment unites in one all other sys-
tems will harmonize with a religion
which as a complement synthesizes
all other religions, and not only reli-
gions properly so called, but atheism
also. Atheism, pantheism, and pure
deism, running their logical course
and mutually refuting each other,
find an ultimate synthesis in Chris-
tianity, as we have before found
them to do in nature. Christianity
affirms the truth latent in atheism
namely, that God, as He is, is un-
imaginable and inscrutable by us ;
in other words, no such God as we
can imagine exists. It also affirms
the truth in pantheism, that God

acts in every action of every created
thing, and that in him we live and
move and are. Finally, it also as-
serts the truths of deism, but by
its other assertions escapes the
objections to which deism is liable
from opposing systems. Similarly,
Christianity also effects a synthesis
between theism and the worship of
humanity, and that by the path, not
of destruction, but through the
nobler conception of * taking the
manhood into God.'

" Our investigations have led us to
what we might have & priori an-
ticipated the conclusion that the
highest and most intellectual power
is that which must ultimately dom-
inate the inferior forces. Neither
political nor scientific developments
can avail against the necessary con-
sequences of philosophical evolu-
tion. No mistake can be greater
than that of supposing that philoso-
phy is but a mental luxury .for the
few. An implicit, unconscious phi-
losophy possesses the mind and in-
fluences the conduct of every pea-
sant. Metaphysical doctrines, soon-
er or later, filter down from the
cultured few to the lowest social
strata, and become, for good or ill,
the very marrow of the bones, first
of a school, then of a society, ulti-
mately of a nation. The course of
general philosophy, it is here con-
tended, is now returning to its le-
gitimate channel after a divergence
of some three centuries' duration.
This return cannot affect preju-
dicially the Christian church, but
must strengthen and aid it; and
thus that beneficial action upon it
of political and scientific evolution,
before represented as probable,
will be greatly intensified, and the
great movement of the RENAIS-
SANCE hereafter take its place as
the manifestly efficient promoter of
a new development of the Chris-

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

tian organism such as the first twen-
ty centuries of its life afforded it no
opportunity to manifest." '

1 he author's last chapter, on
Esthetic Evolution, is a kind of
appendix to the essay which is
really concluded with the passage
just now quoted but it is never-
theless an ingenious and elaborate
essay in itself. The author begins
by remarking that the question
of evolution in religion is one which
would furnish an interesting sub-
ject of inquiry. He then pays a
very high but just tribute to the
genius of Dr. Newman, whose in-
fluence over Dr. Mivart's mind
may be traced in all his writings, as
the one who, in his great essay on
Development, has elucidated with a
master-hand the evolutionary pro-
cess within the church, and anti-
cipated the doctrines of Spencer,
of Darwin, and of Haeckel. With a
passing allusion to the great Vati-
can decree as the culmination of
this process and the keystone of the
great arch of civil and religious
liberty ; and to the two distinct
though intermixed processes of
evolution outside the church, one
simply pagan, the other sectarian;
and to the process of disruption
and dissolution which is tending to
carry the adherents of the sects
either toward anti-theism or to-
ward the church the author turns
aside to consider a subject closely
connected with religious evolution :
the probable effect of the great mod-
ern movement of contemporary
evolution upon Christian art. Most
of his remarks are upon architec-
ture, although he touches lightly
upon music, painting, and sculpture,
In music he appears to give his
vote for St. Gregory and Palestrina.
In respect to painting and sculpture,

*P. 2I5 .

he anticipates progress in these aits
by the blending of the best eie
ments of the p rer aphaelite period
and those of the Renaissance In
handling the topic of architecture
he analyzes the arguments for and
against both the Gothic and Italian
styles, and ends by declining to acl-
vocate the side of the exclusive
champions of either of the two
styles. After discussing some of
the general principles of the art,
he proposes a return to the style
which prevailed before the intro-
duction of the pointed arch, as a
starting point for an improved
style combining some features of
the Gothic with some others of the
Romanesque style of architecture.
One consideration which he pre-
sents respecting the use of stained-
glass windows strikes us as. especi-
ally worthy of attention. As orna-
ments and as objects of devotion,
the paintings upon glass in church-
windows are far inferior to statues
and pictures, and they nevertheless
exclude them and occupy their
place by reason of the quality of
the light which is reflected through
stained glass. It is desirable, there-
fore, to find some way of making
the windows beautiful and orna-
mental as well as useful, and at the
same time admitting light of that
quality and in that direction which
is requisite in a church decorated
with paintings and statuary. Dr.
Mivart says : '' In the first place,
the absence of any rigid rule of
symmetry will allow the admission
of light just wherever it may be re-
quired. Secondly, the windows
may be of any shape found the
most convenient square, elongnt-
ed, and narrow windows, rose-win-
dows or semi-circular windows, as
in the nave of Bonn cathedral
They may also be made ornamen-
tal by mullions, while tracery need

3 20

Mivarfs Contemporary Evolution.

not by any means be confined to
the upper part of each window,
since each window may be all tra-
cery, the stone-work being of such
thickness* as may combine strength
and security with a copious admis-
sion of light. The absence of that
beautiful but self-contradictory fea-
ture, brilliant stained glass, will al-
low an ample supply of light without
too great a sacrifice of wall-space,
and without any impairment of sta-
bility. Not that the glazing should
not be ornamental and artistic ; the
pieces of glass might be so design-
ed that their lead frame-work may
form elegant patterns, while the
glass itself, of delicate grays and
half-tints, will afford a wide scope
for the skilful designer."*

Finally, the author winds up by
expressing his belief in a future
development of Christian art in
language which we condense a lit-
tle from his concluding pages :
" Nullum tempus occur r it ccclesia !
The ever-fruitful mother of beauty
and of truth, of holy aspirations
and of good works, has not come
to the end of her evolution even
in the world of art, and it may be
affirmed that there appear to be
grounds for thinking that in the
whole field of art, music, painting,
sculpture, and architecture, our suc-
cessors may witness a vast, new,
complex, and stable artistic inte-
gration of a special and distinctly
Christian character a self-con-
sciousness, as it were, in Christian
art such as never was before, and
which will appropriately serve to
externally clothe and embody that
vast and magnificent -Christian de-
velopment for which all phases of
evolution are preparing the way,
and to which Christians may look
forward with joy and hope as the

one supreme end of the whole evo-
lutionary process, so far as the Au-
thor of nature has revealed to us
his purposes either by the lessons
which the universe of mind and
matter displays before our eyes, or
by supernatural revelation."*

The essay of which we have
given an analysis, and all the other
works of Dr. Mivart, are well wor-
thy of attentive perusal. Their
great merit lies in the fact that
they break up new ground and
lead the way to investigations in
new fields of thought. Of course
it could not be expected that sub-
jects so wide-spreading and far-
reaching as those which the au-
thor has discussed in this volume
should be thoroughly and complete-
ly handled within so small a com-
pass. Each chapter would require
an elaborate volume even for the
full elucidation of the author's own
ideas. Whatever difference of opin-
ion may exist in regard to particu-
lar views and theories, there is one
grand, predominant idea pervading
them all, in which Dr. Mivart ex-
presses in his own peculiar way
what is a very common belief and
expectation of great numbers of
the most illustrious champions of
the Catholic Church in the present
eventful period.

That this is really a great and
critical era in the church's history,
and that present changes and
events, however painful and un-
promising they may be, are pre-
paring the way for one of her
grand and decisive triumphs, is a
general conviction in the minds
of her devoted adherents, the truth
of which her most embittered ene-
mies seem to forebode with a dread
anticipation. All things created
by God have a potentiality in thorn

* P. 253-

M iv art's Contemporary Evolution.

which is infinite. Much more, the
greatest of his works on this earth,
the church. The mere observation
of what she has done, and of the
capabilities which are contained
within her, looked at from a pure-
ly rational viewing-point, is suffi-
cient for prognosticating a future
evolution to which no limits are as-
signable. A Catholic must, how-
ever, look upon her origin, her past
action, and her future destiny as be-
longing to the supernatural order.
She has been created to fulfil God's
purpose. That his purpose is the
final triumph of good over evil is
certain. But, in particulars, we only
know how far, how long, and in
what way this triumph is decreed
to take place on this earthly arena
where the church is militant ; in s.o
far as the purposes of God are
made manifest to us by actual his-
tory or by prophecy. The gen-
eral sense of the most approved in-
terpreters of prophecy in the sa-
cred Scriptures justifies the expecta-
tion of some signal triumph of the
church on the earth yet to come.
There seems to be a presentiment
in the hearts of the faithful that it
is now drawing near. We have a
strong warrant for attributing this
presentiment to a secret movement
of the Holy Spirit, in the repeated
and emphatic utterances of the au-
gust and holy Vicar of Christ upon
earth, our gloriously reigning Sov-
ereign Pontiff Pius IX. As to the
time, the means, the nature, and the
duration of this triumph of the

VOL. XXIV.

321

church upon earth, and the exact,
precise ^ sense of the unfulfilled
prophecies respecting the tempo-
ral kingdom of Jesus Christ, there
is room for .much diversity of opin-
ion. The great social changes and
evolutionary movements of which
Dr. Mivart writes present a prob-
lem to a thoughtful Christian mind
very difficult of solution. " Ou al-
lons nous !" is the anxious exclama-
tion of Bishop Dupanloup in re-
spect to France, and a similar ques-
tioning of the future agitates the
minds of men throughout the
world. Whoever has any saga-
cious and well-reasoned answer to
this interrogation is, therefore, like-
ly to find eager and interested lis-
teners, and deserves a respectful
hearing. Dr. Mivart thinks that
he sees the way out of present
complications, and discovers signs
which herald the advent of a new
and long period of human history
under the influence of Christianity
which will be the culmination of
God's work on the earth. What-
ever may be thought by different
persons of this horoscope and of
the signs in our present sky, all
must admit the ingenuity and force
of reasoning which the author has
displayed, admire his chivalrous and
generous spirit, and recognize the
great amount of valuable know-
ledge and genuine truth, both
in physics and metaphysics, con-
tained in the volume now reviewed
and in Dr. Mivart's other produc-
tions.

322

The Devtfs Christmas Gift.

THE DEVIL'S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

LET fastidious and fashionable
people say what they will about
shanties, there was something in
Mike Roony's humble dwelling that
was really attractive. Perched on
the top of a broad and lofty rock
near the corner of Broadway and
Forty-ninth Street, it commanded
a magnificent view of the Hudson
River and the Sound ; and as the
only way to reach it was by a flight
of steps which Mike had cut in the
rock, 'twas known among the neigh-
bors by the name of Gibraltar.
Some said Roony was a squatter ;
that he paid neither tax nor rent
for the small piece of Manhattan
Island which he occupied. Well,
be this as it may, one thing is cer-
tain he always declared his readi-
ness to move when they blasted
him out. Nothing grew upon this
homestead not a bush, not a weed,
not a blade of grass ; it was a lit-
tle desert, roamed over by a goat,
and swept clean by the winds,
which made it their romping-ground
from every quarter of the compass.

But Mike had a wife who lov-
ed flowers, and in the window
fronting south stood a flower-
pot wherein there bloomed a sweet
r-ed rose. Helen for this was her
name had the true instincts of a
ilady, albeit her garment was not of
-silk and she sometimes went bare-
foot. She kept herself scrupulously
-neat for water does not cost any-
thing and was fairer to behold than
the flower she cherished. Born in
America, of Irish parents, hers was
one of those ideal faces which we
not seldom meet with among Ame-

rican women. A freckle or two
only helped to set off the perfect .
whiteness of her skin ; her eyes had
taken their hue from the blue sky
of her native land, and like the
raven's wing was the color of her
hair.

But although Helen knew that
she was beautiful, and there was
a small mirror in the shanty, she
did not waste any time before it,
unless, perhaps, of a Sunday morn-
ing ere going to High Mass. A
true helpmate was this wife in
every sense of the wprd. She arose
betimes, no matter how cold the
weather might be, to prepare her
husband's breakfast, and, if a but-
ton was missing off his coat, always
found time to sew it on before he
went to his work. The floor of
the shanty was daily sprinkled with
fresh sand ; the pictures on the wall
one of the Blessed Virgin at the
foot of the cross, the other of St.
Joseph were never hung awry ;
you saw no broken panes in the
windows ; and the faces of her two
little children, Michael and Helen,
were kept as bright and clean as
her own. She never quitted home
during her husband's absence to
gossip and talk scandal with other
women ; and, monotonous as her life
may seem, 'twas a happy one. Mike,
too, was happy, and no mariner
homeward bound ever watched
for the beacon-light on his native
coast more impatiently than he
watched for the light which Helen
used to place in the window, whence
he might see it from afar as he
trudged back from his day's work.

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

And no matter how hard it might
be raining, or snowing, or freezing,
at the first glimpse of its welcome
rays Mike always burst out into a
merry song. In the evening she
would read him to sleep with some
story from the Catholic Review ; then,
when his head began to nod, she
gently drew the pipe out of his
mouth and whispered: "Love, 'tis
bed-time."

Oh ! happy were those days so
happy that Helen would sometimes
tremble; for surely they could not
last for ever otherwise it would be
heaven on earth.

But, sober and inoffensive as
Roony was, he was not without
enemies ; indeed, for very reason
of his sobriety and inoffensiveness
some hated him. And one even-
ing Christmas eve he and his
young wife were seated by the
stove, talking about the Black-eye
Club, whose head-quarters were in
a liquor-store close by, and whose
members had sworn vengeance on
Mike for refusing to join them.
" They have threatened to beat
me," he said ; " but if they only
give me fair play, I'll be a match
for the biggest of 'em."

"Ay, fair play!" said Helen,
shuddering. " Savages like them
always take a man unawares, and,
like wolves, they hunt in packs."

"They carry pistols, too," added
Mike, " while I carry nothing but
my fists."

" Well, bad as I feel about it,
husband dear, I'd a thousand times
rather have you brave the whole
villanous gang than see you join
them; for now we are so happy."
Here Helen twined her arm round
his neck, then, gazing on him with
loving eye, she continued: "You
have never touched liquor, you
do not get into fights, you are
so good; and this rock is dearer

323

to me than the greenest farm in
the land."

" With you any spot would be a
paradise," rejoined Mike; "and I
hope to-morrow will be the last
Christmas that we'll go without a
turkey and some toys for the chil-
dren."

^ " Oh ! I'm sure it will," said Helen.
" But you are right to pay all our
debts first; and already the boards
which the shanty cost are paid for,
and so is the stove, and there is
nothing owing except the coal";
then, with a smile : "And I've
promised a pailful of coal to Mrs.
McGowan, who lives on the next
rock. You see, poor as we are,
we can afford to give something
away. Oh ! isn't that sweet ?"

" It is indeed," answered Roony ;
then, after a pause : " But now tell
me, wife, who do you think is going
to preach to-morrow?"

" Father H ."

"Really! Oh! I'm so glad; he
always knows when to stop."

"A good sermon can't be too
long," said Helen.

" Well, I own it isn't easy to leave
off when once you get a-going. I
was a brakeman five years, and know
what it is to stop a train of cars.
But if I was in the pulpit I'd know
how to do it."
" How ?"

" Well, I'd just fix my eye on the
sleepiest-looking fellow in the con-
gregation, and the very moment his
head began to nod I'd lift up my
hand and say, * A blessing I wish
you all. ' " Here Helen laughed, and
while she was laughing Mike add-
ed : "And I've sometimes thought

Father H kept his eye on me."

While they were thus chatting by
the little stove the northwest wind
went howling round the house,
and Jack Frost tried his best, his
very best, to get in, but did not

324

The Devils Christmas Gift.

succeed, not even through the key-
hole ; for Roony was not sparing of
fuel, and the stove-pipe was red hot.
Indeed, 'twas rather pleasant to hear
the voice of the blast and the rat-
tling of the window-panes ; while at
times the whole building seemed to
rise up o'ff the rock, and then Helen
would throw an uneasy glance at
her husband, who would grin and
say : " It's well anchored, darling ;
never fear." At length the clock
struck midnight, and the children,
who had been sleeping on their
parents' laps, were taken gently up
and put to bed so gently that
their slumber was scarcely broken.
'Then husband and wife retired too ;
but, ere placing their heads on the
pillow, they knelt and gave thanks to
(rod for the many blessings they had
enjoyed since last Christmas. Oh !
sweet was the sleep which followed
the prayer, and happy were, their
dreams ; and when Christmas
morning came, the sun did not rise
on a happier home than this one.
Scarcely had its rays flashed through
the east window when Mike sprang
up, and, clapping his hands, shout-
ed : " O Helen, Helen ! open your
eyes and see what Santa Claus has
brought you."

Obedient to his call, Helen awoke ;
and sure enough, to her great sur-
prise, discovered one of her stock-
ings dangling from the latch of the
door, and there was something in it,
but what it might be she had not
the least rrotion, nor her husband
either.

" Oh ! go quick and see what it
is," she said. "I'm so curious to
know."

Accordingly, Mike went to the
stocking; then, plunging his hand
into it, drew forth a bottle, and
on it was marked, "Whiskey."

" Well, I declare," he said, grin-
ning, as he held it up, " here is

something, Nell, to drink your health
with this Christmas day."

But the wife's bright look had
vanished in a moment when she
heard what the bottle contained ;
and now, in a grave tone, she an-
swered : " No, dear, do not drink my
health with that. Thank God ! you
have never yet touched liquor, so
do not begin the bad habit on this
sacred day, nor on any other day.
Throw the bottle out of doors-
do !"

" Well, now, can't a fellow take
just a sip in honor of Santa Claus,
who brought it?"

" No, no ; the devil brought it.
Don't take even one drop ; throw
the poison away quick !"

" Oh ! but it's a bitter cold morn-
ing, Nell, and the fire isn't lit, and
a sip of whiskey '11 keep me warm
while I make it only just one sip."

"Husband, I beg you"- here
the wife clasped her hands "I
implore you to get rid of the devil's
gift as quick as possible. I see
that you are already tempted. O
husband ! listen to my voice."

To calm her for she seemed much
excited Roony opened the door,
and, stepping out into the frosty
air, struck the neck of the bottle
against the rock, so as to make her
believe that it was broken in pieces ;
but only the neck came off. " Real-
ly," he said within himself, after
moistening his lips with a drop,
"this doesn't taste bad; surely a
little won't hurt me." Then, con
cealing the bottle in the goat-house,
he went back and told his wife what
he had never told her before a lie.

"You broke it! Oh! I'm so
glad," she exclained, " so very
glad !" But there was a tear in her
eye as she spoke ; then, while Mike
busied himself kindling the fire,
Helen knelt down and remained <
good while on her knees.

The Devils Christmas Gift.

"Why, Nell, what ails you?" he
asked, drawing near her after she
had finished the prayer. "This is
Christmas morning; let's be merry."

" Oh ! yes, I must be merry," she
replied, trying to assume a cheerful
air. But there was something in
her tone which struck Mike as pe-
culiar, and for a moment he blush-
ed. Did she suspect the untruth
which he had told? No; her faith
in him was unbroken, and she could
not account to herself for the heavy
weight upon her heart, which even
the prayer had not taken away ; and
now, despite the glorious sunbeams
flooding the room and the sweet
voices of her children, Helen felt
sad. Who had entered their happy
home in the stillness of night, and
placed that ill-omened gift in her
stocking? Might it really be the
Evil One? And while she won-
dered over this mysterious occur-
rence, she thought of the many
families, once happy and well-to-do,
who had come to grief and misery
through intemperance. Was her
own day of trial approaching?
What did this Christmas gift por-
tend ? " But no, no ; I will not be
sad; I'll be cheerful. For Michael's
sake I will," she said to herself.
Then, as the bright look spread over
her face, Mike clapped his hands
and shouted : " That's right, my dar-
ling. Hurrah !"

And so the early hours went by ;
and when ten o'clock struck, they
set out for St. Paul's Church, which
was about nine blocks off, the mo-
ther holding her little boy by the
hand, the father carrying little Nell,
who was not yet old enough to
walk so far. But when they were
within a few paces of the church
door, Roony stopped and declared
that he had forgotten to feed the
goat. " Well, dear, it's too late
now," said Helen. "Nanny can

325

wait ; you'll miss Mass if you go
back."

" O wife ! how would you like
to miss your breakfast?" rejoined
Mike. " Nanny is hungry. I must
return."

"And lose Mass ?" she said, with
a look of tender reproach, Roony
did not answer, but turned on his
heel and went away, leaving her
too overcome with surprise to utter
another word.

The priest was already at the al-
tar when Helen arrived, and the
church very full ; yet more people
continued to push their way in, and
ever and anon she would look round
to see if her husband were among
the late-comers. She tried to keep
her thoughts from wandering, but
did not succeed. Never had Helen
felt so distracted before, and the
foreboding of evil which had op-
pressed her in the early morning
now returned and shrouded her in
such gloom that she could hardly
pray. But, troubled as the poor
woman was, no suspicion of the
truth had yet entered her mind.
She was very innocent, and did not
doubt but Mike, having come late,
was hidden among the crowd by
the door.

At length the service ended; and
now she felt quite certain that he
would join her. But five minutes
elapsed, and then ten a whole
quarter of an hour passed away. The
congregation was fast dispersing ;
still, her husband did not appear.
" Oh ! where can he be ?" she asked
herself. " Where can he be?" At
every voice that greeted her Helen
started; for many knew her and
wished her a merry Christmas, and
Mrs. McGowan, who had a keen
eye, exclaimed: "Why, what ails
you, Mrs. Roony?"

How lonesome the wife felt as
she plodded homeward ! Yet her

326

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

children were prattling merrily, and
the street was full of happy people.
She was blind to them all, she was
deaf to every word that was spoken,
and kept murmuring again and
again : "Where can Michael be ?"

Finally Helen reached home, and
was about to cross the threshold,
when suddenly she paused and ut-
tered a cry which might have been
heard afar, 'twas so loud and pierc-
ing; while little Mike and Nell ex-
claimed at one breath : " Mamma,
look at papa sleeping."

Yes, there lay their father stretch-
ed upon the floor, breathing hea-
vily. But 'twas not the pleasant
slumber into which Helen loved to
see him fall when he returned wea-
ry from a hard day's work ; and
after gazing on nim a moment with
an expression impossible to de-
scribe, she buried her face in her
hands. Poor thing ! well might she
weep ; and if a feeling of disgust
mingled with her grief, may we not
forgive her? He was breathing
heavily; by his right hand lay an
empty bottle with the neck broken
off, and the air of the room was
tainted with the fumes of liquor.

" Stop ! let your father sleep,"
she said to her son, who had knelt
down and was playfully brushing
the hair off his parent's face. But
this precaution was needless; the
latter was too deep in his cups to
be roused by the touch of the
child's hand, and presently, with a
heavy heart, Helen turned away
and set to work to prepare the din-
ner. There was no turkey to cook;
still, she had intended to provide a
somewhat better repast than ordi-
nary, it being Christmas day. But,
alas ! she hardly knew what she
was doing as she bustled about the
stove ; and when, by and by, dinner
was ready, she tasted not a mouth-
ful herself all appetite had fled.

The children, however, ale heartiky,
pausing now and again to say :
" Mamma, why don't you call
papa ?"

It was evening when Room-
awoke, and the moment Helen per-
ceived that his eyes were open she
began to tremble ; for. though she
did not doubt but he was sober by
this time, she felt as if another man
were near her, and not the one
whom she had once so honored
and trusted. And as he stared at
her from the floor, he did indeed
appear changed ; there v,as a silly,
vacant look on his face, his eyes
were bloodshot, and it was almost
five minutes before he attempted to
rise. Then, without opening his
lips, he got up and went out of the
house, closing the door behind him
with a slam.

" Well, I declare," he said, toss-
ing away the broken bottle " I de-
clare I've been drunk ; and, what's
more, I told a lie and missed Mass.
Will she ever forgive me ?" Then
stamping his foot : " Oh ! what a fool
I've been what a wicked fool !"

Presently, while he was thus la-
menting his sins, the door opened
and a voice said : " Come to me,
dear; come to me."

"O Helen!" he cried, turning
toward her, " can you forgive me,
will you ?"

" Come to me," she repeated,
opening wide her arms, but at the
same time drawing back a step
from the threshold ; for curious
eyes were watching them from a
neighboring rock. Quick Roony
flew into the shanty, then, dropping
down on his knees, burst into tears.
The wife wept too, while little Mike
and Nell looked on in childish won-
der at the scene.

" But, darling, why do you cry ?"
he exclaimed presently, rising to his
feet. " You've done nothing wrong."

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

Helen made no response, but
brushing the tears away, twined
her arms around his neck.

" Well, speak, darling. What have
you done to cry ?" repeated Roony.

" O Michael !" she answered in
faltering accents, "you have been
such a good, kind husband to me.
We have been so happy together.
so very, very happy. God has blest
us with two darling children. We
might live, perhaps, years and years
in this sweet spot ; and when at
length death parted us, 'twould not
be for long we should meet again
in heaven. O Michael ! I weep be-
cause all this may be changed
because death might part us for
ever and ever !"

" No, no, darling, it shall not ! It
shall not !"

" Well, I will pray with heart and
soul, husband dear, that you may
not fall a second time. Alas! if
the habit of drink once fasten
upon you, it may be impossible to
shake it off; and intemperance not
only ruins many a family, but damns
many a soul." At her own words
the wife shuddered and began to
weep anew.

" Well, I say never fear. Not an-
other drop of liquor will I touch,"
said Mike " no, not another drop
as long as I live."

"Oh! thank God!" exclaimed
Helen, "thank God!"

" Yes, yes, I solemnly promise it.
And now, darling, try and forget all
about my wickedness to-day, won't
you ?"

" Yes, I'll forget all about it," she
answered. With this Helen began
to sing a merry song, in which her
husband joined, while the children
went romping around the room,
and the cricket came out of his
tiny hole beneath the stove and
chirped merrily too. But although
Helen had forgiven him, yet Mike's

327

conduct had wrought a deep im-
pression on her; and when bed-
time arrived and they retired, he
slept soundly enough, but she lay
awake for hours. And whenever
the wind shook the house, she
would tremble ; and once the door
seemed to open. But no, this was
merely fancy. The noise, however,
which startled her at midnight was
real and not imagination. It pro-
ceeded from the den where the
Black-eye Club was celebrating
Christmas, and mingled with their
yells were horrible oaths. Helen
did not doubt but a fight was
going on ; perhaps some one was
being beaten to death. Then she
turned toward her husband, and
even touched him, to make quite
sure that he was lying beside her.

The following day Roony went
off to work as usual, and came
back in the evening, cheered as
usual, too, by the light in the win-
dow ; and immediately its welcome
rays flashed upon him, he exclaim-
ed : " Oh ! what a good wife I have.
God bless her !"

Ay, Helen is good ! Her heart is
with you, Mike, wherever you go ;
and at this very moment she is
kneeling by the little beacon, pray-
ing that it may guide you safely to
her side, and that you may not be
tempted to stray into the bar-room
on the corner.

But not the next day only, the
whole week, Roony was his old,
good-natured, hard-working, sober
self; and what had marred the joy
of Christmas was fast fading from
Helen's memory. But one Satur-
day evening, as he was trudging
homeward with his pocket full of
wages, there came over him a sud-
den craving for spirits ; the broken
bottle out of which he had taken
his maiden drink seemed to rise
up before his eyes ; the delicious

328

The DcviCs Christmas Gift.

taste of the whiskey was on his lips
afresh. In fact, the craving was so
very strong, so wholly unexpected,
that it startled him, and his heart
beat violently.

"Oh! I never thought I should
be seized in this way," he groaned.
" How very strange ! I can't re-
sist ; yet I must. O Helen ! would
to God I had not taken that first
drink." The words were scarce-
ly breathed when the beams of
the home-light flashed upon him.
'Twas still a good distance off, and
the air was muggy and thick, yet it
shone brighter than Mike had ever
seen it shine before. For about a
minute he watched it yearningly;
he even quickened his steps and
twice groaned, "O Helen!" Then,
muttering a curse upon himself, he
turned his eyes away from the light,
and at the same time, swerving out
of the dear home-path, he hurried
on to the liquor-saloon.

" Three cheers for Mike Roony !"
was the salutation which greeted
him from a dozen voices as he en-
tered. " I knew you'd join us afore
long," said the President of the
Black-eye Club, advancing and
shaking him warmly by the hand ;
then, motioning to the others, their
empty glasses were refilled and the
new-comer's health toasted. Pre-
sently Roony wanted to treat ; but
" No, no," they all shouted ; " 'tis
our privilege to treat you this even-
ing." Whereupon the bottle was
passed round again ; while poor
Mike, flattered beyond measure by
this unlooked-for reception, thought
to himself: " What a foot I was not
to join the club long ago !"

And so on they went carousing,
and Helen's husband growing more
and more intoxicated, until at
length, when he was barely able to
stand, a voice exclaimed : " Now,
boys, let's christen him." Quick as

lightning a violent blow on the eye
followed these words ; then down
dropped Roony unconscious to the
floor.

"Where can- he be?" said the
anxious wife, seeing that he did not
return at the usual hour. " I pray
God nothing has happened. The
dear fellow came near being killed
by a blast last year. O my God !
I hope nothing has happened."
After waiting for him awhile, Helen
and her young ones took their
places at the supper-table ; but not
a morsel did she eat. A vague fear
possessed her. The children spoke,
but the mother answered them not;
the cricket chirped she was deaf
to its merry song ; and every few
minutes she would open the door,
and look out and listen. But no
husband appeared. And now, with-
out him, how everything seemed to
change ! The rock, the shanty, the
pretty rosebush she cherished, even
the children whom she loved ten
thousand times more than the rose
all appeared different to her eyes;
nothing was the same when he who
was the corner-stone of home was
missing; and Helen realized as
never before what a link of ada-
mant bound her heart to his. " Oh !
if anything has happened. If he is
killed, 'twill kill me too," she sigh-
ed. Then, when little Mike asked,
" Where is papa ?" she answered,
"Coming soon." And even to
speak these words brought her a
moment's peace of mind, and she
would try to think of some good
cause which might detain him. But
the clock went on ticking, and the
hour-hand moved further and fur-
ther toward midnight; still, no hus-
band came. The children were
put to bed, and soon were fast
asleep ; the fire in the stove died
out; the cricket became silent;
but the wife grew more and more

The Devil's CJiristmas Gift.

wakeful, while ever ana anon she
would go to the window and ner-
vously snuff the candle burning
there. Then again she would open
the door and listen listen with all
her ears; but she heard only the
throbbing of her heart and boister-
ous voices in the direction of the
liquor-saloon.

"'Well, I'll watch and pray till he
arrives," said Helen ; then kneel-
ing beside the crib where her chil-
dren were sleeping, she lifted her
thoughts to God. But the many
hours she had been awake, the
busy day prolonged so far into
night, proved at last too much for
her; and just as the clock struck
one her weary eyes closed and her
guardian angel took up the prayer
which she left unfinished.

How long Helen slept she did
not know ; but when she awoke the
candle had burned out and the
chamber was pitch dark. " Oh !
what is the matter ? What did. I
hear? Was it only a dream?" she
cried, starting to her feet.

" Come, now, I want my supper !"
growled Mike, staggering further
into the room. " Where's my sup-
per ?"

Pen cannot describe the wife's
feelings as she groped about for
the match-box. And when finally,
after letting three or four matches
drop out of her quivering fingers,
she succeeded in lighting a fresh
candle, what a sight did she be-
hold ! Was this man scowling at
her, with one eye battered and
swollen, her own Michael ?

"I say, where's my supper?" he
repeated with an oath.

Without uttering a word, but
with a sinking of the heart which
she had never experienced till now,
Helen made haste to kindle a fire
and heat up the potatoes and pork
which she had laid aside for him

329

in the evening. While thus em-
ployed Roony dropped down on a
bench ; then, after grumbling at her
a few minutes, began suddenly to
giggle. "I want you to know,"
said he, "that I'm now a member
of the Black-eye Club. But that's
plain enough by looking at me, eh ?
And when I've eaten supper, I'm
going to make you cut my hair
cut it short to fighting trim."

"O husband!" replied Helen,
in a voice of sorrowful entreaty,
"do not break my heart, I love
you so."

" Break your heart! Ha! ha!
that's a good joke." Then, glanc-
ing up at the clock: "Well, by
jingo, Nell, I'd better call this meal
breakfast. Why, it's pretty nigh
four, isn't it?"

Encouraged, perhaps, by the some-
what milder tone in which these
last words were spoken, she now
approached him, and, bendingdown,
proceeded to examine his wounded
eye. " Yes, bathe it for me," he
continued. " But, for all it hurts,
I'm deuced proud of it; for it's the
christening mark of the Black-eye
Club."

" Oh ! hush, dear. Don't men-
tion that wicked gang any more,"
said the wife. " I hate them; they
are fiends."

"Fiends? Ha, ha! Well, well,
hurry up with my breakfast or sup-
per, whichever you choose to call it ;
then get the scissors and cut off my
hair."

"Let me bathe your poor eye
first," she answered ; " then, after
you have done eating, 'twill be day-
light, and I want you, love, to come
to Mass this morning, and to see
the priest; we'll go together. ()
Michael ! dark clouds are lowering
over us; come with me to the
priest."

" To the priest ? No, indeed !

330

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

The Black-eye Club have nothing
to do with priests."

" O husband ! do not talk so ;
save yourself before it is too late,"
she went on, as she sponged the
c:lotted blood off his cheek.

" I can't, wife. The craving for
spirits is too strong. It all comes,
I know, from that one little drink
Christmas morning. Now I'm not
master of myself ; I believe there's
a devil in me."

A long, shadowy silence followed,
during which Helen wept, while
ever and anon Roony would say,
" It's no use crying." While he
was at his breakfast she once more
begged him to go with her to Mass.
But again he refused, saying, " Our
club don't go to Mass ; nor must you,
until you have trimmed my hair."

" Why, 'tis short enough," replied
Helen.

"Is it? Look!" And as Mike
spoke he clutched a fistful of it,
then gave a pull. " Now, don't
you see that some chap might grab
me and get my head in * chancery ' ?
I want my hair short as pig's bris-
tles, and well greased too ; then
I'll belike an eel, and grab me who
can."

The wife obeyed without a mur-
mur, performing the operation to
his entire satisfaction ; after which,
approaching the crib where her
children were sleeping, she gave
each a soft kiss, then went off by
herself to church.

Helen had never been wanting
in devotion; her faith had always
been strong. But now, as she
took her way along the lonely
street, with the morning star still
shining in the heavens, she felt
as though God were come nearer to
her; and all her former prayers
were cold compared with the pray-
ers which she offered this morning
at the foot of the altar. And when

Mass was over and she turned her
steps homeward, 'twas with a more
cheerful heart and a firm resolu-
tion to be a loving and faithful wife
to the end, the bitter end, whatever
it might be.

When Helen entered the shanty
she found her husband gone. But
little Mike was there, and he look-
ed so like his father ; and little
Nell was there too. Oh ! surely
they would not be abandoned.
" No, God is with us," she murmur-
ed. " My prayers will be heard,
and Michael will one day be what
he used to be. Yes, yes ! I know it."
As she spoke a radiant look spread
over her face ; then, making the sign
of the cross, she straightway set
about her daily duties as if nothing
had happened. O blessed Faith !
which makest the darkest hour
bright ; richer, indeed, in gifts
than a gold-mine art thou, and
stronger than a mountain to lean
upon in moments like these !

When evening came round,
Helen placed the candle in the
window as usual, although she had
faint hope that Mike had been at
work. And again she set up till a
very late hour, keeping the fire
burning and taking good care not
to fall asleep this time.

It was one o'clock when Roony re-
turned. He was not tipsy, but surly,
and when she laid her hand on his
arm he flung it away, saying, "Now,
I want no preaching and petting ;
I want my supper." The poor
woman was a little frightened, and
waited upon him awhile in silence.

"Yet I must speak," she murmur-
ed ; "I must brave his anger. No
husband was ever kinder than he,
no spouse happier than I have been
till now ; I must make one more
effort to save him from ruin."
With this, she again gently touched
his arm and said, " Dear love

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

331

" D your preaching; I won't

listen to it," he snarled, cutting
short her words, and in a voice so
loud that it awoke the children.
Then, presently, shrugging his
shoulders, " Oh ! you needn't whim-
per. I'm bound to be master
here."

" Have I ever denied your au-
thority ?" inquired Helen, looking
calmly at him through her tears.

"Oh! hush. Don't bother me,"
continued Roony, lifting up his
plate. Then, as if he had chang-
ed his mind about throwing it at
her, he dashed it into shivers on
the floor.

"Alas! what a curse liquor is,"
she cried in a tone of passionate
energy. " What a terrible curse !"

"Well, I'm not drunk, am I ?"

"But you have been drinking;
and the poison is in your veins.
O Michael ! for God's sake aban-
don the villanous set you belong
to!" Here he clenched his fist.
But heedless of the threat she went
bravely on : " Think how happy we
were, Michael. This bare rock was
more lovely than a garden to us.
And we have two dear children;
look at them yonder ! Look at
them !"

" I say, woman, go to bed and
leave me alone," thundered Roony,
bringing down his huge fist on the
table with a thump which made
everything in the shanty rattle.

Poor, poor Helen ! With a heart
torn by anguish, she obeyed- But
not a wink of sleep came to her
no, not a wink, and never night
seemed longer than this one. But
her husband slept like a top, nor
opened his eyes until ten the next
morning; then, as soon as he was
dressed, and without waiting for
breakfast, out he went to take a
drink.

" Oh ! what is coming? What is

going to happen now?" thought
Helen, as she watched him enter
the bar-room. Then kneeling clown,
she said a prayer.

The clock had just struck noon
when Mike returned, accompanied
part of the way by another man,
who helped him mount the difficult
path which wound up the rock;
and Roony needed assistance, for
even when he gained the summit
he could not walk straight, and fell
within a yard of his door. Quick
Helen ran to him ; for, although his
condition filled her with disgust,
yet she could not abide the thought
of other eyes than hers discover-
ing him thus. " Come in, husband,
come in the house," she said, taking
his arm. Scarcely, however, had
she got him on his feet again when
he caught her by the throat and
exclaimed, in the voice of a wild
beast, "Ah, ha! now I'm going to
beat you." But in an instant He-
len broke loose from him ; then
rushing back into the shanty, she
called her children and bade them
hurry out on the rock. The little
things obeyed, too innocent to know
what the trouble was. Then facing
her husband, who was scowling at
her from the threshold, " Now en-
ter," she said, "and beat me if you
will. Here, at least, nobody will
witness the deed." Roony stagger-
ed in and Helen closed the door.

That evening, after pressing her
children many times to her poor
bruised heart, Helen went away.
She quitted the home where she
had once been so happy, and, as
she went, she said to herself: "If
on my wedding day an angel from
heaven had told me this, I should
not have believed him."

But the step she was now taking
was all for the best. In his mad-
ness Roony had threatened to kill
her. " And he might do it," she

332

The DeviCs Christinas Gift.

sighed, " for when he is intoxicated
he doesn't know what he is doing.
And then all his life afterward he
would be haunted by remorse. Poor
Michael! I believe he still loves
me. For his own sake I am going
away."

It was Helen's intention to seek
refuge with a family who dwelt not
far off, and for whom she had once
done some work. They received
her very kindly, and wondered ever
so much at the ugly cut under one
of her eyes, from which the red
drops were still oozing; and her
upper lip, too, was cut. But He-
len refused to tell who had ill-used
her. " Pray, ask no questions," she
said. " Only furnish me with em-
ployment ; I'll drudge; I'll do any-
thing to earn a little money." Ac-
cordingly, they gave her a number
of shirts to make ; and being a deft
hand at needle-work, she was able
to gain quite a good livelihood. But
it was not for herself that Helen
labored, 'twas for those whom she
loved better than herself. And eve-
ry evening, when the stars began
to twinkle, she visited her old
home, and there, peeping through
the window, would watch little
Mike and Neil with yearning eyes.
And once she saw her husband
seated by the stove, eating a piece
of the bread and meat which she
had left at the door the previous
evening.

"Oh! thank God!" she said,
"that I am able to support him
and the children. Perhaps ere long
my prayers will be heard, and I
shall be happy again."

But Roony was still drinking
steadily ; even now, as he ate the
cold victuals, he was barely able to
sit on the chair, and so the poor
woman did not venture to show her-
self. Next day, however, the fifth
since she left home, the longed-for

opportunity presented itself; Mike
was sober, and with bounding heart
Helen went into the shanty.

"O wife!" he exclaimed, rising
to meet her, " 'tis an age since I
laid eyes on you. Where have you
been ?" Then his countenance sud-
denly growing dark as a thunder-
cloud, " but, by heaven ! what's
happened ? How came those bruis-
es on your face? Somebody has
ill-treated you ! Tell me the vil-
lain's name, that I may take his
heart's blood."

" I'll never tell his name," an-
swered Helen, in a low but firm
voice. " Never !"

For about a minute Roony gaz-
ed on her in silence ; the mourn-
ful, the shocking truth seemed
to be gradually dawning upon
him. " Oh ! is it possible ? Could
I have done it done such a
wicked, brutal thing?" he asked
himself. Then, falling on his knees,
he bathed her feet with bitter tears.
Helen wept also, while the children
ceased their gambols and wondered
what was the matter. But pre-
sently the wife bade him rise, then,
twining her arms round his neck,
gave him a tender embrace, by
which he knew that he was for-
given. And now for a brief half-
hour, oh ! how happy he was, and
how happy she was ! During the
dark days which followed Helen
often looked back to those fleeting
moments ; 'twas like a gleam of
sunshine flung across a scathed and
desolate landscape.

" Now, husband dear," she said
after he had fondled her a little
while, " let me put tilings to rights."
Whereupon she took her broom,
swept the floor, and sprinkled it
with clean sand; the pictures were
dusted; the clock set agoing; the
rosebush watered ; nor was the poor
goat forgotten. And delighted, in-

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

333

deed, was the half-starved creature
to see her again.

" Helen !" exclaimed Mike, while
she was thus employed, " a wife like
you is a priceless treasure. Would
to Heaven I had listened to you
Christmas morning ! What a differ-
ent man I'd be now !"

" Well, love, all is bright once

with drink that she deemed it best
to quit her home once more. Ac-
cordingly, she returned to the kind
people who had given her shelter
and employment. But it was not
easy to settle down anew to her
sewing; the needle would drop
from her fingers and a cold fear
her veins as she

throng li

thrill

more," answered Helen, cheerily, thought of the repulsive, sin-stamp-
He made no response save a deep ed face which had peeped into the

shanty and enticed her dear Mi-
chael away. We may imagine,
also, her agony of mind when it
was reported that a burglary, ac-
companied by murder, had been

iUi

thi

sigh.

" Why, husband dear, what trou-
bles you?" she asked, her look of
joy vanishing in a moment.

" No slave was ever bound by
such chains as bind me," he groan-
ed, dropping his forehead in his
hands. " And it all comes from
that one fatal drink."

" Well, pray, dear, pray to God,
and I will >ray with you."

" Too late ! The craving for li-
quor which seizes me at times is
irresistible ; 'tis seizing me now
the demon !"

"O my Saviour!" cried Helen,
trembling and turning pale. The
words had hardly left her lips when
the door opened and a strange face
at least it was new to her peep-
ed in.

" Time !" spoke the chief of the
Black-eye Club in a voice which
caused Roony to start to his feet.

" Begone !" cried Helen, advanc-
ing boldly toward the intruder.

"Time!" he repeated, now hold-
ing up a pistol. But, nothing daunt-
d, she was about to try and close

e door on him, when her husband
lipped past, and ere she could re-

ver from her amazement they
were both beyond the rock and
half way to the grog-shop.

That night the poor woman re-
mained in the shanty, watching, and
weeping, and praying. But her
husband did not come back till
sunrise ; and then he was so crazy

committed during the night, and
that suspicion pointed to certain
members of the Black-eye Club.
But, to her unspeakable relief, Mike
was not among those who were ar-
rested. The chief of the gang,
however, was ; and condemned, too,
to be hanged ; which sentence
would doubtless have been carried
out had he not managed to escape
from prison. This incident, far
from ruining the Black-eyes, only
afforded them a pleasing excite-
ment ; like rats when the cat comes,
they dived into their holes for a
space ; then out they came as nour-
ishing as ever, and Roony was one
of their most popular members.

But let us be brief with our story.
Why linger over poor Helen's mis-
ery ? Why tell of all the brutal
treatment she suffered ?

Month after month rolled by.
Spring came ; summer followed
spring. Yet there was no change
for the better in Mike. His shanty,
once the prettiest and cleanest of
all the shanties on Manhattan Island,
grew to be the dirtiest and most-
forlorn-looking. The door was
kicked off its hinges, ugly rags and
papers fluttered in the broken win-
dows, and occasionally the Black-
eye Club assembled en the rock,

334

The Demi's Christmas Gift.

making it the scene of a drunken
revel. But brave, faithful Helen
continued to visit her children
every evening after dark, carrying
tli em food and clothing. She
would not remove them from the
spot which she still called home,
for she hoped that the sight of the
little innocents would sooner or
later call her husband back to his
old self again. And every day
Helen went to St. Paul's church
and made the Stations of the Cross ;
this was her favorite devotion.
" And if my Saviour suffered so
much," she would say, " oh ! surely,
I can bear my load." Yet there
were moments when she seemed
well-nigh ready to sink under it.
Ay, more than once Hope wrestled
with Despair ; but Hope always
came off victorious.

If the wife's faith was still glow-
ing, if her trust in God continued
strong as ever, nevertheless in one
respect a woful change appeared
in her. Oh ! sad was the havoc
which this year of grief, of cruel ill-
treatment wrought on her once
bright and lovely face ! 'Twas as
if a coarse hand had rubbed off the
delicate tints of that sweet picture,
and left behind, not the ruins of her
beauty, but the ruins of those ruins.

And now in time's monotonous
circle winter is come round again ;
another Christmas is at hand.
Evergreens and toys, laughing
children and good-humored par-
ents, with well-filled purses, all tell
it to you. And papa and mamma,
as they dash hither and thither in
their jingling sleighs, doubt not but
everybody else is happy too : Santa
Claus will visit every home ; Santa
Claus will fill every stocking. Why,
who could help feeling merry at
this holy season ? unless, perhaps,
the turkeys. Yes, it is Christmas
Eve.

" How well I remember last
Christmas !" sighed poor Helen as
she leaned back in her chair and
gazed with tearful eyes at the shirt
which, alas ! she was unable to
finish. How could she finish it ?
She was barely able to see. Yet
those livid, tell-tale marks on her
visage, painful as they are, are easier
to bear than the curses and unfeel-
ing words which have broken her
heart at last. As night approached,
snow began to fall and the wind to
blow a keen, angry wind from the
north-east; one of those winds
we love so to hear howling round the
house while we sit toasting our
slippers by the fire. But, bitter
cold as it was, Helen did not shrink
from going to church; although
half-blind, she could still find the
way there.

She went; she made anew the
stations of the Cross, and said, as
she had so often said before, " If
my Saviour suffered so much, oh !
surely I can bear my load." As
she breathed these words to her-
self the ugly black-and-blue marks
which disfigured her seemed to fade
away, a glow of heaven shone in
her face, and for a moment, one
brief moment, she became once
more the beautiful Helen Helen,
"the Belle of the Shanties," as Mrs.
McGowan used to call her then
suddenly she gave a start and the
mien of rapture changed to a look
of wonder and alarm. Who had
spoken her name? There was no-
body near ; who could it be ? While
Helen was gazing about her, she
heard the voice again. "Who is
calling me ?" she asked, her heart
now throbbing violently. The words
were scarcely uttered when for the
third time, and more distinctly,
"Helen!" sounded in her ear. "It
is Michael !" she exclaimed, hasten-
ing to the door. " Yes, it is he call-

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

ing me." But ere she passed out of
the church she broke off a sprig of
evergreen and dipped it into the
holy-water font. Then hiding it in
her bosom, so that the angry wind
might not snatch it away, she sped
homeward on winged feet.

But 'twas no easy matter to get
to the rock at this hour with her
poor bruised eyes and in such a
driving storm. Yet she did find the
way. And up the rude path she
climbed with marvellous agility ;
'twas as though an invisible hand
were leading her on.

The sight which Helen beheld
on entering the shanty might have
appalled any heart but hers. Her
husband, his face streaming with
blood, was engaged in a deadly
struggle with a horrible-looking
being much larger than himself,
who seemed striving to make him
drink from a cup which he pressed
to his lips. " O Ellen !" cried Mi-
chael in a tone of despair, " save
me! save me!" Quick she flew
towards him, stretching forth at the
same time the branch of evergreen.
In another instant 'twas in his hand ;
then, just as he grasped it, his
strange adversary uttered a de-
moniac cry and the cup fell to the
floor, shattered in many pieces.

" Oh ! I am saved," exclaimed
Roony " saved ! saved ! Thank
God !" But while his joyful words
were ringing through the house,
the fiend turned upon his deliverer
and out into the black night Helen
was driven. Vainly she struggled ;
a powerful hand, which seemed
mailed in iron, thrust her out, and
presently, when released from its
ruthless grip, she found herself
blindly groping here and there in
the darkness. Round and round
the house she wandered near it
always, yet never finding it.

And during these sad moments,

335

the last moments of her life, her
husband was anxiously seeking her.
But it was easy to miss each other
in such a snow-storm, and when he
shouted her name the wild wind
carried away her response, until at
length, numbed by the cold, she
answered him no more. And
so, within a few feet of home, the
brave Helen, the faithful Helen,
was wrapt in a winding-sheet of
snow.

Next morning sweet Christmas
morning the sun rose in a cloudless
sky ; and as its bright beams flash-
ed from window to window, from
spire to spire, every object, the
humblest, the least beautiful, became
suddenly transformed into a thing
of beauty. Ay, even those two
icy hands peeping above the snow
hard by Mike Roony's shanty door
sparkle as if they were covered
with gems and have a golden halo
round them. They were clasped
as if in prayer, and when poor Mike
discovered them he cried aloud :
" Oh ! she prayed for me to the
last ; she prayed for me to the
last!"

His wail was heard at the next
rock, and far beyond it. Then
a crowd began to collect, a very
large crowd ; for Helen was known
to many, and her husband was not
the only one who shed tears over
her remains this bright Christmas
morning.

a I had a feeling that something
was going wrong," spoke Mrs. Mc-
Gowan. Then, when Roony told
of the infernal being who had at-
tacked him, and how he had been
rescued by the blessed evergreen
which Helen had brought, the good
woman solemnly shook her head,
and whispered : " This house ought
to be exorcised indeed it ought."

"Well, one thing I vow by all

336

The Devil's Christmas Gift.

that's holy," ejaculated Mike, cross-
ing himself and lifting his voice so
that the crowd might hear him
" I vow never again to touch liquor
never, never, never!"

" I join you !" exclaimed a by-
stander.

"So do I!"

"And I too!"

"And I!" shouted a number of
voices. And those who spoke were
members of the notorious Black-eye
Club. Then they all knelt around
the body and swore, hand-in-hand
together, never to drink another
drop of intoxicating spirits.

And thus by Helen's death many
sinners were converted, many a
drunkard's home made happy again;
for the ways of the Lord are
mysterious. Good is not seldom
wrought out only through tears and
suffering. Oh ! who will say it was
not well for Helen to die ?

But poor Mike was inconsolable.
He who had once been so blithe
and frolicsome now spoke scarcely
u. word. Days and weeks rolled by,
yet he did not change. We may
pity him indeed ! There was no
light in the window now to wel-
come him from afar as he trudged
back from his work in the dusk.
And when he sat down to warm
himself by the stove, instead of
lighting his pipe as of yore and fall-
ing into a pleasant doze, he became
strangely wakeful.

Then the spectre remorse would
glide out of some shadowy corner
and whisper bitter words in his
ear. If at times he succeeded in
silencing its voice, and would give
himself up to a reverie of other
days, when this miserable shanty

was more gorgeous to him than a
palace, oh ! the pleasure which
the sweet vision brougrht was like
music heard from withinside a
prison wall, like sunshine seen
through the bars ; for those golden
days would come never more. Eter-
nity stood between him and them.

Then back remorse would creep
and whisper : " You beat'her you
broke her heart you killed her
you did you did !"

And one evening, while these tor-
turing words were wringing his soul,
he threw up his right hand the
hand which had struck her so of-
ten and groaned aloud : " Oh '
this is hell. Where's the axe ?"

Forlorn wretch ! well it was
that as he bared his arm and
clutched the axe ay, well it was
that at that very moment the minis-
ter of God appeared to check the
rash deed he contemplated, to speak
soothing words, to save him, per-
haps, from madness.

And as from this hour forth a
new life began for Michael Roony,
we end our tale with the closing
advice which the priest addressed
him. " My dear friend," he said,
" do not weep any more, for tears
will not bring back your wife.
There is nothing in this world so
vain as regret. Therefore cease to
mourn ; strive your best to be cheer-
ful." Then pointing to little Mike
and Nell, who were playing at his
feet, " work hard, too, for these
children whom she bore you. For
their sake, as well as your own, keep
true to the pledge of temperance,
and so live here on earth that one
day you may meet again your dear
Helen in heaven."

Siena.

337

SIENA.

Cor magis Sena pandit.

THE railway irom Empoli to the
south passes through a rough, hilly
country, following its sinuosities,
spanning the valleys on gigantic
arches, or plunging through the
tunnelled mountains. One tunnel
is a mile longthrough the hill of
San Dalmazzo; and when you issue
from it, you see before you another
hill, on which rises, stage after
stage, the strange, mediaeval city
of Siena, to the height of nearly a
thousand feet above the level of the
sea. It was rather a disappoint-
ment not to enter it, as carriages
from Florence do, by the celebrated
Porta Camellia, where the traveller
is greeted by the cordial inscrip-
tion, Cor magis Sena pandit Siena
opens her gates even more willingly
than her heart testifying to the
hospitable character of the inhabi-
tants. The city is built on three
hills, with deep ravines between
them. These hills are crossed by
three main streets, meeting at the
Piazza del Campo, around which
the city radiates like a star. There
is scarcely a level spot in the whole
place. Even the central square
descends like the hollow of a cone.
Nothing could be more favorable
to the picturesque. The old brick
walls of the thirteenth century, with
their fortifications and thirty-eight
gate-ways, go straggling up the
heights. Narrow, lane-like streets,
inaccessible to carriages, rush head-
long down into deep ravines, some-
times through gloomy arches, the
very houses clinging to the steep
sides with a giddy, top-heavy air.
On one of these three hills stands

VOL. XXIV. 22

the cathedral, with its lofty arches
and magnificent dome, a marvel of
art, full of statues and bronzes,
carvings and mosaics. On another
is the enormous brick church of
San Domenico, for ever associated
with the divine raptures of St. Ca-
tharine of Siena. Palaces, as well
as churches, adorn all the heights
palaces grim and time-worn, that
bear old, historic names, famed in
the great contests between the
Guelphs and Ghibellines, in which
live, secluded in their own dim
halls, the aristocratic owners, keep-
ing up their ancient customs, proud
as the imperial Ghibellines or lordly
Guelphs from whom they sprang.
Amid all the towers, and domes,
and palaces, rises, from the central
square, light and slender, the tall,
arrow-like Torre del Mangia, which
shoots up to a prodigious height
into the sapphire sky, crowned with
battlements, as if to defend the city
against the spirits of the air.

Yes, Siena is singularly pictur-
esque and striking as no other city
in Italy is, but sad and melancholy
with its recollections of past gran-
deur. It cannot forget the time
when it sent forth its legions to
triumph over the Florentines, and
had two hundred thousand inhabi-
tants. Now it has only about a
tenth of that number. Once it was
great in war. It was a leader in
art. Eight popes sprang from its-
territory, among whom were Pius
II., the poet, diplomatist, and lover
of art, from the Piccolomini family;:
the great Hildebrand, so prominent
in the history of the church; and

338

Siena.

Alexander III., who deposed Fre-
derick Barbarossa, and gave his
name to a city styled by Voltaire
himself the benefactor of the hu-
man race. And like so many stars
that blaze in the heaven of the Ita-
lian Church nay, the church uni-
versal are the Sienese saints, won-
drous in life and glorified by art.

The first place into which the
traveller inevitably drifts, if he at-
tempts to explore the city alone, is
the Piazza del Campo, now called,
of course, Vittorio Emmanuele, in
spite of Dante. This piazza is sin-
gularly imposing from its unchanged,
mediaeval aspect. It slopes away
like an amphitheatre, being intend-
ed for public games and spectacles ;
Murray says, like a shell. Yes, a
shell that whispers of past storms
of the tempestuous waves that have
swept over the city ; for it has wit-
nessed many a popular insurrection,
many a struggle between the nobles
and people. Among the interesting
associations we recall the haughty
Ghibelline leader, Provenzano Sal-
vani, whose name, as Dante says :

41 Far and wide

Through Tuscany resounded once ; and now
'Is in Siena scarce with whispers named."

It was here, when a friend of his,
taken prisoner by Charles of Anjou,
lay under penalty of death, unless
his ransom of a thousand florins in
gold should be paid within a cer-
tain time, that Provenzano, the first
citizen of the republic, the con-
queror of Monte Aperti, unable to
pay so large a sum, humbled him-
self so far as to spread a carpet on
.this piazza, on which he sat down
to solicit contributions from the
public.

" When at his glory's topmost height,
Respect of dignity all cast aside,
Freely he fixed him on Siena's plain,
A suitor to redeem his suffering friend,
Who languished in the prison-house of Charles ;
.Nor, for his sake, refused through every vein to
tremble."

Dante, -who meets him in Purga-
tory, alludes to the grandeur of this
act as atoning for his ambition,
which

" Reached with grasp presumptuous at the sway
Ofallbiena."

So stanch a friend would seem to
have deserved a less terrible fate.
On the disastrous day of Colle he
was taken by the Florentines, who
cut off his head, and carried it
around the battle-field, fastened on
a lance.

On one side of the piazza is the
massive Palazzo Pubblico, bristling
with battlements. On its front blazes
the holy name of Jesus, held up by
St. Bernardin of Siena for the rever-
ence of the whole world. The busy
throng beneath looks up in its toil-
some round, and goes on, the bet-
ter for a fleeting thought. Below
is a pillar with the wolf of pagan
Rome that bore Siena. From this
palace rises the beautiful tower del
Mangia, seen far and wide over the
whole country, so called from the
automaton which used to come
forth at mid-day, like the Moor at
Venice, to strike the hours. This
figure was to the Sienese what Pas-
quino was to Rome. To it were
confided all the epigrams of the city
wits ; but, alas for them ! one day,
when it came forth to do its duty, a
spring gave way, and it fell to the
ground and was dashed in pieces.
This tower commands an admirable
view. North, the country looks
barren, but the slopes of Chianti
are celebrated for their wines, and
Monte Maggio is covered with
forests. South and west, it isfres'.i-
er and more smiling, but leads to
the fatal marshesof Maremma. San-
ta Fiora, the most productive moun-
tain, annually yields vast quantities
of umber. The happy valleys are
full of olives and wheat-fields. Far-

Siena.

339

ther off, to the south, the volcan-
ic summits of Radicofani, associ-
ated with Boccaccio's tales, black-
en the horizon. To the east every-
thing is bleak and dreary, the,
whole landscape of a pale, sickly
green.

At the foot of the tower is a beau-

hands, as if around a shrine. The
trumpets sounded; the bells rang;
nothing could equal the enthusi-
asm. The picture was placed over
the high altar of the church.

This was during the height of
Siena's grandeur, when the wisdom
of its laws corresponded to the

tiful votive chapel of the Virgin, depth of its religious sentiments

I -, i , 1 4- 1 .~ J-1- ~ JT j_ j 1 f*.

built in the fourteenth century after a
pestilence which carried off eighty
thousand people from Siena and its
environs. It is like an open porch
resting on sculptured pillars. Over
the altar within are statues and a
fresco of the Madonna, before which
are flowers and lamps burning in
the bright sunlight all open to the
air, as if to catch a passing invo-
cation from the lips of those who
might otherwise spare no thought,
amid their toils, for heaven.

Siena is peculiarly the city of
Mary. Before the great battle with
the Florentines,

" That colored Arbia's flood with cnmson stain,"

the Sienese solemnly placed their
city under the protection of the
Virgin, and vowed, if victorious, to
regard her as the Sovereign Lady
of the land, from whom they would
henceforth hold it as her vassals.
After their triumph they came to
lay their spoils at her feet, and had
her painted as Our Lady of Vic-
tory, throned like a queen, with the
Infant standing on her knee. When
Duccio, some years later, finished
his Madonna, he wrote beneath it :
J\ futcr sancta J)ei\ sis causa Scnis re-
quici! Give peace to Siena! and
the painting was transported, amid
public rejoicings, to the cathedral.
Business was entirely suspended.
All the shops were closed. The
archbishop, at the head of the
clergy and magistrates, accompa-
nied it with a vast procession of
people, with lighted tapers in their

so that, while most of the Italian
republics were ruined by intestine
commotions between the nobles and
people, Siena had the wisdom to
modify its constitution in such a
way as to admit the representatives
of both parties to the government,
and so preserve the vigor of the
nation. It was thus she was ena-
bled to extend her dominion and
win the great victory of Monte
Aperti, in which ten thousand Flo-
rentines were left dead on the field.
On one side of the piazza is the
palace of the Sansedoni, one of
the great Ghibelline families belong-
ing to the feudal aristocracy of
Siena a frowning, battlemented pal-
ace, with a mutilated tower built by
a special privilege in 1215. In it
is a chapel in honor of the Beato
Ambrogio Sansedoni, a Dominican
friar who belonged to this illustri-
ous family. It was he whom Pope
Clement IV., after a vain effort to
save the unfortunate Conradin of
Souabia from death, sent to admin-
ister the sacraments and console the
young prince in his last moments.
Ambrogio distinguished himself as
a professor of theology at Paris,
Cologne, and Rome.

Close beside the Palazzo Buon-
signori, one of the finest in the
city, is the house said by tradition
to have been inhabited by the un-
happy Pia de Tolomei, indebted for
her celebrity to Dante, rather than
to her misfortunes. He meets her
in the milder shades of Purgatory,
among those who had by violence

340

Siena.

died, but who, repenting and for-
giving,

" Did issue out of life at peace with God."

Her death was caused by the dead-
ly miasmas of " Maremma's pesti-
lential fen/' to which her cruel hus-
band had banished her.

It was a member of the Tolo-
mei family the Beato Bernardino
who, in the fourteenth century,
founded the Olivetan Order. He
was previously a professor at the
university of Siena, but, being
struck blind while discussing some
philosophical subject in his lecture-
room, he resolved, though he soon
recovered his sight, to embrace the
religious life ; and when he next ap-
peared in his chair, instead of re-
suming his philosophical discus-
sions, he astonished his audience
by insisting on the vanity of all
earthly acquirements, and the im-
portance of the only knowledge
that can save the soul. Several of
his pupils were so impressed by
his words that they followed him
when he retired to one of the
family estates not far from Siena,
which he called Monte Oliveto,
whence the name of the order.
Bernardino fell a victim to his zeal
in attending to the sick in the time
of a great plague. The convent
he founded became a magnificent
establishment, with grounds luxu-
riantly cultivated, a church adorn-
ed by the arts, and apartments so
numerous that the Emperor Charles
V., and his train of five thousand,
all lodged there at once.

The Palazzo Bandanelli, where
Pope Alexander III. was born, is
gloomy and massive as a prison,
with iron gratings at the arched
windows, brick walls black with
age, from which project g'reat iron
rings, and on the doors immense
knockers of wrought iron, made

when blacksmiths were genuine ar-
tists. But, however dismal his birth-
place, Alexander III. was enlighten-
ed in his views. It was in 1167 he
declared, in the name of a council,
that all Christians ought to be ex-
empted from servitude.

To go back to. the Piazza dt-1
Campo. Before the Sansedoni pa-
lace is the Fonte Gaja so called
from the joyful acclamations of the
people, when water was brought in-
to the square in 1343. It is sur-
rounded by an oblong basin of
white marble, elegantly sculptur-
ed by Giacomo della Quercia, to
whom was henceforth given the
name of Del Fonte.

Siena, being on a height, was,
from the first, obliged to provide
water for its inhabitants at great
expense. Aqueducts were con-
structed in the time of the Romans.
But a still grander work was achiev-
ed in the middle ages, when water
was brought from the neighboring
mountains by an aqueduct about
twenty miles long, that passed be-
neath the city, giving rise, perhaps,
to the derisive report in Dante's
time that the hill was tunnelled in
search of the river Diana :

" The fancied stream
They sought, of Dian called."

These vast subterranean works
so excited the admiration of Charles
V. that he said Siena was more
wonderful below ground than above.
Now there are three hundred and
fifty-five wells in the city, and
eighteen fountains. The deep well
in the cloister of the Carmine is
called the Pozzo di Diana.

The most noted of the fountains
is Fonte Branda, whose waters were
so famous in Dante's time for their
sweetness and purity that he makes
Adamo of Brescia, the coiner of
counterfeit money, exclaim, amid

Siena.

341

the flames of the Inferno, that to
behold the instigators of his crime
undergoing a like torture would be
sweeter to him than the cool waters
of Fonte Branda :

" For Branda' s limpid font I would not change
The welcome sight."

This fountain has also been cele-
brated by Alfieri, who often came
to Siena to visit his friend, Fran-
cesco Gori, with whom he remained
months at a time. He liked the
character of the people, and said,
when he went away, that he left a
part of his heart behind. And yet
Dante, perhaps because a Floren-
tine, accused the Sienese of being
light and vain :

11 Was ever race

Light as Siena's ? Sure, not France herself
Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain."

Formerly, if not still, giddy peo-
ple in Tuscany were often asked if
they had been drinking water from
the Fonte Branda, as if that would
account for any excess.

The Sienese are proud of the
fame and antiquity of this fount,
which is known to have existed in
1081. It flows at the very bottom
of one of the deep ravines which
makes Siena so peculiar, between
two precipitous hills, one crowned
by the Duomo, and the other by
the church of St. Dominic, and
you look from one to the other in
silent wonder. The whole quarter
is densely populated. The people
are called Fontebrandini mostly,
as five centuries ago, tanners, dyers,
and fullers, who are reputed to be
proud, and are to Siena what the
Trasteverini are to Rome. The
streets around diverge from a mar-
ket-place, on one side of which is
the fount under a long, open arcade
of stone, of immense thickness,
built against the hillside. You go
down to a paved court, as. to some-

thing sacred, by a flight of steps as
wide as the arcade rs long. Here
are stone seats around, as if to ac-
commodate the gossips of the
neighborhood. Three pointed arch-
ways, between which lions look
out with prey between their out-
stretched paws, open into the ar-
cade, where flow the waters, gath-
ered from the surrounding hills, by
three apertures, into an enormous
stone reservoir. The surplus waters
pass off into other tanks beyond the
arcade, for the use of the workmen
of the quarter. Lemon-trees hang
over the fount, and grape-vines
trail from tree to tree. The steep
hillside is covered with bushes and
verdure up to the church of San
Domenico, which stands stern and
majestic, with its crenelated tower
amid the olive-trees.

An old Sienese romance is con-
nected with the Fonte Branda.
Cino da Pistoja, a poet and cele-
brated professor of jurisprudence
at Siena in the fourteenth century,
whose death Petrarch laments in a
sonnet, promised his daughter, a
young lady of uncommon beauty,
to any one of his pupils who should
best solve a knotty law-question.
It was a young man, misshapen in
form, to whom the prize was ad-
judged, and the poor girl, in her
horror, threw herself into the Fonte
Branda. Her suitor, sensible of the
value of the prize, plunged in after
her, and not only saved her life, but
fortunately succeeded in winning
her affections.

Turning to the right, and ascend-
ing the Costa dei Tintori, you come
in a few moments to the house of
St. Catharine of Siena, once the
shop of her father, a dyer, but now
a series of oratories and chapels,
sanctified by holy memories and
adorned by art. It is built of brick,
with two arched galleries, one above

342

Siena.

the other, of a later period. SpvstB
XPI. Katharines Domvs is on the
front, with a small head of the
saint graven in marble, and another
tablet styling her the Seraphic Cath-
arine. Below hang tanned skins,
probably for sale. The memories
of the place are truly seraphic, but
the odors would by no means be
considered so by those who do not
believe in the dignity and sacred-
ness of labor ; for the whole quarter
at least, when we were there
was redolent of tan. Skins hung
on all the houses. Tan-cakes for
fuel were displayed on shelves for
sale at every door. Everybody
seemed industrious. There was
none of the far niente we like to as-
sociate with Italy. It was a posi-
tive grievance to find great heaps
of tan around the Fonte Branda, so
poetical to us, because associated
with the Divine Poet. But it was
still harder to have the same odors
follow us to the very house of the
seraphic St. Catharine, the mystic
Bride of Christ. Very little change
can have taken place during the
last five centuries in the neighbor-
hood where bloomed this fair lily
of the church, and, in one sense,
this is a satisfaction. The house
itself is of the most touching inter-
est. There are the stairs Catha-
rine, when a child, used to ascend,
with an Ave at every step, and over
which the legend says she was so
often borne by the angels. Every-
where through the passages are the
emblematic lily and heart. An ora-
tory has been made of the kitchen
which became to Catharine a very
sanctuary, instead of a place of
low cares, where she served Christ
under the form of her father, the
Blessed Virgin under that of her
mother, and the disciples in the
persons of her brothers and sisters.
Her father's Bottega has also been

converted into an oratory. In the
garden where she loved to cultivate
the symbolic rose and lily and
violet for the altar, is a chapel in
which hangs the miraculous crucifix
painted by Gitinta of Pisa, framed
in pillars of black marble, over the
altar. Before this crucifix she re-
ceived the stigmata in the church
of St. Christina at Pisa. In these
various oratories are a profusion of
paintings by Sodoma, Vanni, and
other eminent artists. Del Pacchia
has attained the very perfection of
feminine beauty in his painting of
St. Catharine's visit to the shrine
of St. Agnes of Monte Pulciano a
genuine production of Christian in-
spiration. Salimbeni represents her
calm amid the infuriated, ungrate-
ful Florentines after her return from
Avignon; and Sebastian Folli, her
appearance before Gregory XI.

But the most sacred part of the
house is her chamber, a little, dark
cell about fifteen feet long and
eight or nine wide. A bronze door
now opens into this sanctuary.
Here you are shown the board on
which she slept, and other relics of
the saint. Here she passed nights
in prayer and converse with the
angels. Here she scourged her
frail body, unconscious that her
mother was weeping at the door.
Here she wrote the admirable letters
so remarkable for their purity and
elegance of style. Here took place
the divine Sposalizio which, immor-
talized by art, we see all over Italy.
Here, when calumniated by the re-
pulsive object of her heroic charity,
she came to pour out her pure soul,
that shrank from the foul accusa-
tions, before the heavenly Bride-
groom ; but when he appeared with
two crowns, one of gold set with
jewels, and the other of thorns,
she unhesitatingly chose the latter,
pressing it deep into her head, thus

Siena.

343

becoming for all time, in the world
of art, the thorn-crowned Catha-
rine. Pius IX., when he visited the
house in 1857, prayed long in this
cell, where lived five centuries ago
the obscure maiden who, for a time,
almost guided St. Peter's bark.

On St. Catharine's day the
house is richly adorned and re-
splendent with light. The walls
are covered with emblems and ver-
ses commemorating her life. The
altars have on their finest orna-
ments. The neigh boring streets are
strewn with flowers and hung with
flags. Hangings are at all the
windows. A silver statue of the
saint is borne into the street by a
long procession of clergy and peo-
ple. The magistrates join the cor-
tege, and they all go winding up
to San Domenico with chants, per-
fumes, and flowers, where a student
from the college Tolomei pronoun-
ces a eulogy on their illustrious
townswoman. When night comes on,
the whole hill around Fonte Branda
is illuminated, the rosary is said at
the foot of the Madonnas, and
hymns are sung in honor of the
saint.

St. Catharine's life, in which
everything transcends the usual laws
of nature, has been written by her
confessor, the Blessed Raymond of
Capua the life of one saint by an-
other. He was not a credulous
man easily led away by fantasies of
the imagination, but one of incon-
testable ability and knowledge, who
relates what he witnessed in the soul
of whose secrets he was the deposi-
tary, who scrutinized every prodi-
gy, but only to give additional
splendor to the truth.

Raymond was a descendant of
Piero della Vigna (the celebrated
chancellor of Frederick II.), whose
spirit Dante finds imprisoned in
" the drear, mystic wood " of the In-

ferno, and, plucking a limb unwit-
tingly from

" The wild thorn of his wretched shade,"

to his horror brings forth at once
cries and blood. For nineteen years
Raymond was general of the Do-
minican Order. Pope Urban VI.
confided the most delicate and dif-
ficult missions to him; called him
his eyes, his tongue, his feet, and his
hands ; held him up to the vene-
ration of princes and people ; and
would have raised him to the high-
est dignities but for the opposition
of the saint. No one, therefore,
could have greater claims to our
confidence.

Catharine Benincasa was born in
1347. From her earliest years she
was a being apart, and favored with
divine communications. Uncom-
prehended at first by those around
her, her home became to her a place
of trials. Her parents tried to draw
her into the world, and she cut off
her long, golden hair. They wish-
ed her to marry, and she consecrat-
ed herself to a higher love. They
then subjected her to household
labor, but she found peace in its
vulgar details. She worked by day.
At night she prayed till lost in ecsta-
sy, insensible to everything earthly.
She wished to enter the Third Order
of St. Dominic, but was refused ad-
mission because she was too young
and beautiful. It was only after an
illness that made her unrecogniz-
able that she was received; but she
continued, like all the members, an
inmate of her father's house. Her
soul was peculiarly alive to the
sweet harmonies of nature. She
liked to go into the woods, at spring-
time, to listen to the warbling of
the birds and watch the mysterious
movements of awakening vegetation.
She loved the mountain heights, with
their wild melodies 'of winds and

344

Siena.

torrents, as well as the gentle rus-
tling of the air among the leaves,
which seemed to her like nature's
whispered prayer." She said, as she
looked at the ant, a thought of God
iiad created it. She loved flowers.
She had a taste for music, and liked
to sing hymns as she sewed. The
name of Mary from her lips was
said to leave a singular harmony in
the ears of her listeners. She sym-
pathized in every kind of misery to
aid it ; lent a helping hand to every
infirmity, and often served in the
hospital, choosing those who were
abandoned by the rest of the world
as the objects of her care. She rose
above the wants of the body. From
her childhood she never ate meat,
the very odor of which became re-
pugnant to her. For years she
subsisted from Ash Wednesday till
Whitsuntide solely on the Holy
Eucharist, which she received every
morning. She entered into all the
troubles of the times, diffusing every-
where the pure light of divine cha-
rity. Though without human in-
struction, she astonished the doc-
tors of the church by her profound
knowledge of theology. " The pur-
est Italian welled from her untutor-
ed lips." She wrote to popes, car-
dinals, princes, and republics. Some
of her letters are to Sir John Hawk-
wood, or, as the Italians call him,
Giovanni Aguto, the ferocious Eng-
lish condottiere, who stained the flag
of the church, and then entered the
service of her enemies. She takes
a foremost rank among the writers
of the age that of Boccaccio, who
lacks her touching grace and sim-
plicity.

Siena, at the time of St. Catharine,
was no longer the powerful, united
city it had been a century before,
but in its turn had become the prey
of anarchy and division. The differ-
ent classes of people were at war

with each other. They proscribed
each other; and private hatred
took advantage of the disorder to
indulge in every kind of revenge.
The Macconi were at variance
with the Rinaldini ; the Salimbeni
with the Tolomei ; the Malvotti
with the Piccolomini.

War reigned all over Italy. Milan
and all Lombardy were ravaged by
the Visconti. Naples was a prey
to the excesses caused by Queen
Joanna. Florence, that had been
devoted to the church, was no\v
governed by the Ghibellines, who
went to every extreme against the
Guelphs, whose cause, says Dean
Milman, " was more (!) than that of
the church : it was that of freedom
and humanity." The States of the
church were ravaged. Rome itself,
widowed and abandoned, " with as
many wounds as she had palaces
and churches," as Petrarch says,
was in a complete state of anarchy.

Amid all these horrors St. Cath-
arine moved, an angel of peace.
God gave her a wonderful power of
appeasing private resentments and
calming popular tumults. Invete-
rate enemies clasped hands under
her influence. Veteran warriors,
and republics themselves, listened
respectfully to her voice. She
wrote to Pope Gregory XL at Avig-
non, pleading the cause of all Italy,
and urging him to return to Rome,
where he could overrule the pas-
sions that agitated the country, and
restore dignity to the Apostolic See.
Her heart bled at the sight of so
much misery and crime. " Peace !
peace !" she wrote to the pope
" peace for the love of a crucified
God ! Do not regard the ignorance
and blindness and pride of your
children. You will perhaps say
you are bound by conscience to re-
cover what belongs to holy church.
Alas ! I acknowledge it ; but when

Siena.

345

a choice is to be made, it should
be of that which is most valuable.
The treasure of the church is the
Blood of Christ shed for the re-
demption of souls. This treasure
of blood has not been given for
temporal dominion, but for the sal-
vation of the human race. If you
are obliged to recover the cities and
treasures the church has lost, still
more are you bound to win back
the souls that are the true riches of
the church, which is impoverished
by losing them. It is better to let
go the gold of temporal than the
gold of spiritual wealth. You must
choose between two evils that of
losing grandeur, power, and tempo-
ral prosperity, and the loss of grace
in the souls that owe obedience
to your Holiness. You will not re-
store beauty to the church by the
sword, by severity and war, but by
peaceful measures. You will com-
bat more successfully with the rod
of mercy and kindness than of
chastisement. By these means you
will recover what belongs to you
both spiritually and temporally."

Noble liberty on the part of the
dyer's daughter ! And it is to the
honor of Pope Gregory that he
listened to her with respect. It
was time to pour oil on the trou-
bled waters. The proud republic
of Florence, after revolting against
all spiritual authority, torturing the
priests, declaring liberty preferable
to salvation, and exciting the papal
cities to rebellion, had been laid
under an interdict. The people
began to feel the disastrous effects
on their commerce, and came to so-
licit Catharine's intervention with the
pope. She went to Avignon, where
she made known her mission in a
public consistory. " She passed
from her father's shop to the court
of princes, from the calmness of
solitude to the troubles of factions ;

and everywhere she was in her
place, because she had found in
solitude a peace above all the agi-
tations of the world, and a profound
charity."

Pope Gregory left her to dictate
the terms of peace with the Floren-
tines, though he foresaw their in-
gratitude. Nay, more : after some
hesitation he decided to return to
Rome. Nor was St. Catharine the
only woman that urged him to do
so. St. Bridget of Sweden added
the influence of her prophetic voice.
Ortensia di Gulielmo, one of the
best poets of the day, thus begins a
sonnet :

" Ecco, Signer, la greggia tua d'intorno
Cinta da lupi a divorla intenti.
Ecco tutti gli onor d' Italia spenti,
Poiche fa altrove il gran Pastore soggiorno." *

Catharine's return to Siena was
celebrated by festive songs :

" Thou didst go up to the great temple,

Thou didst enter the mighty consistory ;

The words of thy mouth were fall of power ;

Pope and cardinals were persuaded to depart.

Thou didst direct the course of their wings to-
wards the See of Peter. O virgin of Siena \
how great is thy praise soul prompt in move-
ment, energetic in action."

On the tomb of Gregory XL, in
the church of St. Francesca at
Rome, St. Catharine is represented
walking before the pope's mule as
he makes his triumphal entrance
into the city a symbol of her guid-
ing influence. From this time she
took a prominent part in all the
affairs of Italy. But the re-estab-
lishment of the papal throne at
Rome was her last joy on earth.
At the death of Pope Gregory fresh
disorders broke out. Catharine's
life slowly wasted away, inwardly
consumed, as she declared, for the
church. She died in Rome at the
age of thirty-three, and lies buried

* Behold, O Lord! thy flock surrounded by
wolves eager to devour it. Behold all the honor of
Italy spent, because its Chief Pastor sojourns m a
foreign land.

346

Siena.

under the high altar 01 tne Miner-
va, surrounded by lamps and flow-
ers. Her countryman, Pius II.,
canonized her, not only at the re-
quest of the magistrates of Siena,
but of several of the sovereigns of
Europe.

Siena boasts of other saints : St.
Ansano, the first apostle of the coun-
try, beheaded on the banks of the
Arbia in the time of Diocletian ;
Galgano di Lolo, who led an an-
gelic life in the mountains ; the
founder of Monte Oliveto, whose
order sheltered Tasso ; Ambrogio
Sansedoni, the confessor of Conra-
din, noted for his eloquence and
sanctity ; St. Bernardin, on whose
breast glows the potent Name ; Bea-
ta Nera Tolomei, noted for her as-
cetic charity ; the poor Pietro Pet-
tinajo, who devoted himself to the
plague-stricken in the hospital della
Scala ; Aldobrandescha Ponzi, who
wished to be crowned with thorns
like Christ ; the Blessed John Co-
lombini, whose only passion was to
be like Jesus ; and many more be-
sides. But St. Catharine the he-
roine of divine love is the most
sublime expression of Sienese piety,
and of her is the city especially
proud. Her statue was placed by
the republic on the front of its glo-
rious cathedral, and she is repre-
sented in the gorgeous picture of
Pinturicchio in the library, where,
as Mrs. Stowe says, "-borne in celes-
tial repose and purity amid all the
powers and dignitaries of the church,
she is canonized as one of those
that shall reign and intercede with
Christ in heaven."

From St. Catharine's house you
go winding up under the mulberry-
trees to San Domenico, soon leav-
ing the tops of the houses below
you. On the way is the place
where Catharine, when a child, com-
ing down the hill one evening with

Stefano, her favorite brother, turned
to look back, and saw the heavens
opened above the campanile of the
church, and the Great High-Priest
seated on a radiant throne, around
which stood SS. Peter, Paul, and
John, who seemed with uplifted
hands to bless her. Keeping on to
the top of the hill, you come to a
large green, silent and deserted, be-
fore the church. The street that
properly leads to it is well named
the Via del Paradiso. The church
of St. Dominic is vast and impos-
ing, though of severe simplicity of
style, offering a marked contrast to
the richness of the Duomo. It is
shaped like the letter T, without
aisles or apsis. Rafters suppprt the
vault, but at the entrance to the
transepts is an enormous arch of
singular boldness. There is some-
thing broad and expansive about
the atmosphere of the church, as
often found in the churches of the
Dominican Order. Even with a
considerable number of worship-
pers it would seem solitary. In
one of its chapels is a Madonna,
celebrated in the history of art, long
attributed to Guido of Siena, but
now- proved to be by Guido di Gra-
ziano, a contemporary of Cimabue,
whose Madonnas it resembles, with
its oblique eyes, large head, and a
certain angular stiffness. Among
other noted paintings is one of
Santa Barbara by Matteo da Siena,
very beautiful in expression. She
sits, crowned by two angels, with a
palm in one hand and a tower-like
tabernacle in the other, in which
the Host is exposed above a chalice.
SS. Magdalen and Catharine are at
her side.

A domed chapel, protected by a
balustrade of alabaster, has been
built on the east side of the church,
in which is enshrined the head of
St. Catharine evidently the most

Siena.

347

frequented part of the church, from
the numerous seats before it, most-
ly with coats of arms and carved
backs. Framed prayers, as is com-
mon in Italy, are chained to a prie-
Dieu one to St. Catherine with the
anthem : Regnum nuindi et oinueni
ornatutn sceculi contempsi propter
amorein Domini met Jesu Chrjsti,
quern vidi, quern amavi, in quern
credidi, quein dilexi. Three lamps
were burning before the relics of
St. Catharine. The walls are
covered with exquisite paintings
by Sodoma, which were lit up by
the morning sun. Nothing could
be more lovely than St. Catharine
swooning at the Saviour's appari-
tion a figure full of divine lan-
guor, grace, and softness. Two
nuns tenderly sustain her. Her
stigmata are radiant. An angel
bears a lily. The whole painting
is delicate, ethereal, and heavenly
as a vision. It is on the gospel
side of the altar; on the other side
she kneels between two nuns with
her eyes raised to heaven, where,
above the Virgin and Child, ap-
pears the Padre Etcrno. Angels
bear the cross and crown of
thorns. Another brings the Host.
A death's head and lily are at her
feet. The whole is of wonderful
beauty.

On the left wall, as you enter the
chapel, is painted the execution of
a young knight, beheaded at Siena
for some slight political offence.
St. Catharine went to comfort him
in his despair, and induced him to
receive the sacraments. She even
accompanied him to the block,
where his last words were "Jesus"
and " Catharine," leaving her inun-
dated with his blood, but in a
state of ecstasy that, rendered her
insensible to everything but his
eternal welfare. The odor of his
blood seemed to intoxicate her.

She could not resolve to wash it
off. She only saw his soul ransom-
ed by the blood of the Lamb, and,
in describing her state of mind to
her confessor, she cries : " Yes,
bathe in the Blood of Christ cru-
cified, feast on this Blood, be ine-
briated with this Blood, weep in
Blood, rejoice in Blood, grow strong
in this Blood, then, like an intrepid
knight, hasten through this Blood
to defend the honor of God, the
liberty of the church, and the sal-
vation of souls." Her letters often
begin: "I, Catharine, servant and
slave of Jesus Christ, write you in
his precious Blood," as if it was
there she derived all her strength
and inspiration. In the picture
before us nothing could be more
peaceful than the face of the young
knight just beheaded, whose soul
two beautiful angels are bearing to
heaven.

On the pavement is traced in the
marble Adam amid the animals in
Paradise, among whom is the, uni-
corn, the ancient emblem of chas-
tity.

At the extreme end of the church
is the Chapel delle Volte, to which
you ascend by six steps. Over the
door is this inscription :

Behold this place, sacred and ven-
erable among all on earth ; here
holy Catharine rejoicing often be-
held, wondrous to say, the Christ,
her spouse. But thoti, whosoever
approachest, here pour forth thy
prayers, to venerate the holy one
who bore the sacred stigmata, the
insignia of divine love.

This chapel, the scene of so
many of St. Catharine's mystic vi-
sions, is long and narrow, with one

348

Siena.

window. The arches are strewn
with gilt stars on a blue ground.
The floor is paved with tiles, with
tablets here and there. On one,
before the altar, are the words :
Cattf. cor mutat XPUS Christ
changes the heart of Catharine ; for
it was here she underwent that
miraculous change of heart which
transformed her life. Our Saviour
himself appeared to her, surround-
ed by light, and gave her a new
heart, which filled her with ecsta-
tic joy, and inspired a love for all
mankind.

Over the plain altar is an au-
thentic portrait of St. Catharine by
the poetic Andrea Vanni, a pupil of
Sano di Pietro. He was one of
her disciples and correspondents,
though a Capitano del Pofiolo. He
painted this portrait in 1367, while
she was in an ecstatic state in this
very chapel. It represents her
with delicate features, a thin, worn
face, and must have been a charm-
ing picture originally, but it is now
greatly deteriorated.

On one of the pillars of the chap-
el is the inscription : Cat* cruce ero-
gat XPO Catharine bestows the
cross on Christ; referring to the sil-
ver cross she one day gave a beg-
gar in this church, which was after-
wards shown her set with precious
stones. And on another pillar is :
Cat*, vesti induit XPUM Catha-
rine clothes Christ with her gar-
ment ; in memory of the tunic she
here gave our Saviour under the
form of a beggar, who showed it to
her some hours after, radiant with
light and embroidered with pearls
acts of charity full of significance.
Three lovely little paintings by Bec-
cafumt, at the Belle Arti, represent
the three mystic scenes commemo-
rated in this chapel.

In the adjoining convent, now a
school-house, lived for a time St.

Thomas of Aquin and the Blessed
Ambrogio Sansedoni, whose tomb
is in the cloister. Here, in 1462,
was held a chapter of fifteen hun-
dred Dominicans, and here Pius II.
blessed the standard of the Cru-
saders.

On our way to the Porta Camol-
lia we turned down at the left, by
a steep, paved way, to the church of
Fonte Giusta, erected in memory
of a victory over the Florentines.
It is a small brick church with four
small windows, four pillars to which
are attached four bronze angels
holding four bronze candlesticks,
and on the walls hang four paint-
ings of note. One is a beautiful
coronation of the Virgin with four
saints, by Fungai. Then there is a
Visitation by Anselmi, in which
two majestic women look into each
other's eyes, as if to fathom each
the other's soul. In an arch of the
right aisle is the sibyl of Peruzzi
a noble figure said to have been
studied by Raphael when Agostino
Chigi, the famous banker of the
Fames! n a palace (a Sienese by
birth), commissioned him to paint
the celebrated sibyls of the Delia
Pace at Rome sibyls that have all
the grandeur of Michael Angelo,
and the grace that Raphael alone
could give.

But what particularly brought us
to this church was to see the Ma-
donna of Fonte Giusta, to which
Columbus made a pilgrimage after
the discovery of America, and pre-
sented his sword, shield (a round
one), and a whale's bone, which are
still suspended over the entrance.
The Madonna turns her fair, sweet
face towards you, while the Child
has his eyes turned towards his
mother, with his hands crossed on
his breast. Both have on silver
crowns, and pearls around their
necks.. The picture is in a

Siena.

349

of cherubs' heads, surrounded by
delicate arabesques. Beneath- is
the inscription :

Hie requies tranquilla,

Salus hie dulce levamen :

Hie est spes miseris psidiuq reis

Here is tranquil repose ; here safe-
ty and sweet consolation ; here
is hope for the wretched, and for
the guilty an unfailing refuge.

Columbus' devotion to the Bless-
ed Virgin is well known. It was
under her auspices he undertook,
in a vessel called by her name, the
discovery of a new world. He
daily said her office on board ship
from a valuable MS. given him by
Alexander VI. before his departure
and afterwards bequeathed to Ge-
noa, and the Salve Regina was sung
every evening by his followers.

Porta Camollia is not remarkable
Ui an architectural point of view, but
it has its sacred associations. It
was here St. Bernardin of Siena
used to come every night, when a
boy, to pray before the tutelar Ma-
donna of the gate. His aunt, hear-
ing him speak of going to see the
fairest of women, followed him at a
distance one night and discovered
his secret.

The chapel of the Confraternity of
San Bernardin is a museum of art.
The walls are covered with fine fres-
coes of the life of the Virgin by Bec-
cafumi, Sodoma, and Pacchia. One
of the most beautiful is Sodoma's
" Assumption," in which Mary pul-
clira ut luna in a man tie like a violet
cloud, is borne up to her native
heaven by angels full of grace.
The apostles, with thoughtful, de-
vout, but not astonished faces,
stand around the tomb, out of which
rise two tall lilies amid the white
roses. St. Thomas lifts his hands
to receive the sacred girdle.

Everywhere about this chapel is

the sacred monogram so dear to
San Bernardin. The holy name
of Jesus is inscribed on the front, on
the holy-water basin, on the walls ;
placed there in more devout times,
when even genius sought to

" Embalm his sacred name
With all a painter's art and all a minstrel's flame."

There are more than sixty church-
es and chapels at Siena, but per-
haps not one without some work
cf art that is noteworthy. Siena
was the cradle of art in the thir-
teenth century, and has its aureola
of artists as well as of saints. The
school of Florence only dates from
the fourteenth century. Guido da
Siena, Bonainico, and Diotisah'i
were the glorious precursors of Ci-
mabue, and Simone Memmi, a cen-
tury later, shared with Giotto the
friendship and admiration of Pe-
trarch.

" Ma certb il mio Simon fli in Paradiso.

The old Sienese artists were pro-
foundly religious. In their 'statutes
of 1355 they say: "We, by the
grace of God, make manifest to
rude and ignorant men the miracu-
lous events operated by virtue, and
in confirmation, of our holy faith."
The efflorescence of the arts is one
of the expressions of a profound
faith. We have only to visit the
galleries of Italy, filled with the sad
spoils of numberless churches and
convents, to be convinced of this.
And there is not a tomb of a saint
of the middle ages out of which
does not bloom some flower of art,
fair as the lilies that spring from
the sepulchre of the Virgin. What
wreaths of art entwine the tombs of
St. Francis, St. Dominic, and St.
Anfony of Padua!

The collection of paintings at the
Academy of Siena is very interest-
ing. Here Beccafumi represents

350

Siena.

St. Catharine receiving the stig-
mata. She is in soft, gray robes,
\vith%, lovely face, kneeling before
a crucifix under an archway, through
which you see the landscape. A
dead, thorny tree is behind her. By
way of contrast to her beauty and
grace is the austere St. Jerome,
haggard and worn, with his lion,
before one of the pillars of the arch.
At the other is a Dominican in
black and white garments. Above
are the Madonna and Child attend-
ed by angels. The whole picture
is very soft and charming,

Sodoma has also here a St. Ca-
tharine with a delicate, thoughtful
face, and a crucifix in her pierced
hands.

Perhaps the most striking picture
in the gallery is Sodoma's " Christ
Bound," which is wonderful in ex-
pression. The face and form are
very human and of grand develop-
ment. From under the crown of
thorns flows the long, amber hair.
The eyes are sad, inexpressibly sad,
and the bleeding form is infinitely
pathetic. " It is a thing to stand
and weep at," says Hawthorne.

" I suffer binding who have loosed their bands.
Was ever grief like mine ?"

Sodoma's "Judith," in a blue dress
and orange mantle, stands beside a
leafless tree, holding up the bloody
knife with one hand, and the head
of Holofernes with the other. . She
has a gleaming jewel on her fore-
head, though the old rabbis repre-
sent her with a wreath of lilies, be-
lieved by the ancients to be a pro-
tection against witchcraft and peril.
The university of Siena existed in
the thirteenth century. Among its
noted members was Cisto da Siena,
a Jew, who became a Catholic and
a monk, and finally a Calvinist.
Condemned to death for his apos-
tasy, he was indebted for his life

to the friendship of Pope Julius III.
and Cardinal Ghislieri, afterwards
Pius V.

M. Taine speaks of the deplorable
ignorance of the present Sienese,
and says there is no library, not a
book, in the place.* As he seems,
by his journal, to have been there
only two days, he probably, like
many travellers, noted down his
preconceived opinion. The library
of Siena, one of the oldest in Italy,
has ahrays been famous. It was
founded by Niccolo Oliva, an Au-
gustinian friar, and contains fifty
thousand volumes a respectable
number for an inland town. About
seven hundred belong to the very
first age of printing. There are also
five thousand manuscripts, among
which are a Greek Gospel of the
tenth century that came from the
imperial chapel at Constantinople,
bound in silver, and many other
rare MSS. and documents, such as
the original will (in Latin) of Boc-
caccio, and autograph writings of
Metastasio, St. Catharine, and St.
Bernardin.

Siena has' several charitable in-
stitutions. The asylum for deaf
mutes, founded by Padre Pendola
is spacious and agreeable. The
great hospital della Scala, opposite
the cathedral, founded by Fra So-
rore, is one of the most ancient in
Italy. It is vast and sunny, with a
fine view over the valley around
Siena. Its atmosphere is thorough-
ly religious, with its walls frescoed
by the old masters, its numerous
altars and religious emblems. St.
Catharine used to come here to
attend the sick. It is now served
by Sisters of Charity.

It is dreadful to say, but the first
glimpse we had of the Duomo, with
its striped wall of black and white

*" Point de bibliothtque : aucun livre" are
his words.

Siena.

marble, reminded us of good old
Sarah Battles " now with God "
and her cribbage-board, which
Charles Lamb tells us was made
of the finest Sienese marble, and
brought by her uncle from Italy.
But on coming nearer to it every
trivial thought vanishes before its
grandeur and expressive richness
of detail. The impression it makes
on the mind is so profound, M.
Taine says, that " what we feel on
entering St. Peter's at Rome can-
not be compared to it." He calls it
"a most admirable Gothic flower,
but of a new species that has blos-
somed in a more propitious clime,
the production of minds of greater
cultivation and genius, more serene,
more beautiful, more religious, and
yet healthy; and which is to the
cathedrals of France what the
poems of Dante and Petrarch are
to the chansons of the French trou-
veres"

On the pavement before the en-
trance is represented the parajjle
of the Pharisee and the Publican
who went up into the Temple to
pray a lesson to ponder over as
we enter the house of prayer. The
fagade is of marvellous workman-
ship. Amid angels and prophets
and symbolic sculpture, delicate as
lace-work, are St. Ansano, St. Ca-
tharine, and San Bernardin the
special patrons of Siena. On en-
tering, the church you are at first
dazzled by its richness. The pave-
ment is unrivalled in the world,
with its pictures in niello, by an art
now lost, where we find page after
page from the Scriptures, some
written by the powerful hand of
Beccafumi, whose cartoons .are to
be seen at the Belle Arti ; sibyls
noble as goddesses ; Trismegistus,
who received his knowledge from
Zoroaster, offering the Pimandra in
which is written : " The God who

created all things, the maker of the
earth and starry heavens, so greatly
loved his Son that he made him his
Holy Word "; and Socrates climb-
ing the mountain of Virtue, who
sits on its summit, holding forth a
palm to him, while with the other
hand she offers the book of wisdom
to Crates, who empties a casket of
jewels to receive it. The walls are
covered with paintings, by Duccio,
of twenty-six scenes of the Passion,
full of life and power, dramatic and
yet strictly Scriptural, forming a
book one is never weary of study-
ing as Christian or artist. The
stalls byFra Giovanni, the Olivetan
monk, are the very perfection of in-
tarsia work, which here, as Marchese
says, " almost rises to the dignity of
painting." The wondrous pulpit,
with its nine columns resting on
lions, its sides covered with scenes
from the life of Christ by Nicholas
of Pisa, and the seven sciences on
the central octagonal pillar, is a
prodigy of richness and elegance.

The frieze around the nave is
adorned with the heads of the
popes down to Alexander III.
Among these, strange to say, was
once Pope Joan, such hold had that
popular error on the public mind.
It was Florimond de Raymond, a
counsellor of the parliament of
Bordeaux, and a friend of Mon-
taigne and Justus Lipsius, who, in
the sixteenth century, protested
against such an insult to the Papa-
cy, and by his efforts had it effaced.
He wrote to the Sovereign Pontiff
himself: "Avenge the injury done
to your predecessors. Order this
monster to be removed from the
place where Satan, the father of lies,
has had it set up. Do not suffer an
image to remain of that which
never existed. If there was no
body, let there be no shadow" ;
and he calls upon the pope to de-

352

Siena.

stroy this idol, raised to the disgrace
of the church. Besides this, he
wrote a book, now rare, completely
exploding the fable, showing by
incontestable documents there was
not the least place for Joan in the
succession of popes. This work,
together with his appeal, produced
such an effect as to procure the
removal of her portrait from the
cathedral of Siena. The illustrious
Cardinal Baronius wrote to him
in 1600 that it had just been remov-
ed by order of the Grand Duke of
Tuscany according to his wishes,
and he congratulated him in mag-
nificent terms on such .a triumph.

On an altar in the left nave is
the crucifix borne by the Sienese at
the battle of Monte Aperti, and be-
neath the arches are still suspend-
ed, after so many centuries, the
long flag-poles captured from the
Florentines Sept. 4, 1260, the most
glorious day in the history of Siena.

At the right is the chapel of the
Madonna del Voto, built by Alex-
ander VII., a Sienese pope (Fabio
Chigi), with its Byzantine-looking
Virgin amid paintings, bronzes, mo-
saics, and precious stones.

The family of Piccolomini is glo-
rified in this church. To it be-

longed the great ^Eneas Silvius, as
well as Pius III., also a lover of
the arts, and Ascanio Piccolomini,
Archbishop of Siena, a friend of
Galileo, to whom he gave hospita-
lity when he came forth from what
people are pleased to call the dun-
geons of the Inquisition at Rome
that is, from pleasant apartments in
the delightful palace of the Tuscan
ambassador on the Trinita de' Mon-
ti, now the French Academy. The
Piccolomini chapel has five statues
sculptured by Michael Angelo, and
the beautiful hall, known as the
Library, is world-famous for its
frescoes of the life of Pius II. by
Pinturicchio.

The whole church is a temple of
art, with its sculptured altar, its
bronze tabernacle, its rare paint-
ings, its beautiful pillars of differ-
ently-colored marbles, and its rich
windows of stained glass. Nothing
could be more serene and calm
than the atmosphere of this glo-
rious church. Amid the sacred si-
lence, the struggling light, with the
grandest symbols of religion on
every side, you feel lifted for a mo-
ment out of your own mean impri-
sonments into a very heaven of art
and piety.

Sir Thomas More.

353

SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XVI.

WHILST Margaret and Pierre
Gilles were thus conversing, above
their heads, in a magnificent gal-
lery flashing with gilt, and adorned
with portraits of all the archbi-
shops who had occupied this pal-
ace, destined for their residence,
the court had assembled, and there
the jury was called which was to
try, or rather to condemn, Sir Tho-
mas More.

At the extremity of this hall, up-
on an elevated platform all covered
with carpet and fringe, were seated
the new lord chancellor, Thomas
Audley ; near him, Sir John Fitz-
James, Lord Chief- Justice ; and
beyond, Cranmer, Archbishop of
Canterbury ; the Duke of Norfolk,
several lords of the Privy Council,
among them the Duke of Suffolk,
the Abbot of Westminster, and
Cromwell, who on this occasion
acted as secretary. To the left of
the court, and near the jury, was
seated Richard Rich, the creature of
Cromwell, and his worthy associate,
newly appointed, on account of his
efficient services, solicitor-general.

" Sir Thomas Palmer, knight ?"
said the clerk. " Sir Thomas Peint,
knight? George Lowell, esquire?
Thomas Burbage, esquire? Geof-
frey Chamber, gentleman ? Edward
Stockmore, gentleman ? Joseph
Leake, gentleman ? William Brown,
gentleman ? Thomas Bellington,
gentleman? John Parnell, gentle-
man ? Richard Bellam, gentleman ?
George Stokes, gentleman ?"
VOL. xxiv. 23

All responded to their names.
" Sir Thomas More," said the
lord chancellor, in a slow and
hard tone, " do you challenge any
one of these gentlemen of the
jury?"

'No, my lord," replied Sir Tho-
mas, who was standing up before
the court, leaning upon a cane he
held in -his hand, and which had
been of great assistance to him dur-
ing the long sessions he had already-
been obliged to endure in that fa-
tiguing and inconvenient position.
Meanwhile, he anxiously watched
the door through which the accused
entered, and was uneasy at not see-
ing the Bishop of Rochester; for
they met only in court, and it
was a moment of relief when he
beheld his friend near him, al-
though he every day remarked
with sadness that Rochester was
failing in a lamentable manner.

" The accused challenges none
of the members of the jury,"
proclaimed the lord chief-justice,
He then arose, and began to recite
the formula of the oath to be taken
by each member of the jury.

" Now, Sir Thomas," said the
chancellor, " I desire to address
you yet a last observation, and I
wish with all my heart that you
may yield to it ; because the king,
not having forgotten your long ser-
vices, is deeply grieved at the peril-
ous position in which your obsti-
nacy, too evidently the result of
malice, has placed you. He has-

354

Sir Thomas More.

ordered us to unbend again, and for
the last time, so far as to implore
you, in his own name and for the
love of him, to take the oath of
obedience which you owe to the sta-
tute of Parliament, and of fidelity to
his royal person an oath he has a
right to exact of you according to
all laws, divine and human."

" In fidelity, my lord," replied
Sir Thomas, "in respect, in attach-
ment, I have never been wanting to
the king. It has been a long time,
a very long time, an entire life-
time, since I took the oath. It
cannot be changed ; therefore it
can never be necessary to have it
renewed."

" You persist, then, in your culpa-
ble obstinacy ?" said the lord chan-
cellor.

" Nay, my lord, I am not obsti-
nate."

" Then say, at least, "cried Cran-
mer, wishing to appear animated
by an officious zeal, ".what offends
you in this oath, what word you
would reject what is the reason, in
fine, that prevents you from taking
it."

Sir Thomas raised his head, and
paused a moment to consider the
court. There was the Abbot of
Westminster, who, during the days
of his prosperity and favor, had
overwhelmed him with visits and
surfeited him with flattery ; by
his side the Duke of Norfolk, who
without emotion beheld him to-day
near death, and yet he had formerly
Joved him as a friend in whom he
.felt honored ; Cromwell, whom he
,had always treated with respect, in
spite of the antipathy he felt for
-him.; the Duke of Suffolk, who had
solicited him unceasingly, and al-
most gone down on his knees to
him to obtain money from the king
or a place for one of his creatures ;
:Sir John Fitz-Jaoaes, finally, to

whom he had rendered an eminent
service, and who had in other times
sworn eternal gratitude to him, and
to remain devoted to him in life and
in death. Now death was approach-
ing him, and he counted Sir John
Fitz-James among the judges who
were going to demand his head.
Absorbed in the sad and dolorous
conviction that in this world he
could rely upon no one, he hesitat-
ed for a reply.

" You have heard, prisoner ?"
said Richard Rich brusquely.

"Pardon me, sir," answered Sir
Thomas gently; "but the lords
have already spoken so much about
the king's displeasure that, if I
should refuse to take this oath of
supremacy, I fear to augment it
still more by giving the reasons."

" Ah ! this is too much," cried
all the lords. " You not only refuse
to take the oath, but you are not
even willing to say why you re-
fuse."

" I would rather believe," said
Cromwell, " that Sir Thomas has re- -
turned to reason, and that he is no
longer so sure that the oath may
wound his conscience. Sir Thomas,
is it not the case that you are now
rather in a state of doubt and
uncertainty in this regard ? You
know," he continued, " that we owe
entire obedience to the king ; there-
fore you should take the oath he
demands of you, and the scruples
you feel would be removed by this
imperious necessity."

" It is true, my lord," replied Sir
Thomas, " that I ought to obey the
king in all things as a faithful sub-
ject which I am, and will be un-
til death. But this is a case of
conscience, in which I am not
bound to obey the prince. Listen
to me, my lord of Canterbury," he
said, fixing his eyes upon him with
an expression full of benevolence.

Sir Thomas More.

355

" I would blame none of those who which causes me to refuse, I am

have taken the oath; but, at the ready to swear to the sincerity of

same time, I must say, if your argu- my declaration. If you do not be-

ment was solid, there would be no lieve what I say, it is a great deal

more cases of doubtful conscience, better not to impose the oath ; and

because it would be sufficient for if you believe me, I hope you will
the king to pronounce yes or no in

order to annihilate them all."

" Truly," cried the Abbot of West-
minster, hurriedly interrupting him,
"you are very obstinate in your
own opinions ; you ought to see
that, from whatever point you view
this question, you are necessarily

not demand one in opposition to
my conscience."

Norfolk made a gesture of impa-
tience. Then Audley, lord chan-
cellor, turned toward his colleagues.
"You see, you hear," he said, "that
Sir Thomas believes that he knows
more than all the priests in Lon-

mistaken, since you are entirely in don than the Bishop of Rochester

himself!" And he dwelt with a
slight tone of irony on the last
sentence.

"What! the Bishop of Roches-
ter," cried Sir Thomas.

" Without doubt, the Bishop of
Rochester," repeated Audley. "Mr.
Secretary," he said, turning towards
Cromwell and giving him a precon-
certed signal, " communicate to the
accused a certain fact in which he
i5 interested."

Cromwell, descending from the
platform, approached Sir Thomas
and whispered in his ear : " The Bi-
shop of Rochester has consented to
swear ; they have conducted him to
the king, who has forgotten all his
past conduct, and intends to load
him with new favors."

"Fisher has sworn!" cried Sir
Thomas ; and he was struck with
consternation.

" Certainly !" said Cromwell, with
an ill-disguised expression of irony
and satirical joy; "they concealed
it from you, that it might not be
said you had pinned your opinion
to the sleeve of another."

" Sir," answered More in atone
of profound sorrow, but with an
expression of dignity greater still,
"rest perfectly satisfied they will
not say that. While bishops are
appointed to do good and teach us

opposition to the chief council of
the kingdom, and that without
doubt it possesses light enough to
remove and destroy the scruples of
your conscience."

" My lord," replied Sir Thomas,
" if it is true that I am alone in my
opposition to the entire Parliament,
I ought certainly to feel alarmed.
Nevertheless, in refusing the oath
I listen to and follow the voice of
the greatest of all counsellors one
to which ev'ery man should listen be-
fore any other ; a monitor which he
carries always within his own bosom.
Besides, I will add that the opin-
ion of the English Parliament can-
not overbalance that of the Coun-
cil of all Christendom."

"Then you blame the Parliament,
and refuse to adhere to the act of
succession it has established ?" an-
grily exclaimed Norfolk, the uncle
of Anne Boleyn.

" My lord," replied Sir Thomas,
" your lordship knows that my in-
tention is not, as I have already ex-
plained, to find fault either with the
act or with the men who have drawn
it up, nor to blame the oath nor those
who have taken it. As far as I am
personally concerned, I cannot take
this oath without exposing myself
to eternal damnation ; and if you
doubt that it is my conscience

356

Sir Thomas More.

to do it, it does not follow that, if
they fall into error, we should imi-
tate them. I am deeply afflicted
by what you tell me, but do not
change my opinion for all that.
My conscience alone has directed
me ; now she alone remains with me,
but I cannot, neither must I, cease
to listen to her. I blame nobody
nobody ! O my friend ! what an-
guish has been reserved for me.
My God ! thou hast permitted it.
Rochester has fallen !" said More in
a low voice. " Lord, if the cedars
break, what, then, will become of
the reeds ?"

Sir Thomas was unable to compre-
hend how Fisher could have been
induced to yield or become so weak,
and he was reduced to a state of
mortal affliction.

"What! "said Cromwell, "can
you not make up your mind ?"

" Nay, sir, nay ; I cannot make up
my mind to this. There remains
nothing more for me to do in this
world, and I pray the Lord to re-
move me from it !"

" The accused refuses every-
thing," replied Cromwell in a loud
voice, as he turned away from him.

" What obstinacy !" exclaimed
the lords in one voice. " Sir Tho-
mas, swear ! we conjure you in the
name of all you hold most dear."

" Alas !" said Sir Thomas to him-
self, " this is why he has not ap-
peared. Alasl each day when I
have suffered so much seeing him
stand so long by my side, pale with
fatigue and weakness, I was never-
theless happy. To-day can it be ?
No, he has not been able to endure
their tortures longer. God forgive
them and save this country ! Your
pardon, my lords," he said, remem-
bering that they had addressed him.
" What were your words to me ?"

"He does not even listen," they
remarked. "We conjure you to

swear; we implore you to do so
with all our power."

"I cannot," replied Sir Thomas
firmly, "and I positively refuse."

On hearing him pronounce these
words, which left them no alterna-
tive, there was a sudden commo-
tion among the lords ; they regard-
ed each other with anxiety.

" A man of such merit, of such
virtue," thought Fitz-James, filled
with remorse " what business have
I here ?"

" Truly, Sir Thomas," cried Sec-
retary Cromwell, feigning compas-
sion, " I am sorely grieved to hear
you speak thus, and I declare here,
before all this respectable assembly,
that I would like better to lose an
only son than to see you refuse the
oath in this manner. For very cer-
tainly the king will be deeply wound-
ed by it ; he will conceive the most
violent suspicions, and will not be
able to believe that you have had
no part in that affair of the Maid
of Kent."

" I am very much moved by your
affection," replied Sir Thomas; "but
whatever penalties I may have to
undergo, it is impossible for me to
redeem them at the price of my
soul."

" You hear him, my lords," said
the chancellor, looking at his col-
leagues. " Sir Thomas, deaf to all
our prayers, forgetting the favors
with which the king has overwhelm-
ed him for twenty years, tramples
under foot the authority of Parlia-
ment, the laws of the kingdom, and
persists traitorously, maliciously,
and in your presence, in refusing
to take an oath which every subject
of this kingdom cannot and ought
not to refuse. Consequently, I or-
der the act of accusation to be read
to the court, after which it will
render judgment and pronounce its
sentence."

Sir Thomas More.

357

The clerk then began reading, in
a nasal voice and monotonous tone,
an accusation so long, the griev-
ances of which were so multiplied,
divided, extended, and diluted by a
crowd of words and phrases, induc-
tions, prejudices, and all kinds of
suspicions, that it would require
too much time to report them ;
but it was easy to see that it had
been fabricated in bad faith and
with the absence of all reasonable
proofs.

This reading continued for two
hours, and, when it was finished,
the lord chancellor began : " What
have you to reply to all this ?" said
Audley. " You see, Sir Thomas,
and you should acknowledge, that
you have gravely offended his ma-
jesty ; nevertheless, the king is so
merciful, and is so much attached
to you, that he would pardon your
obstinacy, if you changed your opin-
ion, and we would be sure of ob-
taining your pardon, and even the
return of his favor."

He looked at Sir Thomas to see
if he was relenting; for, except
Cromwell, who desired More's death,
all the others, while too ambitious,
too base, or too cowardly to dare
sustain him, would have preferred
seeing him yield to their entreaties.

"It would rejoice us greatly!"
said Sir John Fitz-James.

" Most surely," cried the Duke* of
Norfolk.

" Ay, verily," slowly repeated
Cromwell.

" He will listen to nothing !" said
the Abbot of Westminster.

" Noble lords, I am under infinite
obligations to your lordships for the
lively interest you have manifested
in my case ; but, by the help of God,
I wish to continue to live and
die in his grace. As to the accu-
sation I have just heard, it is so
long, the hatred which has dictated

it so violent, that I am seized with
fear in realizing how little strength
and understanding the sufferings of
my body have left in my mind."

" He should be permitted to sit
down," said Sir John Fitz James
in a low voice, the tears gathering
in his eyes.

" Nobody objects," said the Duk,e
of Norfolk. "' I demand it, on the
contrary," he added, elevating his
voice.

" This will never end, then, "mur-
mured Cromwell.

" Let a chair be brought to the
accused," said Audley, who dared
not resist the Duke of Norfolk.

Sir Thomas seated himself for a
moment, because he was able to
stand no longer; then, summoning
all his strength, he again arose to
his feet, and spoke : " My accusa-
tion can be reduced, it seems to me,
to four principal heads, and I will try
and take them in order. The first
crime with which I am accused is of
being in my heart an opponent of
the king's second marriage. I con-
fess that I have said to his majesty
what my conscience dictated, and
in that I can see no treason. But,
on the contrary, if, being required
by my prince to give him my opinion
on a matter of such great impor-
tance, and which so deeply concerns
the peace of the kingdom, I had
basely nattered him, then indeed
I should have been a treacherous
and perfidious subject to God and
to the king. I have not, then, offend-
ed, nor wished to offend, my king in
replying, with the integrity of my
heart, to the question he has asked
me ; moreover, admitting that I have-
been at fault in this, I have been
punished for it already by the af-
flictions I have endured, the loss
of my office, and the imprisonment
I have undergone. The second
charge brought against me, and the

358

Sir Thomas More.

most explicit, is of having violated
the act of the last Parliament, in
this : that being a prisoner and ex-
amined by the council, I have not
been willing, through a spirit of
malice, of perfidy, of treachery, and
obstinacy, to say whether or not the
king was supreme head of the
church, and that I have not been
willing to confess whether that act
was just or unjust, for the reason
which I gave that, having no other
rank in the church than that of a
simple layman, I had no authority
to decide those things. Now, I will
avow to your lordships that this
was my reply:' I had neither done
nor said anything which could be
alleged and produced against me
on the subject of this statute * ; and
I added that I no longer desired
to occupy myself with anything
here below, in order to be entirely
absorbed in meditating on the Pas-
sion of my Saviour Jesus Christ in
this miserable world, where I have
such a short time to remain ; that I
wished ill to no one on the contrary,
every kind of prosperity ; and also,
if that was not sufficient to preserve
my life, I did not desire to live ; I
had violated no law, and that I was
not willing to surrender myself as
guilty of any crime of high treason
for there are no laws in the world
by which a man can be punished
for his silence ; they can do no
more than punish him for his words
and actions, and it is God alone
who judges the heart."

As Sir Thomas said these words,
the advocate-general, Christopher
Hales, suddenly interrupted him :
" You say you have not uttered a
word nor committed an act against
this law ; but you admit that you
have kept silence, which is a con-
clusive sign of the malice of your
heart, no good subject being able
to refuse without crime to reply to

this question when it is set before
him as the law ordains."

" My silence," replied More, " is
not a sign of the malice of my
heart, since I have answered the
king when he has consulted me on
divers occasions ; and I do not be-
lieve a man can be convicted of
having attacked a law by keeping
silence, since this maxim, l Qui ta-
cet consentire videtur,' is adopted and
recognized as true by all the most
learned and enlightened men of the
law. With regard to what you say
about a good subject having no
right to refuse a direct reply to this
question, I believe, on the contrary,
that such' is his duty, unless, indeed,
he wish to be -a bad Christian. Now,
it is better to obey God than man,
and it is 'better not to offend one's
conscience than everything else in
the world, above all when this con-
science cannot be the occasion of
revolt against, or injury to, the king
and the country. I protest to you,
on this subject I have not reveal-
ed my opinion to any man living."

" You know very well, on the
contrary," said the Duke of Nor-
folk sharply, " that your example
will be followed, and a great many
will refuse the oath on seeing you
reject it."

" Pardon me, my lord," replied
Sir Thomas ; " but I have the right
to 'think thus, since a moment ago
my lord the chancellor reproach-
ed me with being the only one
of my opinion in the kingdom.
I can say, then, that my silence is
neither injurious to the prince nor
dangerous to the state."

" How can you assert," cried
Christopher Hales, " that your re-
fusal will not be the cause of any
sedition or of any injury toward
the king? Do you not know, then,
that all his enemies have their eyes
fixed on you, in order to confirm

Sir Thomas More.

359

themselves by your audacity, and
take advantage of the malice of
which you have given proof? What,
then, would you call an injury, if not
a refusal thus contemptuous and
unlawful with respect to the sub-
mission you owe to the will of your
king, the living image of God upon
earth?"

"The king has no enemies, sir,"
replied Sir Thomas ; " he has only
some faithful subjects who wish to
sigh in silence over the perfidious
counsel which has been given him.
1 will dare almost to say," he cried,
laying his hand on his breast,
" some tender and respectful friends,
who would have given all for his
glory, sacrificed all for his salvation,
but who, for that same cause, can-
not approve the error into which
he has been made to fall."

" Alas ! he is lost," thought Sir
John ; and he turned away his
head.

" Well," said Cromwell to him-
self, " the case becomes clear ; they
cannot draw back."

While a low murmur of surprise
and admiration arose among the
jury, their foreman leaned toward
Mr. Rich, and whispered to him
excitedly.

" Truly ! It is so, sir !" said the
latter, looking fixedly at him. " It
seems to me, Sir Thomas Palmer,
that your remarks have much
weight. Have you been called here
to interpret the wishes of the king,
or have you, by chance, a mind to
make a short sojourn in the Tower
or some part of its environs ?" And
he made his fingers crack. " With
your short-sighted justice," he re-
plied, "do you believe that there
are not some great reasons, which
they do not wish you to know,
which have led Sir Thomas to the
bar of this tribunal ? And if I
should say to you " He paus-

ed. "The dogs!" he murmured,
looking at the faces of the jurors.
" And if I should say to you," he
continued, "that this is an extor-
tioner, and that he has devoured
the revenues of the state sucked
sucked the hearts' blood of the
poor people !"

"It cannot be possible!" said
Palmer, awaiting each word of Rich,
which seemed to fall drop by drop
from his lips. " What ! like the
other?"

" Exactly, precisely like the oth-
er ! Wonderful !" said Rich to him-
self. " They themselves furnish me
with the words, the fools ! I hope,
indeed, that I may be exalted a
grade from this ; for this herd of
jurors make me sweat blood and
water. They called them so well
chosen ! So it appears ; one goes
to the right, the other to the left, a
third to the middle. To the death
that is too hard ; no, confiscation, or
rather imprisonment. They wish
to enter into the spirit of the law,
as if they regarded the law ! Con-
demn him, sirs that is all they ask
of you and then go to your beds !
Every one to his trade ; theirs is not
to inquire what we do, but what
we wish them to do !" And Rich,
much excited, shaking his great
sleeves, leaned forward in order to
listen.

" I come, then, to the third arti-
cle of my accusation," said Sir
Thomas, " by which I am accused
of malicious attempts, efforts, and
perfidious practices against the sta-
tute, because, since being confined
in the Tower, I have sent several
packages of letters to Bishop Fish-
er, and in those letters I have ex-
horted him to violate this same law,
and encouraged him in the resis-
tance he has made to it. I have
already demanded that those letters
should be instantly produced and

36o

Sir Thomas More.

read to the court; they could thus
have acquitted me or convicted me
of falsehood. But as you say the bi-
shop has burned them, I am only
able to prove what I advance here
by my own words ; therefore I will
state what they contained. The
greater portion of those letters re-
lated to my private affairs, espe-
cially to our old friendship ; in one
of them alone I responded to the
demand he had made to know how
1 would reply in my interrogatory
upon the oath of supremacy, and I
wrote to him thus : that I had ex-
amined this question in conscience,
and he must be content with know-
ing that it was decided in my mind.
God is my witness, as I hope to
save my soul, that I have made no
other reply, and I cannot presume
that this could be considered an
attack upon the laws."

" Oh ! no, by no means," said sev-
eral of the jurors. " Nevertheless,
it would be necessary to see these
documents."

"That is the custom," said a
voice loudly enough.

" The jury examines the docu-
ments," said another; "that is al-
ways done."

" My lord judge ! my lord advo-
cate ! it is necessary, it is customary
indispensable "

Audley looked angrily at Rich.
"Gentlemen, the jurors are perfect-
ly right," he cried in a shrill voice ;
" but these letters have been de-
stroyed. They will proceed to ex-
amine other documents ; then the
witnesses of these facts will be
heard."

" Silence ! silence !" cried the
court usher.

" Gentlemen, do not interrupt
the court," said Cromwell gravely ;
" we should listen religiously to the
least word of the prisoner's de-
fence."

And thus he stifled by his awful
voice the truth which had been
excited in those troubled hearts.

Fatigued and weary, More kept
silence; he was thinking, moreover,
of his letters to the Bishop of Ro-
chester. " If 1 had spoken more
strongly to my friend," he sorrow-
fully reflected, " perhaps he would
not have succumbed. My God
and my only Saviour! behold the
afflictions that overwhelm my soul ;
for I fear I have only listened to
the cowardly prudence of the
children of men. And yet what
could I do ?"

More reproached himself with
not having done enough, with hav-
ing been mistaken. He groaned in
spirit and 'humbled himself to the
dust before God ; whereas this tri-
bunal by which he was being judg-
ed, in the face of which he found
himself placed, before which he
was traduced, was composed of
men whom avarice, fear, and am-
bition caused to walk rapidly and
firmly, without remorse and with-
out shame, in the road, strewn
with thorns, of vice, falsehood, and
slavery.

" Speak on," said Cromwell, pro-
voked by his silence ; " they will
not dare to interrupt you again."

Sir Thomas raised his eyes to
his face, and regarded him fixedly.
So much suffering, so many con-
flicting emotions, were weighing on
his mind, that he no longer knew
how to resume his discoveries or
where he had left the thread of his
ideas.

"You had replied to the third
article," said Cromwell, promptly
assisting him, for fear of giving the
assembly time for reflection. " Now,
what else have you to say, and
what have you to oppose to the
testimony of Master Rich, who has
heard you say in the Tower that

Sir Thomas More.

361

the statute was a two-edged sword
which killed necessarily either the
soul or the body ?"

'"What I have to reply to that,"
said Sir Thomas, " is that Mas-
ter Rich called on me continual-
ly while they were removing the
books I had in my prison. Fa-
tigued by his importunate demands,
I replied to him conditionally
(which makes the case very differ-
ent) that, if it was true, it was
equally dangerous to avow or dis-
avow this act; and that if it was
similar to a two-edged sword, it was
very hard to make it fall on me,
who had never contradicted the
statute either by my words or my
actions. As to their accusing me
of having drawn the Bishop of Ro-
chester into my conspiracy, and in-
duced him to make a reply similar
to my own alas ! no, I have not
done so. I have nothing more to
add." And he took his seat with-
out a word more.

"You have nothing more to say ?"
repeated the chancellor.

"No, my lord."

" That is well," said Audley.

" He is here no longer," said
More; and he looked around him.
"Where have they dragged him?
To the king, perhaps. We should
have received our sentence togeth-
er. O Fisher ! O my friend ! No,
it cannot be," said More ; " they are
surely deceiving me ! Does not false-
hood flow naturally from their lips ?
Oh ! how I would joy to see him, for
one moment only. However, if he
has not taken the oath, he will be
here." And he sank again into his
silent sadness.

" We will proceed to examine the
witnesses," said the chancellor.

Master Rich, relieving himself im-
mediately of his great robe, slowly
descended from the platform and
the chair from which he had sur-

veyed the jury, and took his seat in
the midst of the hall, in front of the
tribunal.

He raised his hand and took the
oath without hesitation. He then
related how, having entered t Im-
prison cell of Thomas More with
Palmer and Sir Richard Southwell,
he had heard Sir Thomas express
himself strongly against the statute
and declare that no Parliament in
the world would be able to submit
to the question of the supremacy.

"You hear, Sir Thomas!" cried
all the lords. " There is nothing
to reply to this."

Sir Thomas arose immediate-
ly, and an expression of deep etno-
tion showed itself on his weary fea-
tures. " My lords," he replied, " if
I was a man who had no regard for
my oath, I would not be here before
you as a criminal. And you, Master
Rich," he continued, turning toward
him, " if what you have declared be
true, and the oath you have taken be
not perjury, then may I never look
upon the face of God! and this I
would not assert for all the world
contains, if what you have testified
was the truth. Listen to me, my lords;
judge between us, and learn what
I have said to Master Rich. When
he came to carry away my books
from the dreary prison where I was
confined, he approached me, took
my hands, overwhelmed me with
compliments, and, protesting to me
that he had no commission touch-
ing the supremacy, during the
course of a long conversation he
recalled all the circumstances of our
childhood, and propose^ to me this
question: 'If Parliament recogniz-
ed me as king, would you recognize
me? and would it be treason not
to do it ?' I answered that I would
recognize him, but it was a casi/s
/en's. And in my turn I said to
him : * If an act of Parliament should

362

Sir Thomas More.

declare that God is not God, do
you think it would be treason not
to submit to that act ?'

" Then Master Rich said that
this question was too remote, and
they could not discuss it. Where-
upon he left me, and went away
with those whom he had brought
with him.

" In good faith, Master Rich,"
pursued Sir Thomas, " I am more
concerned on account of your per-
jury than because of the danger
into which you have so heartlessly
thrown me, and I must tell you
that neither I nor any one else has
ever regarded you as a man to whom
they could confide a thing of so
much importance as this. You
know that I am acquainted with
your life and conversation from
your youth up to the present time.
We were of the same parish ; and
you know right well, although I am
very sorry to say and speak of it,
that you always bore the reputation
of having a very flippant .and very
lying tongue, that you were a great
gambler, and you had not a good
name in your parish and in the Tem-
ple, where you have been reared.

" Your lordships," continued Sir
Thomas, " can you believe that, in
an affair of so great moment, I
would have had so little discretion
as to confide in Master Rich, en-
tertaining the opinion I do of his
want of truth and honesty ; that I
would have disclosed to him the
secret of my conscience touching
the supremacy of the king a sub-
ject upon which I have been so
strongly pressed, and which I have
always refused to reveal to any of
his grave and noble counsellors,
who, your lordships know well, have
been so often sent to the Tower to
interrogate me ? I submit it to
your judgment, my lords : does this
appear to you credible or possible ?

" Moreover," he immediately con-
tinued, " supposing Master Rich
speaks the truth, it should still be
remarked that this might have been
said in a secret and private conver-
sation upon some supposed ques-
tions and without any offending
circumstances. Therefore they
cannot, at least, say there was any
malice on this occasion ; and that
being so, my lords, I cannot be-
lieve so many reverend bishops,
honorable personages, so great a
number of wise and virtuous men
of which the Parliament is compos-
ed, would wish to punish a man
with death when he has had no
malice in his heart taking, most
certainly, this word malice in the
sense of ill-will and open rebellion.
Finally, I would again recall to your
lordships' attention the inexpressible
kindness his majesty has manifested
toward me during more than twenty
years since he called me into his
service, constantly appointing me
to some new charge, some new
office, and finally to the position of
lord chancellor an honor he had
never bestowed on any lawyer be-
fore, this dignity being the greatest
in the kingdom, and coming im-
mediately after that of the crown ;
lastly, in relieving me of this charge,
and permitting me to retire, and al-
lowing me, at my own request, the
liberty of passing the remainder
of my days in the service of God,
in order that I might occupy my-
self no more with aught but the
salvation of my soul. And there-
fore I say that all the benefits his
majesty has for so long a time and
so abundantly showered upon me,
in elevating me far beyond my
merits, are enough, in my opinion,
to break down the scandalous accu-
sation so injuriously formulated by
this man against me." Having said
these words, Sir Thomas was silent.

Sir Thomas More.

363

The tribunal looked at him. This
earnest and truthful attack on the
reputation of Master Rich was hard
to weaken, although the latter, after
having resumed his seat, had al-
ready cried out sneeringly three or
four times : " Palmer and Southwell
will testify if I have told the truth,
yes or no."

" Yes or no," repeated Cromwell
to himself " the world is summed
up in those two words ; only it is
necessary to manage them well.
Go, clerk," he said, " call Master
Southwell."

And the clamorous voice of the
clerk resounded through the vast
enclosure where he kept the wit-
nesses.

" Master Palmer ! Master Rich-
ard Palmer!" he repeated; and
Master Palmer presented himself.

" You swear," said Audley to the
witness, " that the testimony you
are about to render before this
court, and before the jury interpos-
ed between your sovereign lord the
king and the prisoner here present
at the bar, will be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, so help you God !"

As the chancellor said these
words, they brought the book of
the Holy Evangelists, and opened
it, in order that Palmer might lay
his hand on it to swear.

" But, my lord," said Palmer,
anxiously looking around him, " I
know nothing, nothing at all, about
what you are going to ask me."

" Well, you need only tell what
you know," said Audley brusquely.

" Very well, then," said Palmer in
a low voice ; and laying his hand
on the book, he was sworn in the
usual manner.

"What did you hear while re-
moving the books belonging to Sir
Thomas?"

" Nothing, my lord. I threw the

books as fast as possible into a
sack. They made some noise in
falling one upon the other, and 1
heard nothing else."

''That is not possible!" said
Audley. "The chamber is very
small; you would have been very
near Sir Thomas and Master Rich,
who were conversing together, and
you must have heard their conver-
sation."

" I have heard that Sir Thomas
stooped down to pick up a book I
let fall from my hands, and that it
seemed to give him pain when they
took his books away from him;
so that when I saw the dismal lit-
tle cell, the pallet they had given
him for a bed, the broken earthen
pitcher which was in one corner,
with an old candle standing in the
neck of a bottle, and that they had
forbidden him for the future to
light that candle for fear, they
said, that he might set fire to the
prison the tears came into my eyes,
and I felt my heart ache with sor-
row as I thought I had seen him
lord chancellor such a little while
ago. That is all, my lord."

"But, "said Cromwell, provoked
by this recital, " Sir Thomas spoke ;
you have declared that already."

" Oh ! he spoke, without doubt.
I do not deny that he could speak ;
certainly he spoke. For instance,
when he saw the sack of books
carried away he said : ' Now that
the tools are removed, there is nothing
more to do but close the shop. ' But we
saw, in spite of this pleasantry, that it
distressed him very much," added
Palmer after a moment's silence.

"How prolix is this witness!"
said the Abbot of Westminster in a
contemptuous tone.

"Come, that's enough," said
Cromwell. "You know nothing
more ?"

" No, my lord, nothing more no-

3 6 4

Sir Thomas More.

thing at all." And he hastened to
withdraw.

As he retired, Richard Southwell
appeared.

Audley immediately began to in-
terrogate him.

"Your name?"

"Richard South well."

"Your age?"

" Twenty-four years."

" Your profession ?"

"The king's clerk."

" You swear," said the chancellor
to the witness, "that the testimony
you are about to render before the
court, and before the jury interpos-
ed between our sovereign lord the
king and the prisoner at the bar,
will be the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, so help
you God."

" I have no testimony to offer,"
said Richard.

"What!" exclaimed Audley.
" Here is Master Rich, who cites
you as having been present at a
conversation lie had in the Tower
prison with Sir Thomas More."

" Master Rich says just what it
suits him to say. The truth is, I
went with Master Palmer to re-
move the books of Sir Thomas be-
cause I was obliged to do it. I
found Master Rich there, whereat I
\vas surprised. Everybody knows
what Rich is, and what confi-
dence should be placed in anything
he asserts. I will swear, then, to
nothing, nor take any oath on a
matter of business in which lie is
mixed up, being well assured in
advance Hiat it can only be some-
thing bad."

Rich's face became purple.

" My lord chancellor," cried the
new solicitor-general, " the witness
insults the court."

" Master Rich, yes ; but the
court, no," growled Audley. He
answered nothing, and had not

the appearance of heeding what
Richard Southwell was saying, if
even he was not pleased with
it; for the vile and corrupt men*
with whom Henry VIII. each day
surrounded himself, in order to
serve his frenzies, abhorred him
and sought only his destruction,
or to elevate themselves one above
another by crushing each other.
" You refuse to swear, then ?" said
he to the witness, without deign-
ing to listen to the recriminations
of Rich.

"Yes, my lord," replied South-
well.

" The witness will pay a fine."

" Very well, my lord ! I know
that I owe it."

And Southwell retired. Then a
profound silence reigned through-
out the assembly, because the de-
cisive moment approached.

Meanwhile, the lord chief-jus-
tice, the timid Fitz-James, arose at
a sign given him by Audley, and in
a trembling voice propounded the
following questions to the jury :

" Has Sir Thomas More render-
ed himself guilty of the crime of
high treason towards our lord the
king in refusing, through a spirit
of malice, treachery, and obstinacy,
the oath which he demands of him
as supreme head of the church on
earth ? Is Sir Thomas More guilty
of resisting the statute of Parlia-
ment which has conferred this dig-
nity on our lord and master, King
Henry VIII.?"

The court officers struck a blow
with their maces.

The judges all arose, and the
court marched out majestically,
while the jury retired into another
room.

" Now we shall see if Rich is sure
of his jury," said Cromwell to him-
self, following them with his eyes;
and not looking before him, he trod

Sir TJiomas More.

365

on the train of the chancellor's
robe, who turned round, impatient-
ly saying that he had offended his
dignity. Cromwell began to laugh ;
for he cared little for the dignity of
this chancellor of recent date and
mediocre worth and he continued
to look behind him.

"Well! this will soon be ended,"
said Sir Thomas ; and he asked the
yeomen who guarded him permis-
sion to approach one of the win-
dows looking out on the court-
yard.

More humane than the tigers
who had just gone out, these rude
men granted his request.

Sir Thomas looked out, but a
broad, sculptured cornice extending
around the gallery prevented him
from seeing if his daughter was
still below, and his eyes rested only
on the magnificent view to be enjoy-
ed from the apartments of Lam-
beth Palace. The sun was reflect-
ed upon the surface of the river,
and he could see even the small-
est boat that glided on the water.

" Is she still there ?" thought Sir
Thomas, as he leaned his head
against the window. " Well, it is all
over." He stepped back, and gaz-
ed out into the distance. " This
whole city," he said, "comes, goes,
stirs, agitates itself. What mat-
ters it to them that a man is con-
demned in a corner ? Had they
need of my services, they would run
'Sir Thomas! there is Sir Tho-
mas!' They would follow; they
would call me. Now the crowd for-
gets us in two days ! An immense
abyss, an entire chaos, almost a
generation, separates the evening
from the morrow ! My friends are
afraid those, at least, who remain
to me. They grieve in secret. The
tears will be wiped from their eyes
in obscurity; but my daughter, who
will dry hers? She will pass away

like myself, alone in this world ; she
will have need to pass quickly, and
without looking around her."

He wiped his forehead ; for it was
damp and hot.

"It is impossible for them not
to condemn me !" And he leaned
against the window-sill, scarcely
able to stand on his feet ; he ex-
perienced a sort of faintness for
which he could not account, and
which obliged him to change his
posture every moment. " Nothing !
There is no word from them. My
God ! they are a long time. And
for what purpose, when all was de-
cided in advance ? O Rochester !
where art thou ? It is this that
lowers my courage. Well ! they do
not return. What can this jury be
doing? It seems to me that it is
already two hours since they went
out." He looked around him, and
saw that the two guards had com-
menced a game of cards.

"How much a game?" said the
bigger of the two.

"A penny."

" A penny !" cried the other. " Of
what are you dreaming, Scotchman ?
The profit of a week ! A half-penny
now, and more on trust if You
understand me?" And he made a
gesture as if drinking.

" Always drinking, always drink-
ing!" replied his adversary.

They were dealing the cards,
when the maces of'the court officers
resounded on the floor, announcing
that the deliberations were ended
and the court was returning.

" What !" cried the two gamesters,
" they have finished already? How
they have hurried over this busi-
ness ! Ordinarily they take an
hour, at least."

They hastened to gather up their
cards and conceal them under their
jackets.

At a signal given by the officers

366

Sir Thomas More.

Sir Thomas came hurriedly out
from the deep embrasure of the
window where he was leaning. He
then observed a man and a young
girl, who, alone in the midst of this
vast enclosure, were gazing in every
direction, astonished at the solitude
in which they found themselves,
and seeking him whom their hearts
loved.

''Margaret!" cried Sir Thomas
" Margaret here at this fatal mo-
ment ! No grief must, then, be spar-
ed me!"

At the voice of More his daugh-
ter rushed toward him. She cover-
ed his face with kisses and tears.
Pierre Gilles was at her side.

" Pierre Gilles here!" cried More.

Meanwhile, the heavy doors rolled
on their hinges, and the judges ap-
proached.

" O More ! O my friend ! is the
trial ended, that I see you alone
and at liberty here ?".

"Yes! it is over," said More;
''but not as you think," he added,
lowering his voice. "My friend, in
the name of our tender friendship,
take Margaret away ! I will see
you again in a moment. I pray
you, one minute, one minute only,
go, take her out, if you love me, if
you have loved me ! Ah ! Pierre
Gilles, thou here? I confide her to
thee !" And Sir Thomas cast on
him a glance so imploring, and an
expression so deep, that the heart
of one father was immediately com-
prehended by the other.

Pierre Gilles made a rapid move-
ment to lead the young girl out.
He was too late ; the court had en-
tered, and the judges had taken
their places. The chancellor re-
mained standing in the midst of
them, and, turning to the foreman
of the jury, who advanced, he put
the terrible question :

" Is the accused guilty ?"

"Yes," said the foreman, ;< upon
all the counts." And his voice
failed in adding the last words.

" Upon all the counts!" repeated
Pierre Gilles.

"What did he say?" cried Mar-
garet, transfixed with expectation
and terror. " My father guilty ?
No, never ! Pierre Gilles, what did
he say? Guilty? Oh! no, no. My
father!"

The young girl pronounced this
word so tenderly, with a cry so
piercing, an accent of despair so
heartrending, that Sir Thomas trem-
bled from head to foot, and it seem-
ed his soul was shaken to its very
depths.

"In mercy take her away!" he
said in a faint voice.

"Guilty!" repeated Margaret
" guilty ! They have dared say it.
Guilty ! Then all is finished ! He
is lost, condemned ! O cowardice !
O horror! Guilty !"

And a change so horrible came
over her features that Margaret was
unrecognizable.

"Sir Thomas More guilty before
God and before man!" she pursu-
ed with a smile of frightful bitter-
ness, while her eyes remained dry.
" Pierre Gilles, you have heard it ;
have I not told you ? O ignoble
creatures ! Behold them, these
bloody judges this Cromwell, with
his livid face, and envy corroding
his heart; this Audley, vender of
consciences; this Cranmer, renegade
archbishop ! No, you do not know
them ! There they are before your
eyes, and they invoke the name of
Almighty God ! One day, yes, one
day, we also will see them before the
tribunal of the Sovereign Judge
before that tribunal without appeal
and without mercy to receive the
reward of perjury and of murder.
May Heaven hear my cry; may my
tears mount to the skies, and fall

Sir Thomas More.

36;

back upon them to add new strength
to the remorse which they have so
long sought to tear from their
hearts !"

"What woman is this," said
Cromwell, " who dares to disturb
the court ?"

" Nay, Master Cromwell," replied
More in a stifled voice, " pardon
her ! She is a child. Alas ! you
know her well."

" Bear her away," said Audley in-
stantly.

"Officer, lead that woman out!"
exclaimed Cromwell in a voice of
thunder.

" My daughter, my cherished
daughter, follow Pierre Gilles ! My
friend, take her out !" cried Sir
Thomas.

".I will not go !" exclaimed Mar-
garet, bracing her feeble feet against
the long stone slabs.

"Will you suffer a varlet to lay
his hands on you, Margaret?" said
Pierre Gilles, whose tears stream-
ed down his cheeks and stifled his
voice.

"Yes, anything! If I leave him,
they will let me see him no more."

"Sheriff, do you hear?" cried
Cromwell.

" O Master Cromwell !" exclaim-
ed 'Margaret, falling on her knees
and raising her suppliant hands to-
ward him. " But, no," she said, im-
mediately rising again, "I will not
descend so low ! Implore him ? You
may annihilate but never demean
fne !" And casting a withering
glance upon Cromwell, she seized
the arm of Pierre Gilles, and, drag-
ging him away, left the place with-
out even looking toward her father.

This scene created some disturb-
ance in the horrible assembly, and
a moment of silence and hesitation
followed, when Cromwell made a
sign to the lord chancellor not to
let it be prolonged.

Audley then began to pronounce
the formula of the sentence, but Sir
Thomas interrupted him.

" My lord chancellor," he said,
" when I had the honor of being
at the head of justice, the custom
was to demand of the prisoner, be-
fore pronouncing sentence, if he
had anything to say that might ar-
rest the judgment about to be ren-
dered against him. I ask, then, to
say a few words."

"And what can you have to
say ?" asked Audley brusquely.

" Much, my lord," answered Sir
Thomas ; " for, now that I have
been condemned, and it can no
more seem like presuming on my
own strength in exposing myself to
death, I can discharge my co^sci-
ence, and speak freely and without
restriction.. I therefore declare, in
the presence of your lordships here
present, that I regard the statute of
Parliament as entirely illegal and
contrary to all laws, divine and
human, and my accusation, conse-
quently, as being completely null.
Parliament has no right, and can-
not in any manner have the power,
to give the church a temporal head.
In conferring the spiritual govern-
ment of one portion of Christen-
dom on another than the Bishop of
Rome, whose universal supremacy
has been established in the person
of St. Peter, chief of the apostles,
by the mouth of our Lord Jesus
Christ himself when he was present
and visible on earth, Parliament
has exceeded the limits of its au-
thority. There are not, therefore,
and there cannot be, among Cath-
olic Christians, laws sufficient to
oblige a Christian to obey a power
which might have been usurped in
order to prove this assertion. I will
say, moreover, that the Parliament
of this kingdom can no more bind
all Christendom by such an act

368

Sir Thomas More.

than one small portion of the church
can make a law in opposition to
the general law of the church uni-
versal ; or than the city of London,
which is only a member in com-
parison with the body of the state,
can make a law against aft act of
Parliament which would bind the
whole kingdom. I will add, further-
more, that this law is contrary to all
the statutes and to all the laws in
force until this day, and any yet
reported, especially to these words
written in the great charter : * The
English Church is free, her rights
shall remain untouched, and none
of her liberties shall be cut off';
finally, that it is contrary to the oath
taken by the king at his consecra-
tion, in presence of all the assem-
bled people. And I say that thre is
far more ingratitude in the English
Parliament refusing to acknowledge
the authority and spiritual suprem-
acy of the pope than there would
be in a child refusing to obey its
father; because it is to Pope St.
Gregory that we are indebted for
the knowledge of the Holy Gospel ;
it is he who regenerated us a heri-
tage richer and more desirable than
that which any father according to
the flesh can bequeath to his chil-
dren. Yes, noble lords, I confess
before you that, since this question
has been raised among us, I have
spent days and nights in examin-
ing it, and I have been unable to
find in the centuries passed, or in
the works of any doctors, a single
example, or even a sentiment, which
may authorize a temporal king to
usurp the spiritual government of
the church. And consider : this
divine authority, necessary to the
unity and the purity of the Chris-
tian faith, would then be committed,
in the course of time, in following
the order of succession established
in this kingdom, to the feeble hands

of a woman or the blind keeping of
an infant in its cradle ! Truly, my
lords, it is a thing which shocks not
only the unchangeable rule followed
up to our day, bat even the most
ordinary judgment and common
sense."

" Then," said Audley, interrupt-
ing him with a smile of mockery
and disdain, " you esteem yourself
wiser than, and believe you possess a
knowledge and degree of enlighten-
ment far above that of, the bishops,
the reverend doctors, the nobility,
and the people of the kingdom
generally !"

" I doubt, my lord," replied Sir
Thomas firmly, "of there having
been this unanimity between them in
which your lordship appears to be-
lieve ; but, supposing it existed, if
we are to judge by the number, it
must be very much less even than
that of the Christians who^ are
spread throughout the whole world,
and of those who, having gone be-
fore them in life, are now among the
glorious saints in heaven."

" Sir Thomas," cried the Duke
of Norfolk, reddening, "you show
clearly how far your malice and ob-
stinacy extend."

"Noble duke," replied More,
" you are mistaken : it is neither
malice nor obstinacy which makes
me speak thus, but rather the desire
and the necessity of clearing my
conscience ; and I call upon God,
who sees and hears us, to witness
that this is the only sentiment in-
spiring my heart !"

Cromwell, in the meantime, gre\r
very impatient at this debate, and
made signals in vain to Audley
that he should impose silence on
Sir Thomas ; but the former hesi-
tated, stammered, and delayed pro-
nouncing his sentence, resolving in
his mind not to take upon himself
the responsibility of the proceed-

Sir Thomas More.

369

ing. All at once he turned toward
(he lord chief-justice, Fitz- James.

"Why," said he, " Sir John, do
you not assist me with your opi-
nion ? Could it be true that our
sentence were unlawful? Speak!
Are you not the lord chief-justice ?"

At this question a frightful ap-
prehension arose in the soul of the
weak judge ; he was conscious of
the adroit snare into which he had
been drawn. They questioned him
directly ; they placed in the hollow

I of his hand the weights which were
to turn the balance and decide the
fate of Sir Thomas, his benefac-
tor and friend. He paled visibly
and answered nothing.

"Well!" said' Cromwell, "the
chancellor interrogates you, my
lord, and it seems you hesitate in
your reply !"

if he had had courage, he might,
perhaps, have saved More ; it fail-
ed him. " I think," he answered in
an evasive way, less odious perhaps,
but none the less criminal, " that if
the statute of Parliament was ille-
gal, the process of law would be
equally so."

" Assuredly," said Cromwell with
u bitter smile, ' ; this is very judi-
cious. If there was no law, there
could be no criminal ; and if there
was no day, there would be no
night there are some things which
reason themselves so naturally that
we cannot but concede them." As
he said these words, he passed to
the chancellor the sentence of con-
demnation.

Audley read it in a very loud
tone, which he lowered, however,
when he came to the details of the
execution, which set forth that Sir
Thomas, after having been carried
back to the Tower by Lieuten-
ant Kingston, should be dragged
through the streets of the city on
a hurdle ; led afterward to Tyburn,
VOL. xxiv. 24

where, after having been hanged by
the neck, he should be taken down,
when half dead, from the gallows,
to be disembowelled and his entrails
cast into the fire; after which
his body should be cut into four
pieces, to be placed above the gates
of the city, the head excepted, be-
cause the head must be exposed
on London Bridge in an iron cage.
While the sentence was being
read the face of Sir Thomas More
remained impassible. At the end
only a slight start seemed to denote
some feeling. He lowered his head,
and it was seen, by an almost imper-
ceptible movement of his lips, that
he prayed

A profound silence reigned around
him, and it seemed that no human
voice or respiration dared be raised
in the presence of such cool atro-
city.

After a moment a slight sigh was
heard.

" A death of infamy may not be,"
murmured the Duke of Norfolk;
" he has been lord chancellor !"

He leaned over toward Crom-
well. " You have deceived me,"
he said. " Decapitation is the only
punishment which can be inflicted
on him. He has been lord chan-
cellor ! Have you thought of that ?"
" But," replied Cromwell, " the
law is positive ; such is the penalty
that follows the refusal of the oath."
" The king will dispense with the
gibbet," said Norfolk angrily, "or
I am not chief of his council !"

"We will see," said Cromwell.
" That will matter nothing, pro-
vided he dies," he added to him-
self.

Lord Fitz-James had heard Nor-
folk's remark, and, unable to re-
strain his tears, addressed him.
" My lord," he said in an oppressed
voice, "the king might be willing
to grant his pardon. Ask Sir Tho-

370

Sir Thomas More.

mas if he have not yet something
to say. Perhaps, alas ! perhaps he
may be induced to make some act
of submission."

Norfolk made a sign of approval.
" Sir Thomas," he said, " you have
heard what are the rigors of the
law, : and the penalty that your in-
conceivable obstinacy calls down
upon your head. Speak, then ;
have you nothing to reply that
may give us the means of mitigat-
ing it ?"

Sir Thomas raised his head, and
looked at him for a moment with
an expression of calmness, of gen-
tleness, benevolence, and dignity
which it is impossible for any hu-
man pen to describe. " Noble
duke," he answered, " no, I have
nothing more to say; I have only
to submit to the sentence you have
passed on me. There was a time
when you honored me with the
name of friend ; I dare believe
that I still remain worthy of it. I
regard the words you have address-
ed to me as a souvenir of that
good-will, old and proven, which
you have felt for me. I would
thank you for it at this last mo-
ment ; for I hope that we may
meet again in a better world, where
all these dissensions shall have

passed away. And even as the
holy Apostle Paul, who was one of
those who stoned St. Stephen, is
now united with him in heaven.
where they love with an eternal
love, so I hope also that your lord-
ships, who have been my judges
here on earth, and all those who
have participated in any way in
my death, may be eternally reunited
and happy in possession of the
salvation which our divine Saviour
Jesus Christ has merited for us on
the cross. To this end I will pray
from my heart for your lordships,
and above all for my lord the king,
that God may accord him faithful
counsellors, and that the truth may
no longer remain hidden from him."

And saying these words with
much sweetness and fulness of
heart, Sir Thomas was silent.

As soon as he had ceased speak-
ing the guards, by Cromwell's or-
der, pressed around him. An axe
was raised, the edge of which was
turned toward the condemned by a
man who walked before him. And
so he was led back on foot, through
the streets, to the Tower, there to
wait until the hour of execution
should be appointed by the king,
after he had affixed his signature to
the death-warrant.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

Testimony of the Catacombs.

371

TESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO PRAYERS FOR THF
DEAD AND THE INVOCATION OF SAINTS.*

MR. WITHROW claims to have
produced the only English book
on th-e Catacombs in which the lat-
est results of exploration are fully
given and interpreted from a Pro-
testant point of view. We must
decline to acknowledge the justice
of his claim. His book is very far
indeed from giving the latest results
of exploration., and he certainly is
not the first who has attempted to
interpret them from a Protestant
point of view. He is, however, as
far as we know, the last ; and as he
has pretty faithfully repeated all
the misstatements and mistakes of
his various predecessors in the
same subject, only adding a few
more of his own, it will be worth
while to set before our readers a
short refutation of some of them.
Indeed, this work of refutation is
the more necessary because " the
testimony of the Catacombs relative
to primitive Christianity " is daily
increasing in value, as our know-
ledge of the Catacombs is becoming
more exact and scientific. Some
years ago, and to some intelligen-
ces even now, a painting or an in-
scription from the Catacombs was
" a monument of ancient Christian-
ity," and one such monument was
as good evidence as another of
primitive Christian doctrine. It
has been reserved to the labors of
De Rossi to introduce light and
order into this chaos ; and those
who profess to publish the fruits

* The Catacombs af Rome, and their Testimony
relative to Primitive Christianity. By the Rev.
W. H. Withrow, M.A. New York : Nelson & Phil-
lips. 1874,

of his discoveries ought not to with-
hold this most important portion of
them; at least, they ought scrupu-
lously to follow the lines of chro-
nology which he has established, or
else themselves to establish others
on surer foundations. Mr. With-
row's neglect of these distinctions
indeed, of all chronological order
whatever is quite unpardonable.
Whilst in the title of his work he pro-
mises to examine " the testimony of
the Catacombs relative to primitive
Christianity," we sometimes find that
the greater portion of the evidence
he adduces on some of the most
important questions of Christian
doctrine is not even taken from
the Catacombs at all. Let us look,
by way of example, at a single doc-
trine the elementary doctrine of
the Resurrection and see how he
deals with it. " This glorious doc-
trine," he says, " which is peculiarly
the characteristic of our holy religion
as distinguished from all the faiths of
antiquity, was everywhere recorded
throughout the Catacombs. It was
symbolized in the ever-recurring re-
presentations of the story of Jonas
and of the raising of Lazarus, and
was strongly asserted in numerous
inscriptions " (p. 431). But of the
inscriptions which he proceeds to
quote, one is spurious {Alexander
mortuus non est, etc.) ; others belong-
to the years 449, 544, etc., long
after the practice of burial in the
Catacombs had ceased. And we
shall presently have occasion to
notice other sins, scarcely less fla-
grant, against every canon of chro-
nology belonging to the subject

372

Testimony of the Catacombs.

which he professes to handle. JJut
first let us say a few words as to
what those canons are, and ho\v
they have been established.

It is only in our own day that
the study of inscriptions generally,
and especially of Christian inscrip-
tions, has received that develop-
ment which entitles it to a place
among real sciences. It has now
acquired alight and a solidity which
constitute it one of the most trust-
worthy founts of ancient history.
To confine ourselves, however,
strictly within the limits of our
present argument, we will speak
only of the method which has been
followed by De Rossi during the
thirty years he has devoted so as-
siduously to this subject, and where-
by he has been enabled to discover
the laws which regulated the gradual
development of Christian epigraphy.
If we must summarize his method
in a single word, we should say
that his secret consists in a minute
study of the topography of all in-
scriptions. In every fresh excava-
tion i.e., in every reopening of the
galleries -and chambers of the Cata-
combs, and clearing away the de-
bris with which they have been so
long encumbered he has carefully
marked and registered every stone,
and even every fragment of every
stone, bearing so much as a single
letter or symbol engraved upon it,
and taken note of the precise spot
where it has been found. When a
sufficient space has been cleared
to enable him to make a study of
its contents, he collects all the
stones that have been discovered
within this area ; carefully elimi-
nates all those which have evidently
fallen through the luminaria, or in
other ways have been introduced
from the upper world ; next, makes
a separate class of those whose
place of origin is doubtful those

which there is some reason, either
from their size, their shape, or for
some other cause, to suspect may
have come from outside ; and then
there remain, finally, those only
which beyond all question belong
to the subterranean cemeteries.
Many of these he has, perhaps, dis-
covered in situ, still closing the
graves to which they were ori-
ginally attached and these, of
course, are cardinal points in his
system of arrangement; of many
others he knows the chamber or
gallery whence they came; and of
all he minutely examines the lan-
guage, the symbols, monograms or
other ornaments, the form of the
letters, the names, and, finally, the
style and epigraphic formula. ; and
the minute study of the inscrip-
tions of innumerable area of various
cemeteries according to this strict
topographical system has led to
wonderfully interesting and impor-
tant discoveries, both as to their
history and chronology. This pro-
cess of examination, it need hardly
be said, is laborious and wearisome
in the extreme ; even the material
difficulties which surround it are
not slight. It sometimes happens
that within the limits of a single
area e.g., in that of St. Eusebio's
monument in the cemetery of San
Callisto there are upwards of a
thousand fragments of epitaphs to
be sifted and classified. De Rossi,
therefore, occasionally gives utter-
ance to a pathetic lament as to the
dry and tedious character of the
task he has imposed upon himself.
Nevertheless, he has persevered in
it with the most conscientious fidel-
ity, even when at times the attempt
at arrangement seemed almost des-
perate, and the results have in the
end abundantly rewarded his la-
bors. It is with these results that
we are at present concerned ; and it

Testimony of the Catacombs.

373

is obvious that in these pages we
can only reproduce them : we can-
not enter into an examination of
the evidence upon which they rest.
This is the less necessary, however,
since even the most bitter of Pro-
testant controversialists admit that
" De Rossi has the rare merit of
stating his facts exactly and impar-
tially, precisely as he finds them,"
and that "his assiduous researches
have been conducted with a sincere
zeal for truth."

Let us proceed, then, to state
some of the conclusions to which
L)e Rossi's researches have led
him first, upon the general sub-
ject of the chronology of the in-
scriptions which have come to us
from the Catacombs, and next as to
the dogmatic allusions contained in
them. And first, as to the inscrip-
tions, it is patent that not one in
ten bears its date on the face of it.
Are the other nine (speaking gen-
erally) older or more recent ? De
Rossi pronounces quite positively
in favor of their greater antiquity.
He says that the most ancient
Christian epitaphs make no mention
either of the day or year of decease;
that during the time of the first
emperors there are very few ex-
ceptions to this rule; that in the
third century the mention of the
day and month of the decease was
not uncommon, though the year
was still passed over in silence;
finally, that in the fourth century
this also was added.* But he says
that there are other tokens, such as
the number and character of the
names or of the symbols employed,
the style of diction, the form of the
letters, etc., which, if carefully ex-
amined and compared with one an-
other, enable us not un frequently to
make a very probable statement as

* I user. Christ., i . c. Lx.

to the age of undated inscriptions
(probabili non raro sentcntid dcfinies] ;
if, in addition to this, we know the
place where the inscription was
found, and have had the opportu-
nity of examining other inscriptions
found in the same neighborhood,
then it will rarely happen that there
is any doubt at all about the age to
which it belongs. It is not, of course,
meant that it is possible to fix the
year, or even the decade or score
of years, perhaps, to which it be-
longs ; but De Rossi would certainly
fix its chronology within the limits
of half a century or less (turn de
cetate late saltern sumptd vix itnquaiii
grave dubium supercrii)\ he certainly
would never be in doubt with refer-
ence to any particular inscription,
still less with reference to a whole
class of inscriptions, whether it be-
longs to the ages of persecution or
to the end of the fourth century.

Now, Mr. Withrow is either aware
of these canons whereby the chro-
nology of the inscriptions from the
Catacombs is fixed, or he is not. If
he is not, he is quite incompetent
to follow by their means (as he pro-
fesses to do, p. 415) "the develop-
ment of Christian thought from cen-
tury to century, and to trace the suc-
cessive changes of doctrine and dis-
cipline." If he is aware of them,
his reasoning is most disingenuous
when he first seeks to settle a dis-
puted question by the testimony of
the dated inscriptions of the first
three centuries (p. 426) which are
not more than thirty in number al-
together and then proceeds to ar-
gue that " if those inscriptions which
apparently favor Romish dogmas, of
which we know the date, are all of
a late period, we may assume than
those of a similar character which
are undated are of the same rela-
tive age, and therefore valueless as
evidence of the antiquity of such

374

Testimony of the Catacombs.

dogmas " (p. 446). There is no
necessity, and indeed no room, for
" assumption " at all. The question
can be doeided by scientific rules
whether such and such inscriptions
belong to the third century or the
fifth, and he ought honestly to have
told his readers as much, and to
have stated what that decision is.
As he has failed to do so, we must
supply the omission.

First, however, let the limits of
our task be clearly defined. We
are not undertaking to establish
any point of Christian doctrine by
the unaided evidence of inscriptions
or paintings from the cemeteries,
though we are far from saying that
there are none which might be so
established. But at present we are
only concerned to refute Mr. With-
row's Protestant interpretation of
these monuments, and to show that
they at least favor, if they do not
demand, a Catholic interpretation.
We know that not even the writings
of the Fathers present a complete
picture of the whole doctrinal sys-
tem of the age to which they belong,
but must be studied by the light re-
flected upon them from the more
developed and systematic exposi-
tions of those who came after them.
Still less do we think it reasonable
to look in a collection of epitaphs for
a clear statement of the articles of
faith professed by those who wrote
them; the utmost that can be ex-
pected is that they should contain
what De Rossi calls " dogmatic
allusions " more or less distinct,
if you will, but always, or at least
generally, merely indirect and casu-
al. And as to drawing any trust-
worthy conclusions with reference
to the antiquity of this or that Chris-
tian doctrine from the supposed ab-
sence of all allusion to it in the
dated tombstones of the first three
centuries, the mere enunciation of

such a theory is enough to demon-
strate its absurdity.

Yet we are sorry to say that Mr.
Withrow has been guilty of even
worse absurdity than this, if it ought
not rather to be called dishonesty.
It is certainly worse than mere lite-
rary or dialectic trifling it looks
like a wilful throwing of dust in the
reader's eyes to assert in the text
(p. 517) that the order of acolytes*,
"discontinued in the Protestant
communion," was " probably the off-
spring of the increasing pomp and
dignity of the bishops to whom they
acted as personal attendants, espe-
cially in public processionsand reli-
gious festivals," and that " the only
dated epitaphs of acolytes are of
a comparatively late period," whilst
forced to acknowledge in a note that
" Cornelius, Bishop of Rome in the
third century "(A.D. 250) i.e., at a
time when "the pomp and dignity
of bishops " consisted in their being
the special objects of imperial per-
secution, and the only " public pro-
cessions " in which they can have
taken part were those in which they
were led forth to public execution
that Cornelius, Bishop of Rome
in the middle of the third century,
" says there were in that church
forty-two acolytes." What does
Mr. Withrow mean by placing these
two statements together in the way
we have described ? Does he really
wish to insinuate that the absence
of an ancient dated epitaph of a
deceased acolyte ought to counter-
balance the testimony of the bishop
to the existence of forty-two living
ones ? or does he think that the
Protestant public, for whose tastes
he so unscrupulously caters, wil!
read his text and overlook his
notes? or, finally, that, reading the
notes, they will nevertheless give
greater weight to the uncharitable
suggestion of a Protestant clergy-

Testimony of the Catacombs.

375

man in the nineteenth century than
to the testimony of an eye-witness,
who was also pope, in the third?
Had the order of acolytes been re-
tained instead of being rejected by
the Protestant communion, doubt-
less Mr. With row would have re-
cognized the conclusiveness of the
evidence of Pope Cornelius ; he
would have seen that the forty-two
acolytes who were alive in A.D. 250
must sooner or later have died, and
been buried in Christian cemeteries,
and consequently that the non-dis-
covery there of any dated epitaphs
recording their decease is " valueless
as evidence " against the antiquity
of their order.

But we will not detain our
readers any longer by pointing out
the curiosities with which Mr. Wiih-
row's volume abounds, but proceed
at once to redeem our promise of
setting before them the real state
of " the testimony of the Catacombs
relative to primitive Christianity "
on one or two of the more promi-
nent doctrines of the Catholic faith.
We have said that it is unreasona-
ble to look for a profession of faith
in an epitaph. But there is one
point on which we should be dis-
posed to make an exception to this
remark. We think it is quite natu-
ral to expect from a large collection
of sepulchral inscriptions considera-
ble information as to the belief of
those to whom they belonged with
reference to the present condition
or future prospects of the dead,
and their relations with the survi-
vors ; and in this expectation the
inscriptions from the Catacombs do
not disappoint us. Let us call them
into court, and hear what evidence
they can give.

Mr. Withrow shall open the plead-
ings, and it must be allowed that
he does so with a very loud blast of
his trumpet, and one which "gives

no uncertain sound" (p. 418).
" There is not a single inscription,"
he says, "nor painting, nor sculp-
ture, before the middle of the fourth
century, that lends the least counte-
nance to the erroneous dogmas of
the Church of Rome. All previous
to this date are remarkable for their
evangelical character, and it is only
after that period that the distinctive
peculiarities of Romanism begin to
appear." Presently he quotes what
he calls " the first dated inscription
possessing any doctrinal character."
' It belongs to the year 217, and
states of the deceased that he was
"received to God" (reccptus an
Dtuni) on such a day ; whereupon
our author exclaims : " We have here
the earliest indication of doctrinal
belief as to the condition of the de-
parted. It is not, however, a dark
and gloomy apprehension of purga-
torial fires, but, on the contrary, the
joyous confidence of immediate re-
ception into the presence of God."
Twenty pages later, however, he is
obliged to acknowledge that " there
occur in the Catacombs frequent
examples of acclamations addressed
to the departed, expressive of a de-
sire for their happiness and peace ;
and these acclamations have been
quoted by Romanist writers as in-
dicating a belief in the doctrine of
purgatory and in the efficacy of
prayers on behalf of the dead " ; and
he proceeds to give a score of ex-
amples, such as these : Vivas in Deo,
in Deo Christo Mayest thou live-
in God, in God Christ ; Vivas inter
sanctos Mayest thou live among the
saints ; Deus tibi rcfrigcret, spiritiim
tuum refrigcrct God refresh thee,
or refresh thy spirit ; Paoctibi Peace
be to thee, etc. But, he says, "it
will be perceived that these are not
intercessions/^/' the dead, but mere
apostrophes addressed to them ;
they were no more prayers for the

3/6

Testimony of the Catacombs.

souls of the departed than is Byron's
verse, * Bright be the place of thy
rest.' " Mr. Withrow continues, and
is presently obliged to make a still
further concession viz., that " the
wish does sometimes take the form
of a prayer for the beloved one,"
and he gives half a dozen examples,
one of which he curiously misun-
derstands, and another we do not
recognize as belonging to the Cata-
combs. However, five at least are
genuine, and we could have fur-
nished him with a score or two of
others, all containing distinct pray-
ers " to God," " to the Lord," " to
the Lord Jesus," " to remember the
deceased," "to remember him for
ever," "to refresh his spirit," "not
to suffer his spirit to be brought
into darkness," etc. How is such
evidence as this to be withstood ?
Mr. Withrow shows himself quite
equal to the occasion : " They are
intense expressions of affection of
the ardent Italian nature, that
would fain follow the loved object
beyond the barrier of a tomb " (p.
443). " They are the only witnesses
that keen Roman Catholics can ad-
duce from the Christian inscrip-
tions of the first six centuries," but
k no accumulation of such evidence
affords the slightest warrant for the
corrupt practice of the Church of
Rome."

We need hardly say that Mr.
Withrow is not the first who has
thus " interpreted " these epitaphs
" from a Protestant point of view."
Mr. Burgon had long since given
the same explanation, and even
quoted the same poetical illustra-
tion from Byron. But we must
confine ourselves to Mr. Withrow,
and follow him through his gradu-
ated scale of confessions. They
may be cast in this form: the ear-
liest inscription bearing on the sub-
ject of prayers for the dead dis-

countenances them ; there are fre-
quent examples of acclamations or
good wishes for the departed, but
these are not prayers ; moreover, th ey
are, comparatively speaking, few in
number Bishop Kip puts them as
"half a dozen among thousands of
an opposite character " and, being
undated, we may " assume " that they
are of a late age ; finally, there are
a few prayers, but these are only
the untutored outburst of the ardent
Italian nature. Let us set side
by side with these the statements
of De Rossi on the same subjects.
And, first, as to the antiquity of
these formula. He says : " There
are two distinct classes of epitaphs
to be found in the Catacombs ; the
one, brief and simple, written ap-
parently without a thought of hand-
ing down anything to the memory
of posterity, but designed by the
survivors mainly as a means of
identifying, amid so many thou-
sands of graves of the same outward
form, those in which they were spe-
cially interested.* These are the
more ancient, and most of them
contain nothing beyond the name
of the deceased and some of those
short acclamations or prayers of
which we have just given exam-
ples-. Inscriptions of the second
class record the age of the deceas-
ed, the day of his death, or more
specially of his burial, and, in fact,
omit nothing which is wont to be
found on sepulchral monuments.
They are also often defaced by
bombastic exaggerations of praise
and flattery ; and the pious acclama-
tions or prayers we have spoken of are
rarely or never found." It appears,
then, according to the evidence of
De Rossi which on this question is
surely of supreme authority that
the presence on a tombstone of ac-

* Inscr. Christian., \. c. x.

Testimony cf the Catacombs.

377

clamations or pnyers for the dead,
so far from being evidence of the
corruption of a later age, is an
actual test or token of primitive an-
tiquity. Some indication of this
may be gathered, by a careful ob-
server, even from an inspection of
the volume of dated inscriptions
already published. " May you live
among the saints " is engraved on
a tombstone of the year 249, and
"Refresh thyself, or Be thou re-
freshed, with the holy souls," on
another of 291 ; that is to say,
there are two distinct examples out
of the 32 dated inscriptions prior
to the conversion of Constantine.
Among the 1,340 dated inscriptions
subsequent to that event you will
scarcely find another.

And next, as to the relative num-
bers of the epitaphs which speak
positively (in the indicative mood)
of the present happiness of the de-
ceased, and of those which speak
only optatively and breathe the lan-
guage of prayer. We cannot, in-
deed, give any exact statement
of figures until De Rossi's great
work on the inscriptions shall
have been completed and the
whole number brought together in
print. But wherever we have had an
opportunity of instituting a com-
parison, we have always found the
optative or deprecatory form in the
ascendant. It is so in the epitaphs
collected in the Lapidarian Gallery
of the Christian Museum at the
Lateran in Rome ; it is so in the
inscriptions of each separate area
of the great cemetery of San Cal-
listo, so minutely registered by De
Rossi in his Roma Sotterranea ; and
he himself writes as follows : " Some
of these acclamations are affirmative,
and these may be considered as
salutations to the deceased, full of
faith and Christian hope, substitut-
ed for the cold, hopeless dreariness

of the pagan vale ; * but for the
most part they are optative, and ask
for the deceased life in God, peace,
and refreshment. We should in-
quire whether these have not often
a real deprecative value, and were
not uttered or written with the in-
tention of praying to God for the
peace and refreshment of the de-
parted souls." A full and satisfac-
tory answer to this question, he
says, cannot be given till all the in-
scriptions of this class have been
brought together, so that they may
mutually explain and illustrate one
another. Nevertheless, he refers to
what he had said in another place \
on the same subject ; and there we
read : " These auguries or good
wishes are not mere apostrophes,
giving vent to the feelings of natu-
ral affection (sfoghi (Taffetto) ; some
of them express confidence that the
soul received into the heavenly
peace of God and his saints is al-
ready in the enjoyment of a life of
bliss, and these speak positively
vives ; others, again, are equivalent
to real prayers to obtain that peace,
and are expressed in another mood
vivas."

Mr. With row, however, and his co-
religionists, may plead that, though
constrained to yield to De Rossi's
statement of facts, they are not
bound by his interpretation of them.
Waiving, therefore, all dispute as to
the number and antiquity of the in-
scriptions which seem to favor the
practice of prayers for the dead,
they may still persist that they
should be taken, not as the voice
of the church, but the errors of in-
dividuals ; or, as Mr. Withrow him-
self expresses it, " they are not a
formulated and authoritative creed
formed by learned theologians, but
the untutored utterances of humble

* R.S., 11.305.

tlb., 1.341.

Testimony of tJic Catacombs.

] C'.''santry, many of whom were re-
cent converts from paganism or Ju-
diibin, in which religions such ex-
pressions were a customary sepul-
chral formula." If Mr. Withrow
merely means to say that Chris-
tum epigraphy was the spontane-
ous growth of the natural feelings
and sttpernaturi! faith of the peo-
ple, rather than the result of any
written or traditional law devised
and imposed by ecclesiastical au-
thority, we are heartily at one with
him. We do not doubt that it was
the natural fruit of the religious
feeling which pervaded all classes
of the new society, that was re-
flected in their epigraphy as in a
mirror. But Mr. Withrow clearly
meant something different from this *
he intended to insinuate that these
inscriptions which are distasteful to
himself would have been disap-
proved of also by all well-instruct-
ed members of the church, espe-
cially by her pastors and doctors.
Yet Tertullian, at least, could hard-
ly have disapproved, who takes for
granted in one of his treatises,
and uses it r.s the foundation of an
argument, that every Christian wi-
dow will be continually praying for
the soul of her departed husband,
and asking for him refreshment (re-
frigeriuin\ and offering sacrifice for
him on the anniversary of his de-
cease. Neither could such prayers
have been deemed either objection-
able or useless by St. Cyprian and
his predecessors in the see of Car-
thage, who decreed the loss of
them rts a fitting punishment for
any man who should presume to
leave the care of his children or
of his property after his decease
to a cleric, because " he does not
deserve to be named in the pray-
er of the priest at the altar of
God who has done what he could
to withdraw a priest from the ser-

vice of the altar." * However, it H
not worth while, easy as the task
would be, to justify the inscriptions
in question by a catena of vener-
able authorities from among the
bishops and teachers of the primi-
tive church ; we will only mention
one fact about them which seems:
to us conclusive viz., that they
are in exact accordance, not to say
in verbal and literal agreement, with
the most authoritative formularies
that have come down to us from
ancient days ; we mean the ancient
liturgies. The language of the pub-
lic offices of the church if not an
apostolic tradition, which Mr. With-
row would not easily admit was
surely formulated by somebody and
formulated according to the dogmas
of the faith, and not in a spirit of
weak indulgence to any poetical
fancies or excess of passionate feel-
ing, whether of affection or of
grief. We turn, then, to the oldest
sacramentaries, f and the prayers
we find there run as follows : " We
pray that thou wilt grant to all
who rest in Christ a place of re-
freshment, light, and peace"; "Grant
to our dear ones who sleep in Christ
refreshment in the land of the liv-
ing" ; " Refresh, O Lord ! the spir-
its of the deceased in peace";
" Cause them to be united with
thy saints and chosen ones " the
very words and phrases which we
have read on the ancient tomb-
stones, and which we still hear
from the lips of all devout Catho-
lics when they pray, either in pub-
lic or in private, for those who are
gone before them.

Not without reason, then, does De
Rossi describe these prayers for the
dead, which are of such frequent re-

* Epist. i. aliter 66.

tBullett. 1875, pp. 17-37. Muratori, Liturg.
Rom.^ i. 749, 916, 981, 996, 1002 ; ii. 4, 694, 702, 779,
642, 653. 646.

Testimony of the Catacombs.

379

currence in the Catacombs, as a faith-
ful echo of the prayers of the litur-
gy. Of such an inscription as this,
In pace Spirit us Silvani, amen, he says
very truly that one seems to hear in
it the last words of the solemn bu-
rial rite, just as the tomb is being
closed and the sorrowing survivors
bid farewell to the grave.*

But Mr. With row would have us
look for the original of these pray-
ers, not to the Christian liturgy, but
to the monuments of " paganism
and Judaism, in which religions
such expressions were a customary
sepulchral formula." No doubt
there was in many pagan epitaphs
an address, or acclamation, or apos-
trophe call it what you will to
the deceased. But it was either a
brief and sad farewell an " ever-
lasting farewell," as they mourn-
fully felt it to be or it was an
idle wish " that his bones might
rest well," or (far more commonly)
k> that the earth might lie lightly
upon him"; or there was a still
more unmeaning and unnatural
interchange of salutations between
the living and the dead. The pass-
er-by was exhorted to salute the
deceased with the customary Ave
or Salve i and the imaginary re-
sponse of the dead man stood en-
graven on the stone, ready for all
comers. Surely it is impossible that
anybody (si /*?/ StGiv dia(pv\ar-
TC<OY, as old Aristotle has it) can
be so blind as to confound this
empty trifling of the pagan with
the hearty yet simple and touch-
ing prayers of the Christian. Be-
tween the Christian epitaphs and
those of the ancient Jews we might
naturally have expected a some-
what closer degree of affinity ;
and so there is. Yet even here
the closest point of resemblance

*R.

305.

that we are able to find is this :
that the Jews ordinarily spoke of
death as sleep, and very common-
ly wrote on the grave-stones, " II is
sleep is in peace." We do not re-
member ever to have seen one of
ancient date in which peace is
prayed for, neither does Mr. With-
row produce one, though it has
suited his purpose to give a dep-
recatory form to his translation of
Dormitio in bonis. The Christian
epitaphs, then, have this in common
with Jewish epitaphs : that they
speak of the dead as sleeping in
peace ; it still remains as peculiar
to themselves that they supplicate
for the deceased life life in God,
life everlasting, life with the saints
light, and refreshment.

But we must pass on to another
point of doctrine connected with
the dead, on which inscriptions in
the Catacombs might reasonably be
expected to throw some light, and
on which the testimony they give is
sometimes disputed. Mr. Withrow
shall again be permitted to make
his own statement of the case :
"Associated with the Romish prac-
tice of praying /iv the dead is that
of praying to them. For this there
is still less authority in the testi-
mony of the Catacombs than for
the former. There are, indeed, in-
dications that this custom was not
unknown, but they are very rare
and exceptional. In all the dated
inscriptions of the first six: centuries
there is only one invocation of the
departed." It is of the year 380,
and by an orphan. *' But the
yearning cry of an orphaned heart
for the prayers of a departed mo-
ther is a slight foundation for the
Romish practice of the invocation
of the saints. Previous to this
date we have found not the slight-
est indication of Romish doctrine.
The few undated inscriptions

38o

Testimony of the Catacombs.

of a similar character are probably
of as late, or it may be of a much
later, date than this."

We have already had occasion to
expose the fallacy of this favorite ar-
gument of Mr. Withrow's founded on
the paucity and relative antiquity of
dated inscriptions. We have point-
ed out its direct contradiction to all
the canons of chronology so labori-
ously and conscientiously establish-
ed by De Rossi. Here, however,
we must be allowed again to quote
his testimony, given precisely upon
this particular subject: "Invoca-
tions of the deceased," he says,
" asking them to pray for the sur-
vivors, are found only in the sub-
terranean cemeteries, not in those
made above ground ; always in
epitaphs without dates, never in
those bearing dates of the fourth
and fifth centuries. They belong
to the period before peace was given
to the church, and the new style in-
spired by the changed conditions
of the times sent them quickly into
disuse." The simple and natural
character of earlier Christian epigra-
phy gave place to colder and more
artificial announcements. But whilst
the more ancient and more religious
style prevailed the following are
fair specimens of the epitaphs that
were written : Vivas in pace ct pete
pro nobis. Christ us spiritum tuum
in pace ct pete pro nobis. Beiie
refrigera et roga pro nos. Spiritus
tuus bene requiescat in Deo petas pro
sorore tud. Vincentia in Christo
petas pro Phoebe et pro Virginia ejus.
Vivas in Deo et roga. Spiritus tuus
in bono, or a pro parentibus tuis. In
orationis tuis roges pro nobis quia
scimus te in Christo " Mayest thou
live in peace, and pray for us.
May Christ refresh thy spirit in
peace, and pray for us. Mayest
thou be well refreshed, and pray for
us. May thy spirit rest well in

God ; pray for thy sister. Vincen-
tia in Christ, pray for Phoebe and
for her husband. Mayest thou live
in God, and pray. Thy spirit is in
good ; pray for thy parents. In thy
prayers make petition for us, be-
cause we know thee to be in Christ."
In all these instances and many
more might easily be given, in
Greek as well as in Latin, some
edited, others still inedited it is
clear that the survivors had a firm
hope that their departed friends
had been called by the ministry of
angels to the enjoyment of the pro-
mised bliss and heavenly peace,
and this faith was the foundation
of these fervid petitions for their
prayers. But, objects our author,
" these invocations are almost inva-
riably uttered by some relative of
the deceased, as if prompted by
natural affection rather than by re-
ligious feeling." No doubt the in-
vocations that have been quoted
are the utterances of loving and
sorrowing relatives ; for to them it
usually belongs to bury their dead
and to write the epitaphs on their
tombstones. But does it therefore
follow that they were extravagant,
unwarranted, and out of harmony
with the teaching of the church ?
First, their very number and anti-
quity \$ priind facie evidence against
so unjust a suspicion ; and, next,
they in no way go beyond the elo-
quent invocations of the martyrs,
whether in the graffiti on the walls
near their tombs or in the more
formal inscriptions of the bishops
themselves e.g., of Pope Damasus
at the tomb of St. Agnes ; but, lastly
and above all, these again are in ex-
act agreement with the public liturgy
of the church. In a fragment of a
very ancient liturgy, only published
in our own day, and bearing internal
evidence of having been used dur-
ing the days of persecution, the

Testimony of the Catacombs.

331

priest is instructed to pray " for
grace to worship God truly in times
of peace, and not to fall away from
him in times of trial," and then, af-
ter the accustomed reading of the
diptychs i.e., reading the names of
the martyrs, the bishops, and the
dead for whom the Holy Sacrifice
was being offered he proceeds as
follows : '' May the glorious merits
of the saints excuse us or plead for
us, that we may not come into pun-
ishment ; may the souls of the faith-
ful departed who are already in the
enjoyment of bliss assist us, and
may those which need consolation
be absolved by the prayers of the
church." The different gradation
of ranks and the different sense of
the liturgical commemoration of the
saints, the faithful who are dead and
those who are still living, could
hardly be denned with greater dis-
tinctness in "a formulated and au-
thoritative creed formed by learned
theologians." We need hardly add
that the same doctrine is to be
found more or less explicitly in all
the old liturgies e.g., in a prayer
that " Christ will, through the inter-
cession of his holy martyrs, grant to
our dear ones who sleep in him re-
freshment in the abode of the liv-
ing " ; " that the prayers of the bless-
ed martyrs will so commend us to
Christ that he will grant eternal re-
freshment to our dear ones who
sleep in him," and several other
petitions to the same effect. But
we are already exceeding the limits
of space assigned to us, and we
must be content with a general re-
ference to the old sacramentaries ;
neither can we find room for the
passages which are at hand from
St. Cyril, St. Chrysostom, and other
patristic authorities containing the
same doctrine.

We must not, however, altogeth-
er omit another branch of evi-

dence belonging to the Catacombs
themselves namely, the frescoes
.and other monuments in which the
saints are represented as receiv-
ing and welcoming the deceased
into heaven, conversing with them,
lifting up the veil, and introducing
them into the garden of Paradise,
etc. Everybody knows the inscrip-
tion scratched in the mortar round
a grave in the cemetery of Pretex-
tatus fifteen centuries ago, and now
brought to light again some twenty
years since, in which the martyrs
Januarius, Agapetus, and Felicissi-
mus are invoked to refresh the soul
of some departed one, just buried
near their own tombs ; and the anx-
iety of the faithful of old to obtain
a place of burial near the graves of
the martyrs is too notorious to need
confirmation in this place. This
practice had, of course, a doctrinal
foundation. St. Gregory Nazianzen,
Paulinus of Nola, or other Chris-
tian poets may use the language of
mere poetical fancy when they talk
of the blood of the martyrs pene-
trating the adjacent sepulchres ; but
the spiritual meaning that underlies
their words is plain viz., that the
merit of the martyrs' pains and
sufferings, and the intercession of
their prayers thus sought by the
living, were believed to profit the
souls of the deceased. In a recent-
ly-discovered fresco in the cemetery
of SS. Nereus and Achilleus, a de-
ceased matron, Veneranda, is mani-
festly commended to the patronage
of St. Petronilla, who is represented
standing at her side ; and there are
not wanting inscriptions in which
the survivors distinctly commend
the souls of their children or others
whom they have buried to the care
of that particular martyr in whose
cemetery they have been laid. We
do not quote them at length, not
only from want of space, but also

332

On Our Ladys Death.

because this class of monuments be-
longs, generally speaking, to the
fourth century, when no one doubts
that invocation of the saints was in
common use ; and we have already
quoted a large class of inscriptions,
more ancient and quite as conclu-
sive to all minds of ordinary can-
dor. We mention them, however,
because they are links in the chain
bf evidence we have been inquiring
about evidence given by the Cata-
combs and yet more especially be-
cause they remind us of the beauti-
ful language of our ritual, which
none can forget who have ever
heard it sung to the solemn chant
of the church : In Paradisum dedu-
cant tc angeli ; in tuo adventu suscipi-
ant te martyres, et perducant te in
civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. We

cannot help suspecting thai these
prayers or acclamations are as old
as the monuments which they so
faithfully interpret. The invocation
of the martyrs, and of them only
amongst " the spirits of the just
made perfect " who have already
"come to Mount Sion, and to thts
city of the living God, the heavenly
Jerusalem, and to the company of
many thousands of angels,", seems
to point to such a conclusion ; it
has a flavor of quite primitive times
about it, certainly of the age of
persecution. It may well have been
contemporary with the following in-
scription, at present in a private
museum, but originally taken from
the Catacombs : "Paulo filio merenti
in pacem te suscipiant omnium ispirita
sanctorum*

ON OUR LADY'S DEATH.

" AND didst thou die, dear Mother of our Life ?

Sin had no part in thee : then how should death ?
Methinks, if aught the great tradition saith
Could wake in loving hearts a moment's strife "
(I said my own with Her new image rife),

" 'Twere this." And yet 'tis certain, next to faith,
Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath :
Though after the Seventh Sword no meaner knife
Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did. No sting
Of pain was there, but only joy. The love,

So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained
From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing :
Thy body, soon to reign with it above,

Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.

On Our Lady's Death. 383

ii.

Yes, Mother of God, though thou didst stoop to die,
Death could not mar thy beauty. On thy face
Nor time nor grief had wrinkle left or trace :

It had but aged in God-like majesty :

Mature, yet, save the mother in thine eye,
As maiden-fresh as when, of all our race,
Thou, first and last, wast greeted " full of grace "

Ere thrice five years had worshipped and gone by.

Mortal thy body ; yet it could not know
Mortality's decay. Like sinless Eve's,

It waited but the change on Thabor shown.

And when, at thy sweet will, 'twas first laid low,
Untainted as a lily's folded leaves

It slept the angels watching by the stone.

in.

"At thy sweet will." Then wherefore didst thou will
To pass death's portal ? To the outward ear
There comes no answer; but the heart can hear.
Thy Son had passed it. Thou upon the hill
Of scorn hadst stood beside his cross; and still

Wouldst " follow the Lamb where'er he went." Of fear
Thou knewest naught. The cup's last drop, so dear
To Him, thy love must share or miss its fill.
But more. Thy other children even we

Must enter life through death. And couldst thou brook

To watch our terrors at the dark unknown,
Powerless to stay us with a sympathy
Better than any tender word or look

Bidding our steps tread firmly in thine own?

384

Amid Irish Scenes.

AMID IRISH SCENES.

THE very thought of a journey
to distant lands is invigorating. We
throw off the dust of old habits,
quit the routine of daily life, shut
out the customary thoughts of busi-
ness, and, with hearts that in some
mysterious way seem suddenly to
have grown younger, turn towards
other worlds. Even the uncer-
tainty which is incident to travel
has a peculiar charm. The love
we bear our country and friends
grows warmer and assumes unwont-
ed tenderness when we leave them,
not knowing whether it will be
given us to -look" upon them again ;
and as the distance widens, the
bonds of affection are drawn closer.
Amid strange faces we reflect how
sweet it is to dwell with those
who love us ; a thousand thoughts
of home and friends come back to
us, the heart is humanized, and we
resolve to become more worthy of
blessings for which we have been
so little grateful. Indeed, I think
that the chiefest pleasure of travel
is in the thought and hope of com-
municating to others our own im-
pressions of all the lovely things we
see.

Who would care to look on blue
mountains, or ocean sunset, or
green isles, if he might never speak
of their beauty, never utter the
deep feelings which they awaken ?
All strong emotion, whether of joy
or sorrow, seeks to express itself.
Nature is beautiful only when we
associate it with God or man. No
greater torment can be imagined
than to think and feel, and yet to
live alone for ever with that which

has no thought or feeling. I
remained in Ireland too short a
time to be able to form well-found-
ed opinions or to reach just con-
clusions concerning the present
condition or the future prospects
of the country. I was compelled to
travel hurriedly, and therefore ob-
served superficially; and in my
haste I doubtless often failed to
remark what was most worthy of
attention. At least, I approached
the sacred island with reverence.
Whatever I might see, I knew that
my feet were upon holy ground, and
that I was in the midst of the most
Catholic people on earth ; I felt
that if sympathy could give insight
or reveal beauty, I should not look
in vain.

And now, with the liberty and
quickness of thought, passing the
vast expanse of ocean, I shall place
myself at Oban, on the western
coast of Scotland, opposite the isl-
and of Mull ; for though we are not
here on Irish soil, yet this whole
region is so full of Irish memo-
ries and Irish glories that we may
not pass it in silence. The scenery
is sombre, bleak, and wild. It is
not lovely nor yet sublime, though
there is about it a kind of gloomy
and desolate grandeur; and, indeed,
this is the general character of all
scenery in the Scotch Highlands.
It is rugged, harsh, and waste. It
does not invite to repose. Amid
these barren moors and fog-cover-
ed hills we are chilled, driven back
upon ourselves. We involuntarily
move on, content with a passing
glance at dark glens and lochs from

Amid Irish Scenes.

385

whose waters crags and peaks lift
their heads and frown in stern de-
fiance. The gloomy tales of mur-
der and treachery, of war and strife,
and the ruined castles which tell
of battles of other days, deepen the
impressions made by nature's harsh
aspect. Even in summer the air is
heavy with mist and fog. A day
rarely passes without rain, and in
th.e middle of August the traveller
finds himself in an atmosphere as
damp, cold, and dreary as that of
London in November. Before us
is the dark sea of the Hebrides, from
whose sullen waters a hundred naked
and desert islands rise in rough
and jagged outlines. As we sail
through the narrow straits of this
archipelago, we see nothing but bar-
ren rocks, covered with black fog.
There is no grass, there are no
pleasant landscapes, no cultivated
fields. We hear only the moaning
of the waves, the howling wind, and
the hoarse cry of the sea-bird.
Nothing could be less beautiful or
less attractive ; and yet it is in this
wild sea and among these rocky
islands that we find the sacred spot
from which Scotland and northern
England received religion and civi-
lization. During the summer a
boat leaves Oban every morning
to make the tour of the island of
Mull, taking Staffa and lona in the
route. The steamer stops at Staffa
to permit tourists to visit the Cave
of Fingal, of which so much has
been written. This cave, which is
about seventy feet high and forty
feet in width, with a depth of two
hundred and thirty feet, opens into
the ocean on the southern coast
of the little island of Staffa. Its
front and sides are formed of innu-
merable columns of basaltic rock,
precisely similar to those which are
found in the Giant's Causeway.
They are perfectly symmetrical, and
VOL. xxiv. 25

one is almost tempted to think they
must have been shaped by the hand
of man. But, apart from this pecu-
liarity, the only thing which struck
me as very remarkable in this cele-
brated cave is the mighty surge of
the ocean, whose angry waves, rush-
ing into this gloomy vault, dash
against its everlasting columns, and,
with wild and furious roar that re-
verberates along the high arch in
tones of thunder, are driven back,
to be followed by others, and still
others. And so all day long and
through the night, from year to year,
this concert of the waves far from
human ears chants God's awful
majesty and infinite power.

Nine miles south of Staffa lies
lona, St. Columba's blessed isle.
" We were now," wrote Dr. John-
son one hundred years ago, "tread-
ing that illustrious island which was
once the luminary of the Caledo-
nian regions, whence savage clans
and roving barbarians derived the
benefits of knowledge and the bless-
ings of religion. To abstract the
mind from all local emotion would
be impossible if it were endeavored,
and would be foolish if it were pos-
sible. Whatever withdraws us from
the power of our senses, whatever
makes the past, the distant, or the
future predominate over the present, .
advances us in the dignity of think-
ing beings. Far from me and from
my friends be such frigid philoso-
phy as may conduct us indifferent
and unmoved over any ground,
which has been dignified by wis-
dom, bravery, or virtue. That man
is little to be envied whose patriot-
ism would not gain force upon the
plain of Marathon, or whose piety
would not grow warmer among the
ruins of lona."

It was in 563, more than thirteen,
hundred years ago, that Col am
kille, a voluntary exile from Erin

3 86

Amid Irish Scenes.

which he loved with more than wo-
man's tenderness, landed upon this
island. Twelve of his Irish monks
li ad accompanied him, resolved to
share his exile. Others soon follow-
ed, drawn by the fame of his sanc-
tity, and in a little while Columkille
and his apostles issued forth from
lona to carry the religion of Christ
to the pagans who dwelt on the
surrounding islands and on the
mainland of Scotland; and from
this little island the light of faith
spread throughout the Caledonian re-
gions. All the churches of Scotland
looked to it as the source whence
they had received God's choicest
gifts, and for two hundred years the
abbots who succeeded St. Columba
held spiritual dominion over the
whole country. The Scottish kings
chose lona as their burial-place, in
the hope of escaping the doom fore-
told in the prophecy

14 Seven years before that awful day

When time shall be no more,
A watery deluge will o'ersweep

Hibernia's mossy shore ;
The green-clad Isla, too, shall sink,

While with the great and good
Columba's happy isle shall rear

Her towers above the flood."

in an age of ferocious manners
and continual war this holy and
peaceful isle, far removed from
scenes of strife and blood, might
well be regarded not only as the fit
resting-place of the dead, but as the
happiest home of the living.

Even to-day, in its loneliness and
desolation, there is a calm, sweet
look about it that makes one linger
as loath to quit so sacred a spot.
But the simple, great ones of old are
gone ; their bones lie buried be-
neath our feet.

' ' To each voyager

Some ragged child holds up for sale a store
Of wave-worn pebbles. . . .
How sa4 a welcome !

Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer."

A few poor fishermen with their
families dwell upon the island.
They are all Protestants. After the
Reformation, the Calvinistic Synod
of Argyll handed over all the sacred
edifices of lona to a horde of pil-
lagers, who plundered and destroy-
ed them. During the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries these ruins
were given up to the ignorant inha-
bitants of the island, who turned
the cathedral into a stable, used
the church of the convent of
canonesses as a quarry, and broke
and threw into the sea nearly all of
the three hundred and sixty crosses
which formerly covered the island.

As late as 1594 the three great
mausoleums of the kings were to
be seen, with the following inscrip-
tions :

Tumulus regum Scotiae,
Tumulus regum Hibernise,
Tumulus regum Norwegiae.

But these have also disappeared,
and nothing remains but the site.
Here were buried forty-eight kings
of Scotland, four kings of Ireland,
and eight kings of Norway ; and it
is even said that one of the kings
of France found here a last resting-
place. Macbeth closes the line
of Scottish kings who were juried
in lona. His successor, Malcolm
Canmore, chose the Abbey of
Dunfermline as the royal cemetery.
Shakspere does not fail to send
Duncan's body to lona :

44 ROSSE. Where is Duncan's body ?
MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,
And guardian of their bones. "

There are still many tombs in
this cemetery, most of which are
covered with slabs of blue stone
upon which figures are sculptured
in relief. Here a bishop or an
abbot, in cope and mitre, holds the
pastoral staff of authority, and by
his side lies some famous chieftain

Amid Irish Scenes.

387

in full armor. On one of these slabs
the traveller may behold the effigy
of Angus MacDonald, Scott's Lord
of t .he Isles, and the contemporary
of Robert Bruce.

In the centre of the graveyard
stands the ruin of a chapel which
was built at the close of the eleventh
century by St. Margaret of Scotland,
and dedicated to St. Oran, the first
Irish monk who died in lona after
the landing of St. Columba. Near
by is the ancient Irish cross which
is said to mark the spot where St.
Columba rested on the eve of his
death, wl^en he had walked forth to
take a last view of his well-beloved
island. A little farther north lies
the cathedral, ruined and roofless,
with its square tower, which is the
first object to attract the eye of
the pilgrim as he approaches the sa-
cred isle. lona is but three miles
in length and about two miles wide.
Unlike the islands by which it is
surrounded, it has a sandy beach,
which slopes to the water's edge,
and its highest point is but little
over three hundred feet above the
level of the sea. The ruins all lie
on the eastern shore, and are but
a few paces from one another.
Some little care is taken of them,
now that the facilities of travel
have turned the attention of travel-
lers to this former home of learn-
ing and religion. The chapel of
the nunnery is no longer used as a
Cow-house, nor the cathedral as a
stable, as in the time of Dr. John-
son's visit. Nevertheless, many in-
teresting relics which he sa.w have
since disappeared. Still, enough
remains to awaken emotion in the
breasts of those whom the thought
of noble deeds and heroic lives
can move. In treading this sacred
soil, and walking among the graves
of kings and princes of the church,
surrounded by broken walls and

crumbling arches which once shel-
tered saints and heroes, we are lift-
ed by the very genius of the place
into a higher world. The present
vanishes. The past comes back to
us, and throws its light into the dim
and awful future. How mean and
contemptible seem to us the rival-
ries and ambitions of men ! This
handful of earth, girt round by the
sea, holds the glories of a thousand
years. AH their beauty is faded.
They are bare and naked as these
Broken walls, to which not even the
sheltering ivy clings. The voice of
battle is hushed ; the song of vic-
tory is silent ; the strong are fallen ;
the valiant are dead, and around for-
gotten graves old ocean chants the
funeral dirge. Monuments of death
mark all human triumphs. And
yet St. Columba and his grand old
monks are not wholly dead. To
them more than to the poet belongs
the no n omnis moriar. Their spirit
lives even in us, if we are Chris-
tians and trust the larger hope.
What heavenly privilege, like them,
to be free, and in the desert and
ocean's waste to find the possibili-
ty of the diviner life ; like them, to
be strong, leaning upon God only !
The very rocks they looked upon
seem to have gained a human sense ;
in the air is the presence of unseen
spirits, and the waves approach gen-
tly as in reverence for the shore press-
ed by their feet. To have stood,
though but for a moment and al-
most as in a dream, amid these sa-
cred shrines, is good for the soul. It
is as if we had gone to the house of
one who loved us, and found that
he was dead. The world seems less
beautiful, but God is nearer and
heaven more real.

We have lingered too long among
the ruins of lona. Our ship puffs
her sail, and we must go ; but our
faces are still turned towards th<?

388

Amid Irish Scenes.

blessed isle ; the cathedral tower
rises sadly over the bleak shore,
and in a little while the rough and
rock-bound coast of the Ross of
Mull takes the vision from our eyes.
And now I am in Ireland. Land-
ing at Belfast, I went south to Dub-
lin; thence to Wicklow, where I
took a jaunting-car and drove
through the Devil's Glen, to Glen-
dalough, through Glenmalure and
the Vale of Avoca, and back to
Wicklow.

Returning to Dublin, 1 went
southwest to the Lakes of Killar-
ney, passing through nearly the en-
tire extent of the island from east
and west. Having made the tour
of the lakes and visited Muckross
Abbey and Ross Castle, I went to
Cork, where I took the train for
Youghal, on the Blackwater. I
sailed up this beautiful river to
Cappoquin, near Lismore. From
this point I visited the Trappist
monastery of Mt. Melleray. Again
taking a jaunting-car, I drove over
the Knockmeledown Mountains in-
to Tipperary, along the lovely banks
of the river Suir, into Clonmel,
thence to Cashel, to Holy Cross
Abbey and to Thurles. Returning
to Cork, I of course visited Blar-
ney Castle, and then, sailing down
the noble sea-avenue that leads to
Qtieenstown, went aboard the
steamer which was to bring me
home again.

In Rome, it has been said, none
are strangers. So much of what is
greatest and best in the history of
the human race centres there that
all men instinctively identify them-
selves with her life and are at
home. In Ireland a Catholic, no
matter whence he come, forgets that
he is in a foreign land ; and in pro-
portion to the love with which he
cherishes his faith is the sympathy
that draws him to the people who

have clung to it through more suf-
fering and sorrow than have fallen
to the lot of any other. More than
other races they have loved the
church ; more than others they
have believed that, so long as faith
and hope and love are left to the
heart, misery can never be su-
preme. The force with which they
realize the unseen world leaves
them unbroken amid the reverses
and calamities of this life. They
are to-day what they were in ages
past the least worldly and the
most spiritual-minded people of
Europe.

They live in the past and in the
future ; cling to memories and
cherish dreams. The ideal is to
them more than the real. Their
thoughts are on religion, on liberty,
honor, justice, rather than upon
gold. They fear sin more than
poverty or sickness. When the
mother hears of the death of her
son, in some distant land, her first
thought is jiot of him, but of his
soul. Did he die as a Catholic
should die, confessing his sins,
trusting in God, strengthened by
the sacraments? When he left her
weeping, her great trouble was the
fear lest, in the far-off worl.d to
which he was going, he should for-
get the God of his fathers, the God
of Ireland's hope ; and when in her
dreams she saw him back again,
her heart leaped for joy, not that he
was rich or famous, but that the
simple faith of other days was with
him still.

The life that is to be is more
than that which is. The coldest
heart is warmed by this strong faith.
In the midst of tins simple and
pure-hearted people, so poor and
so content, so wronged and so pa-
tient, so despised and so noble,
one realizes the divine power of re-
ligion. Whithersoever our little

Amid Irish Scenes.

389

systems of thought may lead us,
whatsoever mysteries of nature they
may reveal, nothing that they can
give us could compensate for the
loss of honest faith and child-like
trust in God. Whatever may be,
this is the best. Better to die in
a hovel, yearning for God and
trusting to him, than without hope
" to walk all day, like the sultan
of old, in a garden of spice." The
first and deepest impression made
upon me in travelling through Ire-
land was that it is a country con-
secrated by unutterable suffering.
The shadow of an almost divine
sorrow is still upon the land. Each
spot is sacred to some sad memory.
Ruined castles tell how her proud-
est families were driven into exile
or reduced to beggary ; roofless
cathedrals and crumbling abbeys
proclaim the long martyrdom of
her bishops and priests ; tenant-
less cottages and deserted villages
speak of the multitudes turned up-
on the road to die, or, with weary
step, to seek shelter in a foreign
land. We pass through desolate
miles of waste lands that might be
reclaimed, through whole counties
that have been turned into sheep
and cattle pastures, through towns
once busy, now dead ; and John
Mitchei's cry of anguish, when last
year, in triumphal funeral march,
he went to meet the electors of
Tipperary, strikes upon the ear:
" My God, my God, where arc my
people ?"

Go to the abandoned ports of
Wexford, of Youghal, of Waterford,
of Galway, and you will be told of
ships, freighted with human souls,
that sailed away and never return-
ed. It seemed to me on those
silent shores that I could still hear
the wail of countless mothers,
wringing their hands and weeping
for the loss of children whom a

cruel fate had torn from them.
Was ever history so sad as Ire-
land's ? Great calamities have befal-
len other nations they have been
wasted by war and famine, trodden
in the dust by invading barbarians ;
but their evils have had an end.
In Ireland the sword has never
wearied of blood. " The wild deer
and wolf to a covert may flee," but
her people have had no refuge from
famine and danger. Without home
and country, they have stood for
centuries with the storm of fate
beating upon their devoted heads,
and in their long night of woe some
faint glimmer of hope has shone
out, only suddenly to disappear,
leaving the darkness blacker. True
were the poet's words of despair :

" There are marks on the fate of each clime, there

are turns in the fortunes of men,
But the changes of realms or the chances of time

shall never restore thee again.
Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe by links

which the world cannot sever ;
With thy tyrant through storm and through calm

shalt thou go,
And thy sentence is 'Banished for ever.'

1 hou art doomed for the vilest to toil ; thou art left
for the proud to disdain ;

And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of thy soil
shall be lavished, and lavished in vain.

Thy riches with taunts shall be taken ; thy valor
with gibes is repaid ;

And of millions who see thee now sick and forsaken,
not one shall stand forth in thy aid.

In the nations thy place is left void ; thou art lost
in the list of the free.

Even realms, by the plague or the earthquake de-
stroyed, are revived ; but no hope is for thee. "

I stood in Glendalough, by the
lake

u Whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er."

The sun was just sinking to rest
behind St. Kevin's Hill, covered with
the purple heather-bloom. There
was not a sound in the air, but all the
mountains and the valley held their
breath, as if the spirits of the monks
of old were felt by them in this hour,
in which, in the ages gone, the song
of prayer and praise rose up to God
from the hearts of believing men,
and all the plain and the hillsides

390

Amid Irish Scenes.

were vocal with sweet psalmody.
Here, a thousand years ago and
more, a city grew up, raised by the
power of holiness. To St. Kevin
flocked men who sought the better
way, and the Irish people, eternally
drawn to religion and to their
priests, gathered round, and Glen-
dalough was filled with the multitude
of believers. Those were the days
which St. Columba sarig when in
far-off lona he remembered his own
sweet land : " From the high prow
I look over the sea, and great tears
are in my gray eye when I turn to
Erin to Erin, where the songs of
the birds are so sweet, and where
the monks sing like the birds ;
where the young are so gentle and
the old so wise ; where the great
men are so noble to look at, and
the women so fair to wed."

From St. Kevin to St. Lawrence
O'Toole, Glendalough was the home
of saints. When the Norman came,
in the twelfth century, there was a
bishop there. The hills were dot-
ted with the hermitages of ancho-
rets, and above the seven churches
rose the round tower in imperish-
able strength. To-day there is left
only the dreariness and loneliness
of the desert. The hills that once
were covered with rich forests of
oak are bare and bleak ; the ca-
thedral is in ruins; the churches
are crumbling walls and heaps of
stones ; the ground is strewn with
fragments of sculptured crosses and
broken pillars ; and amid this wreck
of a world are mingled in strange
confusion the tombs of saints and
princes and the graves of peasant.s.
Still stands the round tower in
lonely majesty, like a sentinel of
heaven, to watch for ever over the
graves of God's people. What a
weight of awe falls upon us amid
these sacred monuments ! We speak
not, and scarcely breathe. An un-

known power draws us back into
the dread bosom of the past. The
freshness of life dies out of us ; we
grow to the spot, and feel a kinship
with stones which re-echoed tke
footsteps of saints, which resound-
ed with the voice of prayer. It
seems almost a sacrilege to live
when the great and the good lie
dead at our feet.

But why stop we here ? Is not
Ireland covered with ruins as reve-
rend and as sad as these ? Through-
out the land they stand

il As stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
Or holding dark communion with the cloud."

What need of history's blood-stain-
ed page to tell the sad story of
Ireland's wrongs and Ireland's
woes ? O'Connell never spoke as
speak these roofless cathedrals,
these broken walls and crumbling
arches, these fallen columns and
shattered crosses. The traveller
who in Jerusalem beholds the wea-
ry and worn children of Israel sit-
ting in helpless grief amid the scat-
tered stones of Solomon's Temple,
need not be told how the enemies of
the Holy City compassed her about ;
how the sword and famine and the
devouring flame swallowed up the
people ; how her walls were broken
down, her holy of holies profaned,
her priests slaughtered, her streets
made desolate, until not a stone
was left upon a stone.

The massacres of Wexford and
Drogheda ; the confiscation in a
single day of half the land of Ire-
land ; the driving her people int<
the ports of Munster to be shipped
to regions of pestilence and death ;
the expulsion of every Catholic from
the rich fields of Ulster ; the exile
of the whole nation beyond the
Shannon ; the violated treaty of
Limerick, are but episodes in this

Amid Irish Scenes.

391

tragedy of centuries. Even the
Penal Code, the most hideous and
inhuman ever enacted by Christian
or pagan people, tells but half the
story.

That the Irish Catholic had for
centuries been held in bondage by
a law which violated every good
and generous sentiment of the hu-
man heart, I knew. He could not
vote, he could not bear witness, he
could not bring suit, he could not
sit on a jury, he could not go to
school, he could not teach school,
he could not practise law or medi-
cine, he could not travel five miles
from his home ; he could own no-
thing which he might not be forced
to give up or renounce his faith ;
lie could not keep or use any kind
of weapon, even in self-defence ;
his children were offered bribes to
betray him ; lie could not hear
Mass, he could not receive the
sacraments ; in his death-agony the
priest might not be near to console
him. All this I knew, and yet I
had never realized the condition
to which such inhuman legislation
must reduce a people. That this
Code, which Montesquieu said must
have been contrived by devils, and
which Burke declared to be the fit-
test instrument ever invented by
man to degrade and destroy a na-
tion, had failed to accomplish its
fiendish purpose, I also knew. The
Irish people, deprived of everything,
and almost of the hope of ever
having anything in this world, re-
mained superior to fate. With a
fidelity to religious conviction with-
out example in the history of the
world, they retained the chastity,
the unbroken courage, the cheerful
temper and generous love which
had always distinguished them.;
and that in travelling among them
I should find it more and more im-
possible to doubt of this was but

upon

what I had expected. But the gen*
erous, pure, and simple character of
the people only made the impression
which I received of the frightful
wrongs and sufferings which have
been and are still inflicted
them the more painful.

There is not in the civilized
world another country where the
evils of tyranny and misrule are so
manifest. One cannot help but
feel that Ireland does not belong
to the Irish. It is not governed in
their interest; it is not made to con-
tribute to their welfare or happiness.
They are not taken into account by
its rulers; their existence is con-
sidered accidental; a fact which
cannot be ignored, but which it is
hoped time, with famine, poverty,
and petty persecution such as the
age allows, will eliminate. The
country belongs to a few men who
have no sympathy with the mass of
the people, who do not even desire
to have any. They are for the
most part the descendants of needy
adventurers who, under Elizabeth,
Cromwell, and William of Orange,
obtained as a reward of their ser-
vility or brutality the confiscated
lands of Ireland ; or if they belong
to the ancient families, they inherit
their wealth from ancestors who
owed it to a double apostasy from
God and their country. It was
these men, and not England, who
enacted the Irish Penal Code.
They are the traditional enemies
of Ireland, sucking out her life-
blood and trampling in contempt
upon her people. They have filled
the land with mourning and death,
with the wail of the widow and the
cry of the orphan; they have
freighted the ships which have
borne the Irish exiles to every land
under heaven ; they have within
our own memory crowded her high-
ways with homeless and starving

392

Amid Irish Scenes.

multitudes ; have pushed out her
people to make room for sheep and
cattle ; in ten years have taken from
her three millions of her children.
My heart grew sick of asking to
whom the domains through which
I was passing belonged. It seemed
to me that the people owned noth-
ing, that t\\Q paitcis vivitur humanum
genus was truer here than ever in
ancient Rome. The very houses
in which the Irish peasantry live
tell the sad tale that in their own
country they are homeless. Like
the Israelites in Egypt, they must
stand with loins girt and staff in
hand, ready to move at a moment's
warning. If the little hut shelter
them for a season, it is enough ; for
another year may find them where
rolls the Oregon or on the bitter
plains of Australia. Ask them why
they build not better houses, plant
not trees and flowers, to surround
with freshness and beauty that
family-life which to them is so
pure and so sweet ; they will an-
swer you that they may not, they
dare not. The slightest evidence
of comfort would attract the greedy
eye of the landlord ; the rent would
be raised, and he who should pre-
sume to give such ill-example would
soon be turned adrift. The great
lord wants cabins which he can
knock down in a day to make room
for his sheep and cattle ; he wants
arguments to prove that the Irish
people are indolent, improvident,
an inferior race, unfit for liberty.
I know that there are landlords
who are not heartless. The peo-
ple will tell you more than you
wish to hear of the goodness of
Lord Nincompoop, of the charity
of Lord Fiddlefaddle. The intol-
erable evil is that the happiness or
misery of a whole people should be
left to the chance of an Irish land-
lord not being a fool and vet hav-

ing a heart. To any other people
who had suffered from an aristoc-
racy the hundredth part of what
has been borne by the Irish,
the very name of " lord" would
carry with it the odium of unut-
terable infamy; among any other
people the state of things which, in
spite of all the progress that has
been made, still exists in Ireland,
would breed the most terrible and
dangerous passions. For my own
part, I could not look upon the
castles and walled-in parks which
everywhere met my view without
feeling my heart fill with a bitter-
ness which I could rarely detect in
those with whom I spoke. What it
was possible to do has been done
to hide the land itself from the eyes
of the people. Around Dublin you
would think almost every house a
prison, so carefully is it walled in.
The poor, who must walk, are shut
in by high and gloomy walls which
forbid them even the consolation
of looking upon the green hills
and plains which surround that
city. In the same way the land-
lords have taken possession of the
finest scenery of the island. If
you would see the Powerscourt
waterfall, you must send your card
to the castle and graciously beg
permission. People who have no
cards are not supposed to be able
to appreciate the beauty of one of
the most picturesque spots in Ire-
land. At the entrance to the De-
vil's Glen the traveller is stopped
by huge iron gates, symbolical of
those which Milton has described
as grating harsh thunder on their
turning hinges ; and when he thinks
he is about to issue forth again in-
to the upper air, suddenly other
gates frown upon him to remind
him of the lasciati ogni spcranza voi
cJientrate, of Dante. Mr. Herbert
has taken possession of half the

Amid Irish Scenes.

393

Lakes of Killarncy, and exacts a
fixed toll from all who wish to see
what ought to be as free to all as
the air of heaven. It' ten thou-
sand dollars added to his annual
income be a compensation for such
meanness, he is no doubt content.
It is on the demesne of this gen-
tleman that lies the celebrated ruin
of Muckross Abbey. It stands em-
bosomed in trees on a green slope,
overlooking the Lower Lake, and
commanding one of the loveliest
views to be had anywhere. The
taste of " the monks of old " in se-
lecting sites for their monasteries
was certainly admirable. A church
was erected on this spot at a very
early date, but was consumed by fire
in 1192. The abbey and church,
the ruins of which are now stand-
ing, were built in 1340, by one of
the MacCarthys, Princes of Des-
mond, for Franciscan monks, who
still retained possession of them at
the time of Cromwell's invasion.
A Latin inscription on the north
wall of the choir asks the reader's
prayers for Brother Thadeus Ho-
len, who had the convent repaired
in the year of our Lord 1626.
That such a place should have re-
mained in the possession of the
monks for more than a century
after the introduction of Protest-
antism is of itself enough to show
to what extent the Catholic monu-
ments of Ireland had escaped the
destroyer's hand previous to the
incursion of the Cromwellian van-
dals. The ruins of Muckross Ab-
bey have successfully withstood the
power of Time's effacing finger.
The walls, which seem to have
been built to stand for ever, are as
strong to-day as they were five hun-
dred years ago; and to render the
monastery habitable nothing would
be required but to replace the roof.
The library, the dormitories, the

kitchen, the cellars, the refectory
with its great fire-place, seem to be
patiently waiting the return of the
brown-robed sons of St. Francis ;
and in the corridors the silence, so
loved of religious souls, is felt like
the presence of holy spirits. In the
centre of the court-yard there is
a noble yew-tree, planted by the
monks centuries ago. Its boughs
droop lovingly over the roofless
walls to shelter them from the
storm. In the church the dead are
sleeping, and among them some of
Ireland's princes. In the centre
of the choir a modern tomb covers
the vault where in ancient times the
MacCarthys Mor, and later the
O'Donoghue Mor of the Glens, were
interred. These are the opening
lines of the lengthy epitaph :

" What more could Homer's most illustrious verse
Or pompous Tully's stately prose rehearse
Than what this monumental stone contains
In death's embrace, MacCarthy Mor's remains ?"

This abbey, like most of the other
sacred ruins of Ireland, is now used
as a Catholic cemetery. No Pro-
testant is buried here. Mr. Her-
bert, however, has got possession
of it, and has secured the entrance
with iron gates, which open only to
golden keys. The living who enter
here pay this needy gentleman a
shilling, the dead half a crown.
Elsewhere we find the same state
of things. Even the most sacred
relics of Ireland are in the hands of
Protestants. It is not easy to find
a more interesting collection of an-
tiquities than that of the museum
of the Royal Irish Academy in
Dublin ; but the pleasure which we
experience in contemplating these
evidences of the ancient civilization
of the Irish people is mingled with
pain when we see that even their
holiest relics have been taken from
them and given to those who have
no sympathy with the struggles and

394

Amid IrisJi Scenes.

triumphs with which these objects
are associated. We have here, for
instance, the " Sweet-sounding "bell
of St. Patrick, together with its
cover or shrine, which is a fine
specimen of the art of the goldsmith
as it flourished in Ireland before
the Norman invasion. Here, too, is
preserved the famous " Cross of
Cong," upon which is inscribed the
name of the artist by whom it was
made for Turlough O'Conor, father
of Roderick, the last native king of
Ireland. No finer piece of work
in gold is to be found in any coun-
try of Western Europe. Those
who examine it will be able to form
an opinion of the state of the me-
tallurgic and decorative arts in Ire-
land before she had been blessed
by English civilization. Another
object of even greater interest is a
casket of bronze and silver which
formerly enclosed a copy of the
Gospels that belonged to St. Pat-
rick. The leaves of this, the most
ancient Irish manuscript, have be-
come agglutinated through age, so
that they now form a solid mass.
Another manuscript, almost as an-
cient and not less famous, is a Latin
version of the Psalms which belong-
ed to St. Columba. This is the
copy which is said to have led to
the exile of the saint and to the
founding of his monastery. This
was the battle-book of the O'Don-
nells. who in war always bore it with
them as their standard.

One cannot contemplate the ex-
quisite workmanship and precious
material of these book-shrines with-
out being struck by the extraordi-
nary care with which the ancient
Irish preserved their manuscripts.
These sacred relics bear testimony
at once to their religious zeal and
to their love of learning. They
carry us back to the time when Ire-
land was the home of saints and

doctors; when from every land
those who were most eager to serve
God and to improve themselves
flocked to her shores, to receive
there the warm welcome which her
people have ever been ready to give
to the stranger who comes among
them with peaceful purpose. Those
were the days of her joy and her
pride; the glorious three centuries
during which she held the intellec-
tual supremacy of the world ; during
which her sons were the apostles
of Europe, the founders of schools,
and the teachers of doctors. Never
did a nation give more generously
of its best and highest life than Ire-
land in that age. These emblems
of her faith and her science are in
the hands of her despoiler.

The great schools of Lismore and
Armagh are no more. No more in
the streets of her cities are heard
all the tongues of Europe, which at
matin hymn and vesper song lose
themselves in the unity and har-
mony of the one language of the
church. They who were eager to
teach all men were forbidden to
learn. Knowledge was made impos-
sible, and they were reproached with
ignorance. But the end is not yet.
In contemplating the past we must
not forget the present, nor the fu-
ture which also belongs to Ireland.
The dark clouds which so long have
wrapped her like a shroud are
breaking. In the veins of her chil-
dren the full tide of life is flowing,
warm and strong, as in the day
when Columba in his wicker-boat
dared the fury of the waves, or
Brian drove the Dane into the sea,
or Malachi wore the collar of gold.
They are old and yet young ; crown-
ed with the glories of two thousand
years, they look with eyes bright
with youthful hope to a future whose
splendor shall make the past seem
as darkness.

Letters of a Young Irisiiwoman to her Sister.

395

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

JUNE i, 1868.

WHAT a beautiful Whitsuntide,
carissima ! Only a minute ago Mar-
cella was singing to me the Taran-
tella della Madonna, " Pie di Grotta"
Do you recollect the pretty child in
rap;s who used to make such long
trills and quavers as she tossed
back her dark tresses ? How far
off now, dear Kate, seems our time
at Naples !

Margaret sends me a summons to
go to her. I answer by telling her
how it is that we are detained in
Brittany until July. You can un-
derstand what the family journey
will then be. Oh ! it is so sweet
and good a thing to be together
that it costs much to each one of
us to absent ourselves from the
rest even for a day.

We have had High Mass and
Vespers worthy of a cathedral. On
leaving the chapel Anna, whose
musical organization leaves noth-
ing to desire, threw herself into my
arms, exclaiming : " It must be like
that in Paradise !" We all had the
same impression. What worldly
festivities are worth ours ?

This morning a walk with Rene
in the woods, among the thyme and
early dew. Made a resolution to
go out in this way every day, quiet-
ly, before a single shutter is opened.
We pray and meditate. Rene draws
me on to heights of faith and love.
If you heard him when he walks
out with the twins ! And how they
listen to him, with their large eyes
fixed on his !

Would you like to have news of

Isa ? " She is very thin," Margaret
tells 'me, " but is still beautiful ; she
personifies the angel of charity.
The good she does all around her
will never be known. Make haste,
then, dear, and come; it is not good
of you thus to refuse yourself to
our desires."

God keep you, my dear Kate !

LA TARANTELLA D::LLA MADONNA, PIE DI
GROTTA.

(Neapolitan Ballad.)

O lark that singest sweetly

At the rising of the sun,
Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly

To where the day's begun !
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gate of Paradise.

At that gate so fair

What should bs ray quest ?
Shall I enter Paradise

With the angels blest ?

Thou shalt pray our Mother fair,
With azur2 eyes and golden hair,
To touch our fruits with ripening hand,
And bless the harvests of our land.
By her soft eyes bending down,
Watching over field and town
Eyes more fair than fairest day
That from heaven hath strayed away
Entreat her from her throne above
Thus to recompense our love.

O my friends ! I will do so,

At the gate of Paradise :
To Mary with the brow of snow

I will breathe your ardent sighs.

O lark that singest sweetly

At the rising of the sun.
Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly

To where the day's begun !
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gate of Paradise.

While at that gate so dear

Your Mother I do pray

To bless your hopes alway,
Frl;r.ds, what will appear?

Thou shalt see our Mother there,
On her throne of rubies rare ;
On her her.d the diamond cro\vn
Set thereon by Christ, her Son ;

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

Queen is she of Paradise.
Mercy raineth from her eyes,
Pity flows from out her hands
Unto all the furthest lands.
Heaven makes music round her throne,
Happiness dwells there alone.
Thou shalt see her shining fair,
More bright than envied princes are
Our Queen all powerful, yet all sweet,
With the sun beneath her feet.

O friends ! my heart would leave its place,

The brightness daze my eyes.
Were I to look on Mary's face,

The Queen of Paradise.

lark that singest sweetly
At the rising of the sun,

Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly

To where the day's begun !
Rise, rise through rosy skies
To the gats of Paradise.

A nd at that threshold dread

Where all the angels throng,
When the golden cateu are open spread,

What theme shall v/akc my sorg ?

To our Mother shalt thou say
That for her-hearts burn alway ;
That to us her love's more sweet
Than native flowers to exiles' feet ;
That her image graven deep
On our hearts doth never sleep ;
That gazing from this earthly shore,
Above its tumult and its roar,
In dreams that come likcbbssed balm,
We see her heaven's unshaken calm.

1 go, I go ! Sweet friends, good-by ;
For yo.t to Paradise I fly.

Dearest, the French is not equal
to the naive language of the brown
little Neapolitan girl.

JUNE 12, 1868.

I have been ill, my beloved sis-
ter. What trouble they have all been
giving themselves on my account !
Happily, it was nothing fever,
headache, and general indisposi-
tion. The doctor orders much ex-
ercise, and from to-morrow we or-
ganize a cavalcade. Adrien has
had some superb horses brought
here ; what riding parties we shall
have !

But sadness mingles with joy.
Lucy's mother is very ill. They
have just set out ; will they arrive
too late ? Oh ! this journey, how full
it will be of anxiety and apprehen-
sion.

A despatch. . . . Poor Lucy! the
goodness of God has spared her
that last moment, so full of cruel
distress and yet of ineffable hope
she did not see her mother die !
What mourning! Why is death like
our shadow, pitilessly mowing down
the existences which are dearer to
us than our own ? But to what
purpose is it to ask why? There is
more true wisdom in a fiat than in
curious researches. On Whitsun-
day, at the "drawing" of the gifts
of the Holy Spirit, my lot was the
Gift of Piety love of God and of
all that belongs to his service; and
the Fruit of Patience generous ac-
ceptance of the crosses God sends
us. Must I own to you that this gift
made me afraid ? Oh ! if my hap-
piness were to be destroyed. You
will be scolding me for this dream-
ing, and you will say to me with
Mgr. Landriot : " If you would keep
mind and body in a healthy condi-
tion, avoid with extreme care these
states of reverie the habit of tak-
ing aerial flights in which the heart
and understanding exhaust them-
selves on emptiness." Dear Kate,
my dreams speak but of heaven.

Marcella, so long a captive be-
neath the yoke of others, regards in-
dependence as the first of terres-
trial benefits; on this subject our
opinions differ. The poor Prisoner
was quite right when he said to the
swallows :

II n'cct dans cette vie
Qu'un bien digne d'envie :
La libertd " *

Yes, assuredly, liberty is a great
good, and therefore it is that our
soul has been made free, perfectly
free. And how sweet it is to feel
one's self free, and to bend generous-
ly beneatli the yoke of love and sac-
rifice ! One of our first instincts is

* There is in thh life but one possession worthy
of envy Liberty.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

397

the need of liberty, and even the
word alone has in it a magic which
carries the mind away with it, and
at critical times becomes the ral-
lying word of revolutions. O my
God ! grant that I may love only
the holy freedom of thy children
that freedom which can never be
taken from me. Deliver the cap-
tives the captives of the world,
and above all of sin ! Deliver also
Ireland !

Visits : an entire family, antique
in dress and appearance, but mod-
ern in language, grace, and heart.
Good Bretons ! I love them. This
valiant faith, this sublime indig-
nation, these courageous protesta-
tions for the church and her Head
in a race of granite, is an incom-
parable spectacle. Brittany has in-
deed done well to preserve its cus-
toms, its manners, and its ancient
faith eternally young and living.
One of these ladies questioned us
about Paris, whither she wishes to
accompany her son, who is attacked
by the fever of the times. I admire
her maternal devotion. Imagine
the astonishment of this Brctonnc
in the capital of mud and gold !

Dear Kate, Marcella and Rene
have some secrets to tell you. Love
from us all.

JUNE 1 6, 1868.

Our first ride has been most pros-
perous, dear sister. It was a nine-
teen an unlucky day, declares the
superstitious Marianne. What mat-
ters ? God protects us. " Who loves
me follows me !" cried Adrien, and
away we went, cantering after him
through the thickets. Don't sup-
pose our expedition was for nothing
but pleasure, however legitimate,
but to make a wide circuit of poor.
What store of benedictions we gath-
ered on our way! A worthy tad

coz Tt ~ in his enthusiasm kissed the

* Good or worthy lather (old).

hem of Marcella's riding-habit, say-
ing : " It is certainly a saint who is
come to us." (Marcella already
speaks Breton as if it were Ita-
lian.)

We had taken provisions with us,
and did not get home until nine
o'clock, tired out, but so happy !
My mother followed us in the car-
riage. She must be interested and
have a little variety at any price ;
the death of her friend (the mother
of our sister) has greatly impressed
her. " It is," she says, " the herald
to warn me of the approach of my
own death." May God spare her
to us !

Yesterday, soon after day-break,
the carriages were in readiness in
front of the entrance for a visit to
the old divor, as the Poles would
call it : a sort of pilgrimage . . .
to the saint of the sea- coast. It is
so distant that we accepted an in-
vitation to stay the night, and are
come home this evening, not at all
fatigued. We are to go there again,
but have meanwhile obtained a kind
promise. The chatelaine of the lake
will be here on the 2d of July.
How shall I describe her to you ?
On our way back we were speak-
ing of the prestige of beauty, and
Adrien quoted the words of an
educational professor who says: "I
have passionately loved both nature
and study ; the fine arts have also
made me feel the power of their
charms ; but among all things under
the sun I have found nothing com-
parable to man when he unites
noble sentiments to physical beauty.
He is truly the chef-d'oeuvre of the
creation." " I have often thought,"
observed Rene, " that, God being
infinite and sovereign Beauty, phy-
sical beauty is a reflection of the
divine. Without sin man would
never have been ugly or plain. We
have in the soul the instinct of

398

Letters of a Young Irishwoman Po her Sister.

beauty, the love of the beautiful
under every form; and although
we say and know very well that
human beauty passes in a day, that
it is nothing, nevertheless there is
no one living who has not some time
in his life experienced the unique
and irresistible charm which is
shed around her by a creature who
to high qualities of mind and heart
joins the attraction of beauty and
regularity of countenance." And
my mother : " The saints have a
kind of beauty which I prefer to
every other; it is like a transfigura-
tion. This miserable mortal en-
velope which covers the soul be-
comes in some sort transparent, so
that one can see the peace, the
calm and serenity, of this interior
in which God dwells by his grace
and love. The sight of a saint is
a foretaste of Paradise. Oh ! how
beautiful must the angels be. Why
cannot our mortal eyes behold
those who are here, near to us?"
" As Lamartine says," added Mar-
cella :

" Tout mortal a le sien ; cet ange protectetir,
Get invisible ami veille autour dc son coeur \
L'inspire, le conduit, le relive s'il tombe,
Lerepoit au berceau, 1'accompagne i la tombe,
Et portant dans les cieux, son ama entre ses

mains,
La pre"sente en tremblant au Maitre des hu-

mains." *

Dear Kate, do you not love these
pious natures amongst whom God
has placed me? "Great souls,
great souls," exclaimed a bishop
" I seek them, but I find them not ;
I call them, and none answer !"
Yet some there are in France, and
especially in Brittany.

* Each mortal has his own ; tliis protecting angel,
This invisible friend, keeps v/atch around his

heart ;

Inspires and guides, uplifts him if he fall,
Receives him at the cradle, stays by him to the

tomb,
And, bearing up to heaven his soul within his

arms,
Presents it, trembling, to the Lord of all.

In the midst of the refinement of
luxury and effeminacy of the times
in which we live, everything dwin-
dles and diminishes; people act in
the midst of narrow and despicable
interests ; the life of the heart is
daily deteriorating, and " soon we
shall know no longer how to love
with that generous love which
thinks not of self, but whose self-
devotion places its happiness in the
felicity of others." How happy a
thing, then, is it to take refuge near
to God, and within a circle where
he is loved !

I spoke of you to the saint of the
sands. Let us love each other, dear
Kate.

JUNE 22, 1868.

Ferielon said : " Education, by a
capable mother, is worth more than
that which is to be had at the best
of convents." This often comes
into my mind when I see Berthe
cultivating with so much care the
two choice plants whose fragrance
mounts so sweetly up to God. The
surname of duchesse is abandoned
for ever. At Mass, on the ist of
January, Therese made the resolu-
tion to acquire humility ; and she
has attained it. How many charm-
ing actions the angels must have
seen with joy ! Her countenance,
naturally haughty and self-assert-
ing, has gained an expression of
sweetness and gentleness. She
is delightful; and what efforts it
has cost her ! Her mother lias
seconded, helped, and sustained
her. Raoul, the greater part of
whose time is absorbed in his
literary labors, has not transferred
to any one his own share in the
education of his daughters. Kate,
since my marriage I have regretted
more deeply than ever that I never
knew my father. I did not know
before from what strength of affec-
tion we had been severed. Thank

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to Jicr Sister.

399

God ! so long as my mother lived
her heart was enough for us.
Kind, saintly mother ! how I bless
her memory. The twins no longer
wear anything but white. It re-
minds me of the early Christians'
preparation for baptism. Their
though tf ulness is my admiration.
They count the days with a holy
eagerness ; they ask us for the
hymns of Expectation. We are mak-
ing a retreat with them, and all our
friends of Brittany will fill the chapel
on the 2d of July. This is a memor-
able date in the family' the birth-
day of Raoul, Berthe, and the twins.
What a coincidence ! the wed-
ding-day of the former, and the
anniversary of our mother's First
Communion. Marcella is singing:

" O jour trois fois heurcux ! O jour trois fois bni.!
Viens rcrr.plir tous nos cceursd'un bonheur infini { *

Anna has this year shared in the
life of the twins ; she is only eleven
years old. Her mother hesitated, but
M. le Cure has just given his deci-
sion, and the delicate child embrac-
ed me with transports. She also
will be at the holy table ; she also,
clothed in white. " Entreat Mine.
Kate to pray for me." Sweet little
dove!

Evening. Do you know what I
have just heard? The good little
hearts ! Unknown to every one,
even to the vigilant Be^rthe, the
twins and Anna rise every night to
pray ; and, besides this, they regu-
larly deprive themselves of their
go&tcr f for the benefit of a poor
child who is also preparing herself
for her First Communion. This
child has on her arm a horrible
wound, and our little saints kiss it
on their knees. Do you not think

* O thrice happy, thrice blessed day ! coir.e to fill
all our hearts with infinite happiness.

t A slight refreshment taken by French children
between the morning and evening meal.

you are reading the. Acta Sancto-
rum ?

Of the three, Picciola is still the
most fervent. I am suspected of
partiality with regard to her. Oh !
if you saw her kneeling in the chapel,
when a ray of sunshine plays upon
her fair locks, you would say she
was an angel. Dearest Kate, the
great day draws near ! I say no-
thing about our processions, our
lovely reposoirs, the babies scatter-
ing roses I should write until to-
morrow. Pray with me.

JUNE 26, 1868.

Dearest, I feel tired after my
walk on the sands, and would fain
rest myself with you, and talk to
you again of the twins and of An-
na, whose joy makes me fear for
her, so fragile is her pretty frame.
Marcella has given me a holiday
from my Greek ; she and Berthe
no more quit their darlings. And
I, who have no maternal rights
over these almost celestial souls,
leave them a little to their mutual
happiness, and isolate myself the
more with Rene. Our subjects of
conversation are always grave God,
heaven, eternity. We had visitors
on the 24th ; beautiful fires of St.
John in the evening. O son of
Elizabeth and Zacharias, voice of
one crying in the desert, the great-
est among the children of men !
give me of your humility, your love
of penitence and sacrifice.

Isa sends me a few lines, all
enkindled with the love of God.
Sarah, returned from Spain, is much
amused at certain hidalgos, and
quotes me the words of Shakspere :
'* Were it only for their noses, one
would take them for the counsellors
of Pepin or Clothair, so high do
they carry them and so imposing is
their mark."

I have not told you of our /

4OO

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister,

on the ipfh for the twenty-second
anniversary of the elevation of the
holy and venerated Pius IX. to the
pontificate. What will arise out of
all the trials of the Papacy ? Solo-
mon, after tasting every kind of en-
joyment and happiness, exclaimed :
" Vanity of vanities ! all is vanity."
It is deeply sad hitherto, but conso-
lation will come at last ; it is like a
ray from heaven. " All is vanity,
except to love God and serve him."
Let us love, then, let us serve, God,
who is so full of love. Everything
is there ! Isa writes to me : " When
shall we say, Quotidiemorior?" Alas !
I have not arrived at this perfection.
My good Rene has published, in
an English periodical, a remarkable
article, about which I want to have
your opinion. .We are convinced
here that no means ought to be neg-
lected that may serve the cause of
God, and that every Catholic's sphere
of action is wider than he thinks.
Oh ! how right you are, dear Kate.
' ; All our actions ought to preach
the Gospel."

Was present at a funeral yester
day evening a young girl of fifteen.
I thought of the beautiful verses by
Brizeux on the death of Louise.
What a picture ! the poor and low-
ly funeral train amid the magnifi-
cence of Nature, who gave to the
youthful dead that which was not
afforded her by men. I seem still to
behold the scene. The place, also, is
suitable. .1 am in presence of God's
fair creation ; a thousand birds are
singing around me. Oh! these nests,
these poor little nests, chtf-cT&wrcs
of love. They showed me lately a
goldfinch's nest suspended as if by
miracle at the extremity of a branch
at an immense h eight.

Ce nid, ce doux myslSre,
C'est 1' amour d'une mere,
Enfants, n'y touchez pas !*

* This nest, this soft mystery, is a mother's love.
Children, touch it not !

Children have an innate inclina-
tion for destruction. There are very
few who think of the mother of the
nestlings when they take possession
of the nests; and the poet has rea-
son to say to them :

Ne pouvant rien cnSer, il nc faut ricn dttruire,
Enfonts, n'y touchez pas ! *

^ May the angel of mercy spread
his wing over the cradles and the
nests, and may he protect you also,
my beloved, and all of us with you !

JUNE 30, 1868.

The retreat and the singing take
up all my time, dear Kate, but I
want to tell you that Lucy has come
back to us, pale and weak, and re-
commends herself to your prayers.
Gaston was asking for me down
there. There is something so sad
in this deep mourning; but Lucy
looks above this earth. Edouard's
voice was wanting to our choir; it
will be complete after to-morrow.
Three poor children, clothed by
your Georgina, will accompany our
chosen ones.

The saint of tJie sea-coast arrives to-
morrow. She will be lodged near
to me. I wish she could be there
always! Why cannot one gather
together in one same place those
whom one loves ?

Kate dearest, Rene and all Brit-
tany are for you.

JULY 2, 1868.

Quam dilecta tabcrnacula tua, Do-
mine!

O Kate ! what a day. And the
vigil the pious tears, the pardons,
the benedictions, the watching of
the arms in the chapel how sweet
it was ! This morning Berthe ask-
ed me to be the mother of Madeleine.
The sweet child was clad in her

* Being unable to create anything, you ir.ust de-
stroy nothing. Children, touch it not !

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

401

virginal robes in my room. She
was touched, but not afraid. When
ready to go down, she asked my
blessing. Oh ! it is I rather who
would have wished for hers. Then
the Mass, the hymns, the exhorta-
tions ; then, as in a dream, these
fair apparitions prostrate before the
altar, and God within our souls.
What happiness for one day to con-
tain !

The saintly chatelaine was there,
absorbed in God. The day has
gone by like a flash of lightning.
It is now eleven o'clock, and I say
with you the Te Deum. One of
our neighbors was telling me this
evening of a lady whose little
daughter, pious as an angel, shed
tears, the evening of her First Com-
munion, for regret that the day was
at an end. This circumstance in-
spired the happy mother to write a
charming poem, which ended some-
thing as follows :

Peu de jours dans la vie offrent assez de charmes
Pour qu'on pleure le soir en les voyant finir ! *

Marcella wept in the chapel.
Happy mother ; beloved children ;
blessed house ; incomparable day !

The saint is really a saint. Hear
this: "Jesus in the Blessed Sacra-
ment visits me every morning; I
know not how it is that I do not
die of love. God has allowed me
everywhere to meet with souls who
understand mine, and who have
loved me !"

Good -night, my sister.

I whispered to my daughter :

My own sweet child, O soul all pure and fair !

Pray, pray with me where holy feet have trod,
And let thy sinless pleading on the air

Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God !

For the poor mother who her son doth weep
A last farewell in tears that rain like blood,

Let thy prayer, angel, mount the starry steep-
Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God !

* Few are the days in life which offer charms enough
To make us weep when evening brings their close.

VOL. XXIV. 26

For the poor orphan, who in dire distress

Alone by fireless hearth hath famished stood,
Oh ! let thy prayer, with sister's tenderness,
Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God !

For the poor sinner who from God would flee,
Who dies and turns him from the saving Rood,

Oh ! let thy prayer rise upward pleadingly
Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God !

For all the weary souls who weep and v/ail
To the sweet Virgin raise thy voice aloud ;

Let thy clear tones for those who die and fail
Like saving perfume rise towards thy God !

1 used to say this at Venice to
the pretty little Rutti, the little
American girl ; do you remember
her ? Oh ! how well she used to
pray, this little dove from the New
World. Dear, I should like to
cross the ocean to have a nearer
view of that unknown land which
attracts me so much, with its free-
dom, its immense spaces, its splen-
did vegetation, and its beautiful
sun ! But, nevertheless, it is not
Ireland, my country, and the land
of memories !

God keep you !

JULY 6, 1868.

Dear Kate, in two days we start
for my dear green Erin, to the
great joy of Marcella, who is an
enthusiast about O'Connell. Mar-
garet feels a thrill, she tells me, at
the sound of a carriage. It is high
time to make acquaintance with the
handsome baby. Rene has left me
to accompany the saint ^ whom I
would fain have taken with us.
She smiled sadly in answer to my
proposal : " The aged tree that
grows in lonely places cannot thus-
be rooted up."

The Annalcs Orlcanaiscs speak
of nothing but deaths : the Abbe
Debeauvais, Cure of St. Thomas
d'Aquin, has just died at Mgr. Du-
panloup's; Madame deBannand;
the Abbe Rocher, almoner of the
prisons, etc., etc. Prince Michael
of Servia has been assassinated : it
is almost ancient history. I must

402

Letters of a Young Irishivoman to her Sister.

see to my packages ; so good-by for
the present, until we are with la
belle Anglaise.

JULY 19, 1868.

It is from England, and from
Margaret's magnificent residence,
that I now think of you, dear Kate.
A quick passage, splendid weather,
everybody well and strong, includ-
ing baby Gaston. Lord William
was waiting for us on the pier ; we
were soon in the carriage, and next
day in the arms of Margaret, who
cannot fete us enough. The chil-
dren have already become used
to English ways, to this people of
many footmen, to this pomp and
splendor, and to the beauties of the
Isle of Saints. Margaret is in the
full bloom of her happiness; her
child is superb, and resembles her.

Dear, dear Kate, how much I en-
joy being here ! What emotion I
felt on setting foot on this soil, Bre-
ton also, but different from the other!
I wept much, and feel ready to
weep again. What is wanting to
me ? You, you, and the best belov-
ed of mothers ! But you are both
of you with God my mother in
the heaven of heavens, and you in
the heaven upon earth ! Laus Deo,
nevertheless, and forever.

Marcella understood the inward
grief I felt, and delicately offered
me her friendly consolations. We
shall soon see Isa. I shall under-
take the pilgrimage of friendship with
Rene, in which all the family will

join us : Mme. de T has so

arranged it, you can imagine with
what thought. Meanwhile, we are
enjoying Margaret's splendid hospi-
tality. Her mother-in-law pleases
me. These few lines are only to say
good-day.

JULY 24, 1868.

Adrien has brought here the
numbers of the magazine contain-
ing the articles on " Notre Dame

de Lourdes," by Henri Lasserre.
We want to persuade our dear En-
glish friends to make this pilgrim-
age with us in November.

We have just come from London.
How many things to see and to
show !

This morning, our dear convent

of . I was very happy and

delighted ; I love so much to meet
friends again, and especially these
convent meetings there is some-
thing so heavenly about them.
Under these black veils it seems as
if nothing changes. When a child
I used to wonder because nuns did
not seem to me to grow older.

Ici viennent mourir les derniers bruits du monde :
Nautonniers sansrivage, abordez, c'est le port.*

This life of union with God, and
devotion to souls, has within it
something divine. We know not
how great is the calm and serenity
resulting from the lofty choice of
these hearts. To belong to God in
the religious life is heaven begun.
Doubtless there, as elsewhere, there
are sufferings, trials, and crosses ;
the separation from all those most
dear to one, the crushing of nature,
the complete and absolute separa-
tion from everything which can
charm in this world, to give one's
self exclusively to God, in prayer
and love, is a beautiful thing, but
no one, I think, can say that it is
free from pain. Assuredly the ex-
change of terrestrial affections for
those which are imperishable < a mot
be regarded as a loss, and yet what
tears there are in this last farewell
of the religious, who while living
consents to die to all her affections !

Dear Kate, we spoke of you.
How they love us in this peaceful
place of refuge !

* Hither the world's last echoes come to die :
Land, shipwrecked mariners ; the port is here.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

403

Oui, c'estun deces lieux, ou. notre cceur sent vivre
Quelque choss des cieux. qui fiotte et qui 1'enivrc ;
Un de ces lieux qu'enfant j'aimais et je revais,
Dont la beaute sereine,incpuisable, intime,
Verse a 1'ame un oubli serieux et sublime
De tout ce que la terre et I'homme ont de mauvais !*

i6th. Prayed much for France.
" Since this morning," my mother
said to me, "I have continually be-
fore my eyes the scaffold and the
pale and noble countenance of
Marie Antoinette." Poor saintly
queen ! what a life and what a mar-
tyr's death. After the first days of
enchantment which followed her ar-
rival in France, what a long suc-
cession of troubles ! This Dau-
phine of fifteen years old was so
exquisitely beautiful that the Mare-
chal de Brissac could say to her, in
his chivalrous language : " Madame,
you have there before your eyes
two hundred thousand men ena-
mored of your person"; and a
few years plater the people cried,
" Death to the Austrian !" Never
had woman such a destiny. The
Greeks could not imagine a great
soul in a body that had no beauty,
nor beauty of person without a- no-
ble soul. Marie Antoinette would
have been, their idol, their goddess.
O holy martyrs of the Temple ! pray
for France.

The magazine contains a story
still more interesting than Fabiola,
if that is possible: Virginia; or,
Rome under Nero.

191)1. Feast of St. Vincent de
Paul, this man of miracles, this
humble and great saint, whose
memory will live as long as the
world, who founded admirable
works, who created the Sister of
Charity this marvel, whom even
the impious admire, whom the poor

Yes, 'tis one of those abodes where our heart
feels itself enlivened by something of heaven which
floats around it one of those abodes which as a
child I loved, and of which I used to dream, whose
beauty, serene, inexhaustible, penetrating, sheds
upon the soul a serious and sublims forgetfulness of
all that is evil on earth or in man."

prison.

and needy, the aged, the infirm, the
wounded, call " sister "; whom on.e
finds tending abandoned children ;
at the asylum, the hospital, on the
field of battle, and in the
O charity !

Letter from Sister Louise, who is,
it seems to me, drawing near to her
Eternity. She tells me that labor
has worn out her strength, that she
cannot write any more, and sends
me two very beautiful little pictures,
which have a sacredness in my eyes
as the gift of a dying person. Is
Heaven so soon about to claim
this sweet cloister-flower ?

Kate, darling, you see that I can-
not lose my favorite habit of con-
fiding to you my thoughts. Oh !
why are you not here, admiring
Margaret, resplendent with youth,
freshness, and joy? She is going
to write to you, to ask news of Zoe,
etc.

God keep you, my beloved sis-
ter!

JULY 29, 1868. -
Have I said anything to you
about Margaret's park? of her
conservatory, worthy of Italy, and
where Marcella would like always
to remain ? of her birds ? of all the
fairy-land which she knows so well
how to make us enjoy ? Lucy's
mourning prevents our hosts from
issuing many invitations; but how
much I prefer our home-party as it
is!

Long excursions among the
mountains. Many projects for
next year. Margaret desires that a
friendly compact should be agreed
to, which would be a continual in-
terchange of visits : Brittany, Eng-
land, Ireland, Orleans, and Hyeres
would by turns receive our Penates.
O dreams of youth, O balmy days,
which never will return ! stay with
us Ions.

Yesterday Lord B-

hacl

404

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

heard of my arrival, hastened to
come and see us. " What ! so
soon grown up, Miss Georgina?"
he exclaimed, to the exceeding
amusement of Alix.

To-morrow we start for Ireland,
for my own home, where everything
is in readiness for our arrival. What
a sorrowful happiness ! Gertrude
lets me look through her manu-
script books; the following lines
which I found there you will read
with as much admiration as my-
self:

" This morning Helene asked to
speak with me, and this day and
hour I shall ever remember. The
beloved child of my soul, of my
thoughts, and of my heart desires
to become a daughter of St.
Teresa ; she wishes to go, and
speedily. I shall, then, see her no
more but at long intervals and be-
hind a threatening grating; another
mother will give her her love, other
hands than mine will guide her to-
wards God. But she will be thine,
O Lord ! and, while yet young, I
have felt too much the sorrows of
this world not to be happy at see-
ing thee give to her the better
part. Her avowals, her innocent
confidence, her purity of soul and
intention all these appeared to me
so peaceful that I also experienced
an ineffable sense of inward peace.
Go, then, since God calls thee, sweet
angel of this home, in which thou
wilt leave so great a void go ; fa-
ther and mother will not refuse
thee to God, and our prayers and
blessings will follow thee !"

After these heavenly thoughts,
dear Kate, I leave you.

AUGUST 6, 1868.

I have received your letter, dear
sister, joy of my soul, and to-day
must not pass away without my writ-
ing to you. O deliciosa ! I behold

Ireland again, my country, my uni-
verse, the first place in my heart,
where I have loved my mother and
you. O these memories ! the past
and present uniting their happiness,
their harmonies, and their sweet-
ness.

The house is the same as ever
a bit of heaven fallen upon the
earth ! Prayed on our dear tombs.
The rose-trees flourish which you
planted there. The good Reginald
does everything as well as possible,
as he always does. But oh ! to live
here without you, to see your room
a reliquary which no one enters with-
out me, and where I have put to-
gether whatever belonged to you.
Dear, dear Kate, you say well that
God has given me other sisters
sisters loving and beloved, but who
cannot replace my Kate.

All the village came out to meet
us. There were no songs there
were tears : the Irish understand
one another. Poor martyr-country !
I am seized with a longing desire to
stay here to console these poor peo-
ple. Our dogs were wild with de-
light, like that of Ulysses Dear
friend and sister, do not be uneasy;
that which surmounts all else in my
heart is peace, and peace founded
on hope, as on a foundation of gold.
God will deliver Ireland! He will
give us back our forests and our
hills, and we shall no more return
to the condition of the proscribed.
Do you remember the last book we
read together, in the great drawing-
room on the venerated spot where
we used to see our mother ? This
book is still on a side-table, marked
at the last page. It is Rosa Fer-
rucci, the charming Italian, who so
loved Milton. Nothing is chang-
ed ; the wide meadows, the splendid
landscape, the sunsets behind the
giants of the park, the gold-dust
gleaming through the foliage, the

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Siste

405

decline of day which \vt used so
to admire together I have seen it
again in its fantastic magnificence
all is there, even ic the smallest tufts
of ivy : but the absent and the dead !

"And they also are present,"
Rene assures me. " They wish you
to be courageous and truly Christian.
Death does not separate souls."

A fraternal letter from Karl.
" My heart feels all the impressions
of yours in Ireland. I pray God
that he may shed happiness upon
ycur path, and I join in all your
memories."

Isa, Lizzy, Mine. D , and all our

friends must come in turn, and all
together. Isa is with me, pale as
a marble Madonna, with a heavenly
expression in her eyes. Her mo-
ther almost adores her, and clings

to her in order to live. Mme. D

fainted away on seeing me. Lizzy
has recovered her gayety and petu-
lance, and would fain enliven Isa.
Where have I read some words of
a Breton who, in speaking of a
young girl called to the religious
life, says, " Her heart is like a de-
sert " ? Such is Isa, athirst for God,
in love with the ideal, a soul wound-
ed with the thorny briers of life.

Margaret takes in several French
newspapers. We are reading in the
Ouvrier, Lcs Faucheurs de la Mort
the "Mowers of Death " a. histori-
cal drama of unhappy Poland. It
is heartrending. Poland and Ire-
land, the two martyrs, understand
each other. Will not God raise
them up a liberator ?

Darling Kate, what benedictions
are showered upon you in return
for your liberalities ! What touch-
ing questions are put to me ! O
these good people ! how I love them.

For the first time I am mistress
of the house. Rene calms my
scruples, and tells me that he is
proud of me. O the evening

prayers in our own tongue ! Yes-
terday I thought I saw you in your
old place, and nearly cried out.

Send me your good angel, ()
best-beloved of sisters ! Send him
to me in the land of O'Connell

" First flower of the earth, first gem of the sea."

Dear Kate, I am going to enclose
in my letter some beautiful lines by
Marie Jenna, the sweet poetess who
delights me so much. This poetry
is almost Irish to my heart :

LE RETOUR.

Oui, je te reconnais, domaine de mon pere,
Vieux chateau, champs fleuris, murs tapisses de

lierre,

Ou de mes jeunes ans s'abrita le bonheur ;
Votre image a partout suivi le voyageur. . .
Vous souvient-il aussi des quatre tetes blondes
Qui si joyeusement formaient de folles rondes?
De nos rires bruyants, de nos eclats de voix,
Nous faisions retentir les e"chos des grands bois,
Sans craindre d'offenser leur majeste sereine,
Et plus insouciants que 1'oiseau de la plaine.
Mais, ainsi qu'un parfum goutte a goutte epanche,
Le bonheur s'est tari dans mon sein desseche.
De ces bois, chaque ete rajeunit la couronne,
La mienne est pour toujours fletrie au vent d'au-

tomne ;

Au murmure des vents dans leurs rameaux touffus,
Au concert gracieux de leurs nids suspendus,
Au doux bruit du ruisseau qui borda leur enceinte,
Aujourd'hui je n'ai rien k meler qu'une plainte :
Je ne ris plus. . . .

Puis sous le marronnier voici le bane de pierre
Ou, pour nous voir de loin, s'asseyait notre mere.
Oh ! comme elle etait belle et comme nous raimions !
Oh ! comme son regard avait de chauds rayons !
J'etais le plus petit : souvent lorsque ines freres
Gravissaient en courant les coteaux de bruy^res,
bien las, trainant des fleurs et des branches de

houx,

Je revenais poser mon front sur ses genoux.
Alors en doux accents vibrait sa voix cherie,
Et dans mon sein d'enfant tombait la reverie.
Et maintenant trainant mes pas irre"solus,
Parmi les chers debris de mes bonheurs perdus,
lit lespieds tout meurtris des caillonx de la route,
Je me retourne encor, je m'arrCte et jYcoute :
Je n'entends plus. . . .

Et ce vieux monument, c'est toi, ma pauvre eglise,
A 1'ombre d'un sapin cachant ta pierre grise.
J'ai salu de loin le sommet de ta croix
Qui scintille au soleil et domine les bois.
Ici, je m'en souviens, j'eus de bien belles heures,
Qui me faisaient rSvcr des celestes demeures ;
Je contemplais. ravi, les seraphins ailes,
Les gothiques vitraux, les lustres e'loigne's.
J'entendais a la fois la priere du pretre,
Et les petits oiseaux jasant a la fenetre,
Les cantiques de 1'orgue et des enfants de choeur,
Et I'ineffable voix qui parlait dans mon coeur. . . .
Oh ! que Dieu soit beni ! que les mains de 1'enfance
Au pied de son autel, sainte arche d'alliance,
Des fleurs de nos sentiers re"pandent le tre"sor !
Qu'on brule devant lui 1'encens des urnes d'or !

406

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

Que tout vive et iressaille et chante en sa presence !
Le bonheur en fuyant m'a laiss^ 1'espdrance :
Je prie encor. . . *

Translation of the foregoing.

Yes, domain of my father, well I know thee again
Old chateau, flowery fields, walls tapestried with

ivy,
Which sheltered the happiness of my youthful

years ;

Everywhere your image has followed the wander-
er. ...

Also, remember ye the four flaxen headed children
Who danced so joyously their merry rounds ?
Our noisy laughter and our cries and shouts
Made the wide woods re-echo ; nor did we fear
Thus to offend their majesty serene.
More careless we than wild birds of the plain ;
But like a perfume poured out drop by drop,
So happiness is dried up in my breast.
Each summer, of these woods renews the crown,
The autumn winds for ay have withered mine.
With the breeze murmuring in their tangled boughs,
With the sweet warblings from their hanging

nests,

With the soft ripple of their engirdling stream,
Now can I mingle nothing but a moan :
I laugh no more.

See the stone bench beneath the chestnut shade,
Where mother sat, and watched us from afar.
How beautiful she was, and how we loved her !
And v/hat warm rays beamed on us from her eyes !
I was the youngest ; often, when my brothers
Climbed up and ran upon the heathy banks,
I, wearily dragging my flowers and holly boughs,
Would go and lean my head against her knees,
A nd hear the gentle accents of her voice,
While on my childish heart a reverie fell.
Now I return again, I stop and listen ;
But hear no more. . . .

And this old building it is thou, poor church,
Hiding thy gray stones 'neath the pine-tree's shade.
The summit of thy cross I hailed from far,
In sunshine gleaming, rising o'er the wood.
Here, I remember, happy hours I spent.
Which made me dream of heavenly abodes ;
I gazed, admiring, at the cherubim,
'\ he Gothic windows, candelabra high.
I heard, together with the prayer of the priest,
The little birds about the windows chirping,
The organ, and the children of the choir,
And the ineffable voice within my heart. . . .
Blessed be God ! Ever may childhood's hands,
Before his altar, the sacred Ark of the Covenant,
Scatter the treasure of our way-side flowers !
May incense burn in golden urns before him !
May all things live, sing, gladden in his Presence !
Happiness, fleeing, still has left me hope :
And still I pray. . . .

I have wept over every line, dear
sister but as for me, I laugh still,
alas ! Oh ! what a treasure of memo-
ries hoarded within my soul of those
fair years which your love made so
sweet.

* Marie Jenna, Elevations Pottiques et Reli-
gieutes.

Would you like to have one of
my relics, dearest ?

SOUVKISIR D'ENFANCE.

C'e"tait dans un bois. a 1'ombre des chenes
Et de nos sept ans, fieres toutes trois,
N'ayant pas encor ni chagrin ni peines,
Nous remplissions 1'air du bruit de nos voix.

Nous chantions toujours, cherchant I'dglantine,
La fraise sauvage et le joyeux nid,
Jouant follement sur la mousse fine,
Et dans ces ebats la nuit nous surprit.

Tremblantes de peur, dans la foret sombre,
Et pleurant tout bas, craignant de mourir,
Quand autourde nous s'epaississait 1'ombre,
Nous ne songions plus a nous rejouir.

Dieu ! quelle terreur ! Tout faisait silence.
Sur le vert gazon tombait par instants
Un rameau jauni, pour nous chute immense !
Ah ! quelle e'pouvante et quels grands tourments !

Mais un cri lointain, le cri de nos meres,
Un appel du coeur parvint jusqu'a nous ;
Nous vimes la-bas briller des lumieres.
Oh ! que ce moment pour toutes fut doux t

Quels tendres baisers, quels aimes sourires
Calmerent soudain nos folles terreurs !
Apres Ics sang'ots nous eumes les nres,
Et de nos re'cits tremblerent nos soeurs.

Seigneur, que toujours, a 1'heure d'alarmes,
Quand gronde 1'orage, un ange gardien,
Une mere tendre arrete nos larmes,
Et pour nous guider nous donne la main ! *

* MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD.

'Twas in a wood, in the shadow of the oaks,
We children three, all proud of our seven years,
Unknowing yet of trouble or of care.
With our resounding voices filled the air.

Singing we wandered seeking the eglantine,
Wild strawberries, and nests of singing birds,
Gambolling wildly on the fine, soft moss.
Till night o'ertook us in our careless play.

Trembling with fear, within the forest dark
We wept in silence, fearing we should die ;
And when around us thicker shadows fell.
Never, we thought, should we see joy again.

Heavens ! what terror Everything was still.
On the green, mossy turf at times there fell
A withered branch, to us a fall immense ;
For oh ! what fear and torment were we in.

But hark ! a distant cry. our mother's call,
A nd loving voices reached our listening ears,
While through the wood we saw the gleam of

lights
Oh ! to us all what sweet relief and joy.

What tender kisses, and what welcome smiles,
Now quickly tranquillized our foolish fears !
After our sobs, we laughed for very joy,
E'en while our sisters trembled at our tale.

Lord, grant that ever, in our anxious hours
And stormy days, an angel guardian,
A tender mother's hand, may dry our tears,
And guide our steps along the path of life.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

407

What memories, dear sister ! I
had lost my way with Lizzy and
Isa. My mother was living then !
How pale and trembling she was

when I fell into her
you you, my Kate !

arms ! And

AUGUST 12, 1868.

You have comforted me, dear
sister. This place pleases me :
everybody likes it. Saw yesterday
Karl's family, as well as that of
Ellen ; the day before yesterday,

the W 's. Fanny is going to

marry a German with a great name,
a fervent Catholic, in love with Eng-
land, where he intends to remain.

Our evenings are delightful. I
had promised Margaret not to read
Pere Lacordaire, by the Pere Cho-
carne, without her. It is admirably
fine. The introduction is the defini-
tion of the priest such as is given by
the great orator of Notre Dame him-
self: '' Strong as the diamond, ten-
derer than a mother." There are a
thousand things in this book which
make my heart beat : " O paternal
home ! where, from our earliest
years, we breathed in with the light
the love of all holy things, in vain
we grow old : we return to you with
a heart ever young ; and were it not
Eternity which calls us, in separat-
ing us far from you, we should be
inconsolable at seeing your shadow
daily lengthen and your sun grow
pale !" " There are wants for which
this earth is sterile." What a spring
there is of faith and love in words
like these: "Riches are neither
gold nor silver, nor ships which
bring back from the ends of the
earth all precious things, nor steam,
nor railways, nor all that the genius
of men can extract from the bosom
of nature ; one thing alone is riches
that is love. From God to man,
from earth to heaven, love alone
unites and fills all things. It is

their beginning, their middle, and
their end. He who loves knows ;
he who loves lives ; he who loves
sacrifices himself; he who loves is
content ; and one drop of love, put
in the balance with the universe,
would carry it away as the tempest
would carry away a straw." The
Pere Lacordaire speaks admirably
of cloisters: "August palaces have
been built, and magnificent tomb. 1 -:,
raised on the earth ; dwelling-places
well-nigh divine have been made
for God : but the wisdom and the
heart of man have never gone fur-
ther than in the creation of the
monastery." The first disciple and
brother of Pere Lacordaire, the
saintly young Hippolyte Requedat
(whose soul was so pure that when,
at twenty years of age, he threw
himself at the feet of a priest, own-
ing that he had never, since his
First Communion, been to confes-
sion, having nothing of which to
accuse himself, unless that he wish-
ed much evil to all the enemies of
France) used every day to say to
the Blessed Virgin : " Obtain for
me the grace to ascertain my voca-
tion to learn the way in which
I could do the greatest possible
amount of good, lead back the
greatest number of souls to the
church, and be most chaste, hum-
ble, charitable, active, and patient."
He died of consumption at the
age of twenty-two, and his death
made a deep wound in the heart of
the Pere Lacordaire. " Requedat
was a soul as impassioned in its
self-devotion as others are in selfish-
ness. To love was his life, but to
love to give rather than to receive ;
to give himself always, and to the
greatest number possible this was
his dream, his longing, his martyr-
dom. Devoted to an ardent pursuit
of that which is good, tyrannized
over by this noble love, he had not

408

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

time to see any evil." A friend of
his was Piel, an eminent architect,
who joined him to become also a son
of St. Dominic " A lofty soul, an
heroic heart, incapable of a divided
affection, and from the first moment
aspiring after the highest perfec-
tion, admirably formed to be a
great orator as well as a saint, of
whom his friends used to say that
his language reminded them of the
style of Pascal." With the Pere
Lacordaire was also Hernsheim, a
converted Jew, a frank, intelligent,
and profound mind, from whence is-
sued from time to time thoughts
which had a peculiar charm about
them, mingled with a sweet and
penetrating unction." The Pere
Besson, an artist like Piel, and the
Fra Angelica of France, was also
of the number ; and, lastly, the Pere
Jandel, now general of the order.
Mme. Swetchine was like the good
genius of P&re Lacordafre : " Who
does not know this, now ?" asks the
Pere Chocarne. "Who has not read
the life and works of this woman,
whom death has crowned with a
glory all the more pure and radiant
because she had so carefully conceal-
ed it during her life ? Who does not
know this Russian with a heart so
French, this convert to the Catholic
faith, so gentle towards beliefs and
opinions differing from hers, the
masculine understanding in the wo-
man's heart, the spirit of Joseph de
Maistre in the soul of Fenelon, the
.charity, so delicate and tender, of
this woman who said of herself: 'I
would no more be made known to
the children of men but by these
words : She who believes ; she who
prays ; she who loves '!"

This is beautiful. Can you pic-
ture to yourself the impression made
upon us while Adrien is reading this
.aloud ? Every one is breathless ;
the twins and Anna, their eyes wide

op-vn, their hands joined, seem to
dei'out this eloquence. The soul
of the orator of Notre Dame has
passed into that of his son in Jesus
Christ. All is magnificent, and
makes one deeply regret that the
grand figure which appeared among
us with the double aureole of sanc-
tity and genius so soon disappeared
from the world. A great and won-
derful history is this, too little really
known ! Have we not heard the
most absurd fables told in reference
to Pere Lacordaire ?

I want your prayers, dear Kate,
for a grand project : we wish to
bring Isa's mother to agree to live
with her sister. Lizzy would be
the daughter of the two, and the
Lord's dear chosen one would go
to " the place of repose which she
has chosen." It will be difficult
to manage, but I have a presenti-
ment of victory.

Good-by, dear Kate, for the pres-
ent.

AUGUST 20, 1868.

O Temps! suspends ton vol, et vous, Heures pro-
pices,

Suspendez votre cours ;
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides devices

Des plus beaux de nos jours.*

We have been singing this while
floating on the lake. Picciola pro-
poses to take up her abode for a
year at Aunt Georgina's. I have
installed her as dame and mistress
of my little school. What joy !

Isa's mother is beginning to un-
derstand. I have been getting so
many prayers for this ! She yester-
day said, after having listened very
calmly to what I had to say : " Dear
Georgina, I feel that God inspires
you; but only think how I have
been broken down, and what need

* O Time ! suspend thy flight, and ye, propitious

Hours,

Suspend your course ;
Suffer us to enjoy the swift delights
Of these our fairest days.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

409

I have of Isa!" Poor mother! O
these vocations ! a terrible secret
which rends so many souls. " Let
the dead bury their dead !" I need
all my faith in the Gospel to admit
that these words were said by our
merciful Saviour. St. Bernard, the
saint of Mary, the honey of Mary,
will succeed in gaining this mate-
rial heart, which hesitates before
the greatness of the sacrifice.

We have finished our splendid
reading. This evening we shall take
Klopstock. We all find that nothing
equals this intellectual pleasure of
interchanging our impressions while
reading together. We separate at
eleven. I am taking some views,
being desirous of transporting my
part of Ireland into France.

Margaret lias written to Mistress
Ann ah to offer her the post of gov-
erness to the charming baby. We
expect her answer to-day. The
baptism took place on the i5th.
It was splendid.

Have seen Sarah, whose son has
been ill always amiable, with a
tinge of melancholy, caught, no
doubt, by the side of the cradle.

My duties are so multiplied that
I should be quite unequal to them
without Rene. What a pleasure it
is to do for others what they have
done for me !

Send me always your good angel,
my best beloved.

AUGUST 26, 1868.
What a fete for my mother, the
evening of the 24th ! All the echoes
resounded with it. In two days
hence we are to go to Fanny's mar-
riage, which takes place in Dublin.
Great preparations; but Anna is
unwell, and this spoils our joy.
Marcella has suffered so much that
she trembles at the least shock.
Lucy will remain here with our
Italians ; we cannot return for a

week. But the great piece of
news I have to tell you is this : Isa

enters the convent of on the

8th of October. I have obtained
this exchange. Carmel alarmed the
poor mother too much ; and, be-
sides, the health of our friend is too
much shaken to be able to support
the austerities of St. Teresa. The

two families of the D will go

with us to Dublin, and we shall ac-
company Isa. What a Te Dciim
we ought to sing ! The timid
child had never owned to her mo-
ther the ardor which consumed her;
the death of George the nephew so
passionately loved, sole heir of so
noble a name, and betrothed to
Isa from childhood appeared to
Mme. D the death of every-
thing, and she lived " extinguished.'"
Oh ! how I rejoice at this success.
Margaret and Isa, both once so sad,
and now with their hearts in an
eternal spring !

Let us bless God together, dear
Kate ! Do you recollect Mgr. Du-
panloup's words : " One breathes,
in this land of Ireland, I know not
what perfume of virtue which one
finds not elsewhere."

AUGUST 31, 1868.
Rene is writing to you. We
know that Anna is well, and we
are enjoying the worhlli nesses of
Dublin. Fanny was touching un-
der her veil. Your dear name, my
beloved Kate, was mentioned, I
know not how often. O kind Ire-
land ! If I had to tell you all the
graceful things that were said to
me, I should fill my paper. How
pleasant it is to be loved ! Fanny
did not weep on seeing me ; she
and her mother are unequalled in
their serenity ; consolation has been
sent them from on high. A vision
is spoken of. I did not like to ask
any questions, but it is certain that

4io

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

something extraordinary has occur-
red.

O dear Kate ! how fair is life.
I was saying so yesterday to Rene
while we were looking at the stars;
for the night was splendid. Do you
know what lie answered ? " Heaven
is fairer; earth is but its echo, its
far-off image, its imperfect sketch ;
and it is death which opens heaven
to us." Words like these from
the lips of Rene make me shud-
der. Oh ! to die with him would
be sweet, but not to live without
him. Pere Lacordaire said : " Death
is man's fairest moment. He finds
assembled there all the virtues he
has practised, all the strength and
peace he has been storing up, all
the memories, the cherished images
and sweet regrets of life, together
with the fair prospect of the sight
of God. If we had a lively faith,
we should be very strong to meet
death."

Fanny starts to-morrow for France,
Switzerland, and Germany a long
journey ; we remain at present, so
as in some measure to fill up the
void a little. Why are you not
here to witness our reunion ? Oh !
how strong is the love of one's coun-
try. I am inebriated with my native
air; we sing our old ballads; we
turn over with Adrien the history
of the past. Ask of our good God
that this may last a long time, dear
Kate ! Erin mavonrneen ! Erin go
bragh !

SEPTEMBER 6, 1868.

Mistress Annah is come, dear
sister. I wept with all my heart on
embracing her. Dear old mistress
Annah ! how wrinkled and thin she
has become; always upright and
stiff as an Englishwoman, and her
memory enriched with Italian stories
which will charm babe's childhood.
Margaret has chosen for the beauti-
ful innocent the name of Emman-

uel a blessed name, which well
bespeaks the happiness- of our
friend. Lord William made royal
largesses to the poor in the name
of the new-born heir. Twelve or-
phans will be provided for at the
expense of Emmanuel. Mistress
Annah is longing to see and hear
you. Margaret promises her this
happiness for next spring. You
may be sure that no fatigue will
be imposed on the dear old lady.
The pension given her. by Lord Wil-
liam made her independent ; but our
belle Anglaise feared the isolation of
old age for her devoted heart, and
it will be a happiness to both to
watch the growth of baby. A mes-
senger has just arrived. Te Deum,
dear Kate ! a little daughter is born
to Lizzy. Everybody is delighted ;
they have sent for us ; I am going
with Rene.

7th September. In an hour the
baptism, so that Isa may be pre-
sent ; then she says farewell to her
family, and we take her away. The
angel fallen from heaven is to be
called Isa. Marcella, Adrien, and
Gertrude have joined us. Joy and
grief meet at this moment. You
will be astonished at the sudden
departure of our Isa; but Lizzy
wishes it thus, hoping that the
poor mother will let herself be in-
terested by the festivities and the
visitors.

The last number of the magazine
has caused me a sensation. In it
is an account of the beautiful scene
on the Pincio, in October, 1864,
" at the hour when the sun, sink-
ing towards the sea of Ostia, lights
with a golden gleam the cross which
surmounts the dome of St. Peter."
Do you remember, dear Kate, the
Pope appearing in the midst of the
crowd, which bent before him with
so much reverence, and the long
shouts of Viva Pio Nono which

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought. 411

saluted his departure ? O Rome,
Rome, my other country, the eter-
nal country of those who believe,
hope, and love Rome of St. Pe-
ter and of Pius IX. I salute thy
image and thy memory !

Dear sister, Lizzy requests your
prayers. She is well, radiant, and
full of gratitude to God. Her good
husband is in transports, and the
little one so pretty under her gauzy
curtains. She has not cried yet, so
we think she will resemble Isa, her

godmother. Do you not like this
prognostic ?

Let us both pray, dear Kate !
Adrien has again read us the two
fair contemporary pages about Ire-
land Mgr. Dupanloup at St. Roch,
and Mgr. Mermillod at St. Clotilde.
O these words! "The first powers
of our time, the two most illustrious
and rich, are a Prince despoiled
and a people in rags Pius IX., who
extends to you his royal hand, and
Ireland, who asks you for bread !"

APHASIA IN RELATION TO LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT.

THE relation of language to
thought as a theme of discussion
has busied the pens of philosophical
writers from very early times, and
the later aspects of the controversy
do not promise a speedy agreement
of views. Whatever new light,
therefore, recent discoveries in
science may shed on this much-
vexed question ought to be welcom-
ed as helping to increase of know-
ledge concerning a matter which
cannot escape the serious conside-
ration of the teachers of philology.
At present Messrs. Max Miiller and
Whitney most strongly incline to
opposite views ; and before coming
to the subject of aphasia as affect-
ing the question, it may be well to
take a cursory view of the field of
controversy.

The old or scholastic belief is that
language was in the first instance di-
vinely communicated, and this opin-
ion its upholders strove to main-
tain by a variety of reasons. Author-
ity and tradition were chief among
these, though they did not by any
means neglect philological and eth-
nological considerations. In France

the Vicomte de Bonald undertook
the support of this view on the
same line as that now held by Max
Mtiller viz., that it is impossible
to have a purely intellectual con-
ception without a corresponding
word or series of words to repre-
sent it ; whence, according to him,
it follows that the word must
have accompanied the thought, and,
man being unable to originate the
one without the other, both must
have been originally communicated.
Max Miiller says: "As a matter of
fact, we never meet with articulate
sounds, except as wedded to deter-
minate ideas : nor do we ever, I
believe, meet with determinate ideas,
except as bodied forth in articulate
sounds." He strongly insists on the
correctness of this view, and argues
it at length. Professor Whitney takes
direct issue, with him, and main-
tains that there is the widest separa-
tion between language and thought.
According to him, language can be
said to be of divine origin only in
so far as man was created with the
capacity for its formation just as
he was created capable of making

412

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought.

clothes for himself, and of wearing
them. Such being the state of the
question, we will proceed to consid-
er that abnormal condition of the
nervous system which has been de-
nominated aphasia, and afterwards
indicate our opinion as to which
view the facts established by it go
to sustain.

Aphasia, defined by Dr. Ham-
mond as a diseased condition of
the brain, was not understood till
quite recently. It is an affection
of that organ by which the idea of
language or of its expression is im-
paired. It is not mere paralysis of
the vocal chords, nor of the muscles
of articulation, nor the result of
hysteria which conditions are de-
nominated aphonia, or voicelessness
but depends on a lesion or in-
jury wrought in that portion of the
brain which presides over the mem-
ory of words and their co-ordination
in speech. The loss of the mem-
ory of words is styled amnesic aph-
asia, the other ataxic aphasia two
Greek derivatives which explain
very clearly the two separate con-
ditions. A single typical case will
exhibit the usual manner of the ap-
proach of this trouble, its develop-
ment and termination. An Eng-
lish banker, a resident of Paris,
recently went out in his carriage
well as usual, and on his return, as
he was stepping to the sidewalk,
fell heavily forward, but did not
lose consciousness. His whole right
side was paralyzed, and, on attempt-
ing to speak, he could not articu-
late a word ; he barely succeeded
in uttering a few unintelligible
sounds. During twelve days the
paralysis continued, -but after that
gradually subsided, till in the
course of a few months he was able
to move about. Strange to say,
however, the power of speech did
not return, and for eight months he

could no more than articulate a few
words incoherently. Nothing in
the case of this gentleman openly
indicated an impairment of the in-
tellect ; for he could neither read nor
write in consequence of his para-
lyzed condition. There was un-
doubted loss of the memory of
words, since his vocabulary was
limited to two or three ; and there
was likewise ataxic aphasia, since
his words were jumbled unmean-
ingly together. The recorded ca-
ses of this disease are very numer-
ous, many of them differing in their
individual features, but all exhibit-
ing a greater or less degree of both
forms mentioned. The case just
cited will suffice to enable the
reader to understand the interest
felt by psychologists and physiolo-
gists alike to ascertain whether, by
the discovery of a uniform and con-
stantly-recurring lesion in a cer-
tain portion of the brain, the seat
of language in that organ might be
determined. Dr. Gall, with the
view of completing his system of
phrenology, referred speech-func
tion to that part of the brain lying
on the supra-orbital plate behind
the eye. Spurzheim, Combe, and
others of the phrenological school
held the same view. But this was
a mere conjecture on their part, and
it was not till minute anatomy had
already localized several other im-
portant functions that a fair prom-
ise was held out that the brain-
organ of speech might be like-
wise located. Experiments without
number were made by Bouillaud,
Cruveilhier, Velpeau, Andral, Bro-
ca, and Dax in France ; Hughlings,
Jackson, Sanders, Moxon, Ogle,
Bateman, and Bastian in England ;
Von Benedict and Braunwart in
Germany; Flint, Wilbur, Seguin,
Fisher, and Hammond in America
all tending to confirm the local-

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought.

413

ization of the function, though not
agreeing as to the exact spot. The
mode of procedure usually consist-
ed in making a post-mortem exami-
nation of those who during life had
suffered from aphasia ; and though it
was an extremely difficult matter to
bring all the cases under a uniform
standard, enough was discovered to
assign the 'function in question to
the left anterior lobe of the brain.
We do not pretend to regard the
question as settled ; for no less au-
thorities than Hammond in our
own country, and Prof. Ferrier in
England, seem to consider both
hemispheres of the brain as equal-
ly concerned. Still, it is significant
that out of 545 cases examined by
different authorities, 514 favor the
left anterior lobe of the brain, while
but 31 are opposed to such a conclu-
sion. Assuming, then, as amply de-
monstrated that some portion of the
anterior convolutions of the brain is
the seat of the faculty of speech, the
question arises, Can that part of the
brain which is concerned in the
process of ideation continue to per-
form its functions i.e., originate
true ideas of which the mind is con-
scious without the memory of the
words winch usually represent those
ideas or the power to co-ordinate
them ? It is evident that, no matter
how the question may be met, we
possess in the discoveries to which
aphasia has led a most important
contribution to the controversy
concerning the relation of language
to thought ; for if it can be shown
that the mental faculties are unim-
paired during the existence of the
aphasic condition, the conclusion
would go to favor Prof. Whitney's
view that thought is independent
of speech ; whereas if it can be
shown that during the same condi-
tion the mental powers are very
much debilitated or frequently sus-

pended, we find an unexpected sup-
port given to Max Miiller's opinion
that without language there can be
no thought. We would state in ad-
vance that the portion of the cere-
bral substance which is concerned
in the production of thought or, as
neurologists have it, is the centre
of ideation entirely differs from
that which is the reputed seat of
the faculty of speech ; so that the
question, may read : Does the cen-
tre of ideation continue to operate
while the speech-centres are in a
diseased condition ? Aphasic in-
dividuals usually retain all the ap-
pearances of intelligence : their eyes
are full of expression; their manner
of dealing with surrounding objects
is quite the same as if they were
in possession of all their faculties ;
when asked to point out material
objects, they unhesitatingly do so
in a word, to the extent that objects
are their own language their intel-
lect remains unimpaired. But they
exhibit a remarkable deficiency in
the power of co-ordination, since
this is a pure relation not symboliz-
ed by anything material. Material
objects possess in their outlines and
sensible qualities enough to dis-
criminate and- individualize them ;
and hence, through perception, they
reach the centres of ideation, and
are as readily understood by the
aphasic as though their names were
fully known. This is made mani-
fest in their writing when, as occurs
only in a few cases, the aphasic re-
tain the power of using the pen.
Thus we read in Trousseau of the
case of an aphasic named Henri
Guenier, who could not write the
word "yes," though capable of
uttering it in an automatic way
without seeming in the least to un-
derstand its meaning. Yet he could
write his own name, though nothing
else, evidently for the reason that

414

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought

the to ey& was the object of most
frequent recurrence to his mind, and
that which consequently he could
most readily apprehend through its
sensible characteristics, and could
thereby connect with his own name ;
whereas "yes," as the symbol of af-
firmation, found no counterpart in
the sensible order. The same auth-
or relates the case of a man who, so
far as he could make himself intelli-
gible, boasted of retaining his intel-
lective and memorative powers un-
impaired, and yet, on being put to
the test, he could not construct
the shortest sentence coherently.
When a spoon was held before him,
and he was asked what it was, he
gave no answer ; when asked if it
was a fork he made a sign of denial,
but when asked if it were a spoon
he at once replied in the affirma-
tive. It must be remembered that
in all these cases the power of utter-
ance, so far as it is a muscular pro-
cess, remained unimpaired, but there
was true amnesic aphasia i.e., the
recollection of the words was lost.

There are some cases of par-
tial aphasia which possess an in-
terest quite peculiar, since its vic-
tims frequently regain the entire
power of speech, and are able to
relate the results of their experi-
ence. A celebrated professor in
France spent a vacation-day read-
ing Lamartine's literary conversa-
tions, when towards evening he
was attacked with partial aphasia.
Fearing lest he was threatened with
paralysis, he moved his arms and
walked up and down the room, in
doing which he experienced no dif-
ficulty ; but when he resumed his
reading, he found it scarcely possi-
ble to understand a sentence. The
individual words were intelligible
enough, but he could not follow out
the sequence of the thoughts. Of
course during the attack he could

not utter a word, though able par-
tially to comprehend what was said
to him, as he afterwards declared.
Here indeed is a most instructive
instance of impaired intellect, oc-
curring as it did in a man whose
brain was usually in a very active
state, and whose mind was highly,
cultivated. Does it not strongly
confirm the belief that, even while
the organic instrument of thought
was unimpaired, its functions were
temporarily suspended ?

Another case is that of a man of
good literary attainments, who pre-
tended that he could still under-
stand what he read, but who could
not discover the mistake when the
book was presented to him re-
versed. There can be no doubt,
then, that aphasia unerringly points
to a most intimate dependence be-
tween language and thought, and
that, as Max Muller says, without
language there can be no thought.

But why is it that, in regard to
objects possessing sensible quali-
ties aphasic individuals exhibit no
impairment of intellectual power?
We will answer, Because with regard
to such objects these are their own
language, and the functions of the
perceptive and ideational centres
are as active in their regard as
though the faculty of speech were
intact. . A tree is known by its
branches and leaves to the deaf
mute as well as it is by its name to
those possessing all their faculties.
Whatever circumscribes and differ-
entiates an object of thought is its
language. For, after all, is not lan-
guage conventional and arbitrary,
the outer symbol of a subjective
phenomenon ? The symbol may
be of any sort whatsoever, but the
thought cannot be known without
a symbol of some sort. Now, the
qualities of sensible objects, in so
far as they serve to circumscribe

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought. 415

the objects and to discriminate
them from all others, become their
language. This is rendered more
evident when we reflect that Locke's
theory, according to which sensible
objects are but an aggregate of sen-
sible qualities, is generally rejected,
and the opinion admitted that un-
der these qualities there resides a
true substance impervious to the
senses and known to us only as in-
ference from the former. Therefore
the sensible qualities are the symbol
of the substance identified with it;
of course in so far these are but the
substance modified in such or such
a manner. This is why aphasics
find no trouble in forming ideas of
material things, though they may
forget their names. But why js
aphasia ataxic that is, incapable of
co-ordinating words ? Because co-
ordination expresses the relation
between the objects co-ordinated,
and relation is not represented, and
cannot' be represented, by anything
in the sensible order. They belong
to the purely intellectual order,
and the only symbol that existed
by which they were known being
lost, there remains no longer any
means of circumscribing and differ-
entiating them. Paul and Peter
may be well known to the aphasic
Paul as such, and Peter as such be-
cause the sensible qualities of both
render them recognizable ; and not
only that, but the different quali-
ties pertaining to both enable him
clearly to distinguish the one from
the other. But if he is told that
Peter is taller than Paul, he under-
stands nothing. And why ? Because
the proposition implies the rela-
tion of comparison, in which there is
nothing sensible. Indeed, he per-
ceives Peter to be tall and Paul to
be diminutive, but he does not per-
form the intellectual process called
judgment, which is interpreted in

the proposition, Peter is taller than
Paul. In like manner, when there-
is question of purely intellectual
conceptions which can be symbol-
ized by nothing sensible except
names, the aphasic are incapable of
reaching them. Virtue, power, and
malice are meaningless sounds in
their ears, and equally unintelligi-
ble is what these words represent.
The reason is because the symbols
by which these ideas were convey-
ed to the mind are lost, and there is
nothing left by which virtue can be
known or discriminated from pow-
er and malice. Whatever circum-
scribes and differentiates a thought
is its language, and this can be done
only by a symbol. Now, if we con-
sult our own consciousness, we will
find that it is impossible for us to
conceive of what is purely intellectu-
al /.<f., possessing no sensible traits
if we lose sight of the .word which
represents it. Affirmation and nega-
tion are of this sort, and it is entire-
ly impossible to disconnect the idea
of either from some word or series
of words. The idea, indeed, is not
the spoken word, but is painted by
it as it were on the canvas of the
mind, and hence was called by Aris-
totle the word of the mind. All
this is attested in the case of apha-
sics. The language-mechanism of
the brain is disarranged ; there is
forgetfulness of words, accompanied
by inability to arrange them in pro-
per order so as to be remembered ;
the ideational centre remains intact,
but is inoperative with regard to
such thoughts as have their sole
symbol in words.

It is true that some aphasic indi-
viduals retain for a time certain im-
pressions which belong to the purely
intellectual order ; but this can be
accounted for only by supposing
that the brain centres of ideation
are endowed with certain register

416 Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought.

ing powers capable of retaining im-
pressions for a short while after
their active operation is suspended.
But when the disease is of long
continuance those impressions gra-
dually fade, and the patient is reduc-
ed to the condition of an untaught
deaf ipute. He has lost the formu-
lae of thought, and therefore cannot
think. Trousseau says : " A great
thinker, as well as a great mathema-
tician, cannot devote himself to
transcendental speculations unless
lie uses formulae and a thousand
'material accessories which aid his
mind, relieve his memory, and im-
part greater strength to thought
by giving it greater precision." But
where the sole "material accessory,"
as Trousseau calls it, is absent, how
can a person think ? We use the
word in a higher sense ; for children
incapable of speech, and animals, ex-
ercisea certain amount of thought in
respect to surrounding objects ; but
thinking, in the sense of reasoning,
abstracting, and comparing, outlies
their capacity, just as it does that
of aphasic individuals. " Without
language," says Schelling, " it is im-
possible to conceive philosophical,
nay, even any human, consciousness;
and hence the foundations of lan-
guage could not have been laid con-
sciously. Nevertheless, the more
we analyze language, the more clear-
ly we see that it surpasses in depth
the most conscious workings of the
mind." And Hegel says : " It is in
names that we think." This exact-
ly explains what occurs in the case
ofaphasics. The principles of sci-
ence, the sequence of ideas, the links
of an argument, are not understood
by them ; for they are, as children
and animals, capable merely of re-
ceiving the impressions which ma-
terial objects make on their sensory
organs. It is true that a few apha-
sics have been known to be expert

chess-players; and though this is
as hai'J to account for as the appa-
rent feats of reasoning accomplished
by animals of the lower order, still
we would no more rank expertness
at such a game among the higher at-
tributes of reason than we would the
sagacity of a dog or of an elephant.

This point is well touched upon
by Trousseau, who says : " I believe
that the same thing obtains in me-
taphysics as in geometry. In the
latter case a man may vaguely con-
ceive space and infinity without
any precision or measure ; but if he
wishes to think of the properties
of space, and more particularly of
the special properties of the figures
which bound space as, say, conic
sections it is impossible that his
mind does not immediately see the
curves proper to a parabola, a hy-
perbola, and an ellipse. In meta-
physics, on the other hand, I be-
lieve that a man cannot think of
the special properties of beauty,
justice, and truth, for instance, with-
out immediately giving a material
form, as it were, to his thoughts, by
using concrete examples, and with-
out associating words together
words which represent concrete
ideas, and which then stand in the
same relation to particular meta-
physical ideas as figures do to de-
terminate geometric ideas."

The same may be said of univer-
sal ideas. These are, subjectively
viewed, mere concepts of the mind ;
objectively they have a foundation
in the object. Now, that object is
present to the aphasic, and he rec-
ognizes it by its sensible properties;
but when there is question of view-
ing one or two properties as pos-
sessed in common by a number of
objects, he finds himself unequal to
the tisk. In a word, he cannot
generalize, and this is one of the
highest acts of reason.

Aphasia in relation to Language and Thought.

417

We would insist upon the distinc-
tion between words representing
purely material objects and those
which interpret to us supersensible
thoughts; for not a few physiologists
have fallen into error by not ob-
serving this distinction. Thus
Prof. Ferrier, of the West Riding
Lunatic Asylum, says : " In aphasia,
consequent as it usually is on dis-
ease of the left hemisphere, the
memory of words is not lost, nor
is the person incapable of appre-
ciating the meaning of words ut-
tered in his hearing." From this
it is evident that the learned pro-
fessor neglected to note the distinc-
tion alluded to ; and because an aph-
asia did not fail to appreciate the
meaning of certain words represent-
ing material things, therefore he
concluded in a general way that he
did not fail to appreciate the mean-
ing of words, indeed, we have no-
where rioted the distinction, and it
is curious that, in all the cases re-
corded of the clinical history of
this disease, physicians have invari-
ably propounded to their patients
as test- words such words as fork,
spoon, pen, boots, and all such as
pertain to the material order of
things. Prof. Whitney certainly
did not take note of these facts
VOL. xxiv. 27

when he asserted the entire inde-
pendence between language and
thought. He regards man as ca-
pable of conceiving new thoughts
apart from all representative sym-
bols, and then finding for them a vo-
cal expression. This, as we have
seen, is in direct antagonism with
the data of aphasia. The chief
flaw in Prof. Whitney's reasoning is
that he starts from false premises
when he limits language to mere
spoken or articulate sounds. He
seems to ignore the question when
he says : " In all our investigations
of language we find nothing which
should lead us to surmise that
an intellectual apprehension could
ever, by an internal process, be-
come transmuted into an articulat-
ed sound or complex of sounds."
The implied premise in this sen-
tence is erroneous, since it is en-
tirely possible that it be associated
with some other symbol, borrowed
from a material source, which is its
language, its expression, and makes
it something entirely distinct from
the intellectual apprehension. In-
deed, here lies the secret of meta-
phorical language, and of its exten-
sive use among those tribes of men
whose philosophical vocabulary is
limited.

4i 8 Light and Shadow.

LIGHT AND SHADOW.

IN golden pomp at morn and eve
The purple mountains rise,

With banners bright of waving green
Gay flaunting to the skies ;

But upward toiling, panting, slow,

Patient the fleetest step must go.

A winding pathway through the vale

Entices weary feet. ;
The shining waters sing of peace,

The morning breeze is sweet;
But nook or covert there is none
To shelter from the noonday sun.

The fainting trav'ller turns aside
To seek the woodland shade

Beyond the thicket, stretching cool,
Invites the mossy glade

But thorny is the tangled way,

And devious paths his steps betray.

The fleeciest cloud that graceful floats
In summer skies of light,

Within a veil of tender mist
Conceals the tempest's might ;

And winds that stir with softest breath

Are freighted with the seeds of death.

The loveliest blossom that unfolds

Its beauty to the day
Must yield its treasured fragrance up,

Then droop and fade away ;
And greenwood 'birds that sweetest sing
Are soonest gone on flitting wing.

The undertone of earth's delights

In sorrow's pensive sigh
Is mingled with the echoing breeze

Ere joy's glad accents die
Of all the strains that saddest float
Are requiems blent with triumph's note.

CHICAGO, October 14.

Jc&n Ingehws ^

419

at a

JEAN INGELOW'S POEMS.*

JEAN INGELOW is now over fifty
years of age. For some time past
she has devoted herself chiefly to
graceful prose, in which her pure
and playful imagination seems to
have found sufficient vent. She
can never be removed from the
company of the poets, however,
notwithstanding her apparent pur-
pose of withdrawal, so far as we
may surmise a possible design by
her neglect of versification.

That she has demonstrated her
possession of genuine poetic feel-
ing cannot be denied. The vol-
ume before us is sufficient proof of
this. Whenever she has permitted
herself to be simple, lucid, and na-
tural, her verses 1 not only please
they charm. She is one of the mi-
nor poets sincerely beloved not in
so great a degree as Adelaide Procter,
or Christina Rossetti, because she is
not equally successful in expressing
the universal sentiments of the heart,
and because she wanders from the
unambitious poetry of natural feel-
ing into the tricky and artificial,
whither the multitude will not vol-
untarily follow. She is not always
in one mood, as Adelaide Proc-
ter is; and her joy, when sincere,
and not fictitious and artful, is
sometimes exceedingly attractive
and what is its truest test be-
comes infectious, pervading the
reader's mind and carrying the
emotions away into its own atmo-
sphere.

We never smile at Adelaide Proc-

* Jean Ingeloiv's Poems, Boston: Roberts Bro-
thers,

ter's joy. Her smiles are sadder
than her tears. She smiles like a
dying saint, whose pallid features
proclaim that the effort is inspir-
ed by something higher and more
mysterious than the pleasure of the
world. It is as Shakspere says :
" Seldom he smiles, and smiles in
such a sort, as if he mocked him-
self, and scorned his spirit, that
could be moved to smile at any-
thing,"

Jean Ingelow possesses enough
perception of real humor to throw,
here and there, winsome flashes of
merriment over very sombre pic-
tures, especially in genre scenes like
that depicted in " The Supper 'at
the Mill." Indeed, it may be safe
to say that if she unloosed the
flimsy chains of artificiality in
which she has bound her muse,
that very affected maid would prove
frolicsome and mischievous ; but
her mistress prefers a decorousness
of behavior which, by this time,
must have dulled her own sense
of the ludicrous, while supplying
additional keenness in that direc-
tion to her critics, and furnishing
new and irresistible models for hi-
larious parody, as we shall see.

It is impossible to read through
a volume of her poems without
coming to this conclusion : that she
has a poetic stock-in-trade. Let us
make an inventory of it. First.
there are the birds ; secondly, cer-
tain flowers and grasses; thirdly,
a set of stereotypes pomposed of
peculiar comminglings of sea, sky,
ships, and stars. This poetic stock

420

Jean Ingeloivs Poems.

is, as it were, call duly classified and
labelled, and the whole is arranged
with scientific calculation as to
drafts, at intervals, upon the seve-
ral departments. Matthew Arnold,*
modestly defending his own at-
tempts toward translating Homer
into English hexameter, hopes to
make it clear that he at least fol-
lows " a right method," and that, if
he fail, it is " from weakness of ex-
ecution, not from original vice of
design." Jean Ingelow is guilty,
we think, of " original vice of de-
sign." " Weakness of execution "
is infallibly certain to follow. In
selecting her poetic stock which
is, in itself, vice of design she deep-
ens the folly by being persistently
fantastical. It is not enough to
choose birds, grasses, and particu-
lar flowers these are an integral
part of all descriptive poetry ; but,
in order to make them her especial
poetic stock, she calls them by a
curious and grotesque nomenclature,
whose terms were undoubtedly de-
vised with an ultimate view toward
picturesque artificial composition.
Her birds are not the sweet-sylla-
bled singers of classic song; she
eschews the nightingale and lark
for jackdaws, wagtails, grouse, coot,
rail, cushat, and mews. Her grass-
es and flowers are less grotesque
and better adapted to sentimental-
ism in style : marigolds, foxglove,
heather, daffodils very fond is she
of daffodils orchis, bluebells, gol-
den-broom, vetches, anemone, clo-
ver her muse is very often in clo-
ver ling, marybuds, cowslips, and
cuckoo-pint. The bee appears
with industrious frequency ; his co-
lors and his business are alike ser-
viceable in a kind of composition
both picturesque and fantastic.
tie is as full of available verbal

* Essays in Criticism, p. 334.

suggestion as of honey. The ships
are invariably bowing to each other,
to the land, or to the port. The
figure is a good one, and true, but
its recurrence soon renders it tire-
some and exposes the dryness of
the poet's fancy. And after all
Shakspere has been beforehand
with her. In the Merchant of Ven-
ice Antonio is told that his mind is
tossing on the ocean, where his ar-
gosies with portly sail, like signi-
ors and rich burghers of the flood,

" Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That curfsy to tkem. do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings."

The sea which has supplied all
the poets, from Homer down, with
noble and beautiful images, lofty,
grand, awful, terrible, or simply
lovely, the sea to Jean Ingelow is
as a sleek servant who comes
in to nil up a gap in the dis-
course or provide a necessary di-
gression in the narrative. *' A Sea
Song" contains nothing of the sea
except " salt sea foam " repeated.
Her sea, stars, sun, and moon are
all domestic. They perform no
higher functions than the pipes of
parsley or " the green ribbon " that
" pranks the down." Her sun either
" stoops " or is " level "; her moon
" droops "; the sea is usually " level,"
and when disturbed, never awakens
any sense of the sublime. Nothing
more than her apparent imbecility
in poetic treatment of the sea is
wanting to dispose of the hope that
Jean Ingelow can ever become a
better poet than she appeared to be
in her first volume.

Mrs. Browning, in one of her
earlier efforts, "The Seraphim,"
makes Ador and Zerah speak of
"the glass sea-shore." But we do
not remember noting a recurrence
of the expression throughout her
tens of thousands of lines. Mrs.
Browning seems to have been con-

Jean Ingtloivs Poems.

421

scions that she was unequal to
an adequate depicting of marine
grandeur, and she rarely attempts
it, except in an instant's lofty sweep
remindful of Homer as if she
caught a single breath of his in-
spiration, and pressed it into her
verse. She had more imagination
than Jean Ingelow; Jean has the
readier fancy. Mrs. Browning's
conceptions of the awe and beauty
of the sea were far above her power
of description, whose efforts are of-
ten turgid and swell into bombast;
so she does not attempt, except in
modest discretion, to write of the
sea at all. Miss Ingelow, on the
contrary, discovers the ocean only
at her feet, or through the limited
vision of a pretty opera-glass. Thus
it becomes a mere commonplace in
her stanzas; she is frivolous where
Mrs. Browning would have been
turgid had she not been cautious.

The sea, indeed, has wrecked
inost of the poets who did not
hug the shore. Only the few great-
est of the number have been able,
like Jason, to tempt its unknown
breadth, and fewer still return from
Colchis without a Medea to tor-
ment them. The sea will always be
the final touchstone of poetic gen-
ius. Of recent poets, Tennyson has
been most ambitious and most suc-
cessful ; but his best ocean views
may be seen from along the shores
of the sEntid. The little 'scapes
which are strictly his own are arti-
ficial and under-done; his pigment
is only the residuum of lapis-lazuii
ultramarine ashes.

Jean Ingelow's " vice of design"
is very sadly shown, too, in her vo-
cabulary. She wanders about in
dusty, unused dictionaries, searching
out odd, obsolete, obscure, and am-
biguous words. Because a term is
confessedly obsolete is no sound
reason why it should not be revived ;

but there is no justification for in-
serting it in a text where it must:
play the unbecoming part of a con-
spicuous intruder who can make no
satisfactory excuse for his presence
in uncongenial company. Where the
silenced lexicons do not afford tl it-
desired material, she is not loath to
make new combinations, and we are
harassed by " bewrayed," " amerce,"
"ancientry," "thrid," " scorpe,"
" eygre," "chine," "brattling," etc.
The best illustration of the artifi-
ciality and affectation of her style is
found in one of her most pleasing
and most popular poems, and it
would be deservedly much more
popular were these blemishes of
etymology and simperings of rhe-
toric removed. We quote stanzas
enough of "Divided" to exhibit her
individuality both of thought and
diction :

" An empty sky, a world of heather,

Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ;
We two among them, wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

" Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,

Groweth the cleft with her golden ring,
'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

" Hey the green ribbon ! VV e kneele.d beside it,

We parted the grasses, dewy and sheen ;
Drop over drop there faltered and slid^d
A tiny bright beck that trickled between,

" Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,

Light was our talk as of faery bells,
Faery wedding bells faintly rung to us
Down in their fortunate parallels. 1 '

The " beck " grows into a widen-
ing stream and divides them.

" A shady freshness, chafers whirring,

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ;
A nutter of wings, a fitful stirring,
A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

" Stately prows arc ri.-ung and bowing

(Shouts of mariners winnow the air),
And level sands for banks endowing

The tiny green ribbon that shows so fair. '

In the last two verses Miss In-
gelow, unconsciously forgetting her
previous straining after literal effects,
writes -these true thoughts, which

422

Jean Inflow's Poems.

are the most finely poetical in the
entire poem :

" And yet I know past all doubting, truly

A knowledge greater than grief can dim,
I know, \s he loved, he will love me duly,
Y ea better, e'en better than I loved him.

' l And as I walk by the vast, calm river,

The awful river so dread to see.
I say, ' Thy breadth and thy depbh for ever
A re bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.' "

Only artificial poems can be well
parodied, and the parody holds the
mirror up to the artifices, so that
even the author must make con-
fession. The cleverest burlesques
which have reached the public of
late, reproducing in an exaggerat-
ed form the faults of the modern af-
fected school of poetry, are those of
C. S. Calverley.* The merit of his
rhymed farces which is precisely
what he makes of his models is
nowhere more happily illustrated
than in the following, which needs
no introduction. It is entitled
" Lovers, and a Reflection ":

" In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean ;

Meaning, however, is no great matter),
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween ;

vv Through God's own heather we wonned together,

I and my Willie (O love, my love !) ;
1 need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitteibats wavered alow, above ;

" Boats were curtsying, rising, bowing

(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing.
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight 1

kv Through the rare red heather we danced to-
gether

(O love, my Willie !), and smelt for flowers ;

1 must mention again it was gorgeous weather

Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours :

11 By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
We walked or waded, we two young shavers.
Thanking our stars we were both so green.

" We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie

In fortunate parallels ! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes ;

" And Willie 'gan sing (O, his notes were fluty ; '
Wafts fluttered them out to the white- winged

sea)
Something made up of rhymes that have done

much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of l ancientry ' ;

* Fly-Leaves. By C. S. C.

" Oh ! if billows and pillows and hours and flowers.

And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together this genial weather,

And carted, or carried, on wafts away,
Nor ever a^ain trotted out ay me 1
How much fewer volumes of verse there" d be I"

Miss Ingelow's most pretentious
poem, next to " Divided," is the
" Letter L." It has all her cha-
racteristic faults, intensified by a
curious jog-trot metre :

" We sat on grassy slopes that meet

With sudden dip the level strand ;
The trees hung overhead our feet
Were on the sand.

" And let alighting jackdaws fleet

Adown it open-winged, and pass
Till they could touch with outstretched feet
The warmed grass."

And so on. Calverley has a little
versification entitled "Changed."
Mark how ingeniously adroit he is
in getting the jog-trot :

" I know not why my soul is racked

Why I ne'er smile as was my wont ;
I only know that, as a fact, "
I don't.

" I used to roam o'er glen and glade,
Huoyant and blithe as other folk :
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.

41 1 cannot sing the old songs now !

It is not that I deem them low ;
*'i is that i can't remember how
They go."

Calverley's exhilarating volume, by
the way, is not all parody ; many
of its numbers are original expres-
sions of as pure fun, capitally ex-
pressed, as mirth ever conceived or
art wove into verse.

Jean Ingelow is not altogether
artificial. Occasionally she writes
a terse truth :

" One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock
Shall move the seat of God " :

or falls
strain :

into a simple, unaffected

ki Far better in its place the lowlif st bird

Should sing anght to Him the lowliest song,
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word
And sing His glory wrong."

Hers [s that oft-quoted couplet :

" Is there never a chink in the world above
Where they listen for words frDm below ?"

Jean Ingclows Poems.

" The Carpenter," relating the
touching story of his wife's death to
"The Scholar," says with happy
directness :

'Tis sometimes natural to be glad ;
And no man can be always sad,
Unless he wills to have it so."

" The High Tide on the Coast of
Lincolnshire" is widely populariz-
ed by lyceum readers, who find its
energy well fitted for semi-drama-
tic recitation ; and certain divisions
of the u Songs of Seven," notably
A ' Love" and " Giving in Marriage,"
possess lyrical richness.

The thought, of Jean Ingelow's
poems is always clean-of-heart ; she
eschews generally psychological
tendencies, and, although far from
lucid, her longer flights of specula-
tion are merely curious, obscure, and
fanciful rather than vicious or mis-
leading. Indeed, according to her
measure of grace, she is abjectly
devout, worshipping with Eastern
blindness a Deity of whose attri-
butes she conceives only one
Love ; and, in the humble resigna-
tion of a sightless child, she casts
herself into the arms of her notion
of what that Love is, and rests
there, content to seek no knowledge
outside herself. But even within
these sacred limits her disposition
to artificiality in expression un-
consciously enters, to mar, with
incongruous ornament, the limpid
thought :

" For, O my God ! thy creatures are so frail,

Thy bountiful creation is so fair,
That, drawn before us, like the Temple veil,

It hides the HolyPlac" from thought and care,
(living man's eyes instead its sweeping fold.
Rich as with cherub wings and apple; wrought of
gold.

' Purple and blue and scarlet shimmering bells
And rare pomegranates on it^ broidered rim,

Glorious with chain and fretwork that the smell
Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim,

Till on a day coines loss, that God makes gain,
And death and darkness rend the veil in twain."

Literal criticism of Jean Inge-
low is, however, abashed and almost
silenced by the essence of her verse,
which, in its chastity and beauty,
is above the touch of cavil. She
is one of our few contemporaneous
poets who can look upon the face
of her own work without a blush.
Apparently past the zenith of her
productive talent, she may look
gratefully back upon her modest
and constant rise, and say :

" Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast."

She need not avert her gaze from
any line, and plead that the public
forgets it was hers and a woman's.
Wanting the genius of poetry, her
inspiration has been only that of in-
tense poetic feeling wrought out by
the canons of verse ; but, although
only one of many in this respect,
the work itself is far above the av-
erage of its class.

u Many fervent souls
Strike rhyme on rhyme who would strike steel ort

steel,

If steel had offered, in a restless heat
Of doing something Many tender souls
Have strung their losses on a rhyming thread,
As children cowslips the more pains they take,
The work more withers . . .
. . . Alas! near all the birds
Will sing at dawn, and yet we do not take
The chaffering swallow for the holy lark."

While the popular magazines and
the newspapers are daily lowering
the standard of taste, and degrading
and corrupting the sources of lite-
rary enjoyment as well as of per-
sonal honor and actual virtue, the
regret is irresistible that a pleasing
versifier like Jean Ingelow should
not contribute more to a total of
general reading into which what is
known as " popular poetry " so
largely enters.

424

New Publications.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

TERRA INCOGNITA ; OR, THE CONVENTS
OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. By John
Nicholas Murphy. London: Burns &
Gates.- (For sale by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society.)

An unknoAvn land indeed is this that
Mr. Murphy traverses unknown, it is to
be feared, not only to his " Protestant
fellow-subjects of Great Britain and Ire-
land, for whose information it has been
written " and to whom it is dedicated by
the author, but also to too many of his
Catholic fellow subjects, as well as to
Catholics generally. The book is, in
brief, a history of the growth and spread
of the religious Orders in Great Britain
and Ireland, the greater portion of it be-
ing devoted to their work and increase
since a removal of the penal statutes en-
abled them to return in safety to the
United Kingdom. The interest of the
narrative is simply absorbing. The
work accomplished by the Orders in face
of a multitude of difficulties and dangers
seems little short ct the miraculous.
They crept back singly or in little groups
from France and Belgium, whence the
first French Revolution drove them out.
Thither they had flown for refuge when
the greater revolution of the sixteenth
century banished them and their faith
from what had been a land of saints. Units
gathered units, brothers brothers, sisters
sisters, Congregations other Congrega-
tions, Orders affiliated Orders, and within
less than a century we behold the con-
secrated yet desecrated soil of England
and Ireland dotted with religious houses,
asylums, schools, colleges, where the old
faith is taught and practised. Those who
are in search of the heroic, the sensa-
tional, the pathetic, the marvellous,
should read this book. Their appetite
will be satisfied with a healthy food. It
is the old story over and over again of
what can be accomplished by those who
are really inflamed with a love of God
and their neighbor. No one can rise
from the story of St. Vincent de Paul or
Nano Nagle without a moistening of the
eye and a better feeling in his heart.
Mr. Murphy's book was published

some years ago, and the extracts from
secular and Protestant journals in Great
Britain and Ireland show how t'uly he
met a popular want at a time when men
like Mr. Newdegate were bent on satis-
fying their own morbid curiosity and In-
sane hatred of Catholicity by forcing
themselves on the peaceful communities
of Catholic ladies. If we have any New-
degates among us, they would do well
to take up Mr. Murphy's volume, and sec
for themselves how these " dark and
cloisteied women" spend their lives.
The present volume is a new and im-
proved edition. As the author tells us
in the preface, " The statistics of con-
vents have been largely amplified and
brought down to the present day. Sev-
eral chapters have been re written, and
eleven new chapters have been intro-
duced."

THE CATHOLIC'S LATIN INSTRUCTOR IN
THE PRINCIPAL CHURCH OFFICES AND
DEVOTIONS. For the use of choirs,
convents, and mission schools, and
for self-teaching. By the Rev. E. Cas-
wall, of the Oratory. London: Burns
& Oatcs. 1876. (For sale by The Ca-
tholic Publication Society.)
Father Caswall has done the Catholic
laity a great service by this Instructor.
As he truly observes in his preface, " A
knowledge of Latin is not neejded for
Catholic worship. . . . Nevertheless, to
those whose education admits of it an
acquaintance with those portions of the
Latin Liturgy which are in most frequent
public use must ever be a legitimate
and worthy object of interest." Accord-
ingly, he lias put himself to the very con-
siderable trouble of preparing a manual,
which, although an experiment, will be
found, we have no doubt, all that is
needed for enabling the laity of either
sex, who have an English education, to
make themselves familiar with the lan-
guage of the church's liturgy. It deals
with grammar as little as possible, he
says, yet there will be found in Part II.
more grammar than his words may lead
us to suppose. Moreover, there are

Neiv Publications.

ample directions given, at every turn,
for the right use of the book.

The work is primarily designed, as the
title-page indicates, for choirs and mis-
sion-schools. With regard to choirs, it
is superfluous to observe how much bet-
ter and more pleasing to God is an in-
telligent than a non-intelligent singing
of the Latin. With regard to schools,
especially those where elementary in-
struction in secular Latin is given, "Ca-
tholics will enjoy," says our author, " in
the living character of the language as
used in the church offices, a great and
singular advantage." And further, " What
better food for the mind can we offer to
our children," he asks, " than the simple
translation from Latin into English
after a method easy alike to girls or boys
of what they constantly hear and often
join in singing in church ?" Then, as to
the adult laity, there is " a I?Lrge class of
persons who, while provided with mis-
sals and prayer-books abounding in La-
tin text and side-by-side translations,
yet, from want of a very little practical
insight, fail to derive from these manuals
the advantage intended. Others there
are, devout persons of cither s x, who
might greatly profit by the occasional
use of Latin prayers, but are restrained
(and ladies esp< ciall}-) by an'idea that
in order to this they must first have a
complete knowledge of Latin. Such a
bugbear for it is little (Ise will, let
us hope, quickly yield to a steady prac-
tice of the present exercises."

The work consists of two Parts : " Part
I. cont, lining Benediction, the choir por-
tions of Mas-, the Seiving at Mass, and
various Latin prayers in ordinary use ;
Part II. comprising additional portions
of the Mass, Requiem Mass, Litany of
the Saints, Vespers, Compline, and other
offices and devotions, with a short Gram-
mar and Vocabulary."

The only stricture we have to make
regards the pronunciation of .-/. The au-
thor s.-.ys : " ./, when fully sounded, is to
be pronounced as a in /ar. Examples :
Pater, /V/ter ; laudamus, laudo/mus;
ora, oiw." This is a very strange mis-
take. Had he heard, as we have, " Glo-
i \ar rin in excelsis," " Benedict^/' res."
" super omni>?;' ;est," etc., he would ne-
ver have diiected that " should be pro-
nounced as a in far." We are aware
that the English r is fainter than the
Irish or American. Still, should not //
be substituted for r in the above ? P<///-

ter, lauda//mus, ora/i are the exact
sounds.

With fhis very small exception, then,
we can only speak of Father Caswall's
manual with unqualified praise and hope
it may obtain the wide circulation it de-
serves.

ECCLESIASTICAL DISCOURSES DELIVERED
ON SPECIAL OCCASIONS. By Bishop
Ullathorne. London : Burns & Oates.
1876. (For sale by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society.)

"These discourses," says their distin-
guished author in his preface, " are qall-
ed ecclesiastical because they were eith-
er addressed to ecclesiastics or treat on
ecclesiastical subjects. They form a vol-.
tune embracing certain points of pastoral
theology a subject on which we have
very little that is Catholic in our lan-
guage, if we except the excellent little
book by Canon Oakeley." They will
therefore be specially valuable to our
clergy, while, at the same time, the bi-
shop "trusts there is much in them
which may offer solid instruction to
thoughtful Catholic laymen." One of
the most important, and the one to which
we particularly invite the attention of
our readers, both clerical and by, is that
on mixed marriages, " delivered on oc-
casion of the Fourth Diocesan Synod of
Birmingham." Bishop Ullathcrne is not
afraid to speak | la^nly on this subject.
Indeed, his language is startling but
leaves no room for question of its truth.
He speaks, too, from an extensive expe-
rience of the evils resulting from mixed
marriages. Here is a passage (the italic?
are our own), p. 89 :

" It would be as unjust as ungenerous
not to admit that there are Protestants
who loyally keep the promises they have
made in marriage with Catholics, and
who truly respect the faith and religious
exercises of their Catholic spouse, and
fulfil their pledges respecting the eciuca
tion of their children, but prudence-
looks to w/ml generally happens > and not
to the exceptional cases. And wisdom
never runs any serious risks in matters
of the soul. The individuals, and even
the families, that have fallen from the
church throit^Ji mixed marriages^ amount i\>
millibars incredible to those who have not
examined the qncs'io'i thoroughly ; and the
number of C -tholics bound at this mo-
ment in mixed marriages, -vho live in a
hard and bitter conflict lor the exercise

426

New Publications.

of their religion, for that of their chil-
dren, and in certain cases for the sound-
ness of their moral life, could they, with
ali the facts, be known, would deter any
thoughtful Catholic from contracting a
mixed marriage."

The bishop has extended this discourse
in order to give the early discipline of
the church on the matter. He further
makes his argument impregnable by ci-
tations from popes and councils. More-
over, he concludes the instruction " with
an admirable passage from the synodal
address published by the hierarchy of
Australia"; and the condition of Catho-
lics in Australia, as regards the ordinary
excuses for mixed marriages, bears strik-
.ing resemblance, be it remembered, to
their position here.

EVERY- DAY TOPICS : A Book of Briefs.

By J. G. Holland. New York : Scrib-

ner, Armstrong & Co. 1876.

To one person at least, and to one
only, this volume of Topics is likely
to be of lasting interest. That person is
the author. The Topics are short ar-
ticles on a variety of subjects which have
appeared from month to month in Scrib-
ner's magazine. They are of about the
average length of an ordinary newspa-
per article, and of about equal depth.
They lack the newspaper liveliness,
however, and the English is in great part
of that slipshod style that is mistaken by
so many nowadays for an evidence of
careless strength. " Familiarly didac-
tic" is the character that Dr. Holland in
his preface seems to claim for this and
others of his books, and the very phrase
stamps the man. The book is tiresome,
prosy, and fussy. Any one of the arti-
cles is too long for its purpose ; what,
then, must a volume of them be?

Dr. Holland is apparently a Christian
or nothing. He is for ever prating about
' ' the church " and attacking " the world."
It is to be feared that his Christianity is
of a very vague character. His zeal is
unfortunately without knowledge. He
is constantly making grave mistakes
with the most solemn confidence in his
own infallibility, and thunders away on
every kind of subject with a " trenchant
ignorance " that would be amusing did it
not touch such grave matters. Dr. Hol-
land may have the best intentions in the
world, but he would do well to weigh
his words a little before undertaking to
champion " the church." What particu-

lar " church " is he for ever defending ?
The Christian Church, he would doubt-
less reply. But which is the Christian
Church ? This is a question that Dr.
Holland is quite capable of undertak-
ing to decide in a future " Topic," and
he would do not only his own readers
but the world at large infinite service
by making this matter clear once for
all.

We are quite justified in putting this
question to Dr. Holland ; for everybody
knows what a Catholic means when lie
speaks of " the church." But in Dr.
Holland's " church" it is doubtful wheth-
er Catholics are allowed a place. At
least, we should judge so from the man-
ner in which he treats of them whenever
their name occurs in the Topics.

LINKED LIVES. By Lady Gertrude Doug-
las. New* York : Benziger Brothers.
1876.

The English Catholic journals greeted
this story with such an unusual flourish
of trumpets that we were led to expect
something extraordinary in the way of
novel-writing. It is extraordinary in no
sense. It is not even* extraordinarily
bad. It is eminently dull, altogether
commonplace, and only saved from utter
insipidity by here and there an indica-
tion of real power.

Of course it relies for its main interest
on the good old English Catholic story-
theme conversion. To relieve the mo-
notony of this subject, probably, the au-
thor sprinkled the narrative with dashes
of what is meant for sensation. She
takes us to the dens of thieves, to the
reformatory, the prison, the court of jus-
tice. Such scenes may be rendered ex-
citing by a Dickens or a Victor Hugo.
We are very happy to see that Lady Ger-
trude Douglas is not at all at home
among them. All this portion of the
book reads pretty much like an ordinary
police report, and all the desire in the
world on the reader's part cannot invest
Katie McKay or any of her companions
with even a touch of the interest that
Dickens threw around Nancy Sykes.
Such themes should not be touched at
all unless thcv can be made elevating.
It takes a very experienced, strong, yet
tender hand to bare the ulcers and foul
sores of society. The process is a most
delicate one. If well done, it excites
pity, remorse, sorrow, indignation, that
such things can be among Christian

New Publications*

427

peoples ; if ill done, it is revolting and
only excites disgust.

Great pains have been bestowed on
the delineation of the character of Mabel
Forrester, and not without success. In-
deed, she and her brother Guy, who is
killed off too early, are almost the onlyin-
teresiing persons in the volume. By the
way, what a lugubrious story it is ! Every-
body is constantly down at the mouth.
Poor Guy is killed at a yacht-race, which
he has just won. Katie McKay throws
herself into the sea with her babe, which
has been chloroformed (!) by Katie's sis-
ter ; and we could almost wish that Katie
had been left in the sea. She is dragged
out, however, to receive two years' im-
prisonment. The rascal whom she mar-
ried dies in prison. Her sister dies in
her bed, but with a strong intimation
that she is likely to be consigned to the
lower regions. There are several other
deaths of minor consequence ; and finally,
after being induced to accompany Mabel
on a voyage to Australia, to assist at her
wedding with her elderly lover, Hugh
Fortescue who, of course, is in the last
stage of consumption at the time the
vessel takes fire and Mabel perishes.
Equally of course, Hugh, as soon as he
rece-ives the news, dies also, "aged fifty-
three," as the tombstone erected to his
memory in Australia informs us. Sure-
ly, after all this, we may say with Mac-
beth that we have " supped full of hor-
rors," and, like him also, we feel none
the better for them.

A great fault with the book, too, is that
the fate of every one is foreshadowed
early in the story, and the recurrence of
such remarks as " But we must not anti-
cipate," '\ But of that anon," is pecu-
liarly exasperating when the whole mur-
der is out in the very sentence that occa-
sions such a remark. The convert-mak-
ing is far too labored, and there is too
much cf it.

We should not have been at the un-
pleasing pains to write of this book as
we have done, did we not see signs in it
of a really good Catholic story-writer,
who is likely to be spoiled for any future
work worthy of the name by the injudi-
cious praise which has been lavished on
this, which we take to be her first, book.
The lady can describe natural scenery
well, can touch a tender chord with true
pathos, can display strength at times.
She only needs more interest of plot, and
to avoid scenes and characters of which

she knows little or nothing. All the
plot in the present volume consists of
the slovvly-dragged-out conversion of
Mabel to Catholicity which religion
clashes with the creed of the elderlv and
by no means pleasant parson to whom
she is affianced and the consequent
breaking off of the match. Finally he
also is converted, and the de.ic.Aniinl is
as given above. To tag five hundred
and twenty-five pages ot a story on a
plot of such very slender device is rath-
er overweighting it. Ihe French scenes
are the best in the book, and even they
are needlessly marred by what the au-
thor doubtless considers a beauty the
supposed literal translation of the French
characters' speech into English, which is
a barbarism

THE ILLUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY
ALMANAC for the United States, for
the Year of Our Lord 1877. New
York : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1877.

The season would scarcely be itself
without this admirable little annual. It
is always bright, instructive, and amus-
ing, and the number for the present
year shows no falling off in these quali-
ties. The first portion of the Alma-
nac contains the usual calendars, astro-
nomical and ecclesiastical, with the in-
formation respecting Catholic feasts and
fasts necessary for the coming year.
Among the biographical sketches, that
cf Dr. Brownson claims the first place.
It is illustrated by an admirably-exe-
cuted portrait. There are excellent por-
traits also of Bishop Verot, Archbishop
Connolly of Halifax, N. S., Very Rev.
Dr. Moriarty, O.S.A., Rev. Francis Pi-
quet, Piss VII., Vittoria Colonna, all
accompanied by brief but interesting
sketches. There are, as usual, pictures
of old Catholic landmarks in this coun-
try, Ireland, and other lands, with pleas-
ing descriptions. Among these, that of
St. Joseph's Church, in Philadelphia, is
especially interesting In addition to
the complete and very valuable list of
the popes, which was published for the
first time last year, and is wisely retained
in the present number, there is a com-
plete dialogue of the kings of Ireland,
from the Firbholg conquest down to the
landing of Henry II. of England. To
this is appended some valuable histor-
ical remarks. Indeed, there is not a
page of this Almanac that can be called

428

New Publications.

dull, and its cheapness happily places it
within easy reach of every reader. We
only wish that such cheapness and real
excellence could be oftener combined in
Catholic books.

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF SIR THOMAS
MORE. By Agnes M. Stewart, author-
ess of Margaret Roper, etc. 8vo, pp.
365. London: Burns & Gates. 1876.
The lot of Sir Thomas More was cast
in troublous times. He lived amid
storms that wrecked many a noble life,
and yet no man ever bore throughout a
serener soul or a happier and gayer dis-
position. His character is a study of the
most healthful sort ; for it exhibits the
rare picture of a man who deemed the
sacrifice of power, wealth, place, friends,
and life itself, to principle and con-
science, too ordinary a duty to excite
surprise. On whatever side we view the
man, the hero comes to light. He lived
in an ,atmosphere of his own creation,
and whoever came within its influence
left it a better and wiser mortal. He
was. in the best sense of the word, a
Christian philosopher and statesman.
He would jest with Erasmus in antique
phrase as though he had but returned
from the portico, while a hair-shirt net-
tled his skin and his soul communed in
frequent ejaculation with its Creator.

As a letter- writer he will ever hold afore-
most rank because of his sense, humor,
wit, and grace of expression. Even th,e
careless construction of some of his letters
possesses a charm ; for there you see the
man disclosing himself without reserve
careful, indeed, that the picture be a true
one, but indifferent as to the setting.
What could be more delightful than his
letters to his children while these were
under the care of a tutor at home and he
was engrossed by the weighty concerns
of office ? He fli :s to the pen as a refuge
from distracting thoughts, and pours out
his soul to his little ones with a sweet
abandon ; he is sportive and grave by
turns and veils deep philosophy and wise
counsels beneath the garb of a fresh and
mirthful phraseology. He evidently be-
lieved with Horace :

lk Quarnquam ridentern dicere vcrura
QuiJ vetat?"

' And how can you want matter of writ-
ing to me, who am delighted to hear
either of your studies or your play, whom
you may then exceedingly please when,

having nothing to write of, you write as
largely as you can of that nothing, than
which nothing is more easy for you to do.
especially being women, and therefore
prattlers by nature, amongst whom a
great story riseth out of nothing." He
then advises them to be careless in no-
thing, but to bestow conscientious pains
on all their performances. The home-
life of Sir Thomas affords us the best
glimpse of the true character of this great
man, and lends a new and sad signifi-
cance to the scene which occurred be-
tween his heart-broken daughter and
himself, as he tottered, haggard and ema-
ciated, to the block. He loved his home
as the pupil of his eye, and sighed for it
when duty called him away. With even
such a shrew as his second wife he con-
trived to make his a model household,
where refinement, piety, and cheerful-
ness ever reigned. Smart retort and re-
partee, brilliant things and witty sayings,
were the salt which lent savor to many a
pious reflection and devout allusion while
the family shared their daily meals. Thus
did Sir Thomas, by being a devout Ca-
tholic and a lover of learning, convert a
possible home of bickering and discon-
tent into one which nurtured peace, con-
tentment, happiness, and hope.

Unless we pause to study Sir Thomas
More in his home at Chelsea, we will
fail to discern the peerless knight, the
virtuous man, the lover of religion, the
sententious philosopher (all which he
was), amid the grime and lustful air of
Henry's court,

11 Where the individual withers, and the world i.s
more and more."

Next to Sir Thomas as father, friend, and
husband, the reader loves to vie iv him
in his exalted capacity of chancellor.
From him indeed, the title has acquired
its synonymous meaning with unblem-
ished integrity and purity immaculate ;
for throughout his whole political career
he never recognized friend or foe as such ;
he treated all alike with unswerving im-
partiality. And in pursuing this course
he obtained the reward which he especi-
ally desired : the testimony of a good
conscience. He felt that, though " tiierc
are innumerable hopes to innumerable
men, he is happy who is happy day by
day"; and this is just the sort of happi-
ness which is born of a good conscience.
His decisions bore" the mark of his ster-
ling sense and unvielding will, and

New Publications,

429

though many exceptions had been taken
to his renderings by those whose interests
he countered, not a single reversal could
be obtained, while others degraded their
high offices and stooped to pander to the
lustful instincts of the kin-?. More studi-
ed to grace the chancellor's gown by the
practice of every virtue pertaining to the
dignity of his position, and shone forth
more brilliantly by contrast with the
pliant tools of Henry.

" Velut inter ignes
Luna minores."

The speech which he delivered on the
occasion of his investiture will ever re-
main a model of dignity and modesty.
While deprecating the praise bestowed
on him by the Duke of Noftblk, lie fail-
ed not to express his just appreciation
of the high and important trust to which
he had been called, and this in language
so fitting and graceful that his admirers
likened him to Cicero.

Miss Stewart, who but a short time
ago gave to the world a charming novel-
ette with the title of the Chancellor and
his Dau^litcr, addressed herself to the
task of compiling these memoirs with
laudable enthusiasm, such, indeed, as no
one acquainted with the subject could
fail to experience. Here is a hero-wor-
ship of the right sort, growing out of the
virtues and learning of her idol, and so
far not to be reckoned with Macaulay's
stupid admiration of William III. or
Carlyle's still more fatuous veneration
for Frederick of Prussia. She has earn-
ed a new title to the esteem in which
she is held in England. The book con-
tains ;m admirable autotype fac-simile
of the cc'ebrated picture of the meeting
between the chancellor and his daugh-
ter.

Tin-: SCIENCE OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE.
By Father Francis Neumayr, S.J.
London: Burns & Gates. (For sale
by The Catholic Publication Society.)
This is a poor translation of an excel-
lent little hook on ascctical theology.
Francis Neumayr was born in Mun ch
in 1697. Ear y in life he entered the
Society of Je-us, and, having finished his
studies, taught theology with great suc-
cess during a number of years. He was
then sent to fill the pulpit of the Cathe-
dral of Augsburg, and during the ten
years in which he held this position ac-
quired an extraordinary reputation as an

orator. He did not, however, confine
himself to preaching, but wrote on vari-
ous subjects relating to the religious
controversies of his age. His writings
were very popular in Germany, and
some of them made their way through-
out Catholic Europe. The Science of the
Spiritual Lif^ which is one of his most
widely-known works, is a compendium
of what has been called the " science of
the saints." It is written with good
judgment and a thorough knowledge of
the subject, in a style which is concise
without being obscure. There is no-
thing in it which the simplest cannot
readily understand, and yet there is
everything that the most learned could
desire.

MISSALE ROMANUM ex Decrelo Sacros.
Concilii Tridentini restitutum, S Pii
V. Pontificis Maximi jussu editum,
dementis VIII. et Urbani VIII. auc-
toritate recognition. Editio Ratisbo-
nensis X. hujus forma altera missis
novissirnis aucta. Cum t xtu et cantu
a Sacrorum Rituum Congregatione
adprobato. 1876. Ratisbonac, Neo
Eboraci, et Cincinnatii : Sumptibus,
chartis, et typis Frederici Pustet, S.
Sedis Apost. ct Sacr. Rituum Con-
greg. typographi.

This beautiful and finely-printed Mis-
sal fully sustains the reputation that Mr.
Pustet has already gained for his liturgi-
cal books. The paper on which it is
printed is of the finest quality, and the
type by far the best we have yet seen.
Special praise is due to the printing of
the notation in the prefaces and other
musical portions of the work, which is
singularly distinct and clear. The Mis-
sal is adorned with many fine and artis-
tic pictures, and all .the introits are em-
bellished with finely executed initial let-
ters. The proof-sheets have all been
read by the Sacred Congregation and
approved.

MARGARET ROPER ; OR, THE CHANCELLOR
AND HIS DAUGHTER. By Agnes Ste-
wart, Authoress of ^Florence O'Neill,
The Foster- Sisters, etc. Baltimore :
Kelly, Piet & Co. 18760
This little book will amply repay pe-
rusal. The heroine, Margaret Roper, the
favorite daughter of Sir Thomas More,
was the model of a noble Christian wo-
man, worthy in every way of her gifted
and heroic father. Sir Thomas More

430

New Publications.

was, in the truest and broadest sense of
the words, a grand character, a peerless
Christian knight without fear and with-
out reproach, true to his honest convic-
tions, to his friends, true to the faith for
which he died with the calm heroism of
the early martyrs. His murder to bor-
row the language of one of his biograph-
ers was one of the blackest crimes ever
perpetrated in England under the form
of law. Time has only increased the ad-
miration which his grand virtues ex-
torted from his bitterest enemies, and
the most bigoted Protestants venerate
his name more than that of Cranmer or
Cromwell, the unprincipled tools of the
heartless tyrant, Henry VIIL, who de-
luged England with innocent blood. His
letters to his daughter, skilfully inter-
woven into the narrative, form a very in-
teresting feature of the volume before us.
The character of the greatest of English
chancellors is sketched by the authoress
with historical fidelity, and the picture
of his celebrated daughter is drawn with
equal devotion to historic truth.

A PREPARATION FOR DEATH. Done out

of French. Chicago : W. F. Squire.

1876.

This is an excellent little book, quite
cheap, and well adapted for the sick
room. It was originally " done out of
French" by a writer in Dublin and has
been reprinted in this country by the
present publisher. It consists of short
prayers, exhortations, and reflections on
the Passion of Our Lord. The imprim-
atur of Bishop Foley is attached.

Another work, though larger, which
is peculiarly adapted for spiritual read-
ing during the month of the Holy Souls
is the Life of St. Catherine of Genoa,
published by the Catholic Publication
Society. This is not only a beautiful
and interesting life of one of those great
v.-cnieu who adorn the history of the
Church in all ages, but contains in addi-
tion St. Catherine's treatise on Purga-
tory, which together with her spiritual
dialogues, as is said in the introduction,
" St. Francis of 3tlles, that great master
in spiritual life, was accustomed to read
twice a year." And " Frederick Schlegel,
who was the first to translate St. Cathe-
rine's dialogues into German, regarded
them as seldom, if ever, equalled in
beauty of style; and such has been the
effect of the example of Christian per-
fection in our saint, that even the Ameri-

can Tract Society could not resist its
attraction, and published a short sketch
of her life among its tracts, with the ti-
tle of her name by marriage, Catherine
Adorno." The words of the saints an-
always gulden. One can never repeat
them too often or ponder on them too
long.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT, AND OTHER POEMS.

By the author of Christian Schools

and Scholars. London : Burns &

Oates. 1876.

Songs with a meaning are these, and
full of sweet melody. The singer evi-'
dently feels. The feelings are deep, the
thought deep also, and steeped in the
purest well of religion. The versifica-
tion is as varied as it is happy ; and, in-
deed, for both thought and expression
throughout this small volume we have
nothing but praise. The title owes its
meaning to the fact that " several of the
poems were originally suggested by pas-
sages in the Spiritual Canticles of St.
John of the Cross, whose u?e of the
word night, in a mystic sense, is too well
known to need explanation." The open
ing poem,," The Fountain of the Night ;
or," the Canticle of the Soul rejoicing to
know God by Faith," gives a good idea
of the tone and excellence of the volume :

There is a Fount whence endless waters flow ;
There zephyrs play and fairest flowerets blow.
Full well that crystal Fountain do I know,

Though of the night.

I know the verdant hills that gird it round ;
Its source I know not, for no thought can sound
The Spring whence all things first their being found
In the dark night.

I know no earthly beauty to compare
With that mysterious Fount, so calm and fair ;
All things in heaven and earth are pictured there,
Though of the night.

The tide wells forth in many a flowing river.
Yet is the Fountain-head exhausted never ;
Onward it flows, for ever and for ever,

On through the night.

No cloud obscures, no passing shadows rest
Upon that Fountain's clear, unruffled breast,
Itself the very source of light confessed,

Though of the night.

Forth from this spring a sparkling Torrent flows ;
Who shall the secret of its birth disclose ?
And yet I know the source from whence it rose,
Though of the night.

I see from both a mighty River run,

Yet dare not say when first its course begun ;

For Fountain, Torrent, River all are one,

Though of the night.

New Publications.

431

I know that all are ours all hidden He
In form of Bread, hid from the curious eye
To give us life. O love ! O mystery

Of deepest night !

And the Life seeks all living things to fill,
To quench our thirst with water from the rill,
To feed, to guide us, though in darkness still,
As of the night.

And ever of tnat .bount I long to drink,
And ever of that living Bread 1 think,
And linger by that flowing River's brink

Through the long night.

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS FOR OUR DEAR
LITTLE ONES. By Miss Rosa Mul-
holland. New York and Cincinnati :
Fr. Pustet.

This beautiful book will be welcomed
by the little ones, for whom it is intend-
ed, because, from the cover all the way
through, it is bright and attractive, and
each picture is a pleasant surprise. All
the characters of the holy tale are made
life-like and familiar, and the children
may feel themselves at home with the
white-winged angels, the eager shep-
herds, the stately Magi, and those nearer
and dearer ones who attended the Bless-
ed Infant's earliest years.

By parents this book should be wel-
comed, because anything that illustrates
home-lessons and makes them charming
is a valuable friend in the household,
and because it provides an acceptable
gift which will bring home to children's
hearts the true meaning of the holiday
season. The verses are appropriate and
not too difficult for the little ones to en-
joy.

LECTURES ON SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY.
By Father John Cornoldi, SJ. Part
I. Logic. London: Burns Oates.

1876.

Quite a number of persons have re-
cently undertaken the laudable but diffi-
cult task of preparing elementary works
on philosophy. Cornoldi's Lectures or
Lessons in Philosophy are to be speed-
ily published entire, in an English trans-
lation, making two small volumes of from
300 to 350 pages each. A large part of
the work is devoted to Rational Physics.
The Logic, just now issued, contains the
simplest and most necessary part of pure
and applied logic in a brochure of less than
one hundred pages. It seems to be made
as simple and intelligible to beginners as
the nature of the subject permits. It is
a defect, however, in the translation, that
Latin terms are sometimes used without

the least necessity, and Latin quotations
are left untianslated. We hope this de-
fect will be supplied in a second edition.

AN ESSAY CONTRIBUTING TO A PHILOSO-
PHY OF LITERATURE. By B. A. M.
Second revised edition. Philadel-
phia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfin-
ger. 1876.

The first edition of this solid and gen-
ial essay was noticed in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD. We are happy to see that its
merit has received a general recognition
which must be gratifying to the author.
It is a book which grows upon one the
more carefully it is perused, and we have
now an even higher esteem of its origi-
nality, sound learning, discriminating
judgment and taste than we had when
we first commended it as a work of genu-
ine and rare excellence.

THE VOICE OF JESUS SUFFERING, TO THE

MIND AND HEART OF CHRISTIANS, ETC.

By a Passionist Missionary Priest.

New York : P. O'Shea, 37 Barclay

Street.

Another excellent book on our Lord's
Passion ; but it differs from the general-
ity of such works in making our Lord
himself relate the history ot his suffer-
ings first, and then helping the auditor
to " Practical Reflections." This is an ad-
mirable plan, in that it enables the read-
er to bring the divine Object of his
thoughts so much more really before his
imagination. This, together with the
character of the " Practical Reflections,"
will be found, we are sure, to make
meditation easy to those who have hith-
erto given it up as requiring too great
an effort. And if the pious author shall
have done no more than succeed in thus
facilitating devotion to the Passion, he
will not have labored in vain.

THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT. (To the
end of the Lord's Prayer.) By Henry
James Coleridge, of the Society of
Jesus. London : Burns & Oates. 1876.
This is the third division of Father
Coleridge's treatise on the Public Life of
our Lord Jesus Christ. We are glad to
learn that the reception of the preceding
volume on the Beatitudes has " encourag-
ed him to attempt a somewhat fuller treat-
ment of the rest of the Sermon on the
Mount than he had originally thought
of." Those who have read the volume
on the Beatitudes need no insurance

432

New Publications.

from us that they will find in this new
work an abundance of beautiful lessons,
and particularly some we much need at
the present time. The nine chapters on
the Lord's Prayer (chapters xv.-xxiii.)
will furnish the devout with many helps
to meditation on the clauses of this sum-
mar;- of prayer.

THE LIFE OF THE VERY REVEREND Mo-
THEX MADELEINE LOUISE SOPHIE BA-
RAT, FOUNDRESS OF THE SOCIETY OF
THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS. By M.
1'Abbe Baunard. Translated by Lady
Georgiana Fullerton. Roehampton :
1876. (For sale by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society.)

The original French edition of this
admirable work has already been notic-
ed at length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
The English edition is brought out in
two handsome volumes, and the distin-
guished name of the translator furnishes
every guarantee for a faithful and excel-
lent rendering of the original. So great
has been the demand for the work that a
large order was exhausted almost imme-
diately on its arrival in this country.

TEIE DEVOTION OF THE HOLY ROSARY.
By Michael M tiller, C.SS.R. New
York : Benziger Brothers.

Father Milllcr is a tireless writer. His
works are for the most part addressed to
those who are too often forgotten by Ca-
tholic writers the ordinary classes. He

who provides the people with books of
devotion which they will read, and not
put on the shelf, does a great and good
work. Under a modest appearance Fa-
ther Miiller's books conceal much learn-
ing and knowledge, the fruit evidently
of very extensive reading, while the whole
is pervaded with a spirit of piety and
zeal. The present volume is devoted to
an explanation of that most popular of
devotions the rosary. Those who care
to satisfy themselves as to what the ro-
sary is, what it is intended for, what it
has done in the service of the church and
for the salvation of souls, will find in this
volume much to interest and instruct
them, as well as to increase their fervor.
The concluding chapter treats of the
" Devotion of the Scapular."

SHORT SERMONS PREACHED IN THE CHA-
PEL OF ST. MARY'S COLLEGE, OSCOTT.
Collected and edited by the President.
London : Burns & Gates. 1876. (For
sale by The Catholic Publication So-
ciety.)

These sermons will be found very ser-
viceable to our clergy, who are often
sorely pressed for time to prepare their
discourses. One instruction such as
these is better than ten ordinary sermons
of twice or thrice its length. Lay per-
sons also will benefit greatly by making
their spiritual reading from this volume.
The subjects are wisely selected. There
are twenty-seven in all, with two funeral
sermons in an appendix.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV, No. 142. JANUARY, 1877.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.*

A NATIONAL literature is the most
perfect expression of the best
thoughts and highest sentiments
of the people of .which it is born,
and of whose life it is the truest re-
cord. No other Englishman may
have ever written or thougbt like
Shakspere, but he wrote and
thought from the fulness of a mind
and heart that drew their inspira-
tion from the life of the English
people. He may be great nature's
best interpreter, but she was reveal-
ed to him through English eyes,
and spoke in English accents. The
power to take up into one's own
mind the thoughts of a whole peo-
ple ; to give a voice to the impres-
sions made upon them by nature, re-
ligion, and society ; to interpret to
them their doubts, longings, and
aspirations ; to awaken the chords
of deep and hidden sympathy which
but await the touch of inspiration
is genius. Every great author is
the type of a generation, the inter-
preter of an age, the delineator of
a phase of national life. Between
the character of a people, there-

* The Complete Poetical Works of John Gretn-
l a a/ IS hit tier. Boston: Osgood & Co. 1876.

fore, and its literature there is an
intimate relation ; and one great
cause of the feebleness of American
literature is doubtless the lack of
conscious nationality in the Ameri-
can people. We have not yet out-
grown the provincialism of our ori-
gin, nor assimilated the heteroge-
neous elements which from many
sources have come to swelj the cur-
rent of our life. The growth of a
national literature has been hinder-
ed also, by our necessary intellectual
dependence on England. For,
though it was a great privilege to
possess from the start a rich and
highly-developed language, with
this boon we received bonds which
no revolution could break. When
the British colonies of North
America were founded, Shakspere
and Bacon had written, Milton was
born, and the English language
had received a form which nor
power nor time could change; and
before our ancestors had leisure or
opportunity to turn from the rude
labors of life in the wilderness to
more intellectual pursuits, it had
taken on the polish and precision
of the age of Queen Anne. Hence-

T. HECKER. 1877.

434

Jolin Grccnleaf Whit tier*

forward, to know English, it was
necessary to study its classics; and
in them Americans found the im-
print of a mental type which had
ceased to be their own. And be-
ing themselves as yet without
strongly-marked or well-defined
national features of character, they
became fatally mere imitators of
works which could not be read
without admiration, or studied with-
out exciting in those who had
thoughts to express the strong de-
sire of imitation. Their excellence
served to intimidate those who,
while admiring, could not hope to
rival their ease and elegance ; and
thus, in losing something of native
vigor and freshness, our best writers
have generally acquired only an
artificial polish and a foreign
grace.

It must be remembered, too, that
more than any other people we
have been and are practical and
utilitarian ; and this is more spe-
cially true of the New England-
ers, whose mental activity has been
greater than that of any other
Americans. We have loved know-
ledge as the means of power and
wealth, and not as an element of
refinement and culture. If evi-
dence of this were needed, it would
suffice to point to our school sys-
tem, which is based upon the no-
tion that the sole aim of education
should be to fit man for the prac-
tical business of life. As the result,
knowledge has been widely diffused,
but the love of excellence has been
diminished. Education, when con-
sidered as merely a help to com-
mon and immediate ends, neither
strengthens nor refines the higher
qualities of mind. If we may rely
upon our own experience in college,
we should say that the prevailing
sentiment with young Americans is
that it is waste of time to study

anything which cannot be put to
practical use either in commercial
or professional life ; and this in
spite of the efforts very generally
made by the professors to inspire
more exalted ideas. We have-
known the wretched sophism that
it is useless to read logic, because
in the world men do not reason
in syllogisms, to pass current in u
class of graduates. This low and
utilitarian view of education does
not affect alone our notions of the
value of literature, in the stricter
sense of the word, but exerts also a
hurtful influence upon the study of
science. For science, like litera-
ture, to be successfully cultivated,
in its higher developments at least,
must be sought for its own sake,
without thought of those ulterior
objects to which certainly it may
be made to conduce. The love of
knowledge for itself, the conviction
that knowledge is its own end,
is rarely found among us, and we
therefore have but little enthusiasm
for literary excellence or philosophic
truth. The noblest thoughts spring
from the heart, and he who seeks
to know from a calculating spirit
will for ever remain a stranger to
the higher and serener realms of
mind.

Another cause by which the
growth of American literature has
been unfavorably affected may be
found in the unlimited resources of
the country, offering to all opportu-
nities of wealth or fame. The de-
mand for ability of every kind is so
great that talent is not permitted
to mature. The young man who
possesses readiness of wit and a
sprightly fancy, if he does not enter
one of the learned professions or
engage in commerce, almost fatally
drifts into a newspaper office, than
which a place more unfavorable to
intellectual pursuits or to true cul-

John Grccnlcaf Whitticr.

435

tare of mind cannot easily be ima-
gined. If a book is the better the
farther the author keeps away all
thought of the reader, under what
disadvantages does not he write
whose duty it is made to think only
of the reader ! To be forced day
by day to write upon subjects of
which he knows little ; to give opin-
ions without having time to weigli
arguments or to consider facts ; to
interpret passing events in the in-
terests of party or in accordance with
popular prejudice ; to exaggerate
the virtues of friends and the vices
of opponents ; to court applause by
adapting style to the capacity and
taste of the crowd; and to do all
this hurriedly and in a rush, is to
be an editor. When we reflect that
it is to work of this kind that a very
considerable part of the literary
ability of the country is devoted, it
is manifest that the result must be
not only to withdraw useful labor-
ers from nobler intellectual pursuits,
but to lower and pervert the stan-
dard of taste. They who accustom
their minds to dwell upon the pic-
ture of human life as presented in
a daily newspaper, in which what is
atrocious, vulgar, or startling re-
ceives greatest prominence, will
hardly cultivate or retain an appre-
ciation of elevate'd thoughts or the
graces of composition.

As the public is content with
crude and hasty writing, the crowd,
who are capable of such perfor-
mance, rush in, eager to carry off
the prize of voluminousness, if not
of excellence ; and, in consequence,
we surpass all other nations in the
number of worthless books which
we print. In fact, the great na-
tional defect is haste, and therefore
a want of thoroughness in our
work.

But we have no thought of enter-
ing into an extended examination

of the causes to which the feeble-
ness of American literature is to be
attributed. The very general rec-
ognition of the fact that it is feeble,
even when not marred by grosser
faults, is probably the most assuring
evidence that in the future we nnv
hope for something better.

Our weakness, however it may be
accounted for, is most perceptible
in the highest realms of thought
philosophy and poetry. To the
former our contributions are value-
less. No original thinker has ap-
peared among us; no one who has
even aspired to anything higher
than the office of a commentator.
This, indeed, can hardly be matter
for surprise, since we may be nat-
urally supposed to inherit from the
English their deficiency in power
of abstract thought and metaphysi-
cal intuition. But in poetry they
excel all other nations, whether an-
cient or modern ; and as they have
transmitted to us their mental de-
fects, we might not unreasonably
hope to be endowed with their
peculiar gifts of mind. Deprived
of the philosophic brow, we might
hope for some compensation, at
least, in the poet's eye in a fine
frenzy rolling. But even in this
we seem not to have been highly
favored. Nothing could well be
more wretched than American
verse-making during the colonial
era. We doubt whether a single
line of all that was written from the
landing of the Pilgrims down to
the war of Independence is worth
preserving. Pope, when he wrote
his Dunciad, found but one Ameri-
can worthy even of being damned
to so unenviable an immortality.

Freneau, who was the most popu-
lar and the most gifted poet of the
Revolution, is as completely un-
known to this generation as though
he had never written ; and, indeed,

John Greenlcaf WJiittier.

he wrote nothing which, without
great loss to the world, may not be
forgotten. And to this class, whom
nor gods nor columns permit to live,
belong nearly all who in America
have courted the Muse. In our en-
tire poetical literature there are not
more .than half a dozen names
which deserve even passing notice,
and the greatest of these cannot be
placed higher than among the third-
rate poets of England.

Without adopting the crude the-
ory of Macaulay that as civiliza-
tion advances poetry necessarily
declines, we shall be at no loss for
reasons to account for this absence
of the'highesl poetic gifts. Neither
the character of the early settlers
in this country, nor their religious
faith, nor their social and political
conditions of life, were of the kind
from which inspiration to high
thinking and flights of fancy might
naturally be expected to spring
The Puritans were hard, unsym-
pathetic, with no appreciation of
beauty. In their eyes art of every
kind was at best useless, even when
not tending to give a dangerous
softness and false polish to manners.
Their religious faith intensified this
feeling, and caused them to turn
with aversion from what had been
so long and so intimately associat-
ed, as almost to be identified, with
Catholic worship. Their sour looks,
their nasal twang, their affected sim-
plicity, their contempt of litera-
ture, and their dislike of the most
innocent amusements, would hard-
ly lead the Muse, even if invited,
to smile on them. Habits of thought
and feeling not unlike theirs had,
it is true, in Milton, been found to
be not incompatible with the high-
est gifts of imagination and expres-
sion. But Milton had not the Pu-
ritan contempt of letters. He was,
on the contrary, a man of extensive

reading and great culture ; and his
proud and lofty spirit was not too
high to stoop to flattery as servile
and as elegant as ever a tyrant re-
ceived. His lines on ecclesiastical
architecture and music in // Penscro-
so prove that he had a keen percep-
tion of the beauty and grandeur of
Catholic worship. He was, in fact,
in many respects more a Cavalier
than a Roundhead. He had, be-
sides, in the burning passions of his
age, the bitter strife of party and
sect, in the scorn and contempt of
the nobles for the low-born which
in the civil wars had been trodden
beneath the iron heel of war, only
to rise with the monarchy in more
offensive form that which fired him
to the adventurous song " that
with no middle flight intends to
soar," and made him deify rebel-
lion in Satan, who, rather than be
subject, would not be at all.

In the primitive and simple so-
cial organization of the American
colonies there was nothing to fire
the soul or kindle the indignation
that makes poets. And even na-
ture presented herself to our ances-
tors rather as a shrew to be con-
quered than as 3 mistress to be woo-
ed with harmonious numbers and
sweet sounds of melody. If to this
we add, what few will deny, that
the equality of conditions in our
society, however desirable from a
political or philanthropic point of
view, is to the poetic eye but a flat
and weary plain, without any of the
inspiration of high mountains and
long-withdrawing vales, of thunder-
ing cataracts that lose themselves
in streams that peacefully glide all
unconscious of the roar and turmoil
of waters of which they are born,
we will find nothing strange in the
practical and unimaginative char-
acter of the American people. We
know of no better example of the

John Green leaf Whit tier.

437

lameness of the American Muse
than Whittier. He is one of our
most voluminous writers of verse,
and various causes, most of which
are doubtless extrinsic to the liter-
ary merit of his compositions, have
obtained for him very general re-
cognition. He lacks, indeed, the
culture of Longfellow, his wide ac-
quaintance with books and the
world, and his careful study of the
literatures of the European nations.
He lacks also his large sympathies
and catholic thought, his elevation
of sentiment and power of finished
and polished expression.

But if Whittier's garb is plain,
his features hard, and his voice
harsh, his poetry, both in subject
and in style, seems native here and
to spring from the soil. He has
himself not inaptly described his
verse in the lines which he has pre-
fixed to the Centennial edition of
his complete poetical works :

" The rigor of a frozen clime,

The harshness of an untaught ear,
The jarring words of one whose rhyme
Beat often Labor's hurried time
Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife,
are here.

14 Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,

No rounded art the lack supplies ;
Unskilled the subtle lines to trace
Or softer shades of Nature's face,
I view her common forms with unanointed eyes."

Whittier is, however, far from be-
ing a representative American or
American poet. He is a Quaker.
The broad-brimmed hat, the neat
and simple dress, the sober gait, the
slow and careful phrase with thee
and thou, could not more truly de-
note him than his verse. Now,
whatever idea we may form to our-
selves of the typical American, or
whether we think such a being ex-
ists at all, no one would ever ima-
gine him to be a Quaker.

The American is eager; the Qua-
ker is subdued. The American
is loud, with a tendency to boast-

fulness and exaggeration; the Qua-
ker is quiet and his language so-
ber. He shuns the conflict and
the battle, does not over-estimate
his strength ; while the American
would fight the world, catch the
Leviathan, swim the ocean, or do
anything most impossible. The
Quaker is cautious, the American
reckless. The American is aggres-
sive, the Quaker is timid. But it is
needless to continue the contrast. A
great poet is held by no bonds. His
eye glances from earth to heaven
the infinite is his home ; and that
Whittier should be only a Quaker po-
et is of itself sufficient evidence that
he is not a great poet. But in say-
ing this we affirm only what is uni-
versally recognized. He is, indeed,
wholly devoid of the creative facul-
ty to which all true poetry owes its
life ; and yet this alone could have
lifted most of the subjects which
he has treated out of the dulnes's
and weariness of the commonplace.
To transform the real, to invest
that which is low or mean or trivial
with honor and beauty, is the tri-
umph of the poet's art, the test of
' his inspiration. His words, like
the light of heaven, clothe the
world in a splendor not its own, or,
like the morning rays falling on the
statue of Memnon, strike from dead
and sluggish matter sounds of ce-
lestial harmony.

" To him the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

Whittier certainly has no fear of
trivial and commonplace subjects,
but in his treatment of them he rare-
ly, if ever, rises above the level of
the verse-maker.

It was the opinion of Keats that
a long poem is the test of invention ;
and if we accept this as a canon of
criticism, we shall want no other
evidence of Whittier's poverty of

438

Jo Jin Green leaf Wl tit tier.

imagination. All his pieces arc
short, though few readers, we sup-
pose, have ever wished themlonger.
He cannot give sprightliness or
variety to his verse, which like a
sluggish stream creeps languidly
along. There is no freshness about
him, none of the breeziness of na-
ture, none of its joyousness, exu-
berance, and exultant strength. In
his youth, even, he had all the stiff-
ness and slowness of age with its
want of graceful motion. His nar-
rations are interrupted and halting,
interspersed with commonplace re-
flections and wearisome details; and
when we have jogged along with
him to the end, we are less pleas-
ed than fatigued. He never with
strong arm bears us on over flood
and fell, through hair-breadth es-
capes, gently at times letting us
down amidst smiling homes and
pleasant scenes, and again, with
more rapid flight, hurrying us on
breathless to the goal.

Some of his descriptive pieces
have been admired, but to us they
seem artificial and mechanical.
They are the pictures of a view-
hunter. They lack life, warmth,
and coloring the individuality that
comes of an informing soul. He
remains external to nature, and
with careful survey and deliberate
purpose sketches this and that trait,
till he has his landscape with slop-
ing hills and meadows green, with
flower and shrub and tree and
everything that one could wish,
except that indefinable something
which would make the scene stand
out from all the earth, familiar as
the countenance of a friend or as a
spot known from childhood. He
has too much the air of a man who
says : Come, let us make a de-
scription. In fact, he has taken the
trouble to tell us that he has consid-
ered the story of Mogg Megone

only as a framework for sketches of
the scenery of New England and
of its early inhabitants. His own
confession proves his art mechani-
cal. He gets a frame, stretches
the canvas, and deliberately pro-
ceeds to copy. The true poet fuses
man and nature into a union so in-
timate that both seem part of each.
He dreams not of framework and
sketches, but of the unity and har-
mony of life. Where the common
eye sees but parts, his sees the
living whole. He does not copy,
but transforms and re-creates. Be-
fore his enraptured gaze the immea-
surable heavens break open to their
highest, and every height comes
out and jutting peak. From him
not the humblest flower or blade of
grass is hidden ; and whatever he
beholds becomes the minister of his
thought, the slave of his will ; pass-
ing through his mind receives its
coloring, and rises from his page as
though some eternal law of harmo-
ny had fitted it to this and no other
purpose.

Whittier is even feebler in his at-
tempts to portray character than in
his description of scenery. To
Ruth Bonython he gives " the sun-
ny eye and sunset hair." "Sunny
eye" is poor enough; but who will
tell us what "sunset hair" is like?
Is it purple or gold or yellow or
red? She is ''tall and erect," has
a " dark-brown cheek," " a pure
white brow," "a neck and bosom as
white as ever the foam-wfeaths that
rise on the leaping river";

14 And her eye has a glance more sternly wild
Than even that of a forest child. '

And she talks in the following style :

" A humbled thing of shame and guilt,

Outcast and spurned and lone,
Wrapt in the shadows of my crime.

With withering heart and burning brain,
And tears that fell like fiery rain,
I passed a fearful time"

John Grcenlcaf Whit tier.

439

The artifice by which Ruth quiets
the suspicion of Mogg Megone,
roused by the sight of her tearful
eye and heaving bosom, is as re-
markable for shrewdness as for
poetic beauty :

" Is the sachem angry angry with Ruth
Because she cries with an ache in her tooth
Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry
And look about with a woman's eye ?"

The same weak and unskilful
hand is visible in the characters of
Mogg Megone, John Bonython,and
Father Rasle, the Jesuit missionary.
The descriptive portions of Mogg
Megone are disfigured by mere rheto-
ric and what critics call " nonsense-
verses." As Mogg Megone and John
Bonython are stealing through the
wood, they hear a sound :

" Hark ! is that the angry howl
Of the wolf the hills among,
Or the hooting of the owl
On his leafy cradle swung?"

The only reason for hesitating be-
tween the wolfs howl and the hoot-
ing of the owl was the poet's want
of a rhyme. But it is needless to
load our page with these nonsense-
verses, since Hudibras claims them
to be a poet's privilege :

" But those that write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake ;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think that 's sufficient at one time."

Whittier's Quaker faith inspired
him early in life with an abhorrence
of slavery, and drew him to the abo-
litionists, by whom, in 1836, he was
appointed secretary of the Ameri-
can Anti-Slavery Society. It -was
about this time that he began to
publish his anti-slavery rhymes,
which he afterwards collected in
a volume entitled, Voices of Free-
dom. These verses are not re-
markable for thought or expres-
sion. They have the dull, monoto-
nous ring of all Whittier's rhymes,
and are hardly more poetic than a
political harangue. They are par-

tisan in tone and manner; breathe
rather hatred of the " haughty
Southron " than love of the negro ;
and are without polish or elegance.
Read to political meetings during
the excitement of the anti-slavery
agitation, they were probably as ef-
fective as ordinary stump-speeches.
Worthless as they are as poetry,
they brought Whittier to public no-
tice. He became the laureate of
the abolitionist party, and with its
growth grew his fame. The cir-
cumstances which made Uncle
Tom's Cabin the most popular
novel of the day made him a popu-
lar poet. His verses found readers,
who cared but little for inspired
thought or expression, but who were
delighted with political rhymes that
painted the Southern slave-owner as
the most heartless and brutal of
men, who " in the vile South So-
dom " feasted day by day upon the
sight of human suffering inflicted by
his own hand. Pieces like that
which begins with the words,

" A Christian ! Going, gone !
Who bids for God's own image?"

were at least good campaign docu-
ments in the times of anti-slavery
agitation.

" A Christian up for sale ;

Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and
shame :

Her patience shall not fail.''

This is very commonplace and
vulgar, we grant, but it has the me-
rit of not being above the intel-
lectual level of an ordinary political
meeting.

And then, in the metre of Scott's
" Bride of Netherby," we have the
" Hunters of Men" :

1 Have ye heard of our huniinj o'er mountain

and glen,
Through canebrake and forsst, the hunting of

men ?
Hark ! the cheer and the halloo, the crack of the

whip,

440

John Grccnlcaf Wkittier.

And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip.
All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match
Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to
catch."

All we maintain is that this is not
poetry, fair sample though it be of
Whittier's Voices of Freedom.

Slavery undoubtedly is hateful,
and to denounce it cannot but be
right. A preacher, however, need
not be a poet, even though he
should declaim in rhymes ; nor is
hate of the slave-owner love of the
slave, much less love of liberty.
We fail to catch in these Voices
the swelling sound of freedom.
They are rather the echoes of the
fierce words of bitter partisan strife.
The lips of him who uttered them
had not been touched by the burn-
ing coal snatched from the altar of
liberty, however his heart may have
rankled at the thought of Southern
cruelty.

Whittier's rhymes of the war are
the natural sequel of his anti-slavery
verses. The laureate of abolition-
ism could but sing, Quaker though
he was, the bloody, fratricidal strife
which he had helped to kindle. At
first, indeed, he seemed to hesitate
and to doubt whether it was well to
light

" The fires of hell to weld anew the chain
On that red anvil where each blow is pain."

Safe on freedom's vantage-ground,
he inclined rather to be the sad
and helpless spectator of a suicide.

" Why take we up the accursed thing again?
Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more
Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag
With its vile reptile-blazon.

But soon he came to recognize
that God may speak "in battle's
stormy voice, and his praise be in
the wrath of man."

Whittier's war rhymes are not so
numerous as his Voices of Free-
dom, nor are they in any way re-
markable as poetical compositions.

The lines on Barbara Frietchic
derive their interest from the inci-
dent narrated, and not from any
beauty of thought or language with
which it has been clothed. They
are popular because old Barbara
Frietchie waving the flag of the
Union above Stonewall Jackson's
army as it passed, with measured
tread, through the streets of Fred-
erick, is a striking and dramatic
figure. There could be no more con-
vincing proof of the barrenness of
Whittier's imagination than the poor
use which he has made of so poetical
an episode.

" In her attic window the staff she set
To show that one heart was loyal yet."

And yet of all his poems this is
probably the best known and the
most popular.

The Voices of Freedom and
the Songs in War Time both
belong to the class of occasional
poetry which more than any other
kind is apt to confer a short-lived
fame upon authors whose chief
merit consists in being fortunate.
He who sings the conqueror's
praise will never lack admirers.

We are sorry to perceive, in so
amiable a man as Whittier is gener-
ally supposed to be, the many evi-
dences which this edition of his
complete poetical works affords of
intense and bitter anti-Catholic pre-
judice. If he were content with
manifesting, even with damnable
iteration, his Quaker horror of
creeds, we could excuse the simple
mind that is capable of holding
that men may believe without giv-
ing to their faith form and sensible
expression ; though the mental
habit from which alone such a
theory could proceed is the very
opposite of the poetical. The Ca-
tholic Church, which is the ground-
work and firm support of all Chris-
tian dogmas, cannot be understood

JoJin Grcenleaf Whittier.

441

by those who fail to perceive that
without doctrinal religion the whole
moral order would be meaningless.
But Whittier's prejudice carries
him far beyond mere protest against
Catholic teaching. He cannot ap-
proach any subject or person con-
nected with the church without
being thrown into mental convul-
sions. Let us take, for example,
the character of Father Rasle, the
martyr, in " Mogg Megone," one of
his earliest and longest poems.
This noble and heroic missionary
is represented as a heartless and
senseless zealot, who " by cross and
vow " had pledged Mogg Megone

44 To lift the hatchet of his sire,
And round his own, the church's, foe
To light the avenging fire."

When Ruth Bonython, half mad
with fear and grief, comes to confess
to Father Rasle that, seeing the scalp
of her lover hanging to Mogg Me-
gone's belt, she had killed him in
his drunken sleep, the Jesuit starts
back

'* His long, thin frame as ague shakes,
And loathing hate is in his eye "

not from horror of the crime, but
because in the death of Megone he
recognizes the extinction of his
long-cherished hopes of revenge.

44 Ah ! weary priest ! . . .
Thoughts are thine which have no part
With the meek and pure of heart. . .
Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong
Sweep thy heated biain along
Fading hopes for whose success
It were sin to breathe a prayer ;
Schemes which Heaven may never bler.s ;
Tears which darken to despair."

His heart is as stone to the pitiful
appeal of the contrite and broken-
hearted girl. " Off!" he exclaims

" ' Off, woman of sin ! Nay, touch not me
With those fingers of blood ; begone !'
With a gesture of horror he spurns the form
That writhes at kis feet like a trodden worm."

And in the death-scene of the
martyr, as painted by Whittier, the
coward and the villain, with forces

equally matched, strive for the mas-
tery.

The ode "To Pius IX." will fur-
nish us with another example of re-
ligious hate driving its victim to
the very verge of raving madness.
"Hider at Gaeta," he exclaims

11 Hider at Gaeta, seize thy chance !

Coward and cruel, come !
44 Creep now from Naple's bloody skirt ;

Thy mummer's part was acted well,
While Rome, with steel and fire begirt,

Before thy crusade fell.

u But hateful as that tyrant old,

The mocking witness of his crime,
In thee shall loathing eyes behold
The Nero of our time !

* Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed,

Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call
Its curses on the patriot dead,
Its blessings on the Gaul ;

44 Or sit upon thy throne of lies,

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared,
Whom even its worshippers despise
Unhonored, unrevered !"

It is some consolation to know
that Whittier himself, in reading
over these ravings, has been forced
to acknowledge their unworthiness
by a lame attempt at apology. " He
is no enemy of Catholics," he in-
forms us in a note to this effusion ;
"but the severity of his language
finds its ample apology in the re-
luctant confession of one of the
most eminent Romish priests, the
eloquent and devoted Father Ven-
tura." What is this but making
calumny an ally of outrage ?

In the " Dream of Pio Nono " he
introduces St. Peter, who upbraids
the venerable Pontiff in the follow-
ing style :

41 Hearest thou the angels sing
Above this open hell ? Thou God's high-priest !
Thou the vicegerent of the Prince of Peace !
Thou the successor of his chosen ones !
I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee,
In the dear Master's name, and for the love
Of his true church, proclaim thee Antichrist."

In a poem on " Italy " Whittier
hears the groans of nations across
the sea.

u Their blood and bones
Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones
And sucked by priestly cannibals."

442

JoJin Grccnleaf Whittier.

%k Rejoice, O Garibaldi!" he ex-
claims,

" Though thy sword
Failed at Rome's gates, and blood seemed vainly

poured

Where in Christ's name the crowned infidel
<jf France wrought murder with the arms of hell.

(iod's providence is not blind, but, full of eyes,

It searches all the refuges of lies ;

And in his time and way the accursed things

Before whose evil feet thy battle-gage

Has clashed defiance from hot youth to age

Shall perish."

We crave the reader's indulgence
for this disfigurement of our page,
and wish with all our heart it had
been possible to fill it with more
worthy matter.

Longfellow, breathing the same
air as Whittier, the disciple of a
faith commonly supposed to be less
mild and sweetly loving than a
Quaker's, has found the tenderest
thoughts, the noblest images, and
the highest forms of character in
the church which our poet cannot
even think of without raving.

But possibly we should be wrong
to complain that the mystic beauty
which has in all ages appealed with
irresistible power of fascination to
the highest and most richly-gifted
natures should fail to impress one
all of whose thoughts are cast in a
straitened and unyielding mould.
Whittier has not the far-glancing
eye of the poet to which all beauty
appeals like the light itself. The
partisan habit of an inveterate
abolitionist has stiffened and har-
dened a disposition which was
never plastic. It was so long his
official duty to write anti-slavery
campaign verses that, in treating
subjects which should inspire high-
er thoughts, he is still held captive
to the lash of the slave-driver, hears
the clanking of chains and the
groans of the fettered ; and these
sights and sounds drive him into
mere rant and rhetoric.

We willingly bear testimony to
the moral tone and purity which

pervade Whittier's verse. There is
nothing to offend the most deli-
cate ear; nothing to bring a blush
to a virgin's cheek. He lacks the
power to portray passion, and was
not tempted into doubtful paths.
He delights in pictures of home,
with its innocent joys and quiet
happiness; sings of friendship and
the endearing ties that bind the pa-
rent to the child; or, if he attunes
his harp to love, he does it in num-
bers so sadly sweet that we only re-
member that the fickle god has
wreathed his bowers with cypress
boughs and made his best interpre-
ter a sigh.

What could be more harmless than
the little scene between Maud Mul-
ler and the judge though Heav-
en only knows what the judge, and
above all the American judge, can
have done that he should be con-
demned to play the role of a lover.
Possibly it may have been the judi-
cious nature of the love that induc-
ed the poet to think such a dens ex
mac hind not out of place. At all
events, nothing could be more
inoffensive.

" She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up
And filled for him her small tin cup.
' Thanks !' said the judge ; k a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.' "

And how refreshing it is to find
a judge making love by talking

41 Of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and humming bees" !

We are less edified, however, when,
in after-years, we find him a mar-
ried man, sipping the golden wine
but longing for the wayside well
and the barefoot maiden :

" And the proud man sighed, with secret pain :
4 Ah ! that I were free again !' "

In reading Whittier we seldom
come upon a thought so perfectly
expressed that it can never after

John Grcenleaf Whittier.

443

occur to us except in the words in
which he has clothed it. It is a
poet's privilege thus to marry
thoughts to words in a union so
divine that no man may put them
asunder; and where this high pow-
er is wanting the men s divinior is
not found. For our own part, we
hardly recall a line of Whittier that
we should care to remember. No-
thing that he has written has been
more frequently quoted than the
couplet :

" For of all sad words of tongue or pen.
The saddest are these : ' It might have been.'"

To our thinking, this is meaningless.
" It might have been" is neither sad
nor joyful, except as it is made so
by that with which it is associated.
He who is drowned may thus have
escaped hanging "It might have
been." The judge might have
been Maud's husband ; but she
might have thought of sadder
things than that she was not his
wife.

" Snow-Bound," a winter idyl, is,
in the opinion of several critics,
Whittier's best performance. A
more hackneyed theme he would
probably have found it difficult to
choose; nor has he the magic
charm that makes the old seem as
new. It is the unmistakable snow-
storm with which our school-read-
ers made us familiar in childhood.
The sun rises "cheerless" over
" hills of gray" ; sinks from sight
before it sets ; " the ocean roars on
his wintry shore"; night comes on,
made hoary " with the whirl-dance
of the blinding storm," and ere bed-
time

u The white drift piled the window-frame" ;

and then, of course, we have the
horse and cow and cock, each in
turn contemplating the beautiful
snow. Even the silly ram

" Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot."

The boys, with mittened hands,
and caps drawn down over ears,
sally forth to cut a pathway at
their sire's command. And when
the second night is ushered in, we
are quite prepared for the blazing
fire of oaken logs, whose roaring
draught makes the great throat of
the chimney laugh ; while on the
clean hearth the apples sputter, the
mug of cider simmers, the house-
dog sleeps, and the cat meditates.
The group of faces gathered round
are plain and honest, just such as
good, simple country folk are wont
to wear, but feebly drawn. In the
fitful firelight their features are dim.
The father talks of rides on Mem-
phremagog's wooded side ; of trap-
per's hut and Indian camp. The
mother turns her wheel or knits her
stocking, and tells how the Indian
came down at midnight on Cocheco
town. The uncle, " innocent of
books," unravels the mysteries of
moons and tides. The maiden aunt,
very sweet and very unselfish, re-
calls her memories of

" The huskings and the apple bees,

The sleigh-rides and the summer sails."

It: would be unkind to leave the
village schoolmaster out in the bit-
ing air, and he is therefore brought
in to make us \vonder how one
small head could contain all he
knew.

In the very thought of home
there is an exhaustless well-spring
of poetic feeling. The word itself
is all alive with the spirit of sweet
poesy which gives charm to the
humblest verse ; and it would be
strange indeed if, in an idyl like
" Snow-Bound," there should not
be found passages of real beauty,
touches of nature that make the
whole world kin. The subject is

444

John Grccnleaf Whitticr.

one that readily lends itself to the
lowly mood and unpretending style.
Fine thoughts and ambitious words
would but distract us. Each one
is thinking of his own dear home,
and he but asks the poet not U)
break the spell that has made him
a child again ; not to darken the
dewy dawn of memory, that throws
the light of heaven around a world
that*seemed as dead, but now lives.

" O Time and Change ! with hair as gray
As was my sire's that winter day,
How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on '
Ah ! brother, only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will,
The voices of that hearth are still ;
Look where we may, the wide earth o'er.
Those lighted faces smile no more.
We tread the paths their feet have worn ;
We sit beneath their orchard trees ;
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn ;
We turn the pages that they read,
Their written words we linger o'er.
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,

No step is on the conscious floor !

Yet love will dream, and faith will trust

(Since He who knows our need is just),

That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.

Alas ! for him who never sees

The stars shine through his cypress-trees ;

Who hopeless lays his dead away,

Nor looks to see the breaking day

Across the mournful marbles play ;

Who hath not learned in hours of faith

The truth to flesh and sense unknown

That Life is ever Lord of Death,

And Love can never lose its own !"

This is true poetry, sad and sweet
as a mother's voice when she lulls
her sick babe to rest, knowing that,
if he sleep, he shall live.

In Whittier's verse we often catch
the unmistakable accent of genuine
feeling, and his best lyrics are so
artless and simple that they almost
disarm criticism. In many ways
his influence has doubtless been
good ; and the critic, whose eye is
naturally drawn to what is less
worthy, finds it easy to carp at faults
which he has not the ability to com-
mit.

Monsieur Gombard's Mistake.

445

MONSIEUR GOMBARD'S MISTAKE.

M. GOMBARD was a short, stout,
pompous man, with a flat nose, and
sharp gray eyes that did their very
best to look fierce through a pair
of tortoise-shell spectacles. They
succeeded in this attempt with very
young culprits and with the female
prisoners who appeared before M.
Gombard in his official capacity of
mayor of the town of Loisel ; they
succeeded in a lesser degree with
functionaries, such as clerks and
policemen, who were to a certain
extent under the official eye of the
mayor; but with the general, inde-
pendent public the attempt at fe-
rocity was a failure. M. Gombard
passed for being a good man, a man
with high principles, an unflinching
sense of duty, and a genuine respect
for law, but also a man whose heart
was as dry as a last year's nut. He
was fifty years of age, and it had
never been said, even as a joke,
that M. Gombard had had a "senti-
ment " ; it had never entered into
the imagination of anybody who
knew him to suggest that lie might
have a sentiment, or even that he
might marry some day. He was
looked upon by his fellow-townsmen
as a trusty, intelligent machine a
machine that never got out of order,
that was always ready when wanted,
that would be seriously missed if
it were removed. He settled their
differences and saved them many a
costly lawsuit ; for M. Gombard had
studied the law, and understood its
[.radical application better than any
lawyer in Loisel; he made marriages,
and drew out wills, and dispensed
advice to young and old with the
wisdom of Solomon and the stoical

impartiality of Brutus. Everybody
trusted him ; they knew that if th'eir
case was a good case, he would de-
cide it in their favor ; if it was a bad
case, he would give it against them :
no man could buy him, no man could
frighten him. Antoine Grimoire, the
biggest bully in all the country round
even Antoine Grimoire shook in
his shoes when one day a suit in
which he was defendant was sent
up before M. Gombard. M. Gom-
bard gave judgment against him ;
and this was more than the united
magistrates in Loisel would have
dared do, for Antoine would have
"licked them" within an inch of
their lives, if they had tried it ; but
he never said /wwhen M. Gombard
pronounced the plaintiff an injured
man, and ordered the defendant to
pay him one hundred and fifty-three
francs, ten sous, and three centimes
damages. Everybody in the place
held their breath when this sentence
went forth. They fully expected
Antoine to fly at the audacious
judge, and break every bone in his
body on the spot ; but Antoine
coolly nodded, and said civilly,
" C'est bon, Monsieur Ic Maire" and
walked off. People made sure he
was bent on some terrible vengeance,
and that he would never pay a sou
of the damages ; but he deceived
them by paying. This incident
added fresh lustre to the prestige
of M. Gombard, whose word hence-
forth was counted as good as, and
better than, law, since even Antoine
Grimoire gave in to it, which was
more than he had ever been known
to do to the law.

M. Gombard had some pressing

446

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

business on hand just now; for he
had left Loisel before daybreak in a
post-chaise, and never once pulled
ap, except when the wheels came off
and went spinning right and left in-
to the ditch on either side, and sent
him bumping on over the snow in
the disabled vehicle, till at last the
horses stopped and M. Gombard
got out, jumped on to the back of
the leader, and rode on into Cabicol.
There he is now, his wig awry and
pulled very low over his forehead,
but otherwise looking none the
worse for his adventurous ride, as
he walks up and down the best room
in the Jacques Bonhomme, the prin-
cipal inn of Cabicol.

" You said I could have a post-
chaise?" said M. Gombard to the
waiter, who fussed about, on hospit-
able cares intent.

"I did, monsieur."

"And it is in good condition,
you say?"

" Excellent, monsieur. It would
take you from Cabicol to Paris
without starting a nail."

" Good," observed M. Gombard,
sitting down and casting a glance
that was unmistakably ferocious on
the savory omelet. " I can count
on a stout pair of horses?" he con-
tinued, helping himself with the
haste of a ravenous man.

"Horses?" repeated the waiter
blandly. " Monsieur said nothing
about horses."

M. GombaVd dropped his knife
and fork with a clatter, and looked
round at the man.

" What use can the chaise be to
me without horses ?" he said. " Does
it go by steam, or do you expect me
to carry it on my head ?"

"Assuredly not, monsieur; that
would be of the last impossibility,"
replied the waiter demurely.

" The aborigines of Cabicol are
idiots, apparently," observed M.

Gomb'ard, still looking straight at
the man, but with a broad, specula-
tive stare, as if he had been a curi-
ous stone or an unknown variety
of dog.

" Yes, monsieur," said the waiter,
with ready assent. If a traveller
had declared the aborigines of Cabi-
col to be buffaloes, he would have
assented just as readily; he did not
care a dry pea for the aborigines,
whoever they might be; he did not
know them even by sight, so why
should he stand up for them ? Be-
sides, every traveller represented a
tip, and he was not a man to quar-
rel with his bread and butter.

" What's to be done ?" said M.
Gombard. " I must have horses ;
where am I to get them ?"

"I doubt that there is a horse in
the town to-day which can be plac-
ed at monsieur's disposal. This is
the grand market day at Luxort, and
everybody is gone there, and to-
morrow the beasts will be too tired
to start for a fresh journey ; but on
Friday I dare say monsieur could
find a pair, if he does not mind
waiting till then."

"There is nothing at the present
moment I should mind much more,
nothing that could be more disa-
greeable to me," said M. Gom-
bard.

" We would do our best to make
monsieur's delay agreeable," said
the waiter ; " the beds of the Jacques
Bonhomme are celebrated ; the food
is excellent and the cooking of the
best ; the landlord cuts himself into
little pieces for his guests."

" Good heavens !" ejaculated M.
Gombard.

" It is a figure of speech, mon-
sieur, a figure of rhetoric," explain-
ed the waiter, who began to heap
up blocks of wood on the hearth, as
if he were preparing a funeral pyre
for his unwilling guest.

Monsieur Gombard s Mistake.

447

"Tell the landlord I want to
speak to him," said M. Gombard.

Before he had finished his meal
the landlord knocked at the door.
M. Gombard said " Come in," and
the landlord entered. He was a
solemn, melancholy-looking man.,
who spoke in a sepulchral voice,
and seemed continually struggling
to withhold his tears. He loved
his inn, but the weight of responsi-
bility it laid upon him was more
than he could bear with a smiling
countenance. Every traveller who
slept beneath his roof was, for the
time being, an object of the tender-
est interest to him ; it was no exag-
geration to say, with the rhetorical
waiter, that he cut himself into little
pieces for each one of them. He
made out imaginary histories of
them, which he related afterwards
for the entertainment of their suc-
cessors. He was guided as to the
facts of each subject by the peculiar
make and fashion of their physiog-
nomies; but he drew his inspira-
tion chiefly from their noses : if the
traveller wore his beard long and
his nose turned up, he was set down
as a philosopher travelling in the
pursuit of knowledge; if he wore
his beard cropped and his nose
hooked, he was a banker whose
financial genius and fabulous wealth
were a source of terror to the
money-markets of Europe; if he
carried his nose flat against his face
and wore a wig and spectacles, he
was a desperate criminal with a
huge price on his head, and the
police scouring the country in pur-
suit of him ; but he was safe be-
neath the roof of the Jacques Bon-
honnne, for his host would have
sworn with the patriot bard : " I
know not, I care not, if guilt's in
that heart ; I but know that I'll hide
thee, whatever thou art!" All the
pearls of Golconda, all the gold of

California, would not have bribed
him into delivering up a man who
enjoyed his hospitality. Many and
thrilling were the tales he had to
tell of these sinister guests, their
hair-breadth escapes, and the silent
but, to him, distinctly manifest rage
of their baffled pursuers. This lite
of secret care and harrowing emo-
tions had done its work on the
landlord ; you saw at a glance
that his was a heavily-laden spirit,
and that pale " melancholy had
marked him for her own." He
bowed low, and in a voice of deep
feeling inquired how he could serve
M. Gombard.

" By getting me a pair of good
post-horses," replied his guest.
"It is of the utmost importance

that I reach X before five

o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and
your people say I have no chance
of finding horses until Friday."

The landlord stifled a sigh and
replied : " That is only too true,
monsieur."

M. Gombard pushed away his
plate, rose, walked up and down
the room, and then stood at the win-
dow and looked out. It was a
bleak look out; everything was cov-
ered with snow. Snow lay deep on
the ground, on the trees, on the
lamp-post, on the chimneys and the
house-tops ; and the sky looked as
if it were still full of snow.

Just opposite there was a strange,
grand old house that arrested M.
Gombard's attention ; it was a ga-
bled edifice with turrets at either
end, and high pointed, mullioned
windows filled with diamond-paned
lattices. The roof slanted rapidly
from the chimneys to the windows,
and looked as if the north wind that
had howled over it for centuries had
blown it a little to one side and bat-
tered it a good deal ; for you could
see by the undulations of the snow

448

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

that it was full of dints and ruts.
Close under the projecting eaves in
the centre of the house there was
a stone shield, on which a family
coat of arms was engraved ; but the
ivy, which grew thick over the wall,
draped the escutcheon, and, with
the snow, made it impossible to
read the story it set forth. There
was a balcony right under it, from
the floor of which an old man was
now engaged sweeping the snow ;
on either side were set huge stone
vases, in which some hardy plants
grew, defying all weathers, appar-
ently. When the old man had clear-
ed away the snow, he brought out
some pots of wintry-looking flowers,
and placed them on the ledge of the
balcony. M. Gombard had been
watching the performance, and tak-
ing in the scene with his eyes while
his thoughts were busy about these
post-horses that were not to be had
in the town of Cabicol. He turn-
ed round suddenly, and said in his
abrupt, magisterial way : " Curious
old house. Whose is it?"

"It belongs now to Mile. Aimee
Bobert," replied the landlord ; and
the question seemed to affect him
painfully.

"Whom did it belong to former-
ly?" inquired M. Gombard.

" To the brave and illustrious
family of De Valbranchart. The
Revolution ruined them, and the
mansion was bought by a retired
manufacturer, the grandfather of
Mile. Aimee, who is now the sole
heiress of all his wealth."

" Strange vicissitudes in the game
of life !" muttered M. Gombard ; he
turned again to survey the old house,
that looked as if it had been trans-
planted from some forest or lovely
fell-side to this commonplace little
town. As he looked, the window
on the balcony opened, and the slight
figure of a woman appeared, holding

a flower-pot in her hand. He could
not see her face, which was con-
cealed by a shawl thrown lightly
over her head; but her movements
had the grace and suppleness of
youth. M. Gombard mechanically
adjusted his spectacles, the better to
inspect this new object in the pic-
ture; the same momenta gentleman,
hurrying down the street, came up,
and lifted his hat in a stately saluta-
tion as he passed before the bal-
cony. M. Gombard could not see
whether the greeting was returned,
or how; for when he glanced again
towards the latticed window, it had
closed on the retreating figure of
the lady. The old church clock
was chiming the hour of noon.
" The ancient house has its mod-
ern romance, I perceive," observed
M. Gombard superciliously ; and as
if this discovery must strip it at
once of all interest in the eyes of
a sensible man, he turned his back
upon the old house, and proceeded
to catechise the landlord concerning
post-horses. There was clearly no
chance of his procuring any that
day, and a very doubtful chance of
his procuring any the next. There
was no help for it : he must spend
at least one night at the Jacques
Bonhomme. He was not a man to
waste his energies in useless lamen-
tation or invective. One exclama-
tion of impatience escaped him, but
he stifled it half way, snapped his
fingers, and muttered in almost a
cheerful tone, " Tantpis /" The land-
lord stood regarding him with a
gaze of compassion mingled with a
sort of cowed admiration. There
was a strange fascination about these
criminals, murderers or forgers,
flying for dear life ; the concentrated
energy, the reckless daring, the he-
roic self-control, the calm self-pos-
session they evinced in the face of
danger and impending death, were

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

449

wonderful. If these grand faculties
had been ruled by principle, and
devoted to lawful pursuits and wor-
thy aims, what might they not have
accomplished ! The landlord saw
the stigma of crime distinctly brand-
ed upon the countenance of this
man, though the low, bad brow was
almost entirely concealed at one
side by the wig; and yet he could
not but admire, nay, to a certain
extent, sympathize, with him. M.
Gombard noticed his singular air
of dejection, his immovable attitude
standing there as if he were rooted
to the spot when there was no lon-
ger any ostensible reason for his re-
maining in the room. He bent a
glance of inquiry upon him, which
said as plainly as words : "You
have evidently something to say ; so
sny it."

" Monsieur," said the landlord in
a thick undertone, " I have been
trusted with many secrets, and I
have never been known to betray
one. I ask you for no confidence ;
but, if you can trust me so far, an-
swer me one question : Is it a mat-
ter of life and death that you go
tli at you reach your destination by
a given time ?"

M. Gombard hesitated for a mo-
ment, perplexed by the tone and
manner of his host ; then he replied,
deliberately, as if weighing the va-
lue of each word : " I will not say
4 life and death,' but as urgent as if
it were life and death."

"Ha! That is enough. I un-
derstand," said the landlord. His
voice was husky; he shook from
head to foot. " Now tell me this :
will you will the situation be sav-
ed, if you can leave this to-mor-
row?"

" To-morrow ? . . . Let me see,"
said M. Gombard ; and thrusting
both hands into his pockets, he
bent his head upon his breast with

VOL. XXIV 29

the air of a man making a calcula-
tion. After a prolonged silence he
looked up, and continued reflective-
ly : " If I can leave this to-morrow
at four o'clock, with a good pair of

horses, I shall be at X by ten ;

and starting afresh at, say, five next
morning, I shall be "

"Saved!" broke in the landlord.

" I shall be saved, as you say,"
repeated M. Gombard.

" Monsieur, if the thing is possi-
ble it shall be done !" protested the
landlord. This coolness, this super-
human calm, at such a crisis, were
magnificent ; this felon, whoever he
was, was a glorious man.

" Very peculiar person our host
seems," was the hero's reflection,
when the door closed behind that
excited and highly sensitive indi-
vidual. M. Gombard then drew a
chair towards the fire, pulled a
newspaper from his pocket, and
poked his feet as far out on the
hearth as he could without putting
them right into the blaze.

When he had squeezed the news-
paper dry, he threw it aside, and
bethought to himself that he might
as well go for a walk, and recon-
noitre this extremely unprogressive
town, where a traveller might wait
two days and two nights for a pair
of post-horses. He pulled on his big
furred coat and sallied forth. The
snow was deep, but the night's sharp
frost had hardened it, so that it was
dry and crisp to walk on. There
was little in the aspect of Cabicoi
that promised entertainment ; it was
called a town, but it was more like
a village with a disproportionate!)
fine church, and some large houses
that looked out of place in the
midst of the shabby ones all round
though the largest was insignificant
beside the imposing old pile oppo-
site the inn. They looked quaint
and picturesque enough, however,

450

Monsieur Gombard" s Mistake.

in their snow dress, glistening in
the beams of the pale winter sun
that shone out feebly from the
milky-looking sky. The church
was the first place to which M.
Gombard bent his steps, not with
any pious intentions, but because
it was the only place that seemed
to be open to a visitor, and was,
moreover, a stately, Gothic edifice
that would have done honor to a
thriving, well-populated town. The
front door was closed. M. Gom-
bard was turning away with some
disappointment, when an old woman
who was frying chestnuts in the an-
gle of the projecting buttress, with
an umbrella tied to the back of her
chair as a protest rather than a
protection against the north wind
that was blowing over the deserted
market-place, called out to him that
the side door was open, and point-
ed to the other side of the church.
When the visitor entered it, he was
struck by the solemnity and vast-
ness of the place. It was quite
empty. At least he thought so ; for
liis eye, piercing the sombre per-
spective, saw no living person
there. In the south aisle the rich
stained glass threw delicate shad-
ows of purple and gold and crim-
son on the pavement, on the stern
mediaeval statues, on the slim, groin-
ed 'pillars; but the other aisle was
so dark that it was like night until
your eyes grew accustomed to the
gloom. M. Gombard walked slow-
ly through the darkened aisle, peer-
ing up at the massive carving of
the capitals, and into the quaint de-
vices of the basements, and won-
dering what could have brought
this majestic, cathedral-like church
into so incongruous a frame as Ca-
bicol. Suddenly he descried com-
ing towards him from the farthest
end of the aisle, like a dimly visible
form emerging from total darkness,

the figure of a man. He supposed
at first it was a priest, and he
thought he would ask him for some
information about the church ; but,
as the figure drew near, he saw he
had been mistaken, and presently
he recognized the tall, erect bear-
ing and hurried step of the lover
of Mile. Bobert. There was no
reason why M. Gombard should
not have accosted him just as
readily as if he had been the priest
he had taken him for, but some-
thing checked him at the first mo-
ment ; and when the young man
had passed, he was loath to call
him back. He had not the kind
of face M. Gombard expected;
there was none of the levity or
mawkishness that almost invariably
characterized the countenances of
men who were in love ; neither was
there any trace of coxcombry or
conceit in his dress and general
appearance ; he had a fine head,
well shaped, and with a breadth of
forehead that announced brains;
his face was thoughtful and intelli-
gent. M. Gombard was sorry for
the poor fellow, who was evidently
not otherwise a fool. The sound of
the lover's footfall died away, and
the great door closed behind him
with a boom like low thunder. M.
Gombard continued his walk round
the church undisturbed. He came
to the Lady Chapel behind the high
altar, and stood at the entrance,
filled with a new admiration and
surprise. The chapel was as dimly
lighted as the rest of the building;
but from a deep, mullioned window
there came a flood of amber light
that fell full upon a kneeling figure,
illuminating it with' an effulgence to
which the word heavenly might fit-
ly be applied. M. Gombard's first
thought was that this new wonder
was part of the whole ; that it was
not a real, living female form he be-

Monsieur Goinbar(Ts Mistake.

451

held, but some beautiful creation
of painter and sculptor, placed
here to symbolize faith and wor-
ship in their loveliest aspect. But
tins was merely the first unreasoning
impression of delight and wonder.
He had not gazed more than a sec-
ond on the kneeling figure when
he saw that it was neither a sta-
tue nor an apparition, but a living,
breathing woman. The worshipper
was absorbed in her devotions, and
seemed unconscious of the proxim-
ity of any spectator; so M. Gombard
was free to contemplate her at his
ease. It was the first time in his
life that he ever stood deliberately
to contemplate a woman, simply as
a beautiful object; but there was
something in this one totally differ-
ent from all the women, beautiful
or otherwise, that he had ever seen.
It may have been the circumstan-
ces, the place and hour, the obscu-
rity of all around, except for that
yellow shaft ofHght that shotstraight
down upon the lovely devotee, in-
vesting her with a sort of celestial
glory; but whatever it was, the spec-
tacle stirred the fibres of his heart
as they had never been stirred be-
fore. Who was this lovely crea-
ture, and why was she here in the
deserted church, alone and at an
hour when there was neither chant
nor ceremony to call her thither ?
M. Gombard 's habit of mind and
his semi-legal arid magisterial func-
tions led him to suspect and dis-
cover plots and sinister motives in
most human actions that were at all
out of the usual course ; but it
never for an instant occurred to
seek any such here. This fair girl
she looked in the full bloom of
youth could only be engaged on
some errand of duty, of mercy, or
of love. Love ! Strange to say, the
word, as it rose to his lips, did not
call up the scornful, or even the

pitying, smile which at best never
failed to accompany the thought of
this greatest of human follies in the
mayor's mind. He repeated men-
tally, " Love," as he looked at her,
and something very like a sigh rose
and was not peremptorily stifled in
his breast. While he stood there
gazing, a deeper gloom fell upon
the place, the yellow shaft was sud-
denly withdrawn, the golden light
went out, and the vision melted
into brown shadow. M. Gombard
started ; high up, on all sides, there
was a noise like pebbles rattling
against the windows. The lady
started too, and, crossing herself, as
at a signal that cut short her devo-
tions, rose and hurried from the
chapel. She took no notice of the
man standing under the archway,
but passed on, with a quick, light
step, down the north aisle. M.
Gombard turned and walked after
her. He had no idea of pursu-
ing her ; he merely yielded to an
impulse that anticipated thought
and will.

On emerging into the daylight of
the porch he saw that the rain was
falling heavily, mixed with hail-
stones as big as peas. The lady sur-
veyed the scene without in blank dis-
may, while M. Gombard stealthily sur-
veyed her. She struck him as more
wonderful, more vision-like, now
even than when she had burst upon
him with her golden halo amidst
the darkness ; her soft brown eyes
full of light, her silken brown curls,
her scarlet lips parted in inarticu-
late despair, the small head thrown
slightly back, and raised in scared
interrogation to the dull gray tank
above M. Gombard saw all these
charms distinctly now, and his dry,
legal soul was strangely moved.
Should he speak to her? What
could he say? Offer her his um-
brella, perhaps ? That was a safe

452

Monsieur Goinbard's Mistake.

offer to make, and a legitimate op-
portunity; he blessed his stars that
he had brought his umbrella.

" Madame mademoiselle par-
don me I shall be very happy
that is, I should esteem myself for-
tunate if I could be of any service
to you in this emergency

" Thank you ; I am much obliged
to you, monsieur," replied the young
lady; she saw he meant to be po-
lite, but she did not see what help
lie intended.

" If you would allow me to call a
cab for you ?" continued M. Gom-
bard timidly.

"Oh! thank you." She broke
into a little, childlike laugh that was
perfectly delicious. "We have no
cabs at Cabicol !"

The young merriment was so con-
tagious that M. Gombard laughed
too.

" Of course not ! How stupid
of me to have thought there could
l)e ! But how are you to get home
in this rain, mademoiselle ? Will
you accept my umbrella ? It is
large ; it will protect you in some
degree."

" Oh ! you are too good, mon-
sieur," replied his companion, turn-
ing the brown eyes, darting with
light, full upon him ; " but I think
we had better have a little patience
and wait until the rain stops. It
can't last long like this ; and if I
ventured out in such a deluge, I
think I should be drowned."

There was nothing very original,
or poetical, or preternaturally wise
in this remark, but coming from
those poppy lips, in that young, sil-
very voice, it sotmded like the in-
spiration of genius to M. Gombard.
He replied that she was right, that he
was an idiot ; in fact, had not his age
and his business-like, dry, matter-of-
lact appearance offered a guarantee
for his sobriety and an excuse for his

attempt at facetiousness, M. Gom-
bard's jubilant manner and ecstatic
air would have led the young lady
to fear he was slightly deranged or
slightly inebriated. But ugly, el-
derly gentlemen who wear wigs are
a kind of privileged persons to
young ladies ; they may say any-
thing, almost} under cover of these
potent credentials.

" This is a fine old church," ob-
served M. Gombard presently.

" Yes ; we are proud of it at Cabi-
col. Strangers always admire it,"
replied his companion.

" They are right ; it is one of the
best specimens of the Gothic of the
Renaissance I remember to have
seen," said M. Gombard ; " this
portico reminds one of the cathe-
dral of B . Have you ever seen

it. mademoiselle ?"

" No ; I have never travelled far-
ther from Cabicol than Luxort."

"Indeed! How I envy you!"
exclaimed the mayor heartily. He
was a new man ; he was fired with
enthusiasm for beauty of every de-
scription, in art, in nature, every-
where.

" It is you, rather, who are to be
envied for having seen far places
and beautiful things !" returned the
young girl naively. " I wish I could
see them too."

"And why should you not ?" de-
manded M. Gombard ; he would
have given half his fortune to have
been able to say there and then :
" Come, and I will show you these
strange places, and beautiful things ! "

" I am alone," replied his com-
panion in a low tone ; the merry
brightness faded from her face, the
sweet eyes filled with tears.

M. Gombard could have fallen
at her feet, and cried, " Forgive me !
I did not mean to give you pain."
But he did not do so ; he did bet-
ter : he bowed gravely and mur-

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

453

mured, almost under his breath :
'* Pauvre enfant /" He had never
pitied any human being as he pitied
this beautiful orphan ; but then he
was a man, as we know, who passed
for having no heart. His young
companion looked up at him
through her tears, and her eyes
said, "Mcrd!"* It was like the
glance of a dumb animal, so large,
so pathetic, so trustful. The rain
still fell in torrents, lashing the
ground like whip-cords ; but the
hailstones had ceased. The two
persons under the portico stood in
solemn silence, watching the steady
downpour. Presently, as when, by
a sudden jerk of the string, the
force of a shower-bath is slackened,
it grew lighter; the sun made a
slit in the tank, and gleamed down
in a silver line through the lessen-
ing drops. The young girl went
to the edge of the steps, and look-
ed up, reconnoitring the sky.

"It is raining heavily still," said
M. Gombard ; " but if you are in a
hurry, and must go, pray take my
umbrella !"

" But then you will get wet,"
she replied, laughing with the
childlike freedom that had marked
her manner at first.

" That is of small consequence !
It will do me good," protested M.
Gombard. " I entreat you, made-
moiselle, accep': my umbrella !"

It was hard to say "no," and it
was selfish to say " yes." She hesi-
tated. M. Gombard opened the
umbrella, capacious as a young tent,
and held it towards her. The young
lady advanced and took it ; but
the thick handle and the weight
of the outspread canopy were too
much for her tiny hand and little
round wrist. It swayed to and fro
as she grasped it. M. Gombard
caught hold of it again.

" Let me hold it for you," he

said. " Which way are you go-
ing ?"

"Across the market-place to that
house with the veranda," she re-
plied ; " but perhaps that is not your
way, monsieur ?"

It was not his way ; but if it had
been ten times more out of it, M.
Gombard would have gone with
delight.

" Do me the honor to take my
arm, mademoiselle," he said, with-
out answering her inquiry. It
was done in the kindest way just
as if she had been the daughter
of an old friend. The young girl
gathered her pretty cashmere dress
well in one hand, and slipped the
other into the arm of her protec-
tor. They crossed the market-place
quickly, and were soon at the door
of the house she had pointed out.

" Thank you ! I am so much
obliged to you, monsieur!"

" Mademoiselle, I am too hap-
py

She smiled at him with her laugh-
ing brown eyes, and he turned away,
a changed man, elated, bewildered,
walking upon air. He walked on
in the rain, his feet sinking ankle-
deep in parts where the snow was
thick and had been melted into
slush by the heavy shower. He
did not think now whether there
was anything to visit to pass the
rest of the day ; his one idea was
to find out the name of this beauti-
ful creature, then to see her again,
offer her his hand and fortune, if
her position were not too far above
his own, and be the happiest of
men for the rest of his life. He was
fifty years of age ; but what of that ?
His heart was twenty ; he had not
worn it out in butterfly passions,
"fancies, light as air," and epheme-
ral as summer gnats. This was his
first love, and few men half his age
had that virgin gift to place in the

454

Monsieur GombarcTs Mistake.

bridal corbeille. Then how respect-
ed he was by his fellow-citizens ! M.
Gombard saw them already paying
homage to his young wife ; saw all
the magnates congratulating him,
and the fine ladies calling on Ma-
dame Gombard. When he reached
the Jacques Bonhomme he was in the
seventh heaven. The landlord saw
him from the window of the bar,
and hurried out to meet him with
a countenance blanched with terror.

" Good heavens, monsieur ! you
have ventured out into the town.
You have been abroad all this time !
What mad imprudence !" he whis-
pered.

" Eh ! Imprudence ? Not the
least, my good sir," replied the
mayor, descending with a painful
jump from his celestial altitude ;
*' my boots are snow-proof, and be-
hold my umbrella!" He swung it
round, shut it up with a click, and
held it proudly at arm's length, while
the wet streamed down its seams
as from a spout.

" Marvellous man !" muttered the
landlord, staring at him aghast.
u But hasten in now, I entreat you.
You ordered dinner at three ; it will
be served to you in your room."

u Just as it pleases you," return-
ed M. Gombard complacently. " I
don't mind where I get it, provided
it be good."

" Monsieur, for heaven's sake be
prudent!" said the landlord; he
took the umbrella from him, and
hung it outside the door to drip.

" I wish to have a word with you
presently, mine host," M. Gombard
called out from the top of the stairs.

<k I am at your orders, monsieur,"
said the host. This reckless beha-
vior in a man flying for his life
was beyond belief. " It is madness,
but it is sublime !" thought the land-
lord. The table was ready laid when
M. Gombard entered his room ; the

dinner was ready too, as was evi-
dent from the smell of fry and cab-
bage that filled the place; he went
to the window and threw it open.
As he did so the mysterious lover ap-
peared at the corner of the street
that is, of the gabled house and,
as before, lifted his hat and bowed
reverently as he passed under the
balcony. Was his lady-love there
to see it ? M. Gombard glanced
quickly to the latticed window; it
did not open, but he distinctly saw
a female figure standing behind it,
and retreating suddenly, as if un-
willing to be observed. The little
pantomime, which he had looked
on so contemptuously a few hours
ago, was now full of a new inter-
est to him. He wondered what the
lady was like ; whether she looked
with full kindness on this pensive,
intellectual-looking adorer, and ad-
mitted him occasionally to her pre-
sence, or whether she starved him
on these distant glimpses. What
was he doing in the church just
now, with that long scroll in his
hand ? He had not been praying
out of it, certainly. " I must inter-
rogate mine host," thought M. Gom-
bard, stirred to unwonted curiosity
about these lovers. Great was his
surprise at that very moment to be-
hold the said host cross the street,
pass the open gateway of the gabled
house, ring at the narrow, arched
door and presently disappear with-
in it. What could the landlord of
the Jacques Bonho?nmc have to do
with the wealthy mistress of that
house ?

"Monsieur is served!" said the
waiter, in a tone which announced
that he had said it before.

M. Gombard started, shut the
window, and sat down to his dinner.
When he had finished it, he went
and opened the window again, and,
lo and behold ! there was the land-

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

455

lord coming back from the mystify-
ing visit. This time M. Gombard
saw most distinctly the figure of a
woman looking out from the lat-
ticed window, and drawing back
instantly when he appeared.

There was a knock at the
door. "Come in!" said M. Gom-
bard.

The landlord looked very much
excited.

" I have done my best for you,
monsieur," he began in an agitated
manner ; " I have left nothing un-
done, and all I have been able to
obtain is that you shall have a good
pair of post-horses to-morrow at
one o'clock."

" Capital ! Excellent ! Then I
am " He stopped short.

" Saved!" muttered the landlord
exultingly.

" Yes, yes, my friend, saved," re-
peated M. Gombard with an air of
cool indifference which was nothing

short of heroic ; " but I am just
thinking whether, as I have not
been able to start this afternoon, I
am not losing my time in starting
at all. It might be wiser to But,
no ; I had better go. You say the
horses are good ?"

" The best in Cabicol."

"And I can count upon them ?"

" I have the word of a noble wo-
man for that."

" Ha ! a woman ! Who may she
be ?"

"The mistress of that house
Mile. Bobert."

The landlord pronounced these
words with an emphasis that might
have been dispensed with, as far as
regarded the effect of the announce-
ment on M. Gombard.

" Mile. Bobert !" he repeated in
amazement.

u Yes, monsieur. She is young,
but she has the mind of a man and
the heart of a mother. When every

other resource had been tried in
vain, I went to her; I told her
enough to excite her sympathy, her
desire to help you ; she promised
me you should have the horses to-
morrow at one o'clock."

"You confound me!" said M.
Gombard.

" Have no fear, monsieur; Mile.
Bobert is a woman, but she is
to be trusted. The horses will be-
here at one o'clock."

" Well, well," said M. Gombard,
" I must not be ungrateful either to
you or Mile. Bobert ; it is most
kind of you to take so much trou-
ble in my behalf, landlord, and most
kind ofher to furnish me with the
horses. You say she is young ; is
she pretty ?" (Gracious heavens !
If the citizens of Loisel had heard
this stony-hearted mayor putting
such questions !)

" No, monsieur, she is not pretty,"
replied the landlord ; " she is beau-
tiful."

" Diable /" exclaimed M. Gom-
bard facetiously.

" Beautiful as an angel" remark-
ed the landlord, with an accent that
seemed to rebuke his guest's ex-
clamation.

" You appear to have a speciality
for beautiful persons in Cabicol,"
said M. Gombard, pouncing on his
opportunity ; " I met one in the
church just now, taking shelter from
the rain the most remarkably beau-
tiful person I ever saw in my life.
Who can she be ? She lives in the
house to the right of the market-
place."

" Excuse me, monsieur, she does
not," said the landlord sadly.

" No ? How do you know ? Did
you see me did you see her in the
church?"

" No, monsieur, I did not," an-
swered the landlord.

M. Gombard was mystified again.

456

Monsieur Gombard' s Mistake.

What a droll fellow mine host was
altogether '

" You evidently know something
about her," he resumed; "can you
rell me her name and where she
lives ?"

' Her name is Mile. Bobert ; she
lives yonder." He stretched out
his arm, and held a finger pointed
toward the old house. The effect
on M. Gombard was electric. He
started as if the landlord's finger
had pulled the trigger of a pistol ;
he grew pale ; he could not utter a
word. The landlord pitied him sin-
cerely.

" When I told her who it was I
wanted the horses for," lie con-
tinued, " she asked me to describe
you. I did so, and she recognized
you at once as the person to whom
she had spoken in the church. She
said immediately it would be a great
pleasure to her to do you this ser-
vice, you had been so very cour-
teous to her."

" Pray convey my best thanks
to Mile. Bobert," said M. Gom-
bard, making a strong effort to
control his emotions; "I am pro-
foundly sensible of her goodness."

The landlord cast one deeply
tragic look upon his unfortunate
guest, bowed and withdrew. As
he turned away, he bethought to
himself how, as the wisest men had
been fooled by lovely woman, it
was riot to be wondered at that the
bravest should be made cowards by
her ; here was a man who could
carry a bold heart and a smiling
face into the very teeth of danger,
but no sooner did he find that a
woman had got hold of even a sus-
picion of his secret than his cour-
age deserted him, and he was in-
capable of keeping up even a sem-
blance of bravery. Unhappy man !
But he was safe ; he had nothing
to fear from Mile. Bobert.

And so it was the great heiress
whom he had seen and surrendered
his impregnable heart to, without
even a feint at resistance ! M. Gom-
bard understood all now ; the joy-
ous expression of her lovely face,
her unconstrained manner to him,
her presence in the deserted church
it was all explained : her lover had
been there, praying with her, and
she had lingered on praying for
him. Happy, happy man ! Misera-
ble Gombard ! He spent the even-
ing drearily over his lonely fire.
How lonely it seemed since he had
lost the dream that had beautified
it, filling the future with sweet vis-
ions of fireside joys, of bright com-
panionship by the winter blaze ! fie
went to bed, nevertheless, and slept
soundly. -The wound was not so
deep as he imagined, this middle-
aged man, who had no memories
of young love, with its kindling
hopes and passionate despairs, by
which to measure his present suffer-
ing. He was very miserable, sin-
cerely unhappy, but, all the same,
he slept his seven hours without
awaking. When at last he did
awake, and bethought him of his
sorrow, he took it up where he had
left it the night before, and moaned
and pitied himself with all his heart.
He was to start at one o'clock, but
he must make an effort to see Mile.
Bobert again before leaving Cabicol
for ever. He ordered his break-
fast, ate heartily, and then sallied
forth in the direction of the church.
He knew of no other place where
he was at all likely to meet her; he
had not seen her leave the house,
but she might have done so while
he was breakfasting. As well try
to time the coming in and out of
the sunbeams as the ways and
movements of this fairy chatelaine.
She would sit by her latticed win-
dow immovable for an hour, then

Monsieur Gombard'j Mistake.

457

disappear, then return, flitting to
and fro like a shadow. M. Gom-
bard watched his opportunity, when
the landlord was busy in the crowd-
ed bar, to slip out of the house.
He felt as if he were performing
some guilty action in stealing away
on such a foolish errand ; how men
would laugh at him if they knew,
if they could see the revolution
that had taken place in him within
the last four-and-twenty hours ! He
tried to laugh at himself, but it was
more than his philosophy could ac-
complish. The great doors of the
church were open to-day. They
were open every morning up to
noon ; the good folks of Cabicol
went in and out to their devotions,
from daybreak until then, not in
crowds, but in groups of twos and
threes, trickling in and out at lei-
sure. The grand old church look-
ed less gloomy than yesterday ; the
sunlight poured in, illuminating the
nave fully, and scattering the op-
pressive darkness of the lofty aisles ;
but to M. Gombard the sunshine
brought no brightness. He stood at
the entrance of the nave, and looked
up the long vista and on every side,
but no trace of the luminary he
sought was visible. The few wor-
shippers who knelt at the various
shrines disappeared one by one,
going forth to the day's labor, its
troubles and its interests, till the
church was nearly empty. M. Gom-
bard turned into the north aisle, and
sauntered slowly on. Presently he
saw a tall figure advancing, as yes-
terday, with the same quick step,
from out the same side chapel. It
was his hated rival ! Here he was
again, with the same scroll of paper
in his hand; he rolled it up care-
fully, and put it in his pocket as he
walked on, calm, pensive, uncon-
cerned, as if nobody had been by,
nobody scowling fiercely upon him

as he passed. It was evidently a
plan agreed upon between these
lovers that they should come and
say their prayers together at a
given hour every day. M. Gom-
bard was now certain that Mile.
Bobert was in the Lady Chapel ;
he quickened his step in that direc-
tion. Great was his surprise to find
it almost filled with people. The
first Mass was at six, the second at
ten; the second was just finished.
People were rising to come away ;
soon there were only a few, more
fervent than the rest, who lingered
on at their devotions. M. Gombard
looked eagerly all round. There
was a group of several persons go-
ing out together. Descrying Mile.
Bobert amongst them, he turned
and followed quickly, taking the
south aisle so as to reach the por-
tico before her, and have a chance
of saluting, perhaps speaking to, her ;
for might he not, ought he not, law-
fully seize this opportunity of thank-
ing her ? He stationed himself in
the open door-way, standing so that
she could not pass without seeing
him. The common herd passed
out. M. Gombard turned as a
light step drew close. He bowed
low. " Mademoiselle, I have many
thanks to offer you," he said in a
subdued voice, as became the so-
lemn neighborhood. " You have
done a great kindness to a perfect
stranger. I shall never see you
again; but if ever, by chance, by
some unspeakable good -fortune, it
were in my power, if I could do
anything to serve you, I should
count it a great hap ... I should
be only too happy !"

Poor man ! How confused he
was ! He could hardly get the words
out. It was pitiable to see his emo-
tion. Mile. Bobert's gentle heart
was touched.

" Don't think of it !" she answered

458

Monsieur Gombarcfs Mistake.

kindly, but with a nervous, timid
manner that he was not too absorb-
ed to notice and to wonder at, re-
membering her unrestrained frank-
ness of yesterday. " It is I who am
glad. I wish I had known it sooner,
before the market-day. I should
have done my best; but I hope it
is not too late, that you will es-
ca that you will get where you
want in good time."

" It is of little consequence,
mademoiselle. I care not whether
I get there late or early now," re-
plied M. Gombard.

"Don't say that! Pray don't!"
said the young girl with great feel-
ing. " I should be so sorry ! Good-
by, monsieur, good-by."

She hurried away. Did his eyes
deceive him, or were there tears in
hers ? She was strangely agitated ;
her voice trembled ; there was a
choking sound in it when she said
that "Good-by, monsieur, good-by !"
Did she read his secret on his face,
in his manner, his tone, and was
she sorry for him ? It was not im-
probable. He hoped it was so. It
was something to have her pity,
since she could give him nothing
more. He watched the slight figure
drifting out of sight; the step was
less elastic than yesterday ; she was
depressed, unnerved. What a trea-
sure that odious man had conquer-
ed in this tender, loving heart !

The post-chaise was at the door
punctually at one. M. Gombard
was ready waiting for it when the
landlord knocked at his door. The
traveller's air of deep dejection
struck a new pang at his feeling
heart.

" Monsieur, I trust sincerely you
may not be too late," he said in
the quick undertone of strong
emotion, as he closed the door of
the chaise and leaned forward con-
fidentially.

" Late or not, I shall always re-
member your kindness, landlord;
it signifies little whether I am late
or not," replied the parting guest.

" Don't say that, monsieur, don't,
I entreat you!" said the landlord,
lowering his voice to a hoarse whis-
per. " It would grieve me to the
very soul ! I swear to you it would !
Will you do me one favor ? just to
prove that you trust me and be-
lieve that I have done my best to
forward your es your wishes : will
you send me word by the postilion
if you arrive in time ?"

"Really, landlord, your interest
in my welfare is beyond my com-
prehension," said M. Gombard ; he
had had enough of this effusive sym-
pathy, and at the moment it irri-
tated him.

"Don't say so, sir! But I un-
derstand you don't know me ;
you are afraid to trust me. Well, I
will not persist; but if you consent
to send me back one word, I shall
be the happier for it. And Mile.
Bobert think of her!"

" Mile. Bobert ! Do you suppose
she cares to hear of me again ?
To know what becomes of me ?"
asked M. Gombard breathlessly.

" Care, monsieur ? She will know
no peace until she hears from you ;
she will reproach herself, as if it had
been her fault. You little know what
a sensitive heart hers is."

The postilion gave a preliminary
flourish of his whip. Crack ! crack !
it went with a noise that roused all
the population of the Jacques Bon-
homme, the inmates of the house, of
the back yard and the front ; boys,
dogs, pigs, ducks, turkeys, geese all
came hurrying to the fore, barking,
grumbling, cackling, screaming, and
pushing, terrified lest they should
be late for the fun.

" I will send you word," said M.
Gombard, pressing mine host's

What is Dr. Nevin s Position ?

459

hand with an impulse of gratitude
and joy too strong for pride.
kk Adieu! Mcrci /"

Crack! crack! and away went
the post-chaise amidst such a noise
and confusion of men and animals
as is not to be described. As the

horses dashed down the street,
M. Gombard beheld the man with
the scroll turn the corner. Cu-
riosity was too much for dignity ;
he looked back : the hat was
raised, and the happy rival passed
on.

TO EE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

WHAT IS DR. NEVIN'S POSITION ?

THE leading article * in the Mer-
cer sburg Review for October last is
from the celebrated pen of J. Wil-
liamson Nevin, D.D. Dr. Nevin
is a member of the German Re-
formed Church, and at one period
he was president of Marshall Col-
lege, the leader of a school of theolo-
gians, and editor of the Merccrsburg
Review, to which magazine he is
now the ablest contributor. During
his editorship he wrote several re-
markable articles for its pages, es-
pecially those on St. Cyprian, which
attracted considerable attention.

Dr. Nevin's writings are charac-
terized by an earnest religious spir-
it, a freedom from bigotry, and they
always aim at conveying some im-
portant Christian verity ; which, al-
though he scarcely can be said to
know it, finds its true home only
in the bosom of the Catholic Church.
Hence Catholics can but take an
interest in whatever Dr. Nevin
writes, and we intend to lay before
our readers, with some remarks of
our own, the purport of his pre-
sent article, entitled " The Spiritual
World."

In this article Dr. Nevin tries to
show and prove that the work of
salvation includes not only the re-

* " The Spiritual World," by J. W. Nevin, D.D.,
the Mercersburg Review, October, 1876.

sistance to inordinate passions, but
above all a struggle against, and a
conquest over, the world of evil
spirits. This is his thesis. He says :

" Flesh and blood, self, the world, and
the things of the world around us here
in the body, are indeed part of the hostile
force we are called to encounter in our
way to heaven ; they are not the whole of
this force, however, nor are they the
main part of it, by any means. That be-
longs always to a more inward and far
deeper realm of being, where the powers
of the spiritual world are found to go
immeasurably beyond all the powers of
nature, and to be, at the same time, in
truth, the continual source and spring of
all that is in these last, whether for good
or for evil. The Christian conflict thus,
even where it regards things simply of
the present life, looks through what is
thus mundane, constantly to things which
are unseen and eternal ; and in this wax-
it becomes in very fact throughout a
wrestling, not with flesh and blood, but
with the universal powers of evil brought
to bear upon us from the other world."

This he proceeds to prove by the
vows of baptism :

" So much we are taught in the form
of our Christian baptism itself, by which
we aie engaged to ' renounce the devil
with all his ways and works, the world
with its vain pomp and glory, and the
flesh with all its sinful desires.' In one
view these may be regarded as separate
enemies ; but we know, at the same time,
that they form together but one and the

460

What is Dr. Nevins Position ?

same grand power of evil, no one part of
which can be effectually withstood asun-
der from the diabolical life that animates
and actuates the whole. To wrestle with
the world or with the flesh really, is to
wrestle at the same time really with the
full power of hell. If the struggle reach
not to this, it may issue in stoic morality
or respectable prudence, but it can nev-
er come to true self-mastery or victory
over the world in the Christian sense.
The field for any such conquest lies
wholly beyond the realm of mere flesh
and blood. The conquest, if gained at
all, must be won from the hosts of hell,
and then, of course, by the aid only of
corresponding heavenly hosts and heav-
enly armor ; which is, in truth, just what
our baptism means."

He en 11s in philosophy to con-
firm his thesis, thus :

" The conception of any such compre-
hension of our life here in the general
spiritual order of the universe can be no
better than foolishness, we know, for the
reigning materialistic thinking of the
present time. But it is, in truth, the only
rational view of the world's existence.
Philosophy, no less than religion, postu-
lates the idea that the entire creation of
God is one thought, in the power of
which all things are held together as a
single system from alpha to omega, from
origin to end ; and all modern science is
serving continually more and more to
confirm this view by showing that all
things everywhere look to all things,
and that everything everywhere is and
can be what it is only through its rela-
tions to other things universally. So it
is in the world of nature ; so it is in the
spiritual world ; and so it must be also
in the union of these two worlds one with
the other. It is to be considered a set-
tled maxim now, a mere truism indeed
for all true thinkers, that there is no
such thing as insulated existence any-
where such an inconnexum must at
once perish, sink into nonentity. It is
no weakness of mind, therefore, to think
of the 'Spiritual world as avast nexus of
affection and thought (like the waves of
the sea, endlessly various and yet multi-
tudinously one), viewed either as heaven
or as hell. Without doing so, indeed,
no man can believe really in any such
world at all. It will be for him simply
an abstraction, a notion, a phantom.

And so, again, it is no weakness of mind,
in acknowledging the existence of the
spiritual world (thus concretely appre-
hended), to think of our present human
life, even here in the body, as holding in
real contact and communication organ-
ic inward correlation, we may say, with
the universal life of that world (angelic
and diabolic), in such sort that our en-
tire destiny for weal or woe shall be
found to hang upon it, as it is made to
do in the teaching of God's Word here
under consideration. It is no weakness
of mind, we say, to think of the subject
before us in this way. The weakness
lies altogether on the other side, with
those who refuse the thought of any such
organic connection between the life of
men here in the body and the life of
spirits in the other world."

These views, so strongly put forth
by Dr. Nevin, we hardly need re-
mark, are familiar to all Catholics,
agree with the doctrines of all Ca-
tholic spiritual authors, especially
the mystics, who have written pro-
fessedly on this subject, and their
truth is abundantly illustrated on
almost every page of the lives of the
saints. The Catholic mystical au-
thors, many of whom were saints,
have gone over the entire ground of
our relations with the supernatural
world, and, both by their learning
and personal experience, have con-
veyed, in their writings on this
subject, important knowledge, laid
down wise regulations, and given
in detail safe, wholesome, practical
directions. They seem to breathe
in the same atmosphere as that in
which the Holy Scriptures were
written, and in passing from the
reading of the Holy Scriptures to
the lives of the saints there is no
feeling of any break. They lived in
the habitual and conscious presence,
and in some cases in sight, of the
inhabitants of the supernatural
world ; and so familiar was their
intercourse with the angelical side,
and at times so dreadful were the
combats to which they were deliv-

What is Dr. Nevin s Position ?

461

ered on the diabolical side, that
their lives, for this very reason, be-
come a stumbling-block to worldly
Catholics and to Protestants gener-
ally. In the lives of her saints the
Catholic Church proves that she is
not only the teacher of Christianity,
but also the inheritor and channel
of its life and spirit. How far Dr.
Nevin himself would agree with
this intense realism of the church
in connection with the supernatural
world, as seen in the lives of her
saints, we have no special means of
knowing ; but if we may judge from
the spirit and drift of the article
under consideration, he goes much
farther in this direction than is
usual for Protestants. Be his opin-
ion what it may, their lives form a
concrete evidence of the truth of
his thesis. It is the sense of neai-
ness of the spiritual world, and its
bearing on the Christian life, per-
vading as it does the public wor-
ship, the private devotions, and
the general tone of Catholics, that
characterizes them from those who
went out from the fold of the
Catholic Church in the religious
revolution of three centuries ago.
This whole field has become to Pro-
testants, in the process of time, a
terra incognita; and if Dr. Nevin
can bring them again to its know-
ledge, and in " constant, living
union " with it, he will have done a
most extraordinary work.

Efforts of this kind and of a
similar nature have not been want-
ing in one way or another, and are
not now wanting, among Protest-
ants. There are those who show a
decided interest in the works of
the spiritual writers of the Catholic
Church. Strange to say and yet
it is not strange; for in this they,
follow the law of similia similibus
they are particularly fond of those
authors whose writings are not al-

together sound or whose doctrines
are tainted with exaggerations.
Thus Dr. Upham will write the
life of Madame Guyon ; another
will translate The Maxims of the
Saints, by Fenelon ; and to an-
other class there is a peculiar charm
in the history of the Jansenistic
movement of Port Royal ; others,
again, moved by the same instinct,
will not hesitate to acknowledge
with Dr. Mali an that " such in-
dividuals as Thomas a Kempis,
Catherine Adorno [he means St.
Catherine of Genoa], and many
others were not only Christians,
but believers who had a knowledge
of all the mysteries of the higher
life, and who, through all coming
time, will shine as stars of the first
magnitude in the firmament of the
Church. In their inward experi-
ences, holy walk, and ' power with
God and with men,' they had few,
if any, superiors in any preceding
era of church history. ' The unc-
tion of the Spirit ' was as manifest
in them as in the apostles and
primitive believers " ; * while many
of this class in the Episcopal
Church translate from foreign lan-
guages into English the works of
Catholic ascetic writers, and books
of devotion, for the use of pious
members of their persuasion. The
Rev. S. Baring-Gould will give you
in English, in many volumes, the
complete lives of the saints. They
even go so far, both in England and
the United States, as to found reli-
gious orders of both sexes as schools
for the better attainment of Chris-
tian perfection, and venture to take
the name of a Catholic saint a*
their patron.

It is evident that, among a class
of souls upon whom the church can
be said to exert no direct influence,

* The Baptism of the Holy Ghost, by Rev. Asa
Mahan, D.D., p. Si.

462

What is Dr. Nevins Position f

there is a movement towards seek-
ing nearer relations with the un-
seen spiritual world, accompanied
with a desire for closer union with
God. It finds expression among
all Protestant denominations. With
the Methodists and Presbyterians
it is known by the name of " per-
fectionism," or " the higher life," or
" the baptism of the Holy Ghost."
It is also manifested by the efforts
made now and again for union
among all the Protestant sects. It
is the same craving of this mystical
instinct for satisfaction that lies
at the root of spiritism, which has
spread so rapidly and extensively
outside of the Catholic Church, not
only among sceptics and unbe-
lievers, but even among all classes
of Protestants, and entered largely
into their pulpits.

The former movement assumes a
religious aspect ; but lacking the
scientific knowledge of spiritual
life, and the practical discipline ne-
cessary to its true development
and perfection, it gradually dies
out or runs into every kind of vaga-
ry and exaggeration. Recently, af-
ter having made not a little commo-
tion among different denominations
in England and Germany, it came, in
the person of its American apostle,
Mr. Pearsall Smith, to a sudden and
disgraceful collapse. "If the blind
lead the blind, both fall into the
ditch." The latter movement
spiritism leads directly to the en-
tire emancipation of the flesh, re-
sulting in free-lovism, and some-
times ending in possession and dia-
bolism. Spiritism is Satan's master-
stroke, in which he obtains from his
adepts the denial of his own exis-
tence. These are some of the bitter
fruits of the separation from Catho-.
lie unity : those who took this step
under the pretence of seeking a
higher spiritual life are afflicted

with spiritual languor and death
and they who were led by a boasted
independence of Christ have fallen,
into the snares of Satan and become
his dupes and abject slaves. Be-
hold the revenge of neglected Cath-
olic truth ; for only in Catholic unity
every truth is held in its true rela-
tion with all other truths, shines in
its full splendor, and produces its
wholesome and precious fruits !

Suppose for a moment that Dr.
Nevin should succeed in the task
which he has undertaken, and by
his efforts raise, those around him,
and the whole Protestant world, to
a sense of their relation to the su-
pernatural world. What then ? Why,
he has only brought souls to a state
which many Protestants have reach-
ed before; and when they sought
for the light, aid, and sympathy
which these new conditions requir-
ed, in those around them, they found
none.

By quickening their spiritual sen-
sibilities you have opened the door
to wilder fancies, more danger-
ous illusions, and thereby exposed
the salvation of their souls to great-
er perils. For, as St. Gregory tells
us : " Ars artium est regimen anima-
rum" the art of arts is the guid-
ance of souls ; and where is this art,
this science, this discipline, to be
found ? Not in Protestantism. What
then ? Why, either these souls have
to renounce their holiest convic-
tions, their newly-awakened spirit-
ual life, and sink into their former
insensibility ; or go where they can
find true guidance, certain peace,
and spiritual progress enter into
the bosom of the holy Catholic
Church, where alone the cravings of
that spiritual hunger can be appeas-
ed which nowhere else upon earth
found food, and the soul can at last
breathe freely.

But there is another point in-

What is Dr. Nevin s Position ?

46 3

volved in Dr. Nevin's article ; and
however so much, as Catholics, we
may sympathize with his endeavors
to awaken Protestants to their re-
lations with the supernatural world,
this point in question will come up,
and we cannot help putting it : What
is Dr. Nevin's criterion of revealed
truth ? The rule of interpretation
of the written Word ? Dr. Nevin
has one ; for neither he nor any
one else can move a single step
without employing and applying, im-
plicitly or explicitly, a rule of faith.
He criticises, judges, condemns oth-
ers, but on what ground ? Does
his own position, at bottom, differ
from that of those whom he con-
demns ? He lacks neither the abil-
ity nor the learning to make a con-
sistent statement on this point.
Truth is consistent. God is not
the author of confusion.

Where does Dr. Nevin find or
put the rule of faith ? If it be
placed in simple human reason,
then we have as the result, in reli-
gion, pure rationalism. If it be
placed in human reason illumi-
nated by grace, then we have il-
luminism. If it be placed in both
of these, with the written Word
that is, the Bible as interpreted by
each individual with the assistance
of divine grace then we have the
common rule of faith of all Pro-
testants, so fruitful in breeding
sects and schisms, and inevitably
tending to the entire negation of
Christianity.

This last appears to be Dr. Nev-
in's rule of faith ; for what else does
he mean when in the beginning of
his article, its second sentence, he
makes the following surprising state-
ment : " Christianity is a theory of
salvation" ? Did God descend from
heaven and become man upon earth,
live, suffer, and die, and for what ?
"A theory"! Is this the whole is-

sue and reality of Christianity " a
theory," a speculation ? Did Christ
rise from the dead and ascend to
the Father, and, with him, send forth
upon earth the Holy Ghost, to cre-
ate "a theory," a speculation, or an
abstraction ? " Christianity a the-
ory" ! We fear that one who would
deliberately make that assertion has
never had the true conception of
what is meant by the reality of
Christianity. What would be said
of a man who in treating of the
sun should say : The sun is a theory,
or a speculation, or an exposition of
the abstract principles of light ? If
the sun be a theory, it would be
quickly asked, what becomes, in the
meanwhile, of the reality of the sun ?
This way of dealing with Christian-
ity, while professing to explain it, al-
lows its reality altogether to escape-
Notwithstanding Dr. Nevin's con-
demnation of "the abstract spiri-
tualistic thinking of the age," and
of those who would make Christi-
anity " a fond sentiment simply of
their own fancy," he falls, in his defi-
nition of Christianity, into the very
same error which in others he em-
phatically condemns.

That this is so is evident; for
while he says, "Christianity is a
theory," he adds in the same sen-
tence, " and is made known to us by
divine revelation." Now, the sepa-
ration, even in idea, between the
church and Christianity, is the foun-
tain, source, and origin of all the illu-
sions and errors uttered or written,
since the beginning, concerning th x
Christian religion. The attempt t<
get at and set up a Christianity indo
pendently of the Christian Church
is the very essence and nature of
all heresies. The church and Chris-
tianity are distinguishable, but not
separable ; and in assuming their
separability, as a primary position,
lies all the confusion of ideas and

464

What is Dr. Nevin s Position ?

misapprehensions of Christianity in
the author of the article under
present consideration. This point
needs further explanation, as it is
all-important, and forms, indeed, the
very root of the matter. " Christi-
anity is a theory," says Dr. Nevin,
>k and is made known to us by di-
vine revelation." But what does
Dr. Nevin mean by " divine reve-
lation" ? Here are his own words
in explanation:

" When the question arises, How are
we to be made in this way partakers of
the living Christ, so that our religion
shall be in very deed not a name only,
not a doctrinal or ritualistic fetich mere-
ly, nor a fond sentiment simply of our
own fancy?" " All turns in this case on
our standing in the divine order as it
reaches us from the Father through the
Son. That meets us in the written Word
-f God, which, in the way we have before
seen, is nothing less in its interior life
vlian the presence of the Lord of life and
^lory himself in the world."

Again :

" We cannot now follow out the subject
with any sort of adequate discussion.
We will simply say, therefore, that what
our Lord says here of his words or com-
mandments is just what the Scriptures
everywhere attribute to themselves in
the same respect and view. They claim
to be spirit and life, to have in them su-
pernatural and heavenly power, to be able
to make men wise unto everlasting life,
to be the Word of God which liveth and
abideth for ever not the memory or
report simply of such word spoken in
time past, but the always present energy
of it reaching through the ages. The
Scriptures God's law, testimonies,
commandments, statutes, judgments,
his word in form of history, ritual, psal-
mody, and prophecy are all this through
what they are as the 'testimony of
Jesus ' ; and therefore it is that they are,
in truth, what the ark of God's covenant
represented of old, the conjunction of
heaven and earth, and in this way a real
place of meeting or convention between
men and God. To know this, to own it,
to acknowledge inwardly the presence
of Christ in his Word, as the same Jeho-

vah from whom (he law came on Mount
Sinai ; and then to fear the Lord as thus
revealed in his Word, to bow before
his authority, and to walk in his ways ;
or, in shorter phrase, to ' fear God and
keep his commandments,' because they
are his commandments, and not for any
lower reason this is the whole duty of
man, and of itself the bringing of man
into union with God ; the full verifica
tion of which is reached at last only in
and by the Word made glorious througli
the glorification of the Lord himself; as
when, in the passage before us he makes
the keeping of his commandments the
one simple condition of all that is com-
prehended in the idea of the mystical
union between himself and his people."

According, then, to Dr. Nevin,
"the divine order of our being"
made " partakers of the living Christ
is in the Word of God.".

To make what is plain unmis-
takable, he adds :

" What we have to do, then, especially
in the war W3 are called to wage with
the powers of hell, is to see that this con-
junction with Christ be in us really and
truly, through a proper continual use of
the Word of God for this purpose."

There is here and there through-
out this article a haziness of lan-
guage which smacks of Swedenbor-
gianism, and makes it difficult to
seize its precise meaning ; but we
submit that Dr. Nevin and he will
probably accept the statement, as
our only aim is to get at his real
meaning proceeds on the supposi-
tion that Christianity is a theory,
and becomes real as each individ-
ual, illumined by divine light, discov-
ers and appropriates it in reading the
written Word the Bible. This is the
common ground of Protestantism ;
and Dr. Nevin holds no other than
the rule of faith of all Protestants.
The following passage places this
beyond doubt or cavil :

" It was the life of the risen Lord
himself, shining into the written Word,
and through this into the mind of the dis-

What is Dr. Nevins Position ?

465

ciples, which, by inward correspondence,
served to open their understanding to the
proper knowledge of both. And as it was
then, so it is still. We learn what the
written Word is only by light from the
incarnate Word ; but then, again, we
learn what the light of the incarnate
Word is only as this shines into us
through the written Word a circle, it is
true, which alone, however, brings us to
the true ground of the Christian faith."

We need scarcely tell our read-
ers that this pretended rule of faith
is no rule of Vaith at all. It breaks
down on any reasonable test which
you may apply to it. It will not
stand the trial of the written Word
itself, nor of history, nor of com-
mon sense, nor of good and sound
logic. This has been too often de-
monstrated to require here long ar-
gumentation. Therefore, when a
man ventures to speak for Chris-
tianity, and professes to define and
explain what is Christianity, the
question rises up at once, and natur-
ally : What does this man know, in
fact, about Christianity ? Did he
live in the time of Christ? Did
he ever speak to Christ, or see
him? Was he a witness to his mi-
racles ? Why, no ! He can bear
testimony to none of these events.
If he was not a contemporary of
Christ, what, then, does he know
about him? Where has he obtain-
ed his knowledge to set up for a
teacher of Christianity ? On what
grounds does he presume to speak
for Christianity ? Does he come
commissioned by those whom
Christ authorized to teach in his
name? Why, no; they repudiate
him in the character of a teacher
of Christ. Does he prove by di-
rect miraculous power from God
to speak in his name ? Why, no !
Then he has no commission, indirect
or direct; then he is unauthorized,
a self-sent and a self-appointed
teacher !

VOL. xxiv. 30

But he fancies lie has a right ta
speak for Christianity on the au-
thority of certain historical docu-
ments which contain an account of
Christ and his doctrines. But how
about these documents ? What au-
thority verified and stamped them
with its approval as genuine, and
rejected others, which professed to
be genuine, as spurious ? Why, the
very authority which verified these
documents, and on which he has to
rely for their genuineness and di-
vine inspiration, is the very author-
ity which altogether denies his pre-
sumed right of teaching Christian-
ity ! The authority which authen-
ticated them rejects as spurious
his claim to be the interpreter of
their true meaning. How does he
get over this difficulty ? He does
not get over it. He simply ig-
nores it.

But do these documents profess
to give a full and complete account
of Christianity ? By no means. He
assumes this too. What ! assumes
the vital point of his own rule,
which is in dispute? He does.
Strange that those who were inspir-
ed to write these so important doc-
uments should not have written
their great object plainly on their
face; and stranger still, if they did,
that this should have remained a
secret many centuries before its
discovery !

Then this was not the way the
primitive Christians learned Chris-
tianity? Not at all. There were
millions of Christians who spilt
their blood for Christianity, and
millions more who had died in the
faith, before these documents were
verified and put in the shape which
we now have them and call the Bi-
ble. This pretended rule, then, un-
christianizes the early Christians?
It does ; and does more it unchris-
tianizes the great bulk of Christians

466

What is Dr. Ncviiis Position ?

since ; for the mass of Christians
could not obtain Bibles before the
invention of printing, and could
not read them if they had them.
Even to-day, if this be the rule, how
about the children, the blind, and
those who cannot read not a small
number? How are they to become
Christians ?

But as the Bible is an inspired
book, to get at its true meaning re-
quires the same divine Spirit which
inspired it ? Of course it does. But
do they that follow this rule as-
sume that each one for himself has
this divine Spirit ? Nothing else.
But are they sure of this ? Sure of
it ? they say so. But are they sure
that each one has the divine Spirrt
to interpret rightly the divinely-in-
spired, written Word ? Each one
thinks so. Thinks so ! But do they
not know it ? Do they not know it ?
Why, let me explain : " You see
we learn what the written Word is
only by light from the incarnate
\Vbrd." But how do you get the
light from the incarnate Word?
Why, "we learn what the light of
the incarnate Word is only as this
shines into us through the written
Word." That is, you suppose that
the Bible, read with proper disposi-
tions, conveys to your soul divine
grace ? Just so. That is, you put
the Bible in the place of the sacra-
ments ; but that is not the question
no\v. The question, the point, now
at issue is: How do you know that
that light which shines into you
through the written Word is not " a
fond sentiment simply of your own
fancy," is not a delusion, instead of
kk the light of the incarnate Word " ?
" Oh ! I see what you are aiming at.
A book divinely inspired requires
for its interpreter the divine Spirit
to get at its divine meaning. Now,
if those who assume to possess this
Spirit contradict each other point-

blank in their interpretation of its
meaning, then this is equivalent to
charging the Holy Spirit, the Spirit
of truth, with error; and such a
charge is blasphemy ! But this is
pushing things too far."

Perhaps so ; nevertheless, those
who follow this rule of faith do dif-
fer in their interpretation of Holy
Scripture, and differ as far as hea-
ven is from earth. There is no end
to their differences. Almost every
day breeds a new sect. They not
only differ from each other, but
each one differs from himself; and
why? Because none are certain
that they have the inspired Word
of God, except on a basis which
undermines their position ; and
none are certain that the light by
which they interpret the written
Word of God is the unerring Spi-
rit of truth. Hence all who hold
this rule gradually decline into
uncertitude, doubt, scepticism, and
total unbelief.

But how do the followers of this
rule of faith interpret those passa-
ges of Holy Scriptures which speak-
so plainly of the church ? for in-
stance, where Christ promises to
" build his church, and the gates of
hell shall not prevail against it " ;
"He that heareth not the church,
let him be to thee as a heathen and
a publican "; "The church of the
living God, the pillar and ground
of truth " ; " Christ died for the
church " ; " The church is ever
subject to Christ "; and others of
like import. They either pass
them by as of no account, or deal
with them as an artist does with a
piece of clay or wax they mould
them to suit their fancy. Truly,
this rule of faith reduces the divine
reality of Christianity to the efforts
of one's own thought "a theory."
Dr. Nevin may struggle against
the inevitable results of this rule,

What is Dr. Ncviris Position ?

467

as he does in several places in. the
present article, but he stands on the
same inclined plane as those whom
he condemns, and, in spite of his
earnest counter-efforts, he is de-
scending visibly with them into the
same abyss. For the effort to get
at the reality of Christianity, and to
escape the recognition of the divine
authority of the church, through
the personal interpretation of the
written Word, is a vain, absurd, and
fatal expedient. " He that entereth
not by the door into the sheep-
fold, but climbeth up another way,
the same is a thief and a robber "
(John x. i).

As the attempt to separate the
church and Christianity from each
other empties Christianity of all its
contents and destroys its reality, so,
reversely, the conception of the
transcendent union and insepara-
bility of the church and Christian-
ity leads to the recognition of the
living, constant, divine reality of
Christianity. For the Christian
Church was called into being by
God, the Holy Ghost, the Creator
Spirit ; and as this primary creative
act still subsists in her in all its ori-
ginal vigor, she is, at every moment
of her life, equally real, living, di-
vine. Just as the created universe
exists by the continuation of the
creative act which called it into ex-
istence at the beginning, so the
Catholic Church exists by the con-
tinuation of the supernatural cre-
ative act which called her into
existence on the day of Pentecost.
Once the church, always the church.

The church and the Bible are, in
their divine origin, one; they co-
operate together for the same end,
and are in their nature inseparable.
But the written Word is relative or
subsidiary to the church, having
for its aim to enlighten, to strength-
en, and to perfect the faithful in

that supernatural life of the Spirit
in which they were begotten in the
laver of regeneration, in the bosom
of the holy church. The purpose
of the written Word is, therefore, to
effect a more perfect realization of
the church, and to accelerate her
true progress in the redemption
and sanctification of the world.
Hence the written Word presup-
poses the existence of the church,
is within and in the keeping of the
church, and depends on her di-
vine authority for its authentica-
tion and true interpretation. The
church is primary, and not enclosed
in the written Word; but the end
of the written Word is enclosed in
that of the church.

\Vere not a word of divine reve-
lation written, the church would
have none the less existed in all
her divine reality, and she would
have none the less accomplished
her divine mission upon earth.
For God, the indwelling Holy Spirit,
is her life, power, guide, and pro-
tector. God the Son was incarnate
in the man Christ Jesus ; so God
the Holy Spirit was incorporate in
the holy Catholic Church.

Undoubtedly the apostles were
inspired by the Holy Spirit to write
all that they wrote; but their Gos-
pels and their Epistles always pre-
suppose the church as existing.
To appeal, therefore, from the
church to the written Word of the
New Testament, if nothing else, is
to be guilty of an anachronism.

Even as to the Old Testament,
before the Incarnation as well as
after the Incarnation, the reality of
the church consisted in that su-
pernatural communion between God
and man which existed at the
moment of his creation. The
church, therefore, existed, at least in
potentiality, in the garden of Para-
dise, and was historically primary

468

What is Dr. Nevin s Position ?

in the order of supernatural com-
munications.

Wherein does Dr. Nevin differ from
the Ebionites, the Nicolaites, the
Gnostics, the common Protestants,
down to Joe Smith, Pere Hyacinthe,
and Bishop Reinkens? Perceptibly,
at bottom, there is no difference. Dr.
Nevin appears to have never asked
himself seriously the most searching
of all questions, to wit : What, in the
last analysis, is the basis, standard, or
rule by which I judge what is and
what is not Christianity ? He ven-
Hires to treat of the gravest ques-
tions and most momentous myste-
ries touching the kingdom of God,
on which the saints would not have
ventured a personal opinion ; and on
what grounds? But it may be
said in his excuse, and with truth,
that this self-sufficient attitude is
due to the very position of defi-
ance to the divine authority of
the church in which all those who
have gone out, or are born out, of
her fold are necessarily involved.

To sum up : Either we must
suppose that God has left the task

to every individual to direct the
human race to the great end for
which he created it and thus the
individual occupies the place of Al-
mighty God, and turns the crank of
the universe to suit his own fancy,
or the schemes and theories of the
cogitations of his little brain or
believe in " a divine order," in
being made constant partakers of
the living Christ " in a concrete
form." In this case, our first duty
is to find this real concrete body,
become a member and partaker of
its divine life, and, in conquering
the obstacles in the way of our sal-
vation, co-operate in its divine
work for the whole world.

But the history of these last three
centuries shows conclusively that
there is no standing-place between
the Catholic Church and Protestant-
ism ; and it has made it equally clear
that Protestantism has no standing
ground of its own, and therefore
no man can be a Christian, and
defend with perfect consistency
his position, out of the Catholic
Church.

Six Sunny Months.

469

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE," " GRAPES AND THORNS, " ETC

CHAPTER VIII.
AN ARRIVAL.

IF Mr. Vane and the Signora felt
any difficulty in meeting each other
the next morning, it was soon over.
Ce nest que le premier pas qui coute,
and that one step brought them in-
to the familiar path again, almost
as though they had never left it.
Almost, but not quite ; for the en-
tire unconsciousness of Mr. Vane's
manner impressed the lady strongly.
It did not give her a new idea of
him, but it emphasized the impres-
sions she had for some time been
receiving. She had never believed
him to be so careless and indifferent
as he often appeared to be, but it
had grown upon her, little by little,
that under that calm, and even non-
chalant, exterior was hidden an im-
mense self-control and watchfulness ;
that he could ignore things when he
chose so perfectly that it was diffi-
cult to believe he had not forgotten
them ; and that, instead of being one
of the most unobserving of men, he
was, in reality, aware of everything
that went on about him, seeing
much which escaped ordinary look-
ers-on.

Such a disposition in a person in
whose honesty we have not entire
confidence is disconcerting, and in-
creases our distrust of them; but
it excites in us a greater interest
when we know them to be honest
and friendly. If they have had
sorrows, we look at them with a ten-
derer sympathy, searching for signs
of a suffering which they will not

express ; if they have revealed a
peculiar affection for us, we feel
either sweetly protected or pain-
fully haunte$ by an attention which
seldom betrays itself, and which
will not be evaded.

The Signora could not have said
clearly whether she was pleased or
displeased. Mr. Vane had mista-
ken the nature of her sympathy, she
thought, and, believing her to be
attached to him, had spoken from
gratitude ; and though the con-
viction hurt her pride, she could
not feel any resentment for a mis-
take kindly made on his part, and
promptly corrected on hers. The
only wise course was to put the
matter completely out of her mind, as
he seemed to have done, and to se-
cure and enjoy the friendship she
had no fear of his withdrawing.

Isabel was greatly exercised in
her mind that morning on the sub-
ject of insects.

" I made up my mind in the mid-
dle of the night what I should do if
I ever built a house in Italy," she
said. " I should have every stick
and stone on the place carried away,
a deep trench dug all around the
land, and a high wall built all
around the trench. Then I should
have the whole surface of the
ground covered with combustible
material, and a fire kindled over it.
When that had burned a day or
two, I should have cellars, wells,
drains, everything that had to be

4 7

Six Sunny Months.

excavated, made thoroughly, and the
garden-plot well turned over. Then
I should have a second conflagration,
covering everything. Next would
come the house-building. For
that every stone should be washed
and fumigated before it was brought
in at the gate, and all the earth
and gravel should be baked in a
furnace, and every tree and shrub,
and cart and donkey and work-
man, should be washed seven limes ;
and finally, when the house should
be finished as to the stone-work and
plaster, I would have it drenched
inside and out with spirits of wine,
and set fire to. By taking those
precautions I believe that one
might have a place free of fleas.
What do you think, Signora?"

u My dear, I think you would
have had your labor for your pains,"
was the reply. " These little crea-
tures would hop over your walls,
come in snugly hidden in your fur-
niture, ride grandly in on. the horses
and in the coaches of your visitors,
and even enter triumphantly on your
own person. They are invincible.
One must have patience."

" I would continue to burn the
place over, furniture and all, till I
had routed them," the young wo-
man declared. " I believe it could
be done. I would have patience,
but it should be the patience of con-
tinual resistance, not of submis-
sion. I would not give up though
I should reduce the place to ashes."

Mr. Vane asked his daughter if
she ever heard of such a process as
biting off one's nose to spite one's
face ; and then he told her a very
pathetic story of a man and a flea :
" Once there was a man who was
greatly tormented by a flea which
he could never catch. In vain
he searched his garments and the
house. The insect hopped from
place to place, but always returned

as soon as the search was over. At
length, in a fit of impatience, the
man hit upon a desperate project,
which he did not doubt would suc-
ceed. He went softly to the sea-
shore and, after waiting till the enemy
was plainly to be felt between his
shoulders, flung himself headlong in-
to the water. But, alas ! engrossed
by the one thought of vengeance,
he had not calculated his own peril.
The waters drew him away from
shore in spite of his struggles, and
just as they were closing over him,
with his last glimpse of earth, he saw
the flea, which had hopped from
him on to a passing plank, floating
safely to shore again."

" The moral is " Mr. Vane was
concluding, when his daughter in-
terrupted him.

"I maintain that the man con-
qqered!" she exclaimed. "That
flea could never bite him again."

This uncomfortable talk was car-
ried on in the house, which natur-
ally suggested it. But when they
went out of doors, they left it behind
them. The quaint, zigzag streets ;
the countless number of odd no.oks
in every direction ; the narrow vistas
here and there between close rows
of houses, where a wedge of dis-
tant mountain, as blue as a lump
of lapis-lazuli, seemed to be thrust
between the very walls, or where
the rough gray ribbon of the street
became a ribbon of flowery green,
silvering off into the horizon, with
a city showing on it' far away no
larger than a daisy ; the people in
the streets, and all about, whose
simple naturalness was more as-
tonishing than the most unnatural
behavior could have been all these
kept their eyes and minds alert.

In the midst of the town stands
the church, the houses clustering
about it like children about their
mother's knees. Some little chil-

Six Sunny Mont/is.

471

dren were playing on the steps
outside ; inside, a group of women,
with white handkerchiefs on their
heads, were kneeling about a con-
fessional, waiting their turns. One
of them, who had confessed, came
slowly away, and went toward the
high altar, touching here and there
with a small staff she carried, her
eyes looking straight ahead.

The Signora stepped quickly for-
ward to remove a chair from her
path. "You are blind !" she whis-
pered pitifully.

The old woman smiled, and turn-
ed toward the voice a face of seri-
ous sweetness, as she made the re-
ply of St. Clara : " She is not blind
who sees God !"

She reached the altar-railing, and
knelt there to wait for the Mass.
Where she knelt the one sunbeam
that found its way into the church
so early fell over her. Feeling its
warmth like a gentle touch, she lift-
ed her face to it and smiled again.

The children, weary of their play,
came in and wandered about the
church. One, finding its mother
among the penitents, went to lean
on her lap. She smoothed its pret-
ty curls absently with one hand,
while the other slipped bead after
bead of her chaplet, her lips mov-
ing rapidly. Another, seeing the
hand of the priest resting on the
door of the confessional, just under
the curtain, went to kiss it, stand-
ing on tiptoe, and straining up to
reach the fingers with its baby
mouth. A third, seeing some one
near it kneel before the altar, made
a liliputian genuflection, and went
down on its knees in the middle
of the church, a mere dot in that
space, and remained there looking
innocently about, uncomprehend-
ing but unquestioning. Another
dreamed along the side of the
church, looking at the familiar pic-

tures, and presently, climbing with
some difficulty the steps of one of
the altars, seated itself and began
softly to stroke the cheeks of a
marble cherub that supported the
altar-table.

If a company of baby angels had
come in, they would not have made
less noise nor done less harm ; per-
haps, would not have done more-
good.

" How peaceful it is !" Mr. Vane
exclaimed as they went out into the
air again. " How heavenly peace-
ful!"

They saw only women and chil-
dren on their way down through
the town. Some of the men had
gone off in the -night to Rome,
carrying wine in those carts of
theirs, with the awning slung like a
galley-sail over the driver's seat,
and the cluster of bells atop, each
tinkling in a different tone, and the
little white dog keeping watch over
the barrels while the man dozed.
Others had gone at day-dawn to
work in the Campagna, and might
be seen from the town moving, as
small as spiders, among the vines
or in the gardens.

Just below the great piazza, at
the entrance of the town, beside
the dip of the road into the hollow
between Monte Compatri and Monte.
San Sylvestro, a long, tiled roof was
visible supported on arches. They
leaned over the parapet supporting
the road, and watched for a little
while the lively scene below. All
trie space beneath this roof was an
immense tank of water, or fountain,
as it was called, divided into square
compartments. Around these stood
forty or fifty women washing. They
soaped and dipped their clothes in
the constantly-changing water, and
beat them on the wide stone border
of the fountain, working leisurely,
and chatting with each other. The

472

Six Sunny Months.

white handkerchiefs on their heads,
and, now and then, a bit of bright
drapery on their shoulders, shone
out of the shadow made by the
roof and the piers supporting it,
and the rich green of that shelter-
ed nook between the hills. It was,
in fact, the town wash-tub, and this
was the town wash-day. In this
place the women washed the year
round, in the open air, and with
cold water, spreading their clothes
out to dry on the grass and bushes.

The travellers went up fifonte
San Sylvestro, gathering flowers as
they went. The path was rough
and wild, winding to and fro among
the bushes as it climbed, and hid-
den, from time to time, by tall trees.
Half way up they met a man with
a herd of goats rushing and tum-
bling down the steep way. A little
farther on, at a turn of the road,
was a large shrine holding a cruci-
fix. The place seemed to be an
absolute solitude, but the wither-
ed flowers drooping from the wire
screen, and the sod, worn to dust,
at the foot of the step, showed that
faith and love had passed that way,
and stopped in passing. Near this
shrine was a protruding ledge, from
under which the gravel had drop-
ped away or been dug away, leav-
ing a sort of cave. The place need-
ed only a gray-bearded old man clad
in rags, and bending over an open
book, an hour-glass before him, and
perhaps a lion lying at his feet. Or
one might have placed there the
Magdalen, with her long hair trail-
ing in the sandj, and her woful eyes
looking off into the distant east, as
she gazed across the blue ocean
from her cave on the coast of
France. There was still faith
enough in this region to have hon-
ored and protected such a penitent.

The three women gathered some
green to go with their flowers, clear-

ed away all the withered stems and
leaves, and wrote in pink and white
and blue around the edge of the
screen. When they had done all
that they could well reach, Mr.
Vane finished for them by writing
last, over the head of the crucifix,
the word that in reality came first.
Then they went on, leaving the
symbol of all that Heaven could do
for earth encircled by the expres-
sion of all that earth can do for
Heaven " Credo, Spero^ Amo, Rin-
grazio, Pento" They wrote these
words in flowers, Bianca weaving a
verdant Hope at the right hand,
Isabel a white Thanksgiving at the
left, and the Signora placing a rose-
red Love and Penitence under the
feet. Over the head Mr. Vane had
set in blue the word of Faith.

The summit of the mountain was
crowned with the convent and
church of St. Sylvester; but the
buildings extended quite to the
edge of the platform 9n the eastern
side, and the fine view was from the
gardens on the west side, and, of
course, inaccessible to ladies. They
could only obtain glimpses over the
tops of trees that climbed from be-
low, and through the trunks of trees
that pressed close to the corners of
the stone barriers. No person was
visible but a monk in a brown robe
and a broad-brimmed hat, who lin-
gered near a moment, as if to give
them an opportunity to speak to
him if they wished, then entered a
long court leading to the convent
door, and disappeared under the
portico.

A perfect silence reigned. They
heard nothing but their own steps
on the grassy pavement. The town
of Monte Compatri, seen through the
trees on the other height, looked
more like a gray rock than a city.
Not a sign of life was visible from it.
The glimpses they caught of the

Si. i' Sunny Mont /is.

473

Campagna had seemed fragments of
a vast green solitude where grass
had long overgrown the traces of
men. No smallest cloud gave life or
motion to the steady blue overhead ;
no song of bird wove a silver link
between familiar scenes and that
solemn retreat. The soul, stripped
of its veiling cares and interests,
was like Moses on the mountain,
face to face with God. History,
mythology, poetry they were not !
The buzzing of these golden bees
that made the brow of Tusculum
their hive was inaudible and for-
gotten. On this height was a sta-
tion-house of eternity, and the elec-
tric current of the other world flow-
ed through its blue and silent air.

'* It seems to me one should pre-
pare one's mind before going there,"
Bianca said, looking back from the
foot of the mountain, after they had
descended. They had scarcely
spoken a word going down.

The impression made on them
was, indeed, so strong that they
scarcely observed anything about
them for several hours ; and it was
only when they were going down to
Frascati again in the afternoon that
they roused themselves from their
silence.

" We shall have time to go into
Villa Aldobrandini a little while,"
the Signora said, looking at her
watch. "The train does not start
for more than an hour. We can
send the man on to the station with
our bags, and walk down ourselves.
Of course all these villas have very
nearly the same view, but this is the
finest of all."

They had time for a short visit
only, but their guide made the most
of it. Going round one of the cir-
cling avenues, dark with ancient
ilex-trees, she turned into a cross-
road that led directly to the upper
centre of the villa, where the cas-

cades began. First, from under a
tomb-like door in the side of a
mound, flowed a swift ribbon of
water between stone borders. It
slanted with the hill, and flashed
along silent in the sunshine, eager
to leap through the mouth of the
great mask below, to scatter its
spray over carven stone and a hun-
dred flowers.

They followed the cascades down
to the lower front, with its niches,
statues, chapel, and chambers, and
the noble casino facing it.

"Every story of the house, as
you go up," the Signora said,
" brings you on a level with a new
cascade, and from the topmost
room you look into the heart of the
upper thicket, where yon might
imagine yourself unseen. Indeed,
splendid as these scenes are, there
is, to me, a constant sense of dis-
comfort in that frequent appearance
of solitude where solitude is not.
There seems to be no nook, how-
ever apparently remote, which is
not perfectly overlooked from some
almost invisible watch-tower. It
may be necessary, but the sugges-
tion is of suspicion and espionage."

They left the villa by the front
avenue and lawn, walking through
grass and flowers ankle deep, and
gathering handfuls of dear, fami-
liar pennyroyal that they found
growing all about.

When they reached the station
there was yet a little time to wait,
and they stood in the western win-
dows and looked off to the distant
ridges that showed their dark edges
against intervening layers of silvery
mist. They were ridges of jewels,
marked thickly with spires, towers,
and palaces. At the left the dome
of the world's temple was visible,
making everything else of its sort
puny, and next it, like the outline
of a forest against the sky, the Qui-

474

Six Sunny Months.

rinal stretched its royal front. All
floated in that delicate mist that,
from the distance, always veils the
Campagna, as if the innumerable
ghosts of the past became luminous
wlien so seen, evading for ever the
nearer spectator.

Framing this distant picture, a
hill of olives at one side of the sta-
tion-house sloped to a hill of vines
at the other, and the railroad track,
set in roses, curved round in the
narrow strip of land between them.

The Signora, putting her arm
around Bianca, and pointing to one
of these ridges, whispered in her
ear : " What does my darling think
that is the two dark spots shaped
like two thimbles, and about as
large, and the something that might
be a lead-pencil standing up be-
tween them ? What blessed campa-
nile and twin cupole do you wish them
to be?"

" Oh ! I was searching for them,"
the girl exclaimed, and kissed her
hand to the far-away basilica. " We
must go there a few minutes this
evening," she added "go up the
steps, at least, if it should be too
late to go in."

They started, and went trailing
along through the enchanted land,
happy to return to the city that
already seemed to them like home,
and, having learnt some landmarks
in their outward passage, added to
the number of their acquisitions in
returning. The Signora indicated
the principal tombs and named the
aqueducts. "There are the Clau-
dian and Marcian, side by side,
galloping over the plain like a pair
of coursers, each bringing a lake in
its veins to quench the thirst of
Rome. Sixtus V., who built our
chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,
Bianca, used those Claudian arches
to bring a new stream in when the
old one failed. It is called Aqua

Felice. His name was Felice Pe-
retti."

" Stia felice !" said Bianca, smil-
ing at the grand old arches.

"In what a circle water goes,"
she added after a moment, " and
what a beautiful circle ! down in the
rain, running in the river, where the
wheel touches the earth, rising on
the sunbeams, running in clouds,
where the wheel touches the sky,
dropping in rain again, and so on
round and round."

" Apropos of Sixtus V.," the Sig-
nora said to Mr. Vane, " see how
the church recognizes and rewards
merit. It is, in fact, the only true
republic. That wonderful man was
a swineherd in Montalto when he
was a boy, and Cardinal of Mon-
talto when he was a man, and he
died one of the most brilliant popes
that ever wore the tiara. One can-
not help wondering what the boy
Felice thought of in those days
when he watched the swine, and if
ever a vision came to him of kin^s
kneeling to kiss his feet. And.
more yet, I wonder what thoughts
the mother had of his future when
she watched over her sleeping child,
or looked after him when he went
out to his day's task. He could
not have been so great but that his
mother gave the first impulse. One
does not gather figs of thistles."

" I agree with you about the
mother," Mr. Vane replied cordial-
ly. " I don't believe any man ever
accomplished much of real worth in
life without his mother having set
him on the track of it. Sometimes
a noble mother has a son who does
not do justice to her example and
teaching. But even then, if her
duty has been fully done, she may
be sure that he is the better for it,
though not so good as he should
be. I am sure I owe it to my
mother that, though my life has not

Six Sunny Months.

475

benefited the world much, my sins
have been rather of omission than
of commission. Come to think of
it, I have never done her any par-
f.icular credit ; but I am happy to
be able to say that I have never
done her any great discredit."

While he spoke, his face half-
turned toward the window, his
manner more energetic than was
usual with him, the large blue eyes
of the Signora rested on him with an
expression of grave kindness and
interest. When he ended, she
leaned slightly toward him, smiling,
and tossed him a rose she had
drawn from her belt, repeating
Bianca's exclamation : " Stia fe-
licc !"

His fingers closed on the stem of
the rose which had touched his
hand, and he held it, but did not
turn his face, seeming to wait for
her to go on.

" You should read Padre Ventu-
ra," she said, " though, indeed, you
have less need than most men. I
would like to put his La Donna
Cattolica into the hands of every
Catholic yes, and of every Protes-
tant. I would like the Woman's
Rights women, and those who think
that Christianity and the church
have degraded us, and some Cath-
olics too, to learn from St. Chrysos-
tom, St. Jerome, and Gregory the
Great what estimate Christian wo-
men should be held in. It would
do them good to read the works
of this eloquent priest, who. speaks
with authority, and ennobles himself
in honoring the sisters of the Queen
of angels. Padre Ventura must
have had a beautiful soul. I fancy
that his ashes even must be whiter
than the ashes of most men. I
always judge men's characters by
their estimate of women, and what
they seek in women by what they
to be found in them."

" This author is dead, then ?" Mr.
Vane remarked, looking attentively
at the Signora in his turn.

" Yes. He died years before I
had ever heard his name. When
you have read something of his, you
may like to visit his tomb in St. An-
drea delle Valle. The stone over
his sepulchre is in the pavement,
about half way up the nave, and
there's a fine monument in the
transept on the epistle side. I
wish every Christian woman who vis-
its Rome would drop a flower on the
stone that covers all that was earth-
ly of that man, and remember for a
moment the place he assigns her in
her home and in the world. ' The
man/ he says, ' is the king of the
family; the woman is the priest.' "

She was silent, pursuing the sub-
ject mentally, then added : " He says
so many beautiful things. Describing
the different kinds of courage with
which the Christian martyrs and cer-
tain celebrated pagans met death, he
speaks of one as ' the modesty and
humility that throws itself into the
arms of hope, to rest there,' and the
other as 'the pride that immolates
itself to desperation, in order to lose
itself there.' One he calls * the sub-
lime of virtue,' and the other 'the
sublime of vice.' He had mention-
ed Socrates and Cato in the conn j"-
tion."

They had reached the statio i
while this talk was going on, a:i:l.
coming out into the piazza, separat-
ed t'n ere, the Signora and Bianc.i
coming down by one of the fine new
streets to pay a visit to their basilica
on the way home. They found the
door just closed, it being half an
hour before Ave Maria ; but it was
a pleasure to walk a while on th
long platform at the head of the
steps, bathed in the red gold of the
setting sun, that gilded, but did not
scorch ; to look up at the fringe of

Six Sunny Months.

pink flowers growing in spikes at
the top of the fa9ade, and at the
flocks of Irttle gray birds that flew
about among them ; and to glance
up or down the streets that stretch-
ed off like rays from the sun, and
then to stroll slowly homeward
through the lounging, motley crowd.

They met Mr. Vane and Isabel
at the door.

" Did you think we also might
not visit a church ?" Isabel said.
" I invited papa to go into St. Ber-
nard's, and, though they were about
closing, they kept open ten minutes
for us. I am not sure but I may
adopt that church as my favorite.
It is not too large. The congrega-
tions are orderly, and all attend to
one service ; and, besides, I like a
rotunda.. If I should go there, pa-
pa, you must side with me, that the
house may be equally divided."

" I'm not sure I like those cheru-
bic churches, all head and no nave,"
Mr. Vane replied. " The basilica,
being modelled on the human body,
has a more human feeling."

The door opened before they
rang, and the servants, having been
on the watch, welcomed them with
smiling faces, kissing the hand of
the Signora. It was impossible not
to believe in, and be touched by,
their sincerity and affection, which
expressed themselves, not in looks
and words alone, but in actions.
The house showed plainly, by its
exquisite cleanliness, that the ab-
sence of the mistress had not been
a holiday for them; and they had
prepared everything they could to
please her, even to filling all the
smaller vases with her favorite
flowers.

" You haven't been spending your
money for violets, you extravagant
children !" she exclaimed.

They had been watching to see
if she would notice them, and were

delighted with her surprise and
pleasure.

No, they had not spent money,
but only time and strength. They
had gathered the flowers themselves
in Villa Borghese.

" I do not take on myself to de-
cide great social questions," the
Signora said, as they sat talking
over their supper. " I could not
decide them if I would. But this I
must think : that, in most cases, little
happiness is to be found for people
except in the position in which
they were born. Look at these two
good creatures who serve us. Their
parents before them were servants,
and they do not expect or wish to
be anything more. They want the
rights their claim to which they un-
derstand perfectly fair wages, not
too hard work, and an occasional
holiday. They know that the fa-
tigues of the great, the wealthy,
and the ambitious are greater than
theirs, though of a different sort.
If wealth were to drop upon them,
they would grasp it, no doubt, but
it would embarrass them. They
would never strive for it. Do you
know, I find their position digni-
fied, even when they black my
shoes. It's a nicer thing to do than
toadying for fine friends, or striving
for place, or gnawing one's heart
out with envy."

Mr. Vane smiled slightly.

" How is it about your swine-
herd, who changed his rough straw
hat for a triple crown, and had the
royalty and nobility of centuries
come to kiss the foot that once
hadn't even a shoe to it ?"

" Oh !" she replied, " the church
is the beginning of the kingdom of
heaven on earth, and the meek and
the poor in spirit possess it alread;
Besides, I always make exceptioi
of those whom God has especial!;
endowed with gifts of nature

Six Sunny Months.

477

grace, or with both. Besides, again,
this man did not seek greatness ; it
was conferied on him."

Isabel felt called on to show her
colors.

"America for ever!" she said.
" Europe will do very well for the
great, and for those who are will-
ing to remain small ; but in my
country there's a fair field for every-
body. Everybody there is born to
as high a position as he can work
his way to, and his destiny is not
in the beginning of his life, but in
the end of it. We are like Adams
and Eves new-made, and dominion
is given us over the garden of the
new world."

She paused for breath, and the
Signora applauded. "Brava! lam
willing you should defeat me. I
will call America not only the gar-
den, but the nursery-garden, of the
new world, if you like. Long live
your seedlings !"

" How would you like it," the
girl went on, rather red in the
cheeks " how would you like it, if
you had been born in some very
humble position in life, instead of
in the position of a lady, to have
some one tell you not to try to rise,
but to stay where you were ? Just
take it to yourself."

" If I had been so born I should
have been a different sort of per-
son, and cannot say how I should
have felt," the Signora replied tran-
quilly. " If I had been a product
of generations of obedience, instead
of generations of command, do not
you see that the marriages would
have been different, the habits, the
traditions, the education, every-
thing but the immortal spark and
the common human nature ? Or,
if I had been like what I am now, I
think I should have looked for, and
found, the beauties and pleasures in
my path." She had been speaking

very quietly, bat here she drew her-
self up a little, and a slight color
rose to her face as she went on :
"I have never striven for any of
those things the chase of which
seems so mean to me. It has never
occurred to me that I might be
honored by any association, except
with a person either very good or
very highly gifted by nature. The
only rank which impresses me is
that in the church. For the rest
you have heard the expression, * a
distinction without a difference.' "

Isabel gave a puzzled sigh. " I
never could understand you," she
said, a little impatiently. " Some-
times you seem to me the haughti-
est of women ; sometimes I think
you not half proud enough. One
moment you seem to be a red re-
publican, the next an aristocrat. 1
can't make out what you really are.
You graduate your bows to an inch,
according to the rank you salute.
I've seen your eyes flash lightning
at a person for being too familiar
toward you ; and then I find you
talking about the rights of the peo-
ple almost like a communist."

The Signora was crumbling a bit
of bread while she listened, and did
not look up in answering : " I am
quite ashamed of having made my-
self the subject of conversation for
so long a time. Excuse me ! Shall
we go out to the loggia for a little
while ? It is very warm here."

"Permit me!" Mr. Vane inter-
posed. He had been looking at
his daughter with great displeasure.
" I would say, Isabel, that when
you shall have thought and learned
more, you will, I hope, understand
the Signora better than you do
now, and will try to imitate the
justice which can give to all their
due, and not rob Peter to pay Paul.
Moreover, I would remind you
that an intrusive familiarity is not

4/8

Six Sunny Months.

a right of any one, even to an infe-
rior. And now, Signora, shall we
go to the loggia ?"

Perhaps it was because she had
never before been so sharply criti-
cised to her face ; but the Signora
had, certainly, never before known
how pleasant it is to be defended.
This pleasure showed itself in her
manner as they went out. She
usually held herself rather erect,
and had an air of composure which
might easily be called pride ; but
now there was a slight drooping of
the head and bending of the form
which gave her an appearance of
softness, as of one who droops con-
tent under a protecting shadow.
It was a softness which she, per-
haps, needed.

They heard the door-bell ring-
ing as they went up the loggia steps,
and presently an exclamation in
Isabel's clear voice. She had not
followed them, they now perceived,
being a little displeased or hurt at
the reproof to which she had been
subjected.

" Who can have come?" said the
Signora, listening. " It seems to be
some one whom Isabel knows."

Hianca stood at the railing and
looked intently at the windows of
the sala, faintly lighted from the
room beyond. Two figures passed
through the dimness and disap-
peared. They might be coming to
the loggia, or they might be going
to the sofa under that picture of
Penelope and Ulysses the Signo-
ra and Mr. Vane, both a little pre-
occupied, did not notice or care
which. If any one wished to see
them, he could come to them.

Bianca, alone, stood looking
steadily. The full moon, shining
in her face, had showed it for one
moment as red as a rose ; but as
the minutes passed, that lovely
color faded, growing paler, till it

was whiter than the light that veil-
ed it, sparkling like silver on its
beautiful outlines. Where was the
sweet confidence that had been
growing up in her heart for the
last few weeks ? Gone like a cloud-
house built on a cloud. She was
terrified at the fear and pain that
had taken the place of it, and be-
gan to lose sight of the cause in
trembling at the magnitude of the
effect.

" It is surely wrong that anything
in the world should make me feel
so," she murmured. "What have
I been doing ? I must have thought
of this too much, and now is come
my punishment. Here in Rome,
where we shall stay but a few
months, I ought to have given all
my mind and heart to religion.
It is a shame that I have not. I
do not deserve the privilege of be-
ing here."

She strove to gather about her
mind the sacred thoughts and
associations which the Christian
finds in the heart of the Christian
world, to dwarf with the grand in-
terests of eternity the passing inter-
ests of time, and she was in some
measure successful, to the extent,
at least, of inspiring herself with
resolution, if not with peace.

"Oh! how terrible is life," she
said, looking upward, as 'if to escape
the sight of it. " How it catches
us unawares, sometimes, and wrings
the blood out of our hearts !" The
prayer that always rose to her lips
in any necessity, " We fly to thy pat-
ronage," escaped them now ; and
then she swiftly and firmly read
to herself her lesson : " I will be
friendly and gentle toward him. I
will neither seek him nor shrink
from him, nor show any foolish
consciousness, if I can help it ; and
I will not be angry with Isabel.
If he should care for. me in the way

Six Sunny Months.

479

I have thought, he will come every
step of the way for me ; if he should
not, I shall not win either respect
or affection by putting myself in
his way. For the rest, I will trust
my future with God."

" Bianca," said her sister's voice
at her elbow, " who do you think
has come ?"

Whatever might happen, it was a
pleasure to meet him, and there was
no effort or embarrassment in her
greeting. That moment of pain and
recollection had lifted her merely
earthly affection so that it became
touched with the serious sweetness
of heavenly charity, as the mist,
lifting at morning from the bosom
of the river, where it has hung
through the dark hours, grows sil-
ver in the upper light. She held
out her hand and smiled. " You
are welcome ! Papa, here is an old
friend of ours."

The Signora was instantly all at-
tention. Her own affairs were quite
forgotten in those of her beloved
young favorite. She was eager to
see this man, to watch him, to un-
derstand him. If he should suit
her and be good to Bianca, there
was nothing she would not do for
him ; if he should be lacking in
principle, or in kindness to her dar-
ling, woe to him! She would most
certainly

And here, just as she was medi-
tating in what way she could most
fittingly punish him without hurting
any one else, he turned) at Mr.
Vane's introduction, and saluted
her with a smile and glance that
won. her completely. It was not
the meeting of two strangers. He
hud thought of his lady's guardian
with almost as much interest, per-
haps, as she had thought of her
friend's lover, and had expected to
find in her either a help or a hin-
drance. Her searching regard had

not disconcerted, then, but reassur-
ed him rather.

The Signora soon made an excuse
to go into the house a moment, and
left the Vanes and their visitor to
renew their intercourse without in-
terruption, and go through the mu-
tual questioning of friends reunited
after many and varied experiences.
Returning quietly after a while, she
stood in a corner of the loggia and
observed them. Mr. Vane sat with
a daughter at either side, and Ma-
rion stood opposite them, leaning
back against the railing and talking.
The moon shone in his face and
flowed down his form, investing
both, or revealing in both, a beauty
inexpressibly noble and graceful.
One might say that he looked as if
he had been formed to music. A
gold bronze color in his hair show-
ed where the light struck fully, a
flash of dusky blue came now and
then from under his thick eye-lash-
es, and when he smiled one knew
that his teeth were perfect and
snowy white. His voice, too, was
very pleasant, with a sound of
laughter in it when he talked gayly
a laughter like that we fancy in
a brook. It was as though his
thoughts and fancies sparkled as
they passed into the air.

" He is certainly fascinating," the
Signora thought. " I hope he does
not try to be so."

He did not. No one could be
more unconscious of the effect pro-
duced by what was personal in his
talk than Marion. If he sometimes
appeared, while talking, almost to
forget his company, it was not be-
cause he thought of himself, but be-
cause he was absorbed in his sub-
ject. He saw plainly before his
eyes that which he described, and
he made others see it. Bright, ani-
mated, varied, passing, not abruptly,
but with the grace of a bird that

Six Sunny Months.

swims through the air, and alights
for a moment, now here, now there,
on a tree, a shrine, a house-top, a
mountain-top, a window-ledge with
an inside view, he carried his listen-
ers along with him, charmed and
unconscious of time. He knew that
they were pleased, but gave the
credit to the subject, and thought
nothing of himself. He would have
kept silent if he had believed
he could be thought talking for
effect.

The Signora stood a smiling and
unseen listener to his description
of his journey, and felt her sym-
pathy and admiration increase
every moment for the man who, in
a hackneyed experience, had seen
so much at every moment that was
fresh and new, and, travelling the
beaten ways of life, had found gems
among the worn pebbles, had even
broken the pebbles themselves, and
revealed a precious color sparkling
inside.

" If only lie could find so much
in worn and hackneyed people !"
she thought. " If he could compel
the cold, the conventional, and the
mean to break the dull crust that
has accumulated around the origi-
nal nature of them, what a boon it
would be ! There must be some-
thing tolerable, perhaps a capacity
for becoming even admirable, left
in the lowest. I would like to have
him point it out or call it out ; for
sometimes my charity fails."

His recital finished, he stood an
instant silent, looking down ; then
a swift glance probed the shadowed
corner where the Signora stood,
showing that he had all the while
known she was there. It was not
the inquisitive nor intrusive look
of one who wishes to show a know-
ledge of what another has tried to
hide from him, but a pleasant
glance that sought her presence,

and begged her not to separate
herself from them.

She came forward immediately,
more pleased at the frank invitation
than if he had pretended to be un-
aware of her presence.

" I feel bound, in honor, to de-
clare my intentions to you, Signora,"
he said ; " for you may look on me
as a foe when you know them, and
it is but right you should have fair
warning. I have been told that you
are disposed to win this family for
Rome, and I am equally disposed
to keep them in America. I should
despair of success in such a rivalry
but that I believe I have right on
my side. Is it peace or war ?"

" Peace," she replied. " I cannot
war against right, and I ought not to
wish against it. Moreover, since
the family are the majority, and
have free will, we can only try to
influence, but must leave them to
decide. I am sorry, though, that
you distrust Rome so."

"Oh ! it is not that," he said quick-
ly, "though, indeed, I do distrust
Rome for some people or rather,
I distrust some people for Rome.
I have known cases of the most de-
plorable deterioration of character
here in persons who were consid-
ered at home a little better than
the average. But that was not my
thought in this instance. I hope
our friends will return to America
for other reasons. No one should,
it seems to me, expatriate himself
without a sort of necessity. The
native land assigned us by Provi-
dence would seem to be the theatre
in which it is our duty to act, and
one of the motives of our visits to
other countries should be to enrich
our own with whatever of good we
may find there. Every country
needs its children ; but America
particularly needs all her good citi-
zens, and the church in America

Six Sunny Months.

481

needs good Catholics. That is not
ii. true Christian who spends a whole
life abroad without necessity. The
climate is not an excuse, for we
have every climate; economy has
ceased to be a sufficient motive ; and
mere pleasure is no reason for a
Catholic to give."

" What, then, may be considered
a good reason ?" the Signora asked,
wondering if she were to be in-
cluded in the catalogue of the con-
demned.

"An artist may study here a good
many years," was the reply. " The
sculptor or the painter finds here
his school. But I maintain that
when the sculptor and painter are
out of school, and begin to work in
the strength of their own genius, if
they have any, their place and their
subjects are to be found in their
own land. If they stay here they
will never come to anything. They
will only produce trite and worn-
out imitations. The writer has a
longer mission here, perhaps the
longest; for thoughts are at home
in every land, and that is the best
where thoughts can best clothe
themselves in words. There is an-
other class who must be allowed to
choose for themselves, though it
would be better if they would
choose to endure to the end in their
own country that is, certain tender
souls from whom have been strip-
ped friends and home, leaving them
bare to a world that wounds them
too much. Here, I have been as-
sured and can well believe, they
find a contentment not possible to
them any where else. Their imagin-
ations had flown here in childhood
and youth, and had unconsciously
made a nest to which they could
themselves follow at need, and find
a sort of repose. If they have not the
courage or the strength to stay
in the midst of our ceaseless, and

VOL. XXIV. 31

sometimes even merciless, activity,
I have not a word of blame for them.
I would not breathe, even gently,
against the bruised reeds."

He spoke with such tender feel-
ing that for a moment no one said
anything; then he added, smiling :
"I hope the Signora does not think
me too dogmatic."

" I think you are quite right,"
she replied.

" You have forgotten one large
class of Americans who may be ex-
cused, and even lauded and encour-
aged, for taking up a permanent
residence in Europe," Mr. Vane
said.

" What, pray ?"

" Snobs," he replied solemnly.

The subject was whirled away
on a little laugh, and a change of
position showed them Annunciata
on the shadowed side of the loggia,
making coffee at a little table there,
at the same time that Adreano of-
fered them ices and cake. The
place where the girl stood was quite
darkened by the wall of Carlin's
studio and by an over-growing
grape-vine, and the moonlight
about revealed of her only a dark
outline. But the flame of the spirit
she was burning threw a pale blue
light into her face and over her
hands, flickering so that the light
seemed rather to shine from, than.
on, her.

" It looks Plutonian," Marion,
said. " We are, perhaps, on a visit
to Proserpine."

" Speaking of Proserpine reminds
me of pomegranate-seeds," the Sig-
nora said ; " and pomegranate-seeds
remind me of something I heard
very prettily said last summer by a
very pretty young lady. We were
in Subiaco, and had risen very early
in the morning to go up to the
church of St. Benedict. I noticed
that Lily was very serious and

Six Sunny Months.

silent, so did not speak, but only
looked at her while we waited a
little in the sala for another mem-
ber of our party. She walked slow-
ly up and down, and seemed to be
praying; presently, as if recollect-
ing that we had a difficult climb
before us, she seated herself near a
table on which a servant had just
piled up the fruit she had been
buying. Among it was a pome-
granate, broken open, and bleeding
a drop or two of crimson juice out
;>n to the dark wood. Lily drew a
small, pointed leaf from an orange
stem, and made a knife of it to
separate the grains of the pome-
granate, presently lifted one, and
i hen another, and another to her
mouth. I only thought how pretty
her daintiness was as she absently
fed like a bird, when all at once
-she turned as crimson as the juicy
grain she had just eaten, and
sprang up from the table, throwing
the leaf away, and uttering an ex-
clamation of such distress that I
thought she must have been pois-
oned. Her exclamation was odd:
l ;O Pluto !'

"* You see,' she explained after a
.minute, ' I was saying the rosary,
and had finished it, when I caught
sight of the fruit here. And I
thought then that, though our
prayers may be flowers before the
tiirone, our actions are fruits. Then
,1 sat down to look at the pomegran-
ate, and wondered what sort of a
good action it was like ; and while
.1 wondered, 1 got tangled in a
thicket of similitudes, and wander-
ed off into mythology ; and as I
divided the grains I remembered
poor Proserpine, and how Pluto, who
knew well she could not leave him
after having eaten, induced her to
eat three pomegranate grains. I
wondered if they were just like
these, and Ixow they tasted to her,

and put one and another in my
mouth, imagining myself in her
place, and that presently my mother
would come seeking me, and want
to carry me back to heaven with
her, and would find that I could
not go because of these same pome-
granate seeds. And then, my mind
catching on the word Mother, which
I had just been repeating on my
rosary so many times, I remember-
ed the Mother of God, and began to
search for some Christian meaning
in the myth. I thought Ceres was
the giver of wheat and grain, there-
fore of bread, and Mary gave us the
Bread of Life. Ceres came search-
ing and mourning for her daugh-
ter, snatched away by the prince
of darkness, and Mary watches
and prays over those whom the
enemy has snatched away from the
garden of God, and who cry out to
her for help. Ceres found that h-r
daughter, having tasted of the fruit
of the lower regions, was bound to
spend one-half of her life there.
Before I had time to find a Chris-
tian parallel for that part of the
story, it flashed over me that my
three ponlegranate-seeds had cost
me heaven for to-day, and depriv-
ed me of a privilege I might never
have again. O Signora ! I was go-
ing to receive Communion to-day
in the grotto of St. Benedict !'

" It is not often," the Signora
added, " that one can retrace the
wandering path of a reverie as my
poor Lily did. Her story remind-
ed me of an illustrated poem, with
wheat and roses wreathed around
the leaves and hanging in among
the verses."

The bell announcing visitors,
they went into the house again,
and found Mr. Coleman and Sig-
nor Leonardo, the latter having
come to see when his pupils would
wish to resume their lessons.

Six Sunny Mont Its.

483

" I can assure you, Signer, that
I am the only one who has thought
of study during the last three days,"
Isabel said. "You should com-
mend me. I have faithfully- learn-
ed an irregular verb every morning
while taking my coffee. That is
my rule; and it is becoming such
a habit with me that the mere sight
of a cup and saucer suggests to me
an irregular verb. The night we
spent at Monte Compatri I learned
three, not being able to sleep for
the fleas."

The Italian murmured some in-
articulate commendation of her in-
dustry, and dropped his eyes. Her
perfectly free and off-hand manner
confounded him. To his mind
such a lack of the downcast reserve
of the girls he was accustomed to re-
gard as models of behavior indi-
cated a very strange disposition
and an education still more strange.
Yet he could not doubt that Miss
Vane was respectable.

Mr. Coleman, who was hovering
near, begged permission to make a
comment, which he would not be
thought to intend as a criticism.
'* You say the. night you ' spent ' at
Monte Compatri. Is it, may I ask,
true that Americans always speak
of spending time ? In England we
say we pass time. I have heard
the peculiarity attributed to your
nation, the reason given for it being
that Americans are almost always
engaged in business of some kind,
and naturally use the expressions of
trade."

Isabel not being quite prepared
with an answer, hesitating whether
to regard the suave manner or the
annoying matter of the speech, the
Signora, who had overheard it,
came to her aid.

" The fact is true, but the reason
given is false," she said. " I believe
we Americans do almost always

speak of spending time. It may In:
because we understand better the
value of it. But you should IK-
aware, Mr. Coleman, that the Ital-
ians also use the same expression.
and they are the last people with
whom you can associate the idea
of trade and hurry. One of their
critics cites the word as peculiarly
beautiful so employed, as if time
were held to be gold. Your En-
glish friends, when criticising the
American expression, were proba-
bly thinking of their great clumsy
pennies."

Mr. Coleman, who had not known
that the Signora was near, stammer-
ed out a deprecating word. He
had only asked for information.

"The English are bound to criti-
cise us, and to regard our differ-
ences as defects," she went on, ad-
dressing Isabel. " You must not
mind them, my dear. In fact, edu-
cated Americans speak and write
the language better than the same
class of English do, and use far less
slang. One frequently finds inac-
curate and cumbersome expressions
in their very best writers. The
exquisite Disraeli says, ' I should
have thought that you would have
liked,' which is ineffably clumsy.
I can give you, however, a model
of the most perfect English in an
English writer, and I do not know
an American who equals him. I
refer to T. W. M. Marshall. I
almost forget his thoughts while
admiring the faultless language in
which they are not clothed so
much as armed. He has little col-
or, but a great deal of point. One
might say he writes in chi&r-oscuro.

" I have not the least prejudice.-
against, nor for, any nation," she
continued, regarding with a little
mocking smile her disconcerted
visitor. ''English people are as
good as Americans, when they be-

Six Sunny Mont/is.

have themselves. They are not, how-
ever, so polite. Whatever peculi-
arities we may observe in our isl-
and neighbors, we are never guilty
of the impropriety of mentioning
them to their faces."

Mr. Coleman was crushed, and
the Signora left him to recover him-
self as best he might. She had
thought him long since cured of his
national habit of making such com-
ments, and was not disposed to suf-
fer the slightest relapse.

Marion, who had observed and
watched for a moment the ex-
pression of Signor Leonardo's face
while Isabel spoke to him, began
talking with him after a while, and
soon found him a liberal not one
of those who make the name a
cover for every species of disorder,
but an honest man, of whom the
worst that could be said was that
he was mistaken.

" You think that we Italians are
different from yourselves," he said
somewhat excitedly, as the talk
progressed. "When you praise
your country, and boast of it, you
forget that we, too, may wish to
have a country of which we can
boast and be proud."

Marion smiled quietly. " I should
have said," he replied, " that in the
history of Italy, both past and pre-
sent, there had been more pride
felt and expressed than can be
found in the histories of all the
other nations of the earth put to-
gether ; and that, besides this self-
gratulation, no other nation on earth
had been so praised, and loved, and
feared, and sought as Italy. It
has had every kind of boast war-
like, splendid, learned, poetic, and
artistic. It has gone on through
the centuries supreme in beauty
and in interest, never failing to
draw all hearts and eyes, and
changing one attraction into an-

other, instead of losing attraction.
And all its changes have been or-
dered and harmonious till now.
But I find neither beauty nor dig-
nity in a manufacturing, trading
Rome. She throws away her own
unique advantages in seeking to vie
with her younger and more vigor-
ous sisters. The role does not suit
her."

" We will see !" the Italian said
hotly. " We will make the trial,
and find out for ourselves if our
life and strength are so decayed that
we can no longer boast of anything
but ruins."

" I beg your pardon ; but you
have already tried, and failed," the
other returned. " You have proved
yourselves only strong in complaint,
but worthless in action. The only
vigor I have heard of as shown by
liberal Rome was in throwing flow-
ers on Victor Emanuel when he
entered, and now in cursing him
for having taxed you to the verge
of starvation. He isn't afraid of
you, and takes no pains to concili-
ate you. The only vigor here, of
the kind you praise, is in the north-
ern men he has brought down with
him ; and in another generation,
if they should stay so long, the
blood in their hearts will have
thickened to the rich, slow ichor
of Roman veins. No, sir! You
cannot succeed in being yourselves
and everybody else. You are no
longer the world, but only a part
of it, and must be content to
see yourselves surpassed in many
things. Your true dignity is in
not contending for the prize which
you will never win. If you had
sat here quietly, a mere looker-on,
a judge, perhaps, of the contests
going on in the world, who could
have said surely that you might
not win any success by the mere
half trying? You have proved

Six Sunny Months.

485

your own
ex changed

weakness, and merely
an easy master for a
hard one. You do not govern your-
selves so much under the king as
you did under the pope, and the
complaints which were listened to
in the old time nobody listens to
now. You have been coaxed and
petted for generations; now you are
treated with contempt."

The Italian was pale, less with
anger at such plain speaking than
with the bitter consciousness that
it was true. " You have not seen
the end yet," was all he could say.
** Great changes are not wrought
here so easily as in America. There
it was simply Greek meeting Greek,
and there was no history or tradi-
tion in the way. Here, besides
our visible opponents, who may be
half a dozen nations, we have to
fight against generations of ghosts."

" O my country ! how you have
bewitched the world," exclaimed
the American. " I grant you there
is a difference, sir, and it is even
greater than you think; for it is a
difference of nature as well as of
circumstances. Italy is Calliope,
with the scroll in her hand, and
her proper position is a medita-
tive and studious one ; America is
Atalanta, the swift runner, young,
strong, and disdainful, with apples
of gold to fling and stop her pur-
suers. Do you wish your muse to
come down and join in the dusty
race?"

" Do you know,' the Signora
asked of Marion, joining the two,
" Victor Emanuel, they say, has
a special devotion to the good
thief?"

The Italian rose. He had a great
regard for the Signora, but, as she
never spared him when politics was
in question, he thought discretion
the better part of valor.

*' How odd it is," the lady re-

marked, when they were left alone
with Marion, " that when we are
best pleased we are sometimes most
impatient! lam exceedingly well
contented to-night, yet I do not
know when I have been so sharp
toward Mr. Coleman or Leonardo.
I begin to feel premonitory symp-
toms of compunction. What is the
philosophy of it, Mr. Vane ?"

" Marion could answer such a
question better than I," he replied.
" But may not the reason be that,
your mood and some of your cir-
cumstances being perfect, you can-
not bear that all should not accord ?
as, when we are listening to beau-
tiful music, and are particularly in-
clined, to listen just then, the small-
est interruption, especially if it be
discordant, is intolerable."

Marion had been saying good-
night to the sisters, who stood be-
fore him arm in arm, speaking with,
or rather listening to, him. He
turned on being appealed to.

"Is it true," he asked, "that
the mood is one of perfect content-
ment ? May it not be an exalted
mood which demands contentment ?
I think we may sometimes feel an
excitement and delight for which
we can give no reason, unless it
may be some rare moment of per-
fect physical health, like that which
our first parents enjoyed in Eden.
Naturally, in such a moment, we
feel earth to be a paradise, and are
impatient of anything which re-
minds us that it is not."

The Signora w-as surprised to find
herself blushing, and annoyed when
she perceived that the others observ-
ed it and seemed, also, to be sur-
prised. Only Marion, bowing a
good-night as soon as he spoke, ap-
peared not to see.

" Did you ever blush for nothing,
dear ?" she asked of Bianca, when
the two went to their rooms to-

4S6

Roma A mor.

gether. "I can't imagine what set
me blushing to-night. I didn't
mean to blush, I had no reason, I
didn't know I was going to do so,
and I have no idea what it was
about."

*' I never blush at the right mo-
ment," Bianca replied rather sober-
ly. " When embarrassing incidents
occur, and, according to the books
and speakers, one would be doing
the proper thing to be confused, I
am almost always cool. And then
all at once, just for nothing, for a
surprise, for a thing which would

find other people cool, I am as red
as "

" A rose/' finished the Signora,
and kissed the girl's cheek. " Good-
night, dear. I like your friend ex-
ceedingly. I do not know when I
have liked any one so much on
short acquaintance."

" He is very agreeable," Bianca
returned, and echoed the good-
night without another word.

" That is one of the limes you
should have blushed, and didn't,"
thought her friend, and wondered a
little.

TO BB CONTINUED.

ROMA AMOR.

' Strength is none on earth save Love."

AUBREY DH VERK.

SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON,

APRIL, 1876.

UPON the statue's base I read its name

" Rome," nothing more ; so leaving to each thought
To mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,
The living soul within the dead clay's frame.
And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,
So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,
With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,
The thoughtless wanderers' idly-given gold?
Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,

Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,
Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,
Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,
Enough to hold to pay stern Charon's oar
When the dead nations o'er the Styx it bore.

Roma A mor. 487

ii.

And was this Rome this shrunken, shivering form,
This beggared greatness sitting abject down;
Her throne a broken shaft's acanthus crown

Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm ?

Where were her legions? eagles ? where her pride ?
The conqueror's laurel binding once her head ?
She, the world's mistress, begging so her bread

At her own gates, her empire's wreck beside !

Withered and old, craven in form and face,
Yet keeping still some gift from out the past
In the broad mantle o'er her shoulders cast,

Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace

Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,

Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.

in.

And was this Rome ? Nor faith, nor hope, nor love
Writ in the wrinkled story of her face,
Where weariness and sad old age had place,

For earthly days no cheer, no light above !

All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?

With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thought
The sculptor in the answering clay had wrought

Caesar's proud impress in the beggar sunk

For men to mock at in her weak old age ?
Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,
That waked to life a modern Caesar's tread,

Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage ?

While the strong nations she once triumphed o'er

Scarce heeded her they served with awe before !

IV.

Where, then, was she that was Eternal called ?

Bore she no likeness of immortal youth ?

Did she lament her cruel dower in truth
As once Tithonus by that gift enthralled ?
All joy of youth long perished, living on

In dread possession of the pitiless gift,

In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,
Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone '
No word immortal on the statue writ,

Save the deep bitterness of graven name ;

No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,

488 Roma A mor.

Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit
Youth, empire, and her people's love all o'er,
Unqueened, and still undying, evermore !

artist ! lurks there in your sculptured thought
No vision of another Rome than this ?
Along the antique border of her dress

1 sought in vain to see the symbol wrou ght
That she has steadfast borne since first its touch

Did her, the holy one, e'er consecrate
The tender mother of the desolate,
Consoler of poor hearts o'erburdened much,
Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,
Inheritor of beauty ever new
Yet ever ancient, 'missioned to subdue
Beneath love's yoke the nations lost in strife
Rome's eagles shadowed not a realm so wide
As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.

VI.

O Rome ! imperial lady, Christian queen !
Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?
All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead ?
Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene ?
Perished thy eagles, and o'erthrown thy cross ?
Thou banished from possession of thine own,
While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down
An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,
That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,
Shall greet the Caesar who gives thee such grace,
Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,
Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gate
Of Jericho cried out ! Bide thou thy day
Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.

VII.

So once in Pilate's hall thy Master stood
In Roman purple robed, and none divined
The holy mystery in those folds enshrined-

The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.

Roma Amor. 489

Such was Ins portion here ; with thee he shares

His grief divine. Ah ! grandly art thou crowned
Fair in the light of truth thy brows around

With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears

His wide- armed cross, thou leaning on its strength !
What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes ?
Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies ;

That faith is thine that has been all the length

Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o'er;

And on thy bosom writ I read Amor.

VIII.

Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue
Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love
To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,

Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.

What though thy hands are fettered as they lift
The blessing of the cross ? They still can guide,
Like Israel's cloud, thy children scattered wide :

Still are they warning to lost flocks adrift

On mist-enshrouded slopes ; still can they bless
Thy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,
Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o'er '

Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass ;

And still the weary, craving love and home,

Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome '

490

Chaldean Account of the Creation,

CHALDEAN ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION.

IN no portion of the world will
the adventurous traveller feel him-
self more impressed by a sense of
mystery and of awe than in that
vast plain which rises from the
Persian Gulf and stretches away
northwestwardly along the moun-
tains of Kurdistan until it reaches
those of Armenia. From the rivers
which water it the Greeks called one
portion of it Mesopotamia. Other
portions are known as Chaldea and
Assyria. In this plain it was that
the Lord God planted the Garden
of Eden, bringing forth all manner

" Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit.
Klossoms and fruit at once of golden hue
Appeared, with gay enamel'd colors mixed,
On which the sun more glad impress'd his beams
'I han in the fair ev'ning cloud or humid bow,
When God shower'd the earth ; so lovely seemed
That landskip." Par. Lost, b. iv.

Here still How the Euphrates and
the Tigris, named in Holy Writ as
two of the rivers of Eden. Their
waters still fertilize a soil which,
desolate and accursed though it
now seems, will yield, even to rude
and imperfect culture, a harvest of
an hundred-fold. Here our first
parents spent their too brief hours
of innocence. Here, too, driven for
their disobedience from Eden, they
wandered in sorrow, and tilled the
earth in the sweat of their brow.

On this plain, when the waters of
the Deluge had passed away, dki the
children of Noe, as yet of the same
tongue, assemble together, and, for-
getful of the power of God, say to
each other : " Let us make a city
and a tower, the top of which may
reach to heaven ; and let us make
our name famous before ws be scat-

tered abroad into all lands " (Gen.
xi. 4). From this centre, when the
Lord had confounded their speech
and humbled their pride, did they
go forth to people the whole earth.

Here walked Nimrod, the mighty
hunter before the Lord, ruling his
fellow-men. Here he built Baby-
lon, afterwards so renowned in his-
tory. On this plain, too, across the
Tigris, were founded Resen and
Calah and Ninive, cities of power
in the earlier days of history.

For more than fifteen centuries
this plain was the most favored spot
of the ancient world. As the As-
syrian, the Babylonian, the Mede,
the Persian, and the Greek succeed-
ed each other on the throne, the
tributes and the spoils of surround-
ing nations were brought hither, and
were here lavishly squandered in
every mode that could display the
magnificence or perpetuate the
memory of mighty sovereigns.
Each monarch seemed, with the
land, to inherit the ambitious
desires of the builders of Babel.
Each strove to found cities, to erect
towers, to build walls, and to raise
structures which neither man nor
time nor the hand of Heaven should
destroy. All through those centu-
ries the work was carried on, each
age striving to excel in grandeur
and strength of work all that had
gone before. Neither time nor
wealth nor skill was spared ; noth-
ing that man could do was left un-
done.

How vain and futile is man's
mightiest effort ! The decree went
forth that Ninive should be laid
waste, and that Babylon should be

Chaldean Account of itic Creation.

49 i

as when God overthrew Sodom and
Gomorrha.

This fertile plain, once filled with
gorgeous cities and countless vil-
lages, checkered with fruitful groves
and cultivated fields, has become a
wild, deserted, treeless waste, over
which the wandering Arab drives
his flock in search of a precarious
pasturage, and from which even he
is forced to flee as the grass withers
under the burning heats of sum-
mer. The towers and temples and
palaces, rich with statuary and
painting, and whose sides, glistening
with gold and shining brass, reflect-
ed the dazzling rays of the sun for
leagues around, have all disappear-
ed. In their stead a few mud-
walled and thatch-roofed cottages,
pervious to wind and rain, may.be
seen clustering around some ancient
Christian shrine, or are falling to
fragments since the last raid of the
pasha or the rapacity of the Arabs
drove the miserable tenants from
even such humble abodes. It is only
at Mosul and Bagdad, seats of Turk-
ish civil rule such as it is and
at a few other points, that anything
to be called a town can be found.
And even there little more is to be
seen than an accumulation of many
such huts around a few rude stone
dwellings and churches. For ages
the inhabitants have been ground
to the dust by Turkish misrule.
Long since stripped of everything,
they are the poorest of the poor.
He holds life and property by
a frail tenure indeed whom the
greedy pasha suspects of possessing
aught that can be seized. So thor-
oughly have the glories of old and
the outward traces of ancient
grandeur passed away that for a
long time antiquarians disputed
where on this plain Ninive, and
w ! *ere Babylon, stood.

It is a vast, treeless, uncultivated,

arid blank on the surface of the
earth. Stern, shapeless mounds rise
like low, flat-topped hills from the
parched plains rude, unsightly
heaps, whose sides, here and there
stripped of earth by the rains of
winter, disclose within masses of
brickwork and fragments of pot-
tery. Desolation meets desolation
on every side. The traveller sees
no graceful column still standing
erect in solitary beauty, no classic
capital or richly-carved frieze fallen
to the earth, and half-appearing,
half-hidden amid the luxuriant
growth of the soil ; nothing that
charms in its present picturesque
beauty, nothing that he can rebuild
in imagination. He travels on, day
after day, over the parched plain,
amid these sombre mounds, and
feels that in truth this is a cemetery
of nations accursed for their sins.
The ever-recurring sameness of the
dreary prospect around him. before
him, behind him, impresses even
more deeply on his mind the grand
truth that, do what man may, God
reigns and rules and conquers.
Every step shows him how com
pletely are fulfilled the threats made
of old, in the days of their luxury
and pride, against the sensual and
sinful peoples who dwelt here. The
words of the messengers of God
have indeed come true.

For the last third of a. century a
fresh interest has drawn the minds
of men to this plain. The silence
of twenty-five centuries has been
broken, and these old mounds are
lifting up their voices, as it were,
and telling us of the glories of an-
cient times, and how men then lived
and battled, what arts they practis-
ed and what knowledge they pos-
sessed, in what gods they believed
and how they worshipped. The
tale is a wondrous one.

The French government, which

492

Chaldean Account of t/te Creation.

still claims throughout the Levant
the right of protecting the Catholic
Christians of every rite, under the
rule of the Moslems, who are united
to the Holy See, had stationed in
Mosul in 1841, as French consul,
M. Botta, a ripe scholar, enthusias-
tically devoted to Oriental studies.
Across the Tigris, and in sight of
Mosul, stood a huge mound. The
natives called it Kouyunjik^ and had
vague traditions of carved stones
and figures having been found in or
about it from time to time. M.
Botta bethought him of excavating
the mound to test the truth of such
tales. For a time his labors were
without any satisfactory result. He
was induced to leave Kouyunjik
for a. time, and to work instead on
the mound of Khorsabad, some fif-
teen miles distant. Here his very
first attempt at excavation brought
him down to a thick brick wall.
Digging down by its side, he saw
that it was lined with slabs bearing
sculptures in bass-relief, and inscrip-
tions in some unknown language.
Continuing his trench, he groped
his way along the wall, until it broke
off, with a face at right angles to
the face he had followed. A few
feet further on the wall commenc-
ed again as before. He had evi-
dently passed a doorway. Pursu-
ing his course steadily and eagerly,
and turning corner after corner, he
at length came to the point whence
he had started. He had com-
pleted the inner circuit of a room.
Then, going through the door al-
ready discovered, he led his trenches
along the walls <. f a second cham-
ber lined, like the first, with slabs
bearing illegible inscriptions and
bass-relief figures. In six months
six halls, some of them 115 feet
long, were fully explored, and over
450 feet of sculptures and inscrip-
tions were accurately copied. The

copies, with an able report, were sent
to the Academy of Inscriptions at
Paris.

These startling discoveries were
hailed with enthusiasm by the an-
tiquarians of France and of Europe
generally. The French government
a' once supplied M. Botta with am-
] /e funds, and sent to his assist-
ance M. Flandin, an able draughts-
man. The work was vigorously
pushed on until the entire mound
of Khorsabad had been thoroughly
investigated. On an original ele-
vation or mound of earth, either
natural or artificial, a vast platform
of brick-work had been laid. On
this rose the building itself, evi-
dently a magnificent royal palace,
over 1,200 feet jn front and 500 feet
deep. Within, it was divided by
thick walls of masonry into numer-
ous halls or rooms, many of them
more than 100 feet long, but few of
them exceeding 35 feet in breadth.
The external walls and these party-
walls were from twelve to twenty
feet in thickness, and were evi-
dently intended to bear a heavy
superstructure of upper stories.
These, however, have all perish-
ed ; nothing remains but the walls
on the ground-floor. In fact, they
rise only about ten or fifteen feet.
Within and without they were lined
with limestone slabs ten feet high,
bearing inscriptions and bass-relief
figures. The same subject often
occupied many slabs in succession.
Thus, the entire panelling of one
long front, of 1,200 feet, seemed to
be occupied by a single subject the
triumphant procession of a king re-
turning victorious from some war
the whole presented in a long suc-
cession of figures above the natural
size. Winged human figures with
the heads of eagles the deities of
Assyria led the way, each bearing
the sacred pine-cone in one hand

Chaldean Account of the Create,

493

and a basket in the other. To
them succeeded priests leading vic-
tims for the sacrifice. Then came
the monarch in his richest robes,
attended by his chief ministers, his
eunuchs, and his courtiers. Other
officials in a long line bore the vari-
ous insignia of royalty. Soldiers
came next, escorting the tribute-
bearers, laden some with miniature
representations of the cities and
towns and castles that had been con-
quered, others with the tribute itself
and with the spoils of the conquered
nations. Lastly, groups of captives,
with fettered limbs and drooping
heads, closed the long array which
proclaimed to men the prowess and
grandeur of the monarch who
reared this palace. Within the
palace the walls were lined with
still other inscriptions and sculp-
tures of battles, of sacrifices, pro-
cessions, of royal audiences, and of
lion hunts in the forests and moun-
tains.

MM. Botta and Flandin copied
as accurately as possible all these
inscriptions and figures as soon as
found. It was well they did so.
The palace had been destroyed by
fire. The limestone slabs had been
overheated and calcined. A brief
exposure to the weather was now
sufficient to cause them to crumble
into dust.

In 1845 Mr. (now Sir) Austin
Henry Layard commenced excava-
tions first in a different mound
that of Nimroud, some twenty miles
distant from Mosul in another di-
rection and then at Kouyunjik,
which M. Botta had abandoned ;
and afterwards at Karamles, at Birs
Nimroud, and elsewhere. He was
rewarded by the discovery of four
other royal palaces, and of an
immense amount of inscriptions,
bass-reliefs, and curious Assyrian
statuary, large shipments of all of

which he sent to the British Muse-
um in London.

We need not say with what as-
tonishment and what interest men
looked at this vast amount of
Assyrian antiquities, so unexpected-
ly discovered, and now to be seen
in London and in Paris ; nor need
we follow the steps of the various
exploring expeditions that went
forth in succession from Europe to
delve yet again in those rich mines
of archaeology. In 1876 they were
still at it, and doubtless the work
will long continue; for there re-
mains much to reward a search.

The first emotions of astonish-
ment over, the scholars of Eui opt-
left aside for a time the sculptured
figures, and turned to those multi-
tudinous and inscrutable inscrip-
tions as in truth the richest and
most valuable portion of the find.
In what language or languages, and
by what system, are they written ?
Does each sign, or group of these
curious signs, spell a word letter
after letter, as modern writing does ?
Or do they give syllable after sylla-
ble, after the manner of some an-
cient people? Or does each group
simply mean a word, as the Chinese
characters do? Can we answer?
Is it possible to ascertain the pur-
port and meaning of these records ?

These were the questions puz-
zling the scholars of Europe as
they looked on the inscriptions
placed before them. More puz-
zling questions, one would think,
could scarcely be devised. How
much or how little was already
known about this style of inscrip-
tions, these strange arrow-headed,
nail-formed, wedge-shaped, clavi-
form, or cuneiform letters, as men
styled them?

They were evidently the "Assy-
rian letters" mentioned by Herodo-
tus. But neither he nor any other

494

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

ancient writer gave any aid whatever
towards their interpretation.

The moderns could tell little of
them. In 1620 Figueroa, the Spanish
traveller and diplomatist, publish-
ed some account of the inscriptions
he had seen in Persepolis, and gave
a fac-simile of one line of this
arrow-headed writing. A year or
two later Pietro Delia Valle, who
spent years travelling in Asia, pub-
lished another specimen, and, from
a general consideration of its appear-
ance, decided that the writing, be it
in what language it may, was to be
read from left to right, as European
languages are read, and not from
right to left, as the Hebrew, Chaldee,
Arabic, and other Semitic languages
are to be read, nor from top to bot-
tom, as the Chinese read their in-
scriptions. But beyond this he
could not go.

Fifty years later a French travel-
ler, M. Chardin, published drawings
of the inscriptions he had copied in
Persepolis. Other travellers gave
further accounts of such inscriptions
at Persepolis, Ramadan, and else-
where in Western Persia. They
spoke especially of the magnificent
inscription of Bisutun or Behistun.
Following the grand caravan route
from Bagdad to Ispahan, the tra-
veller finds himself in the beauti-
ful valley of the Kerkha River. On
his left rise rugged limestone cliffs.
At one spot the road runs at the
base of a gigantic perpendicular
cliff, fully 1,700 feet high. In some
ancient time workmen made their
way up, by scaffolding, three hun-
dred feet and more above the road,
where they smoothed a large space
of the face of the rock, cutting out
weak and soft portions, and careful-
ly plugging the cavities with firmer
and stronger pieces of the same
stone. On this smoothed surface
they cut their figures of majestic

stature. A monarch, armed and tri-
umphant, stands erect, one foot
pressing on a prostrate foe. Above
his head floats the winged form
of a heathen deity. Before him
stands a line of nine other captives,
united together by a cord passing
from neck to neck. For the king and
for each captive there is a short in-
scription. Below, on the face of the
rock there are hundreds of lines of
inscriptions, every letter, over an
inch in length, being cut neatly and
carefully into the smoothed and
perpendicular face of the cliff. The
whole was then floated, as the plas-
terers would say, with a wash of
fluid glass, which in drying left a
transparent, silicious crust or film,
saving the work from the ravages of
wind and rain and time. Much of
this coating is still in place, more
of it has flaked off, and fragments
of it may be gathered from the de-
bris at the foot of the cliff.

In 1765 Carsten Niebuhr visited
those regions, and, after long study,
came to the opinion that there
were here three different styles of
inscription, probably in three differ-
ent languages. In this case one
of them was probably the Persian.
From that date on Niebuhr, M (in-
ter, Grotefend, De Sacy, Saint-
Martin, Rask, and others pored
over these strange letters, studied
out the Sanscrit and the Zend or
ancient Persian, and, devoting
themselves laboriously to the sim-
pler and presumed Persian portions
of the inscriptions, finally succeed-
ed in making out one letter after
another, and discovered that this
part, at least, was of course to be
read alphabetically. They began
to guess at the sense of some oft-
recurring word or phrase, or of
what were apparently royal names or
titles. Great was their exultation
when they were sure at last that a

CiLaldean Account of the Creation.

495

certain oft-recurring group of cha-
racters (which, we have no type
to print) was to be read " Khsha-
yathiya Khshayathiyandm," and
meant "King of kings." By 1836
Lassen, Burnouf, and Sir Henry
Rawlinson claimed to be able to
make out, at least in a general way,
the sense of those Persian portions.
Other scholars followed them, mak-
ing still further advances. Those
Persian inscriptions were found to
commemorate the deeds of Cyrus,
Darius, Xerxes, and other Persian
monarchs of their epoch.

The inscriptions were, as Nie-
buhr had conjectured, in three
languages. The second, called the
Scythic or Turanian, was in charac-
ters more difficult and more com-
plex than the Persian writing. The
ihird, and still more difficult, por-
tions were supposed to be in some
ancient Assyrian language per-
haps even in. several distinct forms
or dialects of it. They had not yet
been read when Botta and Layard
made their discoveries in the
mounds, and filled the museums of
Europe with thousands of inscrip-
tions, whole or fragmentary, all evi-
dently of this third class. The task
was taken up by the scholars of
Europe with renewed ardor. If
the difficulties were great, they had
at least a fair starting point in the
Persian portions already decipher-
ed ; but the difficulty was still great.
Those groups of arrow-headed char-
acters seemed to shift their mean-
ing in a bewildering fashion.
Sometimes they represented let-
ters, sometimes syllables, sometimes
words or monograms. Again, the
same group sometimes seemed to
represent one letter, and at another
quite a different letter ; while, as if
to compensate this multiplicity of
values of a single sign, it was evi-
dent that frequently several signs

had the same identical value, and
might be interchanged one for an-
other. Add to all this the fact that
they were not yet sure in what lan-
guage or what dialect these inscrip-
tions of Ninive were written, nor,
even in a general way, what they
treated of, and it will be clear that
the task of deciphering them was in
truth a puzzling one. The more
clearly men saw what was to be
done, the more difficult it appeared
to do it. Progress could be made
only by a series of tentative guess-
es. When one proclaimed that he
had attained some result, however
small, that result was attacked by
others, and sometimes proved to be
illusory. However, despite of thou-
sands of failures, despite of ridicule
and disbelief, progress was gradual-
ly made. In March, 1857, Mr. Fox
Talbot selected the first cuneiform
inscription which had been litho-
graphed by the trustees of the
British Museum, and proposed it
as a test. Four of the chief stu-
dents of this new literature were
to make, each apart, and without
consultation with the others, his own
translation of it, to be sent under
seal to the Royal Asiatic Society.
When all had come in, the seals
were to be broken and the several
translations compared. In May,
1857, this was done. The follow-
ing translations of one passage of
the inscription will serve as a sam-
ple of how they agreed :

: "Then I went on to the
country of Comukha, which was disobe-
dient, and withheld the tribute and offer-
ings due to Ashur, my lord. I conquer-
ed the whole country of Comukha. I
plundered their movables, their wealth,
and their valuables. Their cities I burn-
ed with fire, I destroyed and ruined."

Talbot: "I then advanced against
Kumikhi, a land of the unbelievers, who
had refused to pay taxes and tribute unto
Ashur, my lord. The land of Kumikhi

49 6

Chaldean Account of tJie Creation.

throughout all its extent I ravaged.
Their women, etc., I carried off. Their
cities I burned with fire, destroyed, and
overthrew."

Oppert <! In those days I went to the
people of Dummukh, the enemy who
owed tribute and gifts to the god Ashur,
my lord. I subdued the people of Dum-
mukh ; for its punishment!?). I took
away their captives, their herds, and their
treasures ; their cities I burnt in fire ; I
destroyed, I undermined them."

Hincks : " At that time I went to a dis-
affected part of Qummukh, which had
withheld the tribute by weight and tale
belonging to Assur, my lord. I subdued
the land of Qummukh as far as it extend-
ed. I brought out their women, their
slaves, and their cattle ; their towns I
burned with fire, threw down, and dug
up."

Such a wonderful agreement of
those four translators in decipher-
ing the text of this inscription was
proof that the key had been found,
and that ere long this vast cunei-
form literature would emerge from
the tomb in which it had lain
buried for over two thousand five
hundred years. The experiment
was felt to have been eminently
successful.

We need not follow the further
labors of those and other Oriental-
ists in this new field of research, as
volume after volume appeared in
French, in German, and in Eng-
lish, giving translations of texts,
and rewriting the ancient history
of those Eastern lands. For years
it seemed that this would be the
chief literary result of those dis-
coveries. The lines of monarchs
were established, gaps were filled
up, broken links were restored, con-
tested dates were settled. Much
light was thrown on manners and
customs, and on the religious sys-
tems of the peoples, their wars and
conquests, and on the duration, suc-
cessions, and vicissitudes of the va-
rious dynasties which ruled over

them. A by no means small library
might be formed of the works on
these subjects published within the
last quarter of a century.

As it became known that Orien-
talists were gradually obtaining the
power of deciphering these Assy-
rian cuneiform inscriptions, and as
the extent of the field thus opened
to fresh researches was gradually
developed, hopes that seemed ex-
travagant were indulged as to the
results soon to be reached, and not
wholly without reason. These an-
cient Assyrians seemed to have been
possessed with an extraordinary pas-
sion for recording anything and
everything in their mysterious cha-
racters. Monarch after monarch
had taken pride in putting up pom-
pous inscriptions to perpetuate the
memory of his victories and of the
glorious events of his reign. From
such monuments might we not ob-
tain some record of their successive
dynasties, and learn something of
the history of their empires and
kingdoms ? Those grand bass-re-
liefs of marble or alabaster, repre-
senting deities, monarchs, sacred
bulls, or other mysterious figures ;
every representation of a battle-
scene, of a triumphal procession, of
the building of a city, of the sailing
of boats, or of what else you please,
had each its own cuneiform letter-
ing, now about to tell us its long-
hidden meaning. Everywhere seals,
cylinders, signets, or other small
objects of value, whether of agate,
of chalcedony, or of other hard and
precious stone, or of terra-cotta, had
its group of emblematic figures, often
with an inscription in minutest cha-
racters, nicely cut with a lapidary's
skill. The very bricks used in build-
ing those huge walls, hundreds of feet
long and ten or fifteen feet thick,
bore nearly every one of them, in
cuneiform characters, some name;

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

497

perhaps that of the monarch who
built the palace, or of the archi-
tect who planned and directed the
work, perhaps that of the work-
man who made the brick itself
and laid it in the wall.

And more than all this, all through
the debris of earth now filling cham-
ber after chamber, and more abun-
dantly towards the bottom, the ex-
plorers found countless fragments
of terra-cotta or baked clay tablets,
bearing generally cuneiform inscrip-
tions on both sides. Some of those
fragments were not an inch in
length or breadth ; others were even
a foot square or larger. It was
possible sometimes lo fit a number
of fragments together. They had
been found lying near together, and
had originally formed one piece,
that was broken when it fell. A
thorough examination of the cha-
racter of the material and of the
work, and their present condition,
made it clear that originally they
were slabs or tablets of fine clay,
well kneaded and pressed into form.
While still comparatively soft, they
had received the inscriptions at the
hands of skilled scribes. This the
marks of the metal tool or style
used in inscribing the letters on the
yielding clay made quite evident.
The tablets so inscribed were then
hardened by baking, and were plac-
ed in upper rooms of the palace
devoted to the purposes of a libra-
ry. When at last the palace itself
was destroyed by fire, the heat may
have cracked" or otherwise injured
some of them. Their fall, as the
rooms were destroyed and the slabs
precipitated into a heated mass of
ruins in the lower masonry cham-
bers, must have broken most of
them into fragments. The spade
and mattock, as men overturned
again and again this mass Qidcbristo
recover gold and silver and jewelry
VOL. xxiv. 32

buried in it, may have continued
the work of destruction ; and per-
haps time has since done more than
all these agencies. For the yearly
rains of twenty-five centuries, sink-
ing into this soil and taking up
chemical agents from the mass on
every side, would in turn react on
these plates of clay, producing crys-
tals in every minutest fissure or ca-
vity, and slowly but surely dividing'
them into minuter and minuter
fragments. However, the fragments
are there, covered with writing. In
the mound of Kouyunjik alone there
may be, it is judged, twenty-five
or thirty thousand of them. How
many more may be found in other
mounds of Ninive ? And as to
the mounds of Babylon and its
vicinity, so little as yet has been
done to them in comparison with
the work at Ninive that we may
say they are still almost untouched..

If the Assyrians had libraries, and
if those libraries have come down-
to us, be it even only as tattered
leaves and torn volumes, may wt-
not yet gather together these frag-
ments, or at least some portion of
them, decipher what is written, anil
so become acquainted with some-
thing of this ancient Assyrian lite-
rature ? What did men then know?
What did they believe ? What did
they write ? It was hoped that we
were on the very eve of discoveries
equalling, if not far surpassing, in
extent and in importance, those
made in the earlier half of this cen-
tury by the discovery of how to-
read the ancient hieroglyphs of
Egypt. We cannot say that these-
hopes have so far been fully real-
ized. Far from it. We are still at
the beginning of the work ; but the-
work goes bravely on.

Attention was at first, and natu-
rally, directed to the grander and
more prominent public monuments

498

CJial'dcan Account of the Creation.

and inscriptions. From them much
has been learned of the series of
Assyrian monarchs and concern-
ing their deeds, and light has been
thrown on many obscure points of
chronology. The statements of the
Holy Scriptures in reference to the
relations of the Jewish people with
Babylon and Ninive during the
thousand years preceding Christ,
and Biblical references to the char-
acter and customs of the Assyrians
and Babylonians, have been won-
derfully illustrated.

Other classes of inscriptions, on
fragments of the terra-cotta tiles or
tablets, gave accounts of the divi-
sions of the empire, the character,
and almost the statistics, of the pro-
vinces. The laws and usages then
in force, and the peculiarities of
ftheir domestic life, are sometimes
(presented with a vividness that
startles us.

Strange to say, and equally to the
surprise and the delight of those
;now laboring in the work of deci-
phering this enigmatical writing,

quite a number of tablets were
ifound written for the special pur-
,pose of explaining to the ancient
students of Assyria, in simpler and
more legible, or rather more pro-
,nounce&ble, characters, the meaning
.and the sound of the more abstruse
.and ideographic characters so fre-

quently occurring in the texts of
the inscriptions. These supply us

to-day with what we may call, and
what is in reality, a dictionary of
their hard words, giving their cor-
rect pronunciation and their mean-
ing.

Still other tablets were devoted
to astronomy, to astrology, to
medicine, to sorcery, to hymns of
religion and prayers of sacrifice, to
history, .to geography, to poetry,
and .to whatever might be embraced
by the. term Assyrian belles-lettres.

Acceptable as all this is, some-
thing more was expected. Was
there nothing to illustrate the ear-
lier history of mankind, nothing in
relation to those earlier events
which are narrated by Moses as
having occurred in this very land ?
They are dear to us because inter-
twined with our religious and mor;il
training. Was it possible that there-
was no trace whatever of them, nor
even an allusion to them, to be
found in all this mass of Assyrian
writings ?

Berosus, a Babylonian priest of
the time of Alexander the Great,
about three hundred years before
Christ, wrote a history of Babylon.
The work itself has perished; but
we have some accounts of it in sun-
dry Greek writers. According to
them, Berosus distinctly stated that
accounts were carefully preserved
in Babylon in which were recorded
the formation of the heavens, the
eaith, and the sea, the origin of man,
and the chief memorable events of
the early history of the world. Why
had we come across nothing of all
this ? Was it because Berosus
spoke of ancient tablets at Babylon,
and the tablets whose fragments we
were scrutinizing are, for the most
part, from Ninive, and, in their pre-
sent form at least, date back gene-
rally only seven, eight, or nine cen-
turies before Christ ?

No other reason seemed assigna-
ble ; and it appeared that, to ob-
tain such tablets, we must wait
until the mounds of Babylon shall
be as carefully and as thoroughly
excavated as those of Ninive.
When will that be done ? In the
meantime let us be patient and
make the most we can of what we
have.

Things were in this condition in
1872. In that year Mr. George
Smith, of the British Museum, a

Chaldean Account of tlic Creation.

499

young and ardent Assyriologist, who
has indeed proved himself worthy
lo continue the labors of Rawlin-
son, Hincks, Oppert, Lenormant,
Talbot, and the other distinguished
Oriental scholars of Europe, was
occupied in the task of examining
one by one the thousands of cunei-
form terra-cotta fragments collected
in the Assyrian department of that
institution. He intended to. divide
them into classes, according to the
subjects on which they seemed to
treat, in order that each class
might afterwards be more thor-
oughly studied by itself.

Taking up one day a fragment,
of medium size, the middle lines
of which were entire and could be
plainly made out, he read as fol-
lows :

44 To the country of Nizir went the ship ;

The mountains of Nizir stopped the ship, and to

pass over it was not able ;
The first day and the second day, the mountains of

Nizir, the same ;
The third day and the fourth day, the mountains

of Nizir, the same ;
The fifth and the sixth, the mountains of Nizir, the

same.

On the seventh clay, in the course of it,
I sent forth a dove, and' it left. The dove went

and turned ;

A resting-place it did not find, and it returned.
I sent forth a swallow, and it left. Ihe swallow

went and turned ; and

A resting-place it did not find, and it returned.
I sent forth a raven, and it left. The raven went,

and the decrease of waters it saw, and
It did eat, it swam, and wandered away, and did

not return."

There could be no mistake about
it. This was evidently a portion of
a cuneiform inscription which gave
an Assyrian version of the history
of the Deluge. Could he pick out,
from among the thousands and
thousands of fragments, great and
small, around him in the collection,
the other pieces of the same tablet,
so as to have the whole ? or were
they still lying buried in the mound
of Kouyunjik, whence Layard had
brought the fragment he is reading?
That was the question before Mr.

Smith. He set himself to the task
of practically answering it. Month
after month was spent in the labor
of scrutinizing, matching, and de-
ciphering fragments. Success re-
warded this perseverance, almost
beyond his expectation. In De-
cember he was able to electrify the
literary world of London. He lec-
tured on the " Chaldean Account of
the Deluge," and was able to present
to his audience the greater portion
of the cuneiform text. It corre-
sponded wonderfully not only in the
main points, but sometimes even
in details, with the account of Gen-
esis. It differed from it chiefly
by the introduction of poetic and
mythological imagery, and in a few
minor details such details as men
will naturally vary in, while they
retain the substance and general
truth of an account.

About this time the New York
Herald had attained a world wide
and well-deserved celebrity by hav-
ing sent Stanley on a bold and
successful mission to find Living-
stone in the heart of Africa. Other
papers naturally wished to imitate,
if not to rival, the great deed. The
London Daily Telegraph saw its
opportunity, seized it at once, and
sent out Mr. Smith to Mesopotamia,
to make further excavations in the
mound of Kouyunjik and elsewhere,
and to obtain more of those inter-
esting fragments. This he strove
to do, though under many embar-
rassments from the opposition or
the petulance of ignorant and ar-
bitrary Turkish officials. He was
forced to bring his work to a close-
just when he felt that he had enter-
ed well into it. The results, how-
ever, of that trip have since turned
out to be greater and more impor-
tant than he then thought. He soon
went out again to resume and con-
tinue the work under the auspices

500

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

of the British Museum, and he suc-
ceeded in obtaining for its col-
lection still another large instal-
ment of the much-coveted frag-
ments, together with many other
valuable articles. Since his return
'to England in June, 1874, he has
given himself up almost entirely to
the study of those fragments, classi-
fying, comparing, and uniting them
where possible, and deciphering the
inscriptions.* In the work before
us f he gives to the public some spe-
cial results attained by a little over
one year's labor. We catch the
words if only the muttered and
broken words of this early Assyri-
an literature, yet words of high-
est importance, because they bear
directly on the topics narrated in
the earliest chapters of the Holy
Scriptures. As we read them, we
feel like one standing by the bed-
side of a sick man, and listening to
his fitful and feverish utterances.
You catch a word here and a word
there, perhaps scarcely enough to
guide you. Now and then a sen-
tence is spoken out with startling
distinctness, to be followed only by
low, almost unintelligible murmur-
ings. Still, if you know what the
patient is speaking of, you may fol-
low his train of thought, at least
after a fashion.

We take up the special subjects
of some of these deciphered tablets.
Following the Biblical and histor-
ical order of events, we commence
with

THE CREATION.

It is fortunate that the very com-
mencement of the Chaldean legend

* Since this article was written we regret to have
received the announcement of Mr. Smith's death.
In 1876 he made a third trip for the purpose of fur-
ther explorations, and on his way homeward died
at Aleppo, August 19, of fever, or, as some suspect,
of foul play at the hands of the Turkish officials, in
revenge for his published censures of them.

t Chaldean Account of Genesis.

on this subject possibly the written
account which Berosus mentions is
found on a comparatively large and
legible fragment. We give it line
by line as Mr. Smith has translated
it, marking the missing portions by
points. It will serve as a favorable
sample of the condition of such
fragments :

' WHEN ADOVE were not raised the heavens :

And below, on the earth, a plant had not grown
up;

The abysses also had not broken open their boun-
daries.

The chaos Tiamate [the abyss of waters] was the
producing-mother of them.

Those waters at the beginning were ordained: but

A tree had not grown, a flower had not unfolded.

When the gods had not sprung up, any one of
them :

A plant had not grown, and order did not exist.
Were made the great gods,

The gods Lahmu and Lahamu they caused to
come . . .

And they grew . . .

The gods Sar and Kisar were made . . .

The course of days and a long time passed . . .

The god Ami . . .

The gods Sar and . . .

These fifteen lines, six of them
imperfect, are all that we have of
the inscription on the face or ob-
verse of this tablet. Judging from
the inscriptions on other fragments
of similar tablets, there were proba-
bly fifty lines on the face of the
tablet when entire, and perhaps
thirty or forty of text on the back,
or reverse of it, all missing as yet,
except what we have given.

On the upper portion of the back,
above the thirty or forty lines refer-
red to as missing, and fortunately
on the back of the fragment before
us, was placed a curious and inter-
esting inscription, serving both as
title and preface, and throwing light
on the history and character of the
material fragments before us. The
inscription reads as follows :

u First tablet of WHEN ABOVE

Palace of Assurbanipal, King of Nations, King of
Assyria,

To whom Nebo and Tastnit [Assyrian deities]
attentive ears have given :

He sought with diligent eyes the wisdom of the in-
scribed tablets,

Chaldean Account of tJie Creation.

501

Which among the kings who went before me,

None those writings had sought.

The wisdom of Nebo, the impressions of the god

my instructor all delightful,

On the tablets I wrote, I studied. I observed, and
For the inspection of my people, within my palace,

1 placed."

The Assyrians, we see, like the
Israelites and other Eastern nations,
frequently designated their books,
not by the subjects treated of, but
by the initial words. The book
the commencement of which we
see on this fragment of terra-cotta
was known to them, and they subse-
quently refer to it, by the title,
WHEN ABOVE.

We see also that the fragments
which we possess are remnants of
a series of tablets which were pre-
pared and placed in his palace at
Ninive by the Assyrian monarch
Assurbanipal, son of Esarhaddon,
the celebrated Sardanapalus of
Grecian writers, renowned for his
luxury and magnificence, and who,
seeing his kingdom at length sub-
verted and his capital taken, pre-
ferred to perish with his family in
the conflagration of his own palace,
rather than yield himself a prisoner
into the hands of his enemies. He
reigned from B.C. 673 to B.C. 625.
From this inscription, and from
many other notices, we learn that
during his reign he followed up
with ardor the literary work of his
father and grandfather, and of
several of their predecessors. He
sought out the more ancient literary
treasures of Babylon, Cutha, Erech,
Akkad, Borsippa, Ur, Niptir, and
other older cities then under his
sway ; caused them to be carefully
copied out on fresh tablets of terra-
cotta, and to be placed in his own
Royal Library at Ninive. It is
thus almost entirely to Assurbani-
pal and his patronage of learning
that we owe what we now know, or
hope soon to possess, of this oldest
of all national literatures

Reverting to our fragmentary
tablet, and comparing the verbose
text of this remarkable inscription
with the brief account of Moses
(Gen. i. i, 2), we cannot but note
the contrast between the clear and
emphatic statement of the inspired
writer, " In the beginning God
created the heavens and the earth,"
on one side, and on the other the
vague and undecided statement of
thecuneiform writer, "Those waters
[or chaos] at the beginning wen-
ordained:'"

It may be presuming too much
on our present ability to translate
with accuracy every individual word
of these tablets for us to give much
weight to a single word or isolat-
ed expression ; but it would seem
that the early Assyrians, even if
they had lost, or at least were ac-
customed to leave in the background,
the idea of the unity of God, and
were commencing to indulge in
mythological fancies, had not, how-
ever, gone as yet so far astray as to
hold the primeval chaos to have ex-
isted of itself from eternity. On
the contrary, they believed that at
the beginning it was ordained.
There is here a trace, at least, of
the idea of creation by a superior
Power.

The watery character of the
abyss is an idea common to both
narratives. Whence this agree-
ment ? Could the void and formless
character of the original chaotic
mass be conceived under no other
condition than that of a watery
mist ?

Moses distinctly indicates the
exercise of the power of the true
and supreme God in the further
progress of creation: "And tin-
Spirit of God moved upon the face
of the waters." The inscription,
leaving that out of sight, in this in-
stance at least, gives us the primor-

502

Chaldean Account of tlie Creation.

dial conceptions of mythology. The
gods, who at the beginning ' had not
sprung up, any one of them," soon
commence to appear " are made."
They are evidently personifications
or deifications of the divisions or
the powers of nature, perhaps poetic
fancies in the beginning, to become
in course of time mythological per-
sonages, and then heathen divini-
ties, to be worshipped with altars
and sacrifices.

Here Lahmu and Lahainu (mas-
culine and feminine) represent the
povvers of motion and reproduction,
the earliest forces recognized as ori-
ginally existing, or made to exist, in
the chaotic abyss. Stir (or Assor-
us) and Kissar are the upper and
the lower heavens. Anu represents
the firmament, while Zs/wand Hea
whose names (if we follow an ex-
cerpt from Berosus) probably fol-
lowed that of Anu in the broken
line stood for the earth and the
sea.

The tablet to which this frag-
ment belonged was evidently only
a general introduction to a series of
eight, or perhaps more, tablets, each
one forming, as it were, a special
portion or chapter or canto to the en-
tire legend or book known by the
name WHEN ABOVE, detailing the
creation of the world.

Of the second, third, and fourth
tablets we have as yet only two
fragments. At least, those frag-
ments are judged to belong here
probably to the third as they both
appear to treat of the formation of
the firm, dry land :

lv When the foundations of the ground of rock (thou

didst make),

The foundation of the ground, thou didst call . . .
Thou didst beautify the heavens . . .
To the face of the heaven . . .
Thou didst give ...

We have here the poetic form
of an address directed to the Crea-

tor, perhaps to the Supreme God.
If this be so, the true idea of the
Divinity stands forth more distinct-
ly here than in the former frag-
ment. But the address may have
been to Elu, or to Hea, or to some
other inferior god, now made and
acting. Only the recovery of more
of the tablet can decide the ques-
tion.

The other fragment is longer, and
contains portions of a greater num-
ber of lines. But it is so mutilated,
and the words recognizable in each
line are so few, that the meaning
of the whole scarcely rises to ob-
scurity. Some words are said
about the " sea " and the " firma-
ment," and the "earth" "for the
dwelling of man."

We come now to another frag-
ment of larger size and in a better
condition. It speaks of the forma-
tion of the sun and the moon and
the stars, and corresponds to Gene-
sis i. 14-19 :

" It was delightful, all that was fixed by the great

Gods.
Stars, their appearance (in figures) of animals he

arranged.
To fix the year through the observation of their

constellations,
Twelve months (or signs) of stars in three rows he

arranged,
From the day when the year commences unto the

close.
He marked the positions of the wandering stars

(planets) to shine in their courses,
That they may not do injury, and may not

trouble any one.

" The god Uru [the moon] he caused to rise out,

the night he overshadowed.
To fix it also for the light of the night, until the

shining of the day.
That the month might not be broken, and in its

amount be regular.
At the beginning of the month, at the rising of the

flight,
His horns are breaking through, to shine on the

heaven.

On the seventh day, to a circle he begins to swell.
And stretches towards the dawn further,
When the god Shamas (the sun) iu the horizon of

heaven in the east.
. . . formed beautifully and . . .

... to the orbit Shamas was perfected
. . . the dawn Shamas should change,
... going on in its path."

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

503

On the back of this fragment, at
the top, is found this inscription :

ik Fifth tablet of WHEN ABOVE

Country of Assurbaripal, King of Nations, King
of Assyria,"

If, as we remarked above, the
first tablet of WHEN ABOVE be look-
ed on as a general introduction to
the whole subject, the remarkable
fact becomes apparent that the As-
syrian writer followed precisely the
same division and order of the de-
tails of the creation which we find
in Genesis. Tablet II. would cor-
respond with the work of the first
day, and Tablet III. and IV. with
that of the second and third day, as
here Tablet V. clearly is occupied
with the work of the fourth day.
It is generally acknowledged that
the word day in the Mosaic account
does not mean that the work there
mentioned was done in the space of
twenty-four hours. The term day
is understood by many to mean an
undetermined and probably a long
period of time. It may even be,
that the term day has been used by
Moses nbt in an historical sense,
as we ordinarily would take it, but
rather in a liturgical or religious
sense, paralleling and adapting the
six divisions of the creative work,
and the cessation from it, to the
six days of labor and one day of
rest which constituted the Jewish
week. In this way Moses would
give to the Jewish people an ever-
recurring cycle of hebdomadal ser-
vicen, something like that still found
in the Eastern liturgies, where on
each day that day's work is the
chief and almost exclusive theme
of religious service. Beyond this
agreement in the mode of dividing
the progress of creation an agree-
ment carried out in the tablets to
follow there are other points to be
noted. In the first line of this
fragment, as also on other frag-

ments, we read an approval of \vhat
has already been done: "It \\as
delightful, all that was fixed by the
great gods." In Genesis we find
the oft-repeated statement, "And
God saw that it was good." Moses
places this approbation at the con-
clusion of each day's work. The
cuneiform writer places it at tin-
beginning of the next day's work.

We see, too, in the continued use
of the personal pronoun He, that
the work is attributed to the true
and Supreme God. The plural
phrase, the great gods, does not
militate against this view ; for this
form, it seems to us, is a parallel to
the early Hebrew name of God, ZfA;-
//;/, likewise a plural form. This
form was used to convey to their
minds by the very mode of speech
a deeper sense of the infinite power
and majesty of God, and served as
a fuller expression of their rever-
ence for him. Even in our mod-
ern languages there is a trace of
some such feeling. It is generally
more respectful to address one in
the plural form you, vous, sie than
in. the singular. If we thus take
the phrase, " the great gods," in
our cuneiform texts to mean, as it
certainly may in many places, the
one true and Supreme God, the
primitive doctrine of monotheism
will be found to stand out in bold
relief in these texts, perhaps the ear-
liest we have of human writing.

Even the mention of several gods
by name, in succession, may have
been consistent with monotheism.
On one tablet we have glosses in-
forming the reader that the six
names there given in succession
are all names of the same god ; and
another tablet speaks of the fifty
names of the Great God. They
seem not to have been interchange-
able. The use of one or of another
depended, perhaps, on some special

504

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

character or tone of the thought to
be expressed.

It may be observed, also, that in
our text the moon seems to be pre-
ferred to the sun as the more im-
portant orb of the two. The ac-
count of Moses is simpler, and,
what is more to the purpose, is
true, and has not had to be correct-
ed by the advance of astronomical
science in modern days.

The sixth tablet, referring pro-
bably to the work of the fifth day,
is altogether absent. The fifth tab-
let bore at its conclusion the catch-
words with which the sixth com-
menced. But they do not help us.
The seventh tablet commences with
the statement that " the strong mon-
sters were delightful . . . which
the gods in their assembly had
created.'.' We may take it for grant-
ed, then, that the sixth tablet spoke
of the creation of fishes and whales
and monsters of the deep, and per-
haps also of the birds of the air
(Gen. i. 23).

The seventh tablet has fourteen
lines, most of them mutilated. But
it tells us that " the gods caused to
be, living creatures," ..." cattle
of the field," " beasts of the field,"
and " creeping things of the field "
. . . and "creeping things of the
city," agreeing even in some of the
terms used with the account of
Genesis i. 24, 25.

Lower down on the fragment,
where the lines are very much bro-
ken, mention is made of two . . .
"who have been created, and of
the assembly of creeping things
. . . being caused to go" . . .
somewhere or before somebody ;
of " beautiful flesh" and " pure pre-
sence." It is unfortunate that these
concluding lines are so shattered,
and still more that of the thirty-five
or forty other lines which must
have followed, on the face of this

tablet, not one letter has as yet
been found. For this is the pas-
sage in which we should look for
an account of the actual creation
of the first man and the first woman,
and of the bestowal on man of
power and authority over the rest
of creation. We may entertain the
hope that some considerable por-
tion, at least, of these missing frag-
ments may yet be found. It will
certainly be an interesting inquiry
to ascertain how far they may, even
in details, accord with the expres-
sions of Moses on this subject.

This seventh tablet correspond-
ed with the work of the sixth day.
As the Assyrian writer does not
follow a division by days, he does
not give us another tablet answer-
ing to the seventh day of rest. His
eighth tablet, and any others that
may have followed, would naturally
narrate subsequent events.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

Of the eighth tablet there exists
only a single fragment bearing
twenty-seven lines, whole or muti-
lated, on the face, an<J fifteen, all
mutilated, on the reverse. The
first is evidently an address to the
newly-created man. The opening
words are on the question of his
eating something, though whether a
command (Genesis ii. 16) or a pro-
hibition (Genesis ii. 17) is not clear.
The occurrence of the single word
" evil" in one of the lines may pro-
bably indicate the latter. The text
then goes on to instruct man as to
his duty to God :

" Every day thy God them shall approach [or in-
voke] ;

Sacrifice, prayer of the mouth and instruments . . .

To thy God in reverence thou shah carry.

Whatever shall be suitable for divinity,

Supplication, humility, and bowing of the face.

FirafjM, thou shaitgive to him, andthoa shah brin^
tribute,

Ani in the fear also of God thou shalt be holy.

CJ laid can Account of the Creation.

505

In the fragmentary lines that fol-
low further instructions seem to be
given for religious worship and for
moral life.

The other side of this fragment
contains apparently a discourse to
the newly-created woman. The
commencement for many lines is
entirely lost, as is also the termina-
tion, and what we have from the
middle is exceedingly broken and
indistinct. There is something
about her sharing "the beautiful
place," evidently with the man,
and her being with him or in his
presence "to the end "; something
apparently about his beauty and
her beauty, and about her giving
him drink. She is told :

" To the lord of thy beauty thou shall be faithful ;
To do evil thou shalt not approach him."

Perhaps the recovery of other frag-
ments may tell us more of this
" beautiful place " which the wo-
man is to share with man. So far
we do not find in the inscriptions
any account of the Garden of Eden.
But even before Mr. Smith had
commenced deciphering them, Raw-
linson had pointed out how the Ti-
gris and Euph rates, the Ukni and
the Surappi, were, in all probability,
the four rivers designated by Moses,
the two latter, under the more an-
cient names Phison and Gehon, as
the streams of Eden ; and how the
garden itself might be placed in
the district of Ganduniyas. Many
circumstances unite in showing that
among the Babylonians there did
exist some religious tradition on
this subject, although we cannot
yet know its special form. They
certainly spoke of a sacred grove
of Ann, inaccessible now to man
because it is guarded by a sword
turning to all the four points of
the compass.

The passage in the instruction t >
the man, in which he is commanded
to offer sacrifice to God even holo-
causts (for this is what is meant by
" fire " ) is also worthy of remark.
It is an additional argument show-
ing that from the earliest ages, and
in the earliest home of mankind,
men believed that God had com-
manded our first father to offer sac-
rifice a belief which passed with
man from that home to whatever re-
gion he afterwards occupied, and
which has led all nations to offer
sacrifice, under some form or other,
as a special homage to the Deity.

THE FALL.

Another fragment of a tablet is
in the usually tantalizing condition.
The upper half, if not more than
half, is gone, as is likewise a portion
at the bottom. On the front we
count thirty-two lines, the first four
and the last nine too mutilated to
be intelligible. On the reverse are
thirty-two lines, eight of them more
or less incomplete. The beginnings
and the terminations of both in-
scriptions are missing.

In the first inscription six gods
are blessing and praising the newly-
created man, who is " good " " and
without sin," and is " established in
the company of tne gods," and " re-
joices their heart." Though six
gods are named separately, glosses
in each instance inform the reader
that these are all titles of one and
the same god.

On the other side of the tablet,
in the second inscription, all is
changed. Every line is a denun-
ciation or an imprecation on man
for some evil which, in connection
with the dragon Tiamat, he has
done. Tiamat also is to be punish-
ed. The lines referring to Tiamat
are very defective ; but the por-

5 o6

Chaldean Account of t/te Creation.

lion against the man is clear and
strong :

*' The god Hea heard and his liver was angry,
Because man had corrupted his purity.

In the language of the fifty great gods,

By his fifty names he calbd, and turned away in
anger from him ;

Alay he be conquered and at once cut oflf.

Wisdom and knowledge, hostilely may they in-
jure him.

May they put at erniity also father and son, and
may they plunder.

To king, ruler, and governor may they bend their
ear.

May they cause anger also to the lord of the
gods. Merodach.

His land, may it bring forth, but he not touch it.

His desire shall be cut off, and his will be unan-
swered ;

The opening of his mouth no god shall take no-
tice of ;

His back shall be broken- and not be healed ;

At his urgent trouble no god shall receive him.

His heart shall be poured out, and his mind shall
be troubled ;

To sin and wron^ his fac2 shall come . . .

. . . front . . ."

Perhaps the continuation might
have softened what we have just
read by some promise of a redeemer
coming to rescue man and give
him hope of pardon. The imper-
fection of the earlier lines, and the
want of the many that preceded
them, leave us without anv precise
account of the evil act that man
had done, and of the motive that
prompted him to its commission.
That Tiamat was primarily con-
cerned in it, is evident from the ear-
lier portion of these lines referring
to Tiamat, and also from another
small fragment on which " Hea "
called to the man he had made, and
apparently warned him against " the
dragon of the sea," who was plot-
ting to lead him to " fight against his
father." The part that wisdom and
knowledge shall play in man's pun-
ishment may indicate that his of-
fence was somehow connected with
an unlawful seeking after forbidden
knowledge.

But the special details of the fall
of man, according to these cunei-
form legends, can only be known

when, if ever, tl^s full text shall be
recovered. Then, it may be, we
shall read in words the full story
as indicated by the design on an
ancient Babylonian cylinder taken
from the mounds. In the middle
stands a tree, laden with fruit. On
either side are seated a man and a
woman, stretching out their hands
as if to pluck the fruit. Behind the
woman a tortuous serpent raises his
head aloft, as if to whisper in her
ear.

In other designs the serpent is
replaced by a monster or dragon.
The name of the dragon is fre-
quently written by signs, or ideo-
graphically, " the scaly one." This
might mean either a sea monster,
a fish, or a serpent. The Assyrian
idea of a dragon is not altogether
alien to the primitive Scriptural
conception ; for in the Apocalypse
(xii. 7-9) mention is made of " the
great dragon, that old serpent, call-
ed the devil and Satan, who se-
duceth the whole world."

THE REBELLION OF THE EVIL
ANGELS.

Although in the account of the
creation of all things, in the be-
ginning, Moses makes no specific
mention of the angels, nor of their
rebellion against God, nor of the
punishment which they incurred
therefor, yet, as the subject is re-
ferred to by Isaias (xiv. 12-15) an d
Ezechiel (xxviii. 14-16), and by St.
Peter (2 Ep. ii. 4) and St. Paul
(Eph. ii. 2 and vi. 12) in the New
Testament, we may properly intro-
duce here what the cuneiform writ-
ings say on this subject. The As-
syrians seem to have had quite a
number of poems on such themes,
various fragments of which are
found in the collection before us.
As might be expected, there is an

Chaldean Account of tlic Creation.

exuberance of poetical imagery and
of mythological fancies in their
mode of treating such a subject.
But the mai points are salient
and clear. We are told in the frag-
ments of one poem of " the angels,"
" the evil gods " " who were in re-
bellion," who " had been created in
the lower part of heaven," of their
" evil work " and " wicked heads,"
and of their " setting up evil."
These "evil gods" "like a flood
descend and sweep over the earth.
To the earth like a storm they
come down." The fragments note
the preparations of the great gods
to overpower and punish them ; but
the conclusion is missing.

There are fragments of another
remarkable poem giving an account
of the revolt of the god Z//, appa-
rently the greatest of those rebel-
lious ones, and the leader, who " con-
ceived the idea of majesty in his
heart" and said :

u May my throne be established, may I possess the

parzi,

May I govern the whole of the seed of the angels.
And he hardened his heart to make war."

The father of the gods sends his
sons (the angels) to combat and
overpower Zu. His punishment is
to be :

k< Father, to a desert country do thou consign him ;
Let Zu not eome among the gods thy sons. 1 '

In all this we cannot but be re-
minded of the pride and ambition
of Lucifer, who said in his heart :
" I will ascend into heaven, I will
exalt my throne about the stars of
God, I will be like the Most High" ;
of his overthrow by the archangel
Michael; and of his puni'shment
perpetual exclusion from the com-
panionship of the angels and saints,
and from the beatific presence of
God in heaven, and his condemna-
tion for ever to hell, his abode of
suffering for ever more.

507

We may here leave these legends,
overwhelmed as they are with myth-
ological fables, and with more sat-
isfaction turn to other plainer words
and more prosaic facts.

THE TOWER OF BABEL AND THE
CONFUSION OF TONGUES.

One of the most striking events
narrated by Moses is the attempt
of the descendants of Noe to
build a lofty tower at Babel ; how
the attempt displeased God, and
how in his anger he confounded
their speech, so that they could
no longer understand one another.
Thus their attempt was defeated, and
they were scattered from that place
abroad upon the face of all coun-
tries (Genesis xi. 1-9).

In none of the Greek writers who
epitomize Berosus or make extracts
from his History of Babylon do \ve
find any intimation of, or reference
to, this event. Berosus seems to
have been entirely silent on it.
For years nothing relating to it
had come to light in all the search-
ing of inscriptions of any kind.
But lately Mr. George Smith, with
his usual good fortune, has come
across several small fragments of a
tablet which evidently gave the
whole history. The fragments are
small, and the inscriptions brief
and more mutilated than usual.
But we catch the sense. The gods
in heaven are angry because of the
sin of men on earth the place spe-
cially mentioned is Babylon ; there
a strong place or tower which men
all the day are building. " To their
strong place in the night God en-
tirely made an end." "In his an-
ger" " he confounded their speech,"
" their counsel was confused." " He
set his face to scatter them abroad."

Even should no additional por-
tions of this text be recovered,

5o8

Chaldean Account of tJie Creation.

these remarkable fragments will at-
test that the memory of the event
narrated in Genesis was long pre-
served, as well it might be, at Baby-
lon. It had its place in their na-
tional traditions. Should the full
text be ever restored, it may like-
wise be seen that this is the very
subject meant by those frequent
representations seen 6-n Babylonian
cylinders, where men are depicted,
after a very absurd and convention-
al style, busily employed in building
some circular or cylindrical struc-
ture.

THE DELUGE.

We have inverted the Scriptural
and chronological order of events
in speaking of the Tower of Ba-
bel before treating of the Deluge.
We did so, however, in order to be
able to treat this latter important
subject more at length. The Del-
uge was, as we have said, the sub-
ject of the fragmentary inscription
the discovery of which led Mr.
Smith into this special line of re-
search. By singular good fortune
this is the inscription which has
been most fully recovered. Of the
two hundred and ninety lines it
contained, there is not one of which
some words are not legible. By far
the greater portions of the lines are
perfect. This arises from the fact
that in the library of Assurbanipal
there were three copies, at least, of
this legend, which seems to have
been very popular. The lacuna or
missing portions of one it has been
generally easy to supply or fill up
from the recovered portions of the
others. The inscription filled the
eleventh tablet in a series of twelve,
which .Mr. Smith calls " The Le-
gends of Izdubar."

Izdubar, as he warns us, is only
a temporary makeshift name or
sound, adopted by him for the pre-

sent, and to be given up as soon as
he shall be satisfied as to the proper
sound to be given to the cuneiform
characters in which the name stands
written. Whatever the true sound
of his name, he was a celebrated
hero or king in the early .days of
Babylon. His name frequently oc-
curs in other inscriptions, and his
exploits are still more frequently
figured on Babylonian cylinders.
The peculiar cast of his countenance,
and the very marked way in which
his beard and his hair are ever
made to fall in long rolls or curls,
cause him to be recognized at a
glance, even in the coarsest repre-
sentations. We might almost call
him the Babylonian Hercules. All
that has been thus far learned con-
cerning him tends strongly to
identify this as yet nameless hero
with "Nimrod the mighty hunter
before the Lord" (Gen. x, 8, 9, 10).

The first ten tablets, which exist
only in the usual thoroughly-mutil-
ated condition, tell us of his adven-
tures, wars, victories, and ultimate
attainment of great power. At
last, having lost his trusted friend
and counsellor Heabani, and find-
ing himself stricken with a foul
disease, he sets out on a long and
difficult journey to seek the sage
Hasisadra, in order to be cured by
him.

This Hasisadra, as the tablet calls
him or XisutJiriiSy as the Greeks
have the name is no other than the
patriarch Noe, whom the Chaldean
legend supposes not to have died,
but to have been translated from
among men, as Henoch was, without
seeing death, and to have been
placed in some divinely guarded
spot where, by a special favor from
the gods, he enjoys immortality.
To him, after surmounting many
difficulties, Izdubar succeeds in
coming; and their speeches to each

Chaldean Account of the Creation.

other are commenced toward the
dose of the tenth tablet. On the
eleventh Izdubar questions him
about the Deluge, and he replies :

i% Ilasisadra after this manner also said to Izdubar:
Be revealed unto thee, Izdubar, the concealed story,
And the judgment of the gods be related to thee."

In the course of the narrative,
which he then gives, we are told of
the anger of the gods, and their
purpose to destroy the world be-
cause of its sin ; of the command
given to Hasisadra to build a ship
after the manner they would show
him, in order that therein " the
seed of life might be saved" ; of the
building of the ship ; of its size
(different from the measures given
in Genesis), the lining of it three
times with bitumen, and the launch-
ing of it. Into this ship, at the
proper time, there enter Hasisadra
and all his family, and " all his
male servants and his female ser-
vants," as also "the beasts of the
field and the animals of the field,"
which God " had gathered and sent
to him to be enclosed in his door."
Hasisadra brought in also " wine in
the receptacle of goats," which he
had "collected like the waters of a
river," and "food" in abundance
"like the dust of the earth," "his
grain, his furniture, his goods," all
his "gold," and all his "silver."
Also, as the text reads, " the sons
of the people all of them I caused to
go up." The number of persons
saved would thus far exceed the
number specially mentioned by
Moses.

' L A flood Shamas made, and

He spake saying in the night: I will cause it to nun

heavily ;
llnter to the midst of the ship and shut thy door.

That flood happened of which
He spake in the night, saying : I will cause it to

rain from heaven heavily.
In the day, I celebrated his festival ;
The day of watching, fear I had.
I entered to the midst of the ship and shut my
door.

509

To close the ship, to Buzur-sadirabi, the boatman,
The palace I gave with its goods."

The heavy clouds rising from the
horizon, the thunder, the lightning--:,
the rushing winds, the pouring tor-
rents of rain, are vividly presented
in a mythological garb :

" Of Vul, the flood reached to heaven ;
The bright earth to a waste was turned ;
The surface of the earth like ... it swept ;
It destroyed all life from the face of the earth . . .
The strong deluge over the people reached to heaven.
Brother saw not his brother ; they did not know the
people.

Six days and nights

Passed ; the wind, deluge, and storm overwhelmed.

On the seventh day, in its course was calmed the

storm ; and all the deluge,
Which had destroyed like an earthquake,
Quieted. The sea he caused to dry, and the wind

and deluge ended.

I perceived the sea making a tossing ;
And the whole of mankind turned to corruption,
Like reeds the corpses floated.
1 opened the window, and the light broke over my

face ;

It passed. I sat down and wept ;
Over my face flowed my tears."

Hasisadra proceeds to narrate
to his visitor the gradual lower-
ing of the waters, the appearance
of the mountains of Nizir, the
waiting during other days, and the
sending forth of the birds, as writ-
ten on the first fragment, .already
given. After this they left the ship ;
he built an altar and offered sacri-
fice, the odor of which was pleasant
to the gods ; and finally a promise
is made that a deluge shall not again
be sent, but that henceforth man
when guilty shall be punished in
other modes.

This concludes the narrative
proper of the Deluge. The conclu-
sion of the eleventh tablet informs
us of the healing of Izdubar and of
his return home. Of the twelfth
tablet only a few fragments remain.
It evidently narrated subsequent
adventures of the great national
hero. One fragment contains the
conclusion of the sixth and last
column of this closing tablet. It
presents a few lines from a lament
over the death of some one, pos-

5io

Ci Laid can Account of tJic Creation.

sibly of Izdubar himself, slain in
battle. We give it, with its refrain,
as a veritable and curious specimen
of the poetry in which men delight-
ed three thousand five hundred
years ago. We might call it the
poetry of pre-historic man :

" On a couch reclining and
Pure water drinking,
He who in battle is slain

Thou seest and I see.

" His father and his mother carry his head,
And his wife over him weeps ;
His friends on the ground are standing.
Thou seest and I see.

" His spoil on the ground is uncovered ;
Of the spoil account is not taken.

Thou seest and I see.

The captives conquered come after ; the food
Which in the tents is placed, is eaten."

There immediately follows the clos-
ing colophon, written by the scribe
under Assurbanipal :

" The twelfth tablet of the legends of Izdubar ;
Like the ancient copy, written and made clear."

When we place side by side this
Chaldean account of the Deluge
and that given by Moses, the
minor discrepancies between them
as to the size of the ship, and as
to the duration of the rain and the
deluge, sink, as it were, out of sight.
These are such variations as would
naturally arise in a case like this,
where a legend, after having been
transmitted orally from generation
to generation, is at length reduced
to writing, with, of course, careful
corrections and supposed emenda-
tions, and where many centuries la-
ter it is again written out with other
emendations, in order to "make it
clear " for the benefit of those that
would then read it. Some such dis-
crepancies must necessarily creep
in, even if the original form were
supposed to have been without any
error. This, however, can scarce-
ly be taken for granted. Neither
in its original form, nor in any later
form which it may have had, does

this legend enjoy the guarantee of
divine protection which the inspired
account of Moses possesses.

On the other hand, we are irre-
sistibly startled by the wonderful
agreement of those two accounts in
the main and substantial facts of
the narrative. We feel that this
agreement is not factitious. The
writers were too widely separated
in time and in country, as also by
education, to allow it. If they
agree, it can only be because of
the historical verity of the facts
they both record.

What may have been the actual
age of those " ancient tablets "
which Assurbanipal caused to be
copied and placed in his library,
and of which we have treated, can-
not at present be ascertained with
any degree of precision. Sufficient
data are not yet at hand to determine
the points. Most probably they are
not all of the same, or nearly the same,
date. Perhaps light may be thrown
on such questions by further deci-
pherings of the mass of cuneiform
writings. At present our judg-
ment or our guesses must be based
on two points : first, the occurrence,
in the text deciphered, of certain
local or historical references given
as contemporary, or very recent, at
the time when the inscription was
written ; and, secondly, such a
minute knowledge on our part of
the geography, history, and chronol-
ogy of those regions as will enable
us to decide accurately when and
where such statements, allusions, or
references can be verified. The
difficulty is that, with all the pro-
gress made up to this in decipher-
ing these inscriptions, we are still
liable to mistakes, especially in such
passing allusions and references as
are for our purpose important data,
but originally were to the writer
almost obiter dicta. A second diffi-

Chaldean Account of tJie Creation.

culty is found in the obscurity and
uncertainty which still hang around
the vicissitudes of early Chaldean
history and the geographical divi-
sions then existing.

Mr. Smith, however, after study-
ing the matter and weighing all the
data, thinks that none of the origi-
nal tablets we are considering can
have been written less than fifteen
hundred years before Christ. Most
of them, indeed, especially the
legends of Izdubar and the ac-
count of the creation, he believes
should be dated back as far as
2,000, or even 2,200, years before
Christ.

How many Voltairean sneers, and
how many crude utterances of crude
criticism by the so-called " advanc-
ed thinkers" in Germany and else-
where, against Moses and his nar-
rative, are deprived of all their
force, and have been made utterly
ridiculous and nonsensical, by the
discovery of this ancient and
indisputable corroborative testi-
mony ! Verily, the men of Ni-
nive have risen up in judgment
against them, and have condemned
them.

It has been a standard line of ar-
gument with the apologists and de-
fenders of Christianity, from the
second century down, to prove the
truth of our divine religion, and of
the primitive facts recorded in
Scripture, by the general and sub-
stantial agreement of all nations
on those points. This agreement,
it was evident, could only spring
from the fact that originally such
truths were known by men, and
had been retained by them ever
since in some form. Such truths
are still to be found in the com-
mon principles of morality, in the
agreement or similarity of nation-
al traditions ; and philosophic re-
search will show that they gener-

ally constitute the central nuclei
around which mythological fables
subsequently gathered or grew up.
Many modern writers have devot-
ed themselves to this theme. One
of the latest is the Abbe Gainet.
In his very full and learned work,
La Bible sans la Bible, he seems al-
most to exhaust the subject. Leav-
ing aside, for argument's sake, the
testimony of the Bible itself, and
loading his pages with quotations
and testimonies, heathen, infidel,
or Mahommedan, taken from every
quarter, he strives to establish, by
this independent and non-Biblical
line of proof, the truth, one by one,
of the chief Biblical statements.
What a splendid chapter would he
not have added to those in his
work had these discoveries been
made when he wrote ! To appeal
to men two thousand years or more
before Christ witnesses living in
the very region of the earth where
man was created, and which after
the Deluge became, as it were, a
second birthplace to him to re-
ceive from such witnesses this clear,
unimpeachable testimony as to the
creation of man, the fall, the pun-
ishment, the Deluge, the Tower of
Babel, and the confusion of tongues,
would indeed supply him with an-
other irrefragable argument in sup-
port of divine revelation, in addi-
tion to those he had already col-
lected. With our limited space,
however, we can only take a simpler
view.

Compare those Chaldean legends,
fragmentary as they are, often tur-
gid and verbose, with their poetic
forms and Oriental license, and with
the variations which are sometimes
exhibited in different versions of
the same legend compare them, we
say, with the clear, straightforward,
and almost tame narrative of
Moses. Need one ask which is the

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

simple narrative of truth, and which
seeks to wear the adornment of
lunnnn fancy ?

Other questions on this matter
call for an answer : How came it
that Moses, bom in Egypt, and
trained in all the knowledge of the
Egyptians, should, when undertak-
ing to write his history in the desert,
so utterly cast off all the ideas of
Egypt, and write a simple narra-
tive in absolute contradiction to
all the science of Egypt in his

day ? Above all, how comes it
that the truth of his narrative
should be so unexpectedly and
so strongly supported three thou-
sand years later by the resurrec-
tion of long-dormant testimony
from a land he had never visited
and a people with whom he never
had any communication ?

Obviously, Moses wrote, not as
the Egyptians or any other men
taught him, but as the God of all
truth inspired him to write.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SEPTEMBER 12, 1868.

RENE has sent you a minute ac-
count of our 8th of September, to
which I will add nothing, except
that I understand better than ever
the words of the Gospel, " Mary
has chosen the better part !"

Since then we have seen Lizzy
and Isa's mother, who is marvel-
lously consoled, and is recovering
the activity of her youth, in order
to occupy herself with the works of
her daughter. How truly does God
order all things well ! "O blessed
journey !" repeated Isa. " O well-
inspired friend !" Dear Kate, it is
you to whom ail thanks are due.
You it is who ever taught me to
occupy myself in making others
happy. But this is already a thing
of the past, and another case for
self-devotion presents itself. Edith
L has come back from Austra-
lia with three children. The estab-
lishment set on foot by her husband
did not succeed, and she returns a
widow and poor. Her first thought
was of us. With what eagerness I

received the poor exile! How she
has expiated her fault that mar-
riage, contrary to her aunt's wishes !
I was young then, but I still seem
to hear your exclamation of sor-
rowful astonishment at Paris on
hearing the news, and of the de-
parture for a land then almost un-
known. Poor Edith! I have in-
stalled her at the chalet ; our num-
bers made her afraid. Her children
also are a little wild, and it required
all the amiability of the Three Graces
to persuade them to speak. What
shall we do ? I do not at all know
as yet ; inspire me, dear Kate.
Edith is grave and sad, she has
suffered so much ! I have sur-
rounded her with every possible
comfort. Only think : she arrived
here on the 8th, and was received
by Marcella, who had the greatest
difficulty in the world to induce her
to remain. Her son, the eldest
child, is eight y^ears old ; he is very
tall and strong, and of an indomi-
table nature. The two little girls
are like wild fawns, and cling to-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

513

gether at a distance from their mo-
ther, who seems to me severe to-
wards them. Rene has been very
kind and compassionate, and has
left me free to act as I think well.
Edith is embarrassed with me. Why
are you not here to console this dear,
afflicted one ? She ought not to
reckon upon her Scotch relations,
who have entirely cast her off; and
she is utterly without resources. Ah
heavens ! what distress. She sold
her jewels to pay her passage : " But
I would not die without seeing Ire-
land again !" Poor, poor Edith,
whom my mother loved ! I wish to
stand towards her in the place of
rny mother and of you, dear Kate.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1868.

Beloved sister, your kind letter is
here before my eyes, and I will an-
swer it before this day ends. Edith
fell ill on the i3th. A fictitious
energy sustained her up to that
time, and then she had a fainting
(it which lasted two hours. Mar-
cella was alone with her ; I was in
the park with the dear Australi-
ennes, as Picciola calls them. I
heard a cry of anguish. My first
impulse was to hasten to send for
the doctor. He came. Edith, re-
turning to animation in a state of
delirium, made our hearts bleed by
her sorrowful revelations. She was
in this condition for three days.
Now she is better, but so pale!
The good doctor has pronounced
the terrible verdict of an affection
of the lungs. She needs constant
care, and that her mind should be in-
terested and free from any anxieties.

Your intentions are the same as
mine, dear Kate. I give Edith an
indefinite freedom of the chdlet,
where nothing will be wanting to
her. Reginald will be her steward,
Arabella and Frangoise will be in
her service ; and as she needs a
VOL. xxiv. 33

companion to whom she can en-
trust the education of her girls,
Mistress Annan offered herself of
her own accord, and Margaret has
consented. And thus everything
is settled, and Edward will accom-
pany us to France. Edith breathes
again, and thanks me so fervently
that I weep with her. Admirable
simplicity, nobleness of soul, and
great tenderness of heart this is-
her portrait. She has accepted my
offers with the same generosity with
which I made them. I told you
that I thought her severe towards
her children; I ought to have said,
towards her daughters only, and this,,
she has owned to me, because she
has learned by experience how much
harm it does children to spoil them.
Our good priest has promised me
to watch over his new parishioner;
but, thank God ! I myself will watch
over her also, for we shall wait un-
til November before returning to
Brittany. My mother desires what-
ever pleases me. Rene approves of
all our arrangements. He has had
a sort of miniature park made round
the chalet. Edward already loves
him, and follows him about without
speaking. Strange child! I can
discover nothing in him but an in-
tense love for his mother, and fear,,
therefore, that we shall not be able
to take him away. Rene, to whom
I am talking while I write, proposes
to leave him here, where the priest
will attend to him, and so also will
the wise Mistress Ann ah. How-
grateful I am to the dear old lady!
Margaret is a little displeased at
not giving the half of Edit/is dowry.
Lord William has promised to ap-
pease her. You know how ardent
she is.

W T rite to us again, dear Kate. It
is in your name that I have been
acting. You are the good angel of
Ireland.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1868.
We had such an alarm yesterday !
'["here was a grande battue : Ren
.and Lord William at the head, with
-our brothers and all the gentry of
the neighborhood. We were in
carriages : my mother with Lucy
and Gertrude; Berthe and the
Three Graces; Johanna and her
girls; Marceila, Edith and I ; Marga-
ret with Mary and Ellen. We were
quietly following .the chase, which
;became more and more distant,
when a cry from Edith made us
-start. Edward had just passed like
"lightning, proudly seated on a
, large horse. Only think a child
, of eight ! Profiting by the absence
vof the grooms, he had managed
matters all by himself. He looked
..beautiful tints, but it was frightful.
.Edith trembled. We took her home
and sent off the coachman for the
.child; but his search was fruitless,
and Edward did not return until
evening, when he came in breathless,
but proud and happy. " Only see,"
said Edith, " how he is already mas-
ter ! This child will be the death
of me !" Rene gave him a moral
.admonition, but this son of Austra-
lia is for liberty. His black eye
sparkled, and when Ren said to
him, <k Your mother might die in
consequence of any strong emo-
tion," some tears fell, but not a
word escaped from his compressed
slips. You see that your first plan
vwas the best. Impossible to leave
him with Edith the poor mother
ifeels this ; we shall therefore place
.him with the Jesuits. You woilld
say he was twelve years old. He
is accustomed to the free life of the
woods ; he has constantly to be
scolded, and never yields.

Margaret is sent for by her mo-
ther-in-law, who is keeping her
room with the gout. She. takes
with her Marceila, Anna, Lucy, and

Edouard. We shall all go and take
leave 'of her before quitting Ireland.
O Kate ! if you were not in
France, I could not leave my mo-
ther's house for any place but
heaven.

Margaret has stolen a poor woman
from me, to revenge herself, she
says. It is old Lud wine, a stran-
ger from we know not whence, and
who has all the appearance of a
saint. She knows very well how
to rock a cradle, and it is under the
title of cradle-rocker that Margaret
has persuaded her to accompany
them. Kind Margaret !

Lord William admires his wife as
much as he loves her. They are
going to found a hospital, a crhhe
or day-nursery, and an ouvroir (to
provide work for women and girls).
What would not riches be worth, if
they only helped always to do good !

We are now in comparative soli-
tude ; for Margaret is to every one
like a ray of sunshine.

God alone he alone suffices
to tiie soul. It is in him that I
love you.

OCTOBER 8, 1868.

Long walks with Rene all this
week among our good farmers.
Made presents everywhere. Held
at the font a little flower of Ireland
whom I named Kate. Old Jack is
very ill, without any hope of cure.
All the tribe of Margaret send
us most affectionate lett-ers almost
daily. In the evenings, under the
great trees, Adrien reads to us St.
Monica, by the Abbe Bougaud, while
the children play at a little distance.
What say you to this page : " The
perfection of sacrifice, and the ex-
tremity of suffering, is to give up
the life of those whom one loves.
The greatest martyrdom, to a moth-
er, is not to sacrifice herself for her
child : it is to sacrifice even the very
life of her child ; it is so highly to

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister,

515

prize truth, virtue, honor, true beau-
ty of soul, the eternal salvation of
her child, that, rather than see these
holy things fade and wither in his
soul, she would see him die."
Edith listened nervously to these
words, and then said : "This sac-
rifice may be required of me!"
Poor mother ! "St. Augustine,"
writes M. Bo u gaud, "passionately
loved his mother, and constantly
spoke of her. Almost all the writ-
ings which have issued from his
pen are embalmed with the mem-
ory of her. More than twenty
years after her death, when he had
become aged by labors yet more
than in years., and had attained the
time when it seems that the love of
God, having broken down every em-
bankment and inundated the heart,
must have destroyed within it every
other love, the name and memory
of his mother never recurred to
him, even when preaching, without
a tear mounting from his heart to
his eyes. He would then abandon
himself to the charm of this re-
membrance and allow himself to
speak of it to his people of Hippo,
and even in the sermons where one
would scarcely expect to find them
we meet with words of touching
beauty in which breathe at the
same time the faith and grateful
piety of the son and the double
elevation of the genius and the
saint" noble and beautiful words
which delight me. To love one's
mother- is not this one of the hap-
pinesses of this earth, where so few
are true ? M. Bougaud is admira-
ble, whether in denning eloquence,
"the sound given by a soul charm-
ed out of herself by the sight of the
good and true," or in speaking of
the complaint of Job, "this song
of death which we all sing, and
which makes us better, even when
we have but wept its first notes

this song of two parts, the first sad,
where all passes, all fades away, all
dries up from the lips of those who
wish to drink and slake their thirst ;
the first song which does good to
the soul, even when we know but
this one note, and cast on the
world only this sorrowful look.
What is it, then, when we rise to a
loftier height, to the second part of
this song of death, where sorrow is
absorbed in joy ? Yes, everything
passes away, but to return ; every-
thing fades, but that it may bloom
again; everything dies, to return
to life transfigured." Kate, in the
beauty of this book there is to
me incomparable splendor. Would
you like a few more fragments from
it precious pearls which I would
enshrine in my heart and-memory,
there to ruminate upon and enjoy
them? I will send you the defi-
nition of Rome : " That delecta-
ble land full of holy images and
tranquil domes, whither one goes
in order to forget the world and
rest the soul in the memories and
associations which are there alone
to be found." Again, this about the
second age of life : " In which, after
having tasted every other love, we
return to that of our mother; and
seeing the years which accumulate
upon her venerable head, not ven-
turing to contemplate the future,
'desiring still to enjoy that which
remains of a life so dear, we feel in
ourselves the renewal of an inde-
scribable affection which rises in
the soul to something akin to wor-
ship." Or this portrait of Plato:
"There was in ancient times, in the
palmiest days of Greece, a young
man of incredible loftiness of min-1,
and of a beauty of speech which
has never been surpassed ; the
ciple of Socrates, whom he immor-
talized by lending him his o\vn
wings ; and the master of Aristotle,

5 i6

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

whose power he would have tripled
could he have communicated to
him some of his own fire !"

A letter from Isa, a Nunc Dimit-
tis. She would like us to be pre-
sent when she takes the veil. Will
it be possible ? Oh ! how -much it will
cost me to quit my own Ireland
our lakes, mountains, and mists,
all the poetry of our green Erin.
Where shall I find it in France ?

Adieu and & Dieu, dear sister of
my life.

OCTOBER 12, 1868.

Margaret's mother-in-law is bet-
ter, and all the dear tribe will ar-
rive this evening. Impossible to
live apart when the ocean is not be-
tween us !

The expectation and preparations
please the twins, who are plac-
ing bouquets everywhere. Poetry,
youth, and flowers go together. I
did not tell you that Rene had
brought Margaret the volumes which
have appeared of the Monks of the
West. Dear Kate, all our memories
of Ireland there find a voice. Do
you recollect the touching manner in
which our mother used to relate the
story of St.Columba ? I have been
this week with Rene on a pilgrimage
to Gartan. " The love of Ireland was
one of the greatnesses and one of the
passions of Columba. Even in tire
present day, after so many centuries,
they who fear to be unable to d<5
without their native air ask help
from him who required special as-
sistance from God to be able to
live far from Ireland, her mountains
and her seas." These are the words
of a French writer quoted to me by
Rene. And we looked at the salt
sea and the sea-gulls, and spoke of
the stork, which is not forgotten by
the sailors of the Hebrides. . . .De-
lightful journey ! My mother had
advised us to take it alone. How-
ever much I enjoy the lively gam-

bols of the children, I have still
more enjoyed this, our intimate
solitude, together. Thus I am de-
livered from the fear of nostalgia.
It was this terrible home-sickness
which undermined the health of
Edith. Thanks to prompt treat-
ment, we shall save her, I trust. Al-
ready she is less pale, more cheer-
ful and resigned. She has been
making some projects on the score
of her talents as an artist, but
all her scruples of obligations have
been forced to yield to my solicita-
tions. She is not and cannot be
here otherwise than as my mother's
friend, and as such she ought to be
treated.

The two Australiennes are gradu-
ally becoming civilized, and consent
to take part in the lessons with the
twins. The good abbe herborizes
with great enjoyment, takes long
walks, makes acquaintances among
the clergy of the country, makes
himself a doctor to the poor, and
announces his intention of settling
near Gartan, against which we pro-
test loudly.

Let me quote you a few more
pages from St. Monica^ this perfect-
ly beautiful book, which you will
not read, since it is for mothers ; but
the passages I take from it are good
for all souls possessed by the only
veritable love.

When, immediately after his con-
version, St. Augustine retired to
Cassiacurn with his mother and so
select an assemblage of friends, it
was at the close of summer. " The
autumn sun shed its warm rays over
the campagna. The leaves were not
yet falling, but they were already
beginning to take those glowing
tints of red and yellow which in the
month of September give the coun-
try so rich a splendor. It was the
moment when the whole of nature
appeared to clothe itself in some-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

thing more grave and almost sad, as
though preparing to die. There are
certain states of soul in which one
finds an infinite charm in contem-
plating nature at such a time."
Have we not felt this charm, dear
Kate, a hundred times in our own
Ireland, and also in the Roman
Campagna and at Sorrento?

Listen to this admirable compari-
son between the disciple of Socra-
tes and the son of St. Monica:
" Plato and Augustine are two bro-
thers, but of unequal ages. The
first, at the dawn of life, in his sweet
and poetic spring, has more flowers
than fruits ; lie dreams of more
than he possesses. He has glimp-
ses of a sublime ideal, which fill
him with enthusiasm, but he does
not attain it. He seeks the way,
he sees and describes it, but knows
not how to enter ; and he dies with-
out bearing in his soul the fruit of
which his youth had the flowers.
The second, after painful struggles,
after years of toil and courage,
enters resolutely on the road which
the former had pointed out. Plato
had said: 'To be a philosopher is
to learn to die '; and again : * What
is needful in order to see God ?
to be pure and to die.' Augus-
tine studied this great art ; he put it
in practice at Cassiacum, and the
light, like a river whose embank-
ments have been broken down,
flooded his vast intellect. What
Plato hoped for and conjectured
he saw. That which passed in the
rich imagination of the philosopher
as a confused though sublime pre-
sentiment existed with clearness
and precision in the luminous in-
telligence of the saint, and sprang
forth from his heart in accents such
as Plato never imagined. He who
would know Augustine when first
trying his wings, before his full
strength of flight, should study the

conversations and conferences of
Cassiacum. There is in these a
first flower of youth which is not to
be found again ; something soften-
ed in the light, like that of the
dawn of day ; a freshness of thoughts
and sentiments, a tranquil enthu-
siasm, and a gentle gayety. His
mind, imprisoned until then, had re-
covered its powers, and with a joy-
ous elasticity mounted upwards to
the true, the good, and the beauti-
ful."

May God keep you, my best be-
loved !

OCTOBER 23, 1868.

Margaret, Rene, and Marcella
have written to my dear Kate, and
Georgina has been absorbed in her
cares as mistress of the house. We
shall certainly not leave before De-
cember. Isa is to take the veil on
the Feast of the Immaculate Con-
ception. My mother forgets her-
self for us. Adrien and Raoul set
out at once for Brittany, where they
will act on behalf of all, and return
here to fetch us

Edith and Mistress Annan get on
together as well as possible. Dear
Edith laments her own helplessness.
Our worthy friend replaces her
everywhere and for everything.
The handsome little savages (is
there a feminine ?) are become ra-
diant with health, and are greatly
in love with Margaret, who loads
them with presents. Marcella pays
frequent visits to Edith. No need
to say that old Homer is sadly neg-
lected. We prefer the poetry of
Ireland!

Anna had another of her feverish
attacks while with Margaret. The
air of Ireland suits her better. Oh !
what eyes she has.

Rene and Lord William have de-
cided on an excursion into Scot-
land, declaring that the French owe
this to the memory of Mary Stuart

sis

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

and the noble royal family which
sheltered its misfortunes beneath
the sombre, vaulted roofs of Holy-
rood. A thing decided is a thing
accomplished. Everyone is ready,
and we set out to-morrow. Regi-
nald is amazed at this perpetual
movement, the corning and going
of our colony. We have persuaded
Edith that this journey would be
of use to her children, so we shall
form a veritable caravan. Before
starting I will once more give you
a quotation from M. Bougaud.

Notice how well he comments
upon these beautiful words of Adeo-
datus : " No soul is truly pure but
she who loves God and attaches her-
self to him alone."

" Nothing human, nothing ter-
restrial, suffices to the soul. She
can only be happy in the possession
of God; and the only means of
possessing him here below, as well
as above, is to love him. For love
laughs at distance and makes light
of space; unites souls from world
to world, and, in uniting, beatifies
and transfigures them. Moreover,
if it be true that, even in at-
taching itself to finite beings, love
renders the soul indifferent to fa-
tigue, pain, and privation ; if it
communicates to it a peace, security,
and strength invincible ; if it fills the
soul not only with joy, but even
with ecstasy what, then, must be
the love which attaches itself to
God? Thus the saints have al-
ways been happy, even upon the
cross ; and if the world sees their
joy without comprehending it, the
reason is that it does not know what
it is to love. Purity and love have,
towards God, lofty flights which
genius would envy. The works of
God have all proceeded from his
he. \rt. They who love most will
understand them best. St. Au-
gustine said : ' The soul is made for

God. The soul is an open eye
which gazes upon God. The soul
is a love which aspires after the
infinite. God is the soul's native
land.' Deep and noble words!
And this cry which he was con-
stantly repeating: 'Let us live here
below in an apprenticeship for our
immortal life in heaven, where all
our occupation will be to love.'
St. Augustine called death 'the
companion of love she who opens
the door by which we enter and
find Him whom we love'.' "

Dearest Kate, I have given you
here the fairest flower in the basket,
but the whole basketful is superb.
Good-by for the present, dearest ;
you will hear next either from the
Highlands or the Lowlands, or the
borders of the lakes. How much I
enjoy travelling ! My mother is de-
lighted at the idea of making ac-
quaintance with Scotland; and I
sing her its ballads. . . . Send us
the angel Raphael, my Kate !

OCTOBER 31, 1868.
We are, then, in Scotland a
beautiful country, picturesque and
charming, full of old memories and
legends, and where the mountaineers
have a very noble air, proudly
draped in their many-colored plaids.
Yesterday we met with a MacGre-
gor. The shade of Walter Scott
seemed to rise at our side. This
brave Highlander did the honors of
the country, and expressed himself
with an antique grace that is inde-
scribable. On leaving us he kissed
the hands of the ladies, pressed those
of the lordS) and kissed all the
young misses. Was it not fine ? But
we found better still a white-haired
bard, "with trembling gait and
broken voice," who gave us his
benediction with all the majesty
that could be desired. Every rock
has its legend, every ruin its tradi

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

519

tion, every lake its spectre.- But
there is no need for me to describe
Scotland to you, my learned sister;
you know its exact portrait better
than I. This wandering life, these
encampments in the woods, these
steeple-chases, have their charm,
and are of great interest to Edith.
I fear she may miss us too much
later on. Dear Kate, Reginald sent
your last letter after me. I enjoy-
ed reading it in the country of
Mary Stuart.

Quick! ... I slip this note into
.Rene's packet. Always union of
prayers.

I have still a few minutes. We
are seeking here the traces of the
martyr-queen, the beautiful and un-
fortunate Mary Stuart. There was,
then, no more pity in France ? Was
the chivalrous enthusiasm which
breathes in the old songs of the
Gesta merely a poet's dream, or
was it crouching in the oubliettes of
the past when England's axe sever-
ed that royal head on which had
shone the crown of France ?

Who, then, will sing as they de-
serve the youthful victims cut off
in their flower Stuart, Grey, the
gentle Jane who did not wish to be
made queen, -Elizabeth of France,
Joan of Arc, Mine, de Lamballe,
Marie Antoinette, and all the le-
gion of martyrs whose blood cries
for vengeance ?

Where are the snows of Ant an ?
where are the personages of Walter
Scott ? where are Rob Roy, Flora
Maclvor, and so many others?
Marcella just now pointed out to
me a singular individual who must
be, she insists, my father s son.

Will tiie day ever come when the
triumphant cross of the Coliseum
will surmount, with its beauty and
its love, the crown of the United
Kingdom? O my own Ireland ! what
heart could forget thee ?

Let us pray for her, dear sister
of my life, dear daughter of Erin !

NOVEMBER 5, 1868.
Our All Souls' day was sad and
sweet. We all have losses to de-
plore. My mother loved her Brit-
tany at this anniversary. How ma-
ternal this mother of my Rene is
towards your Georgina ! How gra-
cious and tender her daily greet-
ings ! All our friends feel the
charm of her elevated nature.
Edith loves to be with her. Dear
Edith ! She said to me yesterday :
" Thus far all is well ; how I trust
that it may so continue ! In the
depth of my soul I have that inex-
orable sadness of which Bossuet
speaks ; I feel it hourly. For a
time I thought that I should die of
a broken heart, but you have re-
vived me. I feel that in Heaven
alone all sorrows will be for ever
consoled, and, like the Alexandrine
whom you have described to me,
I love, hope, and wait !" Oh ! how
sweet it is, dear Kate, to belong to
God. How could we live without
feeling that we were of use, with-
out giving ourselves up, devoting,
spending ourselves in the service
of God and of souls ? Isa writes to
Margaret : " M. 1'Abbe Lagrange
speaks admirably of virginity in his
St. Paula ; it is like reading a page
of Mgr. Dupanloup: ' How beau-
tiful in the church are those forms
of devotedness to which the Chris-
tian virgin is* 1 called, whether she
silently immolates herself in soli-
tude and prayer, consumed by the
flames of the noblest love which a
creature can possess, a pure victim
whose sacrifice is profitable to us,
whatever we are, by the commun-
ion of saints of which we are taught
by the church ; whether she gives a
sister to the sick, a daughter to the
aged, a mother to orphans, or a

520

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

friend to the poor, the consoler
here below in every neglect and
every infirmity, and taken for these
works in the spring-time of her life
and the flower of her youth taken
away from all maternal sweetnesses,
from the joys of home, from future
hopes, for ever ! Doubtless the
mother also devotes herself; does
Christianity ignore it ? But it must
be allowed that the devotion of a
mother is at the same time her
duty and her happiness, whilst
these sublime sacrifices of them-
selves for the relief of every kind
of ignorance and sorrow are en-
tirely voluntary and disinterested,
without other compensation here
below than the love of God ; and it
is true that this is worth all the
rest.

" * Christian virginity is a state of
intimate union with Jesus Christ, in
which, in spotless love and the per-
fection of purity, souls here below
consume themselves for God, whom
they call into themselves, and are
the fragrance of earth and the de-
light of heaven. The Gospel, know-
ing human nature, makes not a pre-
cept of this celestial ideal, since it
would surpass the ordinary strength
of mankind; but it gives a counsel
for those who have the courage to
follow it, because it feels that there
are chosen souls who have this
strength, and because this marvel
of virtue, this life of angels in a mor-
tal frame, while it embalms the world,
is, in the church, one of the most
evident and touching marks of her
divine origin.' '

How beautiful it is ! What a
pen of gold ! Dear Kate, all this is
very suitable for you !

Met Lady Cleave and her nice
children at Edinburgh. Spoke of
Kate a thing as natural to me as
singing is to the bird. Had a delight-
ful conversation yesterday evening

with Margaret and Marcella, both of
whom are as clever as they are
saintly, and love each other like old
friends, keeping for me, they say,
a throne of honor in their hearts.
No one appreciates more than I
do the charm of a pure and intel-
lectual friendship. This will as-
suredly be one of the joys of eterni-
ty, since on high all souls will be
united in the plenitude of intelli-
gence, purity, and love.

It is very cold. We are making
some happy people. Picciola is
charming in the exercise of char-
ity.

Good-night, dear Kate, it is ele-
ven o'clock.

NOVEMBER 18, 1868.

From the window of an ancient
Scottish castle I am watching for
the return of the abbt and his pu-
pils from a walk of beneficence.
But, like " Sister Anne " in the old
story, I see nothing come, and hav.c
not even the compensation of be T
holding the " sun's golden sheen
and the grass growing green,"
any more than I am in the same
peril as that inquisitive chatelaine,
We are intending simply to do hon-
or in Scotland to my mother's fete,
one of her names being Elizabeth.
It was Rene's idea, and applauded
by all. Edith herself, with her
fairy fingers, has made a charming
bouquet from the flowers in the con-
servatories. Marcella is practising
on the piano, Edouard singing ;
Lucy has undertaken to keep Mme.

de T out of the way for a few

hours. I hear joyous voices ; good-
by until this evening.

Evening. Superb, dear Kate !
A scene of ancient times, and,
moreover, in a romantic dwelling,
where Walter Scott has been, and
where kings have displayed their
splendor. The effect produced by

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

521

the voices of Rene, Edouard, Mar-
celia, and Margaret is unique.
Our mother, surprised and touch-
ed, was only able to answer by her
tears ; and just now, when I was
accompanying her to her room, she
said : " Dear Georginu, I regretted
Helene !" Ah ! this is the ever-open
wound, the ineffaceable regret !

God keep you, my Kate ! Your
spirit accompanies me everywhere,
my beloved companion, my invisi-
ble guardian; and how sweet a
nest your love has made me !

This will be the last sheet that I
shall date from Scotland ; we are
far from the post. I shall not send
it until the moment of our depar-
ture.

November 25. News from Paris,
and of every kind ; the best comes
always from you. Adrien and
Raoul will arrive in Ireland at the
same time as we do.

It will be a day of rejoicing to
me to return to our own house.
Long live home, my country, the
place of many memories ! I have
taken some views, and bought quan-
tities of things for Lizzy, Fanny,
and all our friends there. These
good mountaineers regret our de-
parture. O Ireland, Ireland ! Mar-
cella has set to music the poetry
of the sweet and terrible Columba;
impossible to hear it without tears.
Decidedly, I must go on another
pilgrimage to Gartan.

The Three Graces, dressed in the
tartans of which I have made them
a present, have a Scottish appear-
ance which is charming. They send
kisses to Mine. Kate.

A thousand loving messages to
you, my beloved sister. May all
the blessed angels be with you !

DECEMBER 9, 1868.
Dear Kate, with what joy we
find ourselves in Ireland again !

Adrien and Raoul have brought
with them quantities of books. I
must give you some quotations from
the Life of the Saints by MM.
Kellerhove and de Riancey d
splendid volume, presented by Ger-
trude to Margaret and a remarka-
ble work by the Comtesse Olympe
de Lernay ; " Born with the cen-
tury, and dying on the 3otii of
March, 1864, she realized in her
admirable life the high ideal of the
truly Christian woman. Her exis-
tence wholly of faith, labor, and
love was visited by the heaviest
trials, but her resignation was pro-
found. She said : * The triumph of
self-renunciation over enthusiasm
will not be without fruit with re-
ference to the eternal future ; and
when God's day of reckoning shall
come, I will say to him, Father, 1
wished to labor at thy vine with
my golden priming-knife, but this
was -not thy will ; and therefore is
it that, instead of adorning its sum-
mit, I have remained at its foot.' "
Do you not find in this a finished
beauty? " To glorify God and gain
hearts to him was the supreme de-
sire of this saintly and amiable
woman, who, endowed with artistic,
poetic, and literary talents, as va-
ried as they were remarkable, work-
ed as one prays, and prayed as one
sings. "^

Adrien is reading us fragments
of the Mahdbhdrata " the book of
the people which has meditated
most." How much more sublime
than ever does the Bible appear
after this reading ! No ; outside
of the love of God there is nothing
completely beautiful or great.

Immense party this evening; sixty
invitations! The preparations are
complete, except that much is still
going on in the region of the kitch-
en. And I, the happy giver of tht
invitations, tranquilly seated at my

522

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

writing-table of island-wood, am
chattering like a schoo'1-girl in the
holidays. Dear Kate, it is because
I have been making all diligence,
and because I have before me your
thrice welcome pnges, so charming
And affectionate, and which appear
to me to breathe a perfume of our
native land. Yes, truly, the sweet-
est is there this fragrance of de-
lightful and unalloyed affection
which comes to me from you !

Jack is still in a distressing state,
suffering incessantly. He yesterday
received our Lord in the Blessed
Sacrament, the sovereign Comforter,
and, resting lovingly on the adora-
ble Heart which gave itself for
him, he has promised to love the
cross. Poor old man! His chil-
dren have the evil of the age the
loss of respect. Rene prepared
him for the visit of his Saviour, and
I went later to arrange everything;
on entering I heard the sick man
speaking with animation, and paus-
ed involuntarily. " I suffer too
much, your honor." " My friend,
say with me : O Life of my soul, O

most sweet and merciful Saviour,
put into my heart much indulgence,
patience, and charity." " But then
1 am so often thrown back ! Ten
years of suffering ; and what have
they brought me? Oil! how my
loneliness weighs upon me. I am
left so much alone!" "My poor
brother, dear privileged one of our
Lord, say with me : My God, I
accept these sufferings in union
with thy Agony and Crucifixion.
Pardon me my involuntary mur-
murings; accept my daily torments
as an expiation. Eternity is near !
My God. I will all that thou wili-
est." Jack repeated the words
with docility.

After communion he appeared
happy. The doctor wonders that
he can endure so much suffering
and live. "Will the good God
grant me to die before you go?"
the poor man asked of Rene. Oh !
how sad it is to die thus to become
the outcast in the home of which one
had been the life.

Kate dearest, let us pray for all
in their agony.

TO EB CONTINUED.

Testimony of the Catacombs.

523

TESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO THE PRIMACY OF

ST. PETER.

IN ourformer article* the evidence
which we adduced as to the testi-
mony of the Catacombs on a disput-
ed point of Catholic doctrine was
drawn almost exclusively from their
inscriptions; and that evidence was
very abundant, because the doctrine
in question was precisely that on
which we should look to tombstones
for information. It was only natu-
ral that, in writing the last earthly
memorial of their departed friends,
the survivors should spontaneously
one might almost say unconscious-
ly give utterance to the thoughts
that were in their mind us to the pre-
sent condition and future prospects
of those to whom they had now
paid the last offices. The subject
now before us is of a very different
kind. We are going to inquire of
the Catacombs whether they can
tell us anything as to the idea en-
tertained in primitive times about
the position held in the Christian
hierarchy by St. Peter and his suc-
cessors ; and we think most per-
sons would consider it very strange
indeed if we should elicit any an-
swer to this inquiry from the in-
scriptions upon gravestones. Mr.
Withro\v, however, is of a different
opinion ; he thinks that if in those
early days the bishops of Rome
enjoyed any superior dignity over
other bishops, it ought to have
been, and probably would have
been, mentioned on their epitaphs ;
and, accordingly, he chronicles as
items worthv of being noted in the

* " Testimony of the Catacombs to Prayers for
the Dead and the Invocation of Saints," THE
CATHOLIC WORLD, Dec., iS/6.

controversy such facts as these :
that " the tomb of the first Roman
bishop bore simply the name Li-
nus " (p. 507), and that in the papal
crypt, or chamber where the popes
of the third century were buried,
they are only honored with the title
of bishop, and even that appears in
a contracted form, EIII or EIIIK
(p. 508). The Dean of Chichester
seems to entertain a somewhat simi-
lar opinion; only, as he has formed
a higher estimate of the episcopal
dignity, this opinion shows itself in
him in a different form. He thinks
the extremely "curt and unceremo-
nious" character of these papal epi-
taphs almost a conclusive argu-
ment against their authenticity.

Mr. Withrovv further adds (p. 509),
that the word Papa or pope does not
occur in the Catacombs till at least
the latter part of the fourth century,
when it is found, applied to Pope Da-
rn asus, in the margin of an inscrip-
tion by that bishop in honor of one
of his predecessors, Eusebius. Even
with reference to this, however, he
insinuates that, as this inscription
in its present condition is "admit-
ted " by De Rossi to be a badly-
executed reproduction, of the sixth
or seventh century, of a previous
inscription, "this title may very
well belong to that late period.'
Our first impression upon reading
this was a grave doubt, which v/e
cannot even now altogether sup-
press, whether Mr. Withrovv had
ever read either what De Rossi or
his English epitomizers have writ-
ten on the subject of this monu-
ment. Certainly, he cannot have

524

Testimony of the Catacombs.

appreciated the curious and inter-
esting story they have told of this
stone ; or, if we may not call in
question his intelligence, we shall
be obliged to accuse him of wilful
misrepresentation. One of the
most striking features in the story,
now lippis et tonsoribus notum, is
that the ignorant copyist, so far
from being capable of forging a
link in the chain of evidence for
the papal supremacy, was only able
to transcribe the letters actually
before his eyes, and even left a va-
cant space occasionally where he
saw that a letter was missing from
the mutilated inscription before
him, which, however, he was quite
incompetent to supply. We are
afraid, therefore, that Mr. Withrow
must be content to acknowledge
that this obnoxious title of pope
was certainly given to a Bishop
of Rome before the close of the
fourth century. At the same time
we offer him all the consolation we
can by pointing out that it was
given to him only by an artist, an
employe of his, and one of his spe-
cial admirers he calls himself his
cultor atque aviator and perhaps,
therefore, Mr. Withrow may sug-
gest that the title was here used in
a sense in which he is aware that
it was originally employed viz., as
an expression of familiar and af-
fectionate respect rather than of
dignity.

But we must go further, and, in
obedience to the stern logic of
facts, we must oblige Mr. Withrow
to see that the title was used of the
Bishop of Rome some seventy or
eighty years before Dumasus. If
he had ever visited the cemetery
of San Callisto, he might have seen
the original inscription itself in
which the title is given to Pope
Marcellinus (296-308) ; and this
time not by a layman, an artist, but

by an ecclesiastical official in fact,
the pope's own deacon, the Dea-
con Severus, who had charge of
that cemetery:

Cu 'iculum duplex cum arcisoliis et luminare
Jussu PP. sui Marcellini Diaconus iste
Severus fecit. . . .

Observe that the title is here abridg-
ed into the compendious formula
PP., as though it were a title with
which Roman Christians were al-
ready familiar, just as in pagan
epigraphy the same letters stand for
prcepositus or primopilus^ and those
words are not written at full length,
because everybody interested in the
matter would know at once from
the name and the context what was
to be supplied.* So, then, it seems
impossible to determine when the
title was first used of the bishops
of Rome; it is at least certain* that
it occurs in the Catacombs a 'cen-
tury earlier than Mr. Withrow im-
agined, and that even then it was
no novelty. However, we do not
care to dispute the facts, to which
he attaches so much importance,
that the title of pope was in those
ancient days neither " peculiar* to
the Bishop of Rome," nor, so far
as we know, first applied to him.
Moreover, we cannot even accept,
what Mr. Withrow in his ignorance
is ready to concede, that " the
name of the Bishop of Rome was
used as a note of time in the latter
part of the fourth century " a dis-
tinction, however, which he con-
tends "was also conferred on other
bishops than those of Rome."

Again, we must observe that this
remark seems to indicate an entire
ignorance in its author of all that
De Rossi has written on the same
subject. Of course Mr. Withrow is
referring to the two epitaphs which
conclude with the words sub Liberia

*R. S.,ii. 307

Testimony of the Catacombs.

525

Episcopo, sub Damaso Episcopo; but
he gives no sign of being acquaint-
ed with the history of those pontiffs,
and with the reasons which De Rossi
has so carefully drawn out,* where-
fore there might have been special
mention of their names on the
tombs of persons who died during
their pontificates.

We have now noticed, we believe,
all Mr. Withrow's observations upon
.the testimony of the Catacomb in-
scriptions with reference to the pa-
pal supremacy; it remains that we
ourselves should make one or two ob-
servations upon it which he has not
made. And, first, it seems to have es-
caped his notice that there is a title
given to the popes by one of them-
selves on three or four of these monu-
ments a title stronger and of more
definite meaning than Papa, and
quite as unwelcome to Protestant
ears. Pope Damasus calls Marcellus,
one of his predecessors, Veridicus
Rector, or the truth-speaking ruler or
governor, in the epitaph with which
he adorned his tomb. Two others
of his predecessors, Eusebius and
Sixtus II., he simply calls Rector,
without any qualifying epithet at all.
And next we would ask Mr. With-
row and all who sympathize with
his objection what title they would
suggest as possible for the tomb-
stones of the earliest bishops of
Rome, even supposing their posi-
tion in the Christian hierarchy to
have been at that time as clearly
defined and fully developed as it is
now. Do they think it would have
been either seemly or possible for
a Christian bishop in the first three
centuries to assume the highest offi-
cial religious title among pagans, and
to be addressed as Pontifex Max-
imus? It is true, indeed, that this
title has been given to them in mo-

* Inscr. Christian., i. 80, 100.

dern epigraphy since it was mould-
ed on the classical type i.e., ever
since the Renaissance. But nobody
could dream of such a title as com-
patible with the relative positions
of paganism and Christianity dur-
ing the period that the Catacombs
were in use for purposes of burial.
Nevertheless, it is well worthy of
note that even at a very early period
of the third century, when Ter-
tullian wished to jeer at a decree
which he disliked, but which had
been issued by the pope, he spoke
of him in mockery, as though he
were Pontifex scilicet maximus et
episcopus episcoporuin, thereby inti-
mating pretty clearly what position
in the Christian hierarchy the bi-
shops of Rome seemed to assume.

And now, taking our leave of all
discussions about mere titles and
verbal inscriptions, let us inquire
whether any other evidence can be
produced from the Catacombs bear-
ing upon the question before us
the question, that is, of St. Peter's
position under the New Law. Let
us inquire of the paintings and sculp-
ture, and other similar monuments,
as explained and illustrated by con-
temporary writings. And we ask our
adversaries to deal fairly wit)) the
evidence we shall adduce; not to
weigh each portion of it apart from
the rest, but to allow it that cumula-
tive weight which really belongs to
it, interpreting each separate monu-
ment with the same spirit of can-
dor and equity which they claim on
behalf of any evidence which the
Catacombs afford for doctrines which
they themselves accept. Take, for
instance, the doctrine of the Resur-
rection. We saw in our last article
that Mr. Withrow's assertion that
this doctrine was everywhere record-
ed throughout the Catacombs rested
virtually upon the existence of cer-
tain oft-recurring paintings there

526

Testimony of the Catacombs.

paintings of the story of Jonas and
of the raising of Lazarus; that it was
not supported by any contemporary
sepulchral inscriptions, but that cer-
tain more explicit inscriptions of a
later date undoubtedly contain it.
In other words, Mr. Withroyv (and
we might add Mr. Burgon, Mr.
Marriott, and the whole race of
Protestant controversialists who
have entered this arena at all) can
recognize, when it suits his purpose,
the justice of reading ancient monu-
ments in the light of more modern
and explicit statements of Christian
doctrine, and of interpreting the
monuments of Christian art in one
age by their known form and mean-
ing in another. Let them not deny
the privilege of this canon of inter-
pretation to others besides them-
selves. We shall use it as occasion
may require in our examination of
the monuments which to all Catho-
lic archseologians seem to bear tes-
timony to the exceptional position
of St. Peter in the Apostolic Col-
lege.

A subject represented from very
early times, and frequently repeated
both in paintings and in sculpture,
is that of Moses striking the rock
in the wilderness, and the waters
gushing forth for the refreshment of
the children of Israel in their passage
through the wilderness. What does
this subject mean ? The stories of
Jonas and of Lazarus were meant,
we are told, as types of the Resur-
rection, and are to be admitted as
proofs of the belief of the early
Christiaws in that great doctrine.
What part of their belief is typified
in this incident from the life of
Moses ? Let us first see how it was
understood by the Jews themselves.

The Royal Psalmist refers to it
more than once in accents of fervent
gratitude as for a signal act of God's
mercy towards his people, and also

of lively hope, as having been typical
and prophetic of further mercies.
Isaias, in that magnificent prophecy
wherein he recounts the marvels
that shall happen in the world when
"God shall come ar\d save it," re-
calls the memory of the same event,
and makes use of it ns a fitting
image of the spiritual graces that
should then be poured forth on the
children of men. " God himself,"
he says, " will come and will save
you. Then shall the eyes of the
blind be opened ; and the ears of
the deaf shall be unstopped. Then
shall the lame man leap as a hart,
and the tongue of the dumb shall
be free : for waters are broken out
in the desert, and streams in the
wilderness. And that which was
dry land shall become a pool, and
the thirsty land springs of water."*
At length the period so long looked
for, so frequently promised, " in the
fulness of time " arrived ; Jesus was
born and manifested among men,
and, standing in the Temple on a
great feast-day, he offered himself
to all men as '* a fountain of liv-
ingwaters." "He stood, andcried,
saying : If any man thirst, let him
come to me and drink. He that be-
lieveth in me, as the Scripture saith,
out of his belly shall flow rivers of
living water." And St. John, who
has preserved to us this history,
immediately adds, for the more cer-
tain interpretation of his words, that
Jesus " said this of the Holy Spirit,
whom they should receive who
believed in him." Finally, St. Paul
comes to complete the explanation,
and, in that chapter of his Epistle
to the Corinthians which one may
almost call the key to the history of
the children of Israel, gives more
clearly than any before him the mys-
tical interpretation of the prodigy

* C. xxxv. 4-7.

Testimony of the Catacombs.

527

of the rock. Taking the first and last
links of the long chain of inspired
writing about it, he couples the ori-
ginal physical fact with its far-dis-
tant spiritual interpretation in those
words with which we are so familiar :
" Our fathers all drank the same spi-
ritual drink : and they drank of the
spiritual rock that followed them :
and the rock was Christ.'"

It cannot be disputed, then, that
the water represented as flowing
from the rock struck by Moses in
the wilderness was intended to be
typical of the spiritual blessings
which flow to the church from
Christ. Was there anything typical
also in the person striking the rock ?
Or was this a mere historical acces-
sory of the scene, represented of ne-
cessity in order to the completeness
of the story, but having no particular
meaning of its own merely the
historical Moses, and nothing more ?
It might very well have been so ; and
everybody who suggests a mystical
interpretation is bound to produce
substantial reasons for departing
from the literal sense. De Rossi
then leads us into a chapel in the
Catacomb of San Callisto, and bids
us notice the marked difference be-
tween the two figures of Moses
painted side by side on the same
wall in the one scene taking off his
shoes before going up to the holy
mountain; in the other, striking
the rock. They cannot both be
meant to represent the historical
verity ; it looks as though the dis-
tinction between them was intended
to point out their typical or symbo-
lical character, and we almost fancy
we can discern a resemblance be-
tween one of the figures and the re-
ceived traditional portrait of Peter.
But we advance further into the same
cemetery, and enter another chapel
in which the same scene is again re-
presented. This time there is no room

for doubt: the profile, the features,
the .rounded and curly beard, the
rough and frizzled hair are all
manifest tokens of the traditional
likeness of St. Peter, and we are sat-
isfied that it is he who is here strik-
ing the rock. The same studied re-
semblance may be noted also in the
figure of the man striking the rock
on several of the sculptured sarco-
phagi. Still, we are not satisfied ; we
should be loath to lay the stress of
any important argument upon any
mere likeness which we might believe
that we recognize between this and
that figure in ancient painting or
sculpture. It would be more satis-
factory if we could find an inscrip-
tion on the figure putting its identity
beyond all question. And even
this, too, is not wanting. In the
Vatican Museum there are two or
three specimens of this same sub-
ject on the gilded glasses that have
been sometimes found affixed to
graves in the Catacombs, and on
them the name of PETRUS is dis-
tinctly engraved over the scene. It
is true that these glasses were pro-
bably not made till the fourth cen-
tury ; neither were the sarcophagi.
But we argue with Mr. Marriott that
" the existence of these later monu-
ments can hardly be accounted for
except on the supposition of their
being reproductions of still older
monuments." In fact, in the pre-
sent instance, these older monu-
ments still exist ; only their inter-
pretation might have been disputed,
had not the later monuments been
found with the interpretation en-
graved upon them. With these
glasses in our hands, showing indis-
putably that the Christians of the
fourth and fifth centuries looked
upon Moses in the act of striking
the rock as a type of St. Peter, we
feel confident that the Christians of
the second and third centuries, who

538

Testimony of the Catacombs.

continually represented the same
scene, did so with the same idea.
In a word, the evidence for the
identification of St. Peter with Mo-
ses in the conceptions of the an-
cient Christian artists seems to be
complete and convincing. Such, at
least, is our own conclusion; we sub-
join Mr. Withrow's :

" In two or three of the gilded glasses
which are of comparatively late date, the
scene of Moses striking the rock is rudely
indicated, and over the head or at the side
of the figure is the word PETRUS. From
this circumstance Roman Catholic writ-
ers have asserted that in many of the
sarcophaga! and other representations of
this event it is no longer Moses but Pe-
ter ' the leader of the new Israel of
God ' who is striking the rock with the
emblem of divine power: a conclusion
for which there is absolutely no evidence
except the very trivial fact above mention-
ed " (p. 292).

Mr. Withrow's observations sug-
gest one or two additional remarks.
First, he calls St. Peter " the leader
of the new Israel of God," but he
omits to mention from whom he
borrows this title or description of
the apostle. They are the words of
Prudentius, the Christian poet of the
fifth century, who thus becomes an
additional witness to the truth which
we have been insisting upon that
the position of St. Peter under the
New Lavv was analogous to that of
Moses under the Old. Prudentius
was in the habit of frequenting the
Catacombs for devotional purposes,
and he has left us a description of
them. Perhaps in the line which
we have quoted he was but giving
poetical expression to a fact or doc-
trine which he had seen often repre-
sented in symbols and on monu-
ments.

But, secondly, Mr. Wi throw speaks
of the rod in the hands of Moses
as u the emblem of divine power."
And here it should be mentioned

that this rod is never seen on an-
cient monuments of Christian art,
except in the hands of these three :
Christ, Moses, and Peter or should
we not now rather say of two only,
Christ and St. Peter? and that
these two hardly ever appear with-
out it. Either in painted or sculp-
tured representations of our Lord's
miracles he usually holds a rod in
his hands as the instrument whereby
he wrought them. Whether he is
changing the water into wine, or
multiplying the loaves and fishes, or
raising Lazarus from the dead, it is
not his own divine hand that touches
the chosen objects of the merciful
exercise of his power, but he touches
them all with a rod. Even when he
is represented not in his human form,
but symbolically as a lam!) e.g., in
the spandrels of the tomb of Junius
Bassus, A.D. 359 the rod is still
placed between the forefeet of the
mystical animal, its other end rest-
ing on the rock, the water-pots, or
the baskets. In one of the sarco-
phagi, belonging probably to the
year 410 or tiiereabouts, we almost
seem to assist at the transfer of this
emblem of power from Christ to
his Vicar. In the series of miracles
in the upper half of the sarcophagus
to which we refer it appears three
times in the hand . of Christ ; in
the lower series it occurs the same
number of times in the hand of Pe-
ter. In the last of these instances,
indeed, it may be said that it was
necessary, as it was the scene of
striking the rock; but in the other
two it can hardly be understood in
any other sense than as an emblem,
and, if an emblem at all, we suppose
all would admic that it can only be
an emblem of power and authority.
In the first of these two scenes we are
reminded, by the cock at his feet,
that our Lord is warning his apostle
of his threefold denial, whilst we are

Testimony of the Catacombs.

529

assured by the rod in the apostle's
hand that his fall would not deprive
him of his prerogative, but that af-
ter his conversion it would be his
mission to ''confirm the brethren."
In the second scene the firmness of
faith foretold or promised in the
first is put to the test by persecu-
tion, which began from his first ap-
prehension by the Jews and still
continues, yet the rod or staff re-
mains in his hands, no human mal-
ice having power to wrest either
from himself or his successors that
authority over the new Israel which
he had received from his divine
Master.

We are told that there was an
ancient Eastern tradition that the
rod of Moses, the ministerial instru-
ment of his great miracles, had
originally belonged to the patriarch
Jacob, from whom it was inherited
by his son Joseph ; that upon
Joseph's death it was taken to
Pharao's palace, and thence was
in due time given by the daughter
of Pharao to her adopted son,
Moses. Moreover, the same au-
thor mentions that in like manner
when our Lord said the words,
"Feed my lambs, feed my sheep,"
he gave to Peter a staff significa-
tive of his pastoral authority over
the whole flock ; and that " hence
has arisen the custom for all reli-
gious heads of churches and monas-
teries to carry a staff as a sign of
their leadership of the people." We
do not in any way vouch for the
authenticity, or even the Antiquity,
of this tradition. The only authori-
ty we have found for it does not go
further back than the first years of
the fifteenth century ; but it aptly
expresses the same truth which (we
maintain) was clearly present to
the minds both of Christian writers
and Christian artists in the early
ages of the church. We have seen
VOL. xxiv. 34

how it was illustrated by symbol in
the monuments of the Catacombs ;
we have heard the language of Pru-
dentius, calling St. Peter the leader
of the new Israel ; to these we must
add the testimony of an Eastern
solitary, the Egyptian St. Macarius,
who lived some fifty years earlier,
and who states the same thing more
distinctly, saying that " Moses was
succeeded by Peter" and that "to
him [St. Peter] was committed the
new church and the new priest-
hood."

We are far, however, from having
done justice to the idea as it existed
in the mind of the ancient church,
if we separate the notion of Peter
being a second Moses from that
particular act in the life of the Jew-
ish leader which we have seen spe-
cially attributed to the apostle viz.,
the striking of the rock ; and in our
interpretation of this act we must
be careful to take into account all
that the ancient Fathers understood
by it. Let us listen to the com-
mentary upon it preached in a pub-
lic sermon somewhere about the
middle of the fifth century. Speak-
ing in Turin on the feast of SS.
Peter and Paul, St. Maximus uses
these words :

"This is Peter, to whom Christ the
Lord of his free will granted a share in
his own name ; for, as the Apostle Paul
has taught us, Christ was the rock ; and
so Peter too was by Christ made a rock,
the Lord saying to him : ' Thou art Peter,
and upon this rock I will build my
church.' For as water flowed from a
rock to the Lord's people thirsting in the
wilderness, so did the fountain of a life-
giving confession come forth from the
mouth of Peter to the whole world wea-
ried with the thirst of unbelief. This is
Peter, to whom Christ, when about to
ascend to his Father, commends his
lambs and sheep to be fed and guarded."

The doctrine which is here taught
is plain and undeniable. Allusion

530

Testimony of tJie Catacombs.

is clearly made to a twofold idea :
first, Christ in his own nature is
the shepherd of the sheep, and
the rock whence flows the fount of
living water in the desert; but by
an act of his own sovereign will, by
his own special appointment, when
about to leave the world, he assigns
the office of chief shepherd to
Peter, and he communicates to Peter
a share in his own attributes, so
that he too from henceforth be-
comes a rock whereon the church
is built, and from him flows the
fount of heavenly doctrine and
life-giving faith which was first
revealed to him by the Father, and
then by him proclaimed and preach-
ed throughout the whole dry desert
of the world.

Did this thought originate with
the Bishop of Turin ? Was it a con-
ceit of his own fancy, the fruit of
a lively imagination ? Or are his
words only a link in the chain of an-
cient tradition, handing on to others
the same truth which he had him-
self received from his forefathers ?

One thing is certain : that the
pope was preaching the very same
thing in Rome about the same time.
Each year, as the feast of SS. Peter
and Paul which was also the anni-
versary of his own consecration
rame round, Pope Leo exhorted the
bishops and others who heard him
to lift up their minds and hearts, to
consider the glory of the Prince of
the Apostles, who was inundated (he
said) by such copious irrigations from
the fount of all graces that whereas
there were many which he alone
received, none passed to anybody
else without his having a share in
them. " The divine condescension,"
he says again, " gave to this man a
great and wonderful participation in
his own power, so that, though he
chose that some things should be
common to him with the other

apostles, yet he never gave except
through him what he did not with-
hold from the rest"; and then he
goes on to interpret the words of
Christ to Peter in this manner ; he
says : " The formation of the univer-
sal church at its birth took its begin-
ning from the honor of Blessed Peter,
in whose person its rule and its sum
consist ; for from his fountain the
stream of ecclesiastical discipline flmv-
ed forth into all churches" Twenty
years earlier Pope Innocent praises
an African council for having re-
ferred some question to Rome,
"knowing what is due to the Apos-
tolic See, since all we who occupy
this place desire to follow the apostle
himself, from whom the very episco-
pate and all the authority of this
title spring ; that nothing, even in
the most distant parts of the world,
should be determined before it was
brought to the knowledge of this
see; . . . that so all waters should
flow from their parent source
and the pure streams of the foun-
tain should well forth uncorrupted
throughout the different regions of
the whole world."

It may be said, perhaps, that these
are mere figures of speech and rhe-
torical illustrations, and that there
is no proof that the writers intend-
ed any reference whatever to the
miraculous stream from the rock in
the desert.

We cannot, in reply to this ques-
tion, undertake to trace back an
unbroken catena of authorities,
from the fifth century to the first,
clearly expressing the same idea;
but we can say with truth that it is
continually recurring in all writings
which have occasion to speak of
the unity of the church, especially
in the controversies of the third
century against the Novatians ; that
the types of the rock and the fount,
symbols of the origin and unity of

Testimony of the Catacombs.

531

the faith, of baptism, and of the
church, seem then to have been in-
separable in the minds of writers
and preachers from the mention
of St. Peter, on whom Christ had
founded that origin and that unity;
that those who impugned the vali-
dity of baptism administered by here-
tics considered that they urged an
irrefragable argument against their
adversaries as often as they invok-
ed the prerogative of Peter and the
undoubted unity of the rock whence
alone all pure waters flowed ; finally,
that the earliest writer in whom we
find the waters of baptism spoken
of as flowing from the rock (Tertul-
lian) was a frequent visitor at Rome
about the very time when some of
the most remarkable paintings in
which they are so represented
those in the so-called sacramental
chapels in the Catacomb of San
Callisto were being executed ; i.e.,
at the very commencement of the
third century.

\Ve conclude, then, that the paint-
ings and other monuments of an-
r.ient Christian art belonging to the
Catacombs, when placed side by
side with the language of contem-
poraneous and succeeding Christian
writers, mutually explain and con-
firm one another; and that it is im-
possible not to recognize in the
perfect agreement of these impor-
tant witnesses the faithful echo of a
primitive tradition to wit, that to
St. Peter was given the authority to
draw forth the true living waters of
sacramental grace from the Rock
of ages, and to distribute them
throughout the whole church.

There is yet one more incident
in the life of Moses which ancient
Christian art has reproduced, and
with a distinct reference to St.
Peter viz., the receiving of the
law from the hand of God. This
i.s a subject very commonly repeat-

ed on the sarcophagi of the fourth
and fifth centuries, but there is not,
so far as we know, any emblem at-
tached to these sculptured represen-
tations which obliges us to refer
them to the apostle. Other monu-
ments, however, of the same or an
earlier date, supply what is wanting.
We find both paintings and ancient
gilded glasses in which St. Peter
receives from our Lord either a
roll or volume, or sometimes (as if
to make the resemblance more
striking) a mere tablet with the in-
scription Lex Domini, or Dominus
Icgem dlit. Now, in pagan works of
art the emperors were sometimes re-
presented in the act of giving the
book of the laws or constitutions
to those officials whom they sent
forth to govern the provinces, and
the magistrates receive the book,
for greater reverence, not in their
bare hands, but in a fold of their
toga. Compare with this a Chris-
tian sarcophagus, belonging to an
early part of the fourth century, and
published by Bosio. In it we see
Christ, already ascended and tri-
umphant, having the firmament
under his feet, giving the book of
the New Law to Peter, who in like
manner has his hands covered with
a veil, that he may receive it with
due reverence. It is as though
Christ .were visibly appointing him
his Vicar and representative upon
earth, and making him the ex-
pounder and administrator of his
law. And the same scene is repre-
sented, without any essential altera-
tion, in a number of monuments of
various kinds, frescoes, sculpture,
glasses, and mosaics. By and bye,
in. some artists' hands, it lost some-
thing of its precise original signifi-
cation ; at least, in two of the later
monuments (one of them undoubt-
edly by a Greek artist) it is St. Paul
who receives the law, instead of St.

532

Testimony of the Catacombs.

Peter. But then there is, of course,
a certain sense in which this might
be as truly predicated of St. Paul, or
of any other member of the Aposto-
lic College as of St. Peter himself.
.Sometimes, also, all the apostles ap-
pear together with St. Peter when
he receives the law only he re-

ceives the volume opened ; they
stand each holding a closed roll in
: his hand. In some monuments, as
.in the mosaic of Sta. Costanza, the
'legend is Dominus datpacem instead
of legem. This, however, is hardly
an essential difference. It is only
through his law that Christ gives
peace, and peace or unity of the
church is a primary dogma of his
law. Hence this interchange of
the two words : the substitution of
one for the other, or occasionally
even their union, as on the cover

of a Book of the Gospels at Milan,
which is inscribed Lex et pax.

But it is time to draw this paper
to a close. Let it be remembered
that it is not an attempt to prove
the papal supremacy by means of
inscriptions or other monuments
from the Catacombs, but an answer
to an oft -repeated challenge upon

one point at least which lies at the
root of that subject ; and inciden-
tally it throws light upon some other
points also, more or less closely
connected with it. And we claim
to have established against these
controversialists that there is evi-
dence to be gathered from these
subterranean cemeteries ; that those
who made and decorated them
were conscious of a special pre-emi-
nence belonging to St. Peter over
the rest of the apostolic body ;
that they knew him to be in a cer-
tain singular manner the represen-
tative of his divine Master, whose
rod of power or staff of rule he
alone was privileged to bear; that
it was his prerogative to be the head
of the Christian church, its leader
and its teacher, having received
the law from the hands of Christ,
and the commission to feed and
govern his flock ; that he had the
special guardianship of the fountain
and river of living waters, only to
be found within the church, and
special authority to draw them
forth and distribute them through-
out every region of the thirsty
world

Modern Thought in Science.

533

MODERN THOUGHT IN SCIENCE.

\VHEN we were informed that
Professor Huxley, during his visit
to America, was to give a few scien-
tific lectures, we could easily antici-
pate that from a man of his charac-
ter nothing was to be expected so
likely as a bold effort to exalt
science at the expense of religion.
The three lectures on the Evidences
of Evolution, which he delivered in
New York on the i8th, 2oth, and
22d of September last, ar an evi-
dent proof that we had guessed
right. These lectures, though free
from open and formal denunciations
of religious faith, are deeply imbued
with that spirit of dogmatic un-
belief which pervades other works
of the same professor, and especial-
ly his Lay Sermons. His aim is
always the same : he uniformly
stiives to establish what Mr. Dra-
per and other modern thinkers
have vainly attempted to prove,
that science conflicts with revelation ;
and he labors to impress upon us
the notion that none but the ignorant
can believe in revealed truth. Such
is the main object which the pro-
fessor has had constantly in view
since he preached the first of his
Lay Sermons. A friend of ours, who
happened to be in England when
this first lay sermon was delivered,
disgusted at the arrogance and lev-
ity displayed by the lay preacher,
hastened to write a short popular
refutation of that sermon. This
refutation, owing to some unfore-
seen accident, was brought over to
America without being published,
and it is now in our hands. Believ-
ing, as we do, that, although written
some years ago, it is by no means

stale, and that its perusal will
effectually contribute to expose the
gross fallacies of the scientific lec-
turer, we offer it to our readers as
an appropriate introduction to the
direct criticism of the lectures them-
selves, which we intend to give in
an early number. The manuscript
in question reads as follows :

The Fortnightly Review (Jan. 15,
1866) has published " A Lay Sermon
delivered at St. Martin's Hall on
Sunday, January 7, 1866, ON THE

ADVISABLENESS OF IMPROVING NAT-
URAL KNOWLEDGE, by Prof. T. H.
Huxl'ey." The lay preacher thinks
that the improvement of natural
knowledge, besides giving us the
means of avoiding pestilences, ex-
tinguishing fires, and providing
modern society with material com-
fort, has produced two other won-
derful effects : " I say that nataral
knowledge, seeking to satisfy natu-
ral wants, has found the ideas that
can alone still spiritual cravings"
this is the first. " I say that natu-
ral knowledge, in desiring to ascer-
tain the laws of comfort, has been
driven to discover those of conduct,
and to lay the foundation of a
new morality " this is the second.
Though Mr. Huxley is a great pro-
fessor, or rather because he is a
great professor, we make bold to
offer him a few remarks on the sub-
ject which he has chosen, and es-
pecially on the manner in which
he has treated it. The reader, of
course, will understand that when
we speak of Mr. Huxley we mean
to speak, not of the man, but of the
preacher.

That natural knowledge is a good

534

Modern Thought in Science.

tiling, and its improvement an ad-
visable thing, is universally admit-
ted and requires no proof. Hence
we might ask : What is the good of
a. lay sermon on the advisableness of
improving natural knowledge ? Does
any man in his senses make sermons
on the advisableness of improving
one's purse, or health, or condi-
tion ? A student of rhetoric would
of course take up any unprofitable
subject as a suitable ground for am-
plification or declamation ; but a
profess9r cannot, in our opinion,
have had this aim in view in a. lay
sermon delivered at St. Martin's
Hall. Had Mr. Huxley been un-
der the impression that natural
knowledge is nowadays, for some
reason or other, in a deplorable
state, every one would have seen
the advisableness of remedying the
evil, if shown to be real. Had he
proved in his sermon that natural
knowledge nowadays is superficial,
sophistical, or incoherent with other
known truths, the opportunity of
talking about the advisableness of
improving it would have struck
every eye and stirred every soul.
But this was not the case. Natural
knowledge is assumed by the lay
preacher to be in a splendid and
glorious state ; our scientific men
are accounted great men, our con-
quests in science admirable, and
,our uninterrupted progress unques-
tionable.

" Our ' mathematick,' " says he, " is one
which Newton would have to go to
school to learn ; our ' staticks, mechan-
icks, magneticks, chymicks, and natural
experiments, constitute a mass of physi-
cal and chemical knowledge, a glimpse
at which would compensate Galileo for
the doings of a score of inquisitorial
cardinals; our ' physick' and 'anatomy'
have embraced such infinite varieties of
being, have laid open such new worlds
in time and space, have grappled, not
unsuccessfully, with such complex prob-

lems, that the eyes of Vesalius and of
Harvey might be dazzled by the sight of
the tree that has grown out of their grain
of mustard-seed" (pp. 628, 629).

Such being the state of things,
we might have expected a sermon
on the means of diffusing and pro-
moting natural knowledge j but a
sermon laying stress on such a
triviality as the advisableness of im-
proving natural knowledge, when na-
tural knowledge is quite flourishing
and dazzling, seems to us to have
no object at all. Unfortunately,
the lay preacher did not see that it
was a triviality, or, if he saw that
it was, thought that his own way of
dealing with it was so new and tin-
trivial that the merit of his novel
conceptions would redeem the tri-
viality of the subject. Let us see,
then, what such novel conceptions
are.

That natural knowledge may help
us to keep back pestilences and to
extinguish fires is not a discovery
of the lay preacher ; we all knew
it. His first discovery is that pes-
tilences are not punishments of
God, and that fires have little to
do with human malice.

"Our forefathers had their own ways
of accounting for each of these calami-
ties. They submitted to the plague in
humility and in penitence, for they be-
lieved it to be the judgment of God.
But towards the fire they were furiously
indignant, interpreting it as the effect of
the malice of man, as the work of the
republicans or of the Papists, according
as their prepossessions ran in favor of
loyalty or of Puritanism. It would, I
fancy, have fared but ill with one who,
standing where I now stand, in what was
then a thickly-peopled and fashionable-
part of London, should have broached
to otar ancestors the doctrine which I
now propound to you that all their
hypotheses were alike wrong; that the
plague was no more, in their sense, a
divine judgment than the fire was the
work of any political or of any reli-
gious sect; but that they were them-

Modern Thought in Science.

535

selves the authors of both plague and
fire, and that they must look to them-
selves to prevent the recurrence of ca-
lamities to all appearance so peculiarly
beyond the reach of human control so
evidently the result of the wrath of God
or of the craft and subtlety of an ene-
my " (pp. 626, 627).

We think that natural knowledge'
will not be much improved by this
Huxleyan discovery. God's exist-
ence and providence are notorious-
ly a most substantial part of natu-
ral knowledge ; so the relegation
of Deity out of the world, and the
suppression of his providence over
it, is no less a crime against science
than against God himself, and shows
no less ignorance than impiety. We
cannot admit that pestilences "will
only take up their abode among
those who have prepared unswept
and ungarnished residences for
them," nor that "their cities must
have narrow, un watered streets,
foul with accumulated garbage,"
nor that " their houses must be ill-
drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated,"
nor that "their subjects must be ill-
washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed" (p. 630).
Our reasons for denying such con-
clusions are many. To cite one
only of which we think that Mr.
Huxley will not fail to appreciate
the value we read in one of the
most authentic historical books the
following :

" The word of the Lord came to Gad
the prophet and the seer of David, saying :
Go, and say to David : Thus saith the
Lord : I give thee the choice of three
things : choose one of them which thou
wilt, that I may do it to thee. And when
Gad was come to David, he told him,
saying: Either seven years of famine
shall come to thee in thy land : or tkou
shall flee three months before thy adver-
saries : or foi three days there shall be a
pestilence in thy land. Now therefore
deliberate, and see what answer I shall
return to him that sent me. And David
said to Gad : I am in a great strait : but

it is better that I should fall into the
hands of the Lord (for his mercies are
many) than into the hands of men. A in!
the Lord sent a pes'.ilcncc upon Isrm!, from
the mornin? unto the time appointed,
and there died of the people from D.ui
to Bersabee seventy thousand men. Ana
when the angel of the Lord had stretch-
ed out his hand over Jerusalem to de-
stroy it, the Lord had pity on the afflic-
tion, and said to the angel that slew
the people : // is enough : now /told thy
hand" (2 Kings xxiv.)

This fact is as historical as the
London plague; nor is it the only
one that could be adduced. Hence
we are at a loss to understand how
natural knowledge can be improved
by a theory which is annihilated by
the most positive facts.

The next discovery of the lay
preacher is no less remarkable : " I
say that natural knowledge, seek-
ing to satisfy natural wants, has
found the ideas which can alone
still spiritual cravings" (p. 632).
What great ideas has natural know-
ledge introduced into men's minds ?
ist. That the earth is but an atom
among atoms, whirling no man
knows whither, through illimitable
space (p. 634) ; 2d, that what we
call the peaceful heaven above us
is but that space, filled by an infi-
nitely subtle matter, whose parti-
cles are seething and surging like
the waves of an angry sea (ibid.) ;
3d, that there are infinite regions
where nothing is known, or ever
seems to have been known, but
matter and force (ibid.) ; 4th, that
phenomena must have had a begin-
ning, and must have an end; but
their beginning is, to our concep-
tion of time, infinitely remote, and
their end is as immeasurably dis-
tant (ibid.) ; 5th, that all matter 1ms
weight, and that the force which
produces weight is co-extensive
with the universe (ibid.) ; 6th, that
matter is indestructible (p. 635) ;

536

Modern Thought in Science.

yth, that force is indestructible
(ibid-) ; 8th, that everywhere we
find definite order and succession
of events, which seem never to be
infringed (ibid.) ; 9th, that man is
not the centre of the living world,
but one amidst endless modifica-
tions of life (ibid.) ; loth, that the
ancient forms of existence peopling
the world for ages, in relation
to human experience, are infinite
(ibid.)-, nth, that life depends for
its manifestation on particular mole-
cular arrangements or any physical or
chemical phenomenon (ibid.) ; I2th,
that " the theology of the present
has become more scientific than
that of the past; because it has
not only renounced idols of wood
and idols of stone, but begins to
see the necessity of breaking into
pieces the idols built up of books
and traditions and fine-spun eccle-
siastical cobwebs, and of cherishing
the noblest and most human of
man's emotions by worship, * for
the most part of the silent sort,' at
the altar of the Unknown and Un-
knowable " (p. 636).

It appears that Mr. Huxley as-
sumes that these ideas have been
of late " implanted in our minds by
the improvement of natural know-
ledge," that they suffice to " still
spiritual cravings," and that they
alone suffice, as " they alone can
still spiritual cravings." Now, the
indestructibility of matter is not a
new idea implanted in men's minds
by modern science. The ancient
and the mediaeval philosophers
knew it as well as Mr. Huxley, and,
if we may be allowed to state a
simple truth, even better, as they
could give a very good reason of the
fact a thing which would proba-
bly puzzle those great men who de-
spise " the products of mediaeval
thought," and dedicate themselves
exclusively to the acquirement of

the so-called "new philosophy."

That life depends for its manifes-
tation on particular molecular ar-
rangements is, in substance, an old
story, as physicists and philoso-
phers of all times taught that not
only the manifestation, but also
the very existence, of life in the
body required a particular organi-
zation of matter ; so that, to judge
by this test, the improvement of
knowledge would here consist in
the suppression of the soul that is,
in a mutilation of knowledge. That
phenomena must have had a begin-
ing is an axiom as old as the
world, though some pagan philoso-
phers denied it; and that phenome-
na must have an end is but an as-
sumption which modern men have
hitherto failed to prove. But let
this pass.

What a refreshing thought for
" stilling spiritual cravings " to
know that phenomena must have
had a beginning and must have
an end ! What a consoling idea
to think that the earth is but an
atom among atoms, whirling no
man knows whither! What a sub-
ject of delicious contemplation
the infinite regions, where nothing
is known but matter and force !
And then what a happiness to
know that what we call " heaven "
is but space filled by an infinitely
subtle matter ; to know that all
matter has weight; to be certain
that all matter is indestructible ! At
such thoughts, surely, the heart of
man must wax warm, and spiritual
cravings be stilled ! Is not this a
very strange discovery ?

With regard to the idea that " man
is not the centre of the living world,
but one amid endless modifications
of life," vve must confess our igno-
rance. We thought that such a
view had been ere now perempto-
rily condemned as absurd by all

Modern Thought in Science.

537

competent men. But if Mr. Hux-
ley, in a future lay sermon, is able
to show that natural knowledge
obliges him to reckon crabs, mon-
keys, and gorillas among his own
ancestors, we do not see how much
tk our spiritual cravings" will be
gratified at the thought of such a
noble origin. In any case, we
shall leave to Mr. Huxley the
privilege of enjoying personally all
the glory of a bestial genealogy.

And now we must say a word on
" the theology of the present, which
has become more scientific than
that of the past." The improve-
ment of knowledge, according to
our lay preacher, led theology first
to renounce the idols of wood and
the idols of stone. Very good ; yet
we may observe that such an im-
provement of knowledge had its
origin in divine revelation, not in
experimental science, and that the
sect which now preaches the pro-
gress of natural knowledge has had
no part in breaking the idols either
of wood or stone. Then the im-
provement of knowledge must lead
theology to break into pieces
What? "Books, traditions, fine-
spun ecclesiastical cobwebs " ! And
men that is, Mr. Huxley 's friends
"begin to see the necessity" of
breaking all such things. This is
but natural. As the outlaw detests
the police and the army, and " be-
gins to see the necessity " of break-
ing both into pieces, so these lovers
of matter detest books and tradi-
tions on higher subjects, and their
" spiritual (!) cravings " cannot be
stilled unless they break traditions
and books into pieces. At this we
do not wonder; but as for "eccle-
siastical cobwebs," what are they ?
Does Mr. Huxley know any cob-
webs but his own and those, too,
not very " fine-spun ?"

Next comes " the worship, ' for

the most part of the silent sort/ at
the altar of the Unknown and Un-
knowable." This is the last degree
of the climax ; and this gives us
the measure both of the "new
philosophy," and of the acute
mind of the lay preacher. Our
" spiritual cravings" cannot be still-
ed until we have done away with
that portion of knowledge which
concerns our Lord and Creator.
Our scientific Titans do not want
a Master and a Judge. The im-
provement of knowledge must lead
us back to the time when a few
fools worshipped at the altar of an
unknown God ; and, since the ab-
surdity of this pretension had not
the merit of being modern, it be-
came necessary to show the high
degree of ignorance which may be
united with the improved natural
knowledge by proclaiming that the
noblest and most human of man's
emotions is cherished by a worship
which is a moral, not to say physi-
cal, impossibility.

We have now reached the bot-
tom of the " new philosophy" ; we
are edified about the improvement
of natural knowledge ; we know
what is aimed at in the lay sermons
on the advisableness of improving
natural knowledge ; and we thank
Mr. Huxley," not without a deep
sense of melancholy, for his open
profession of infidelity, which will
very likely make harmless all lay
sermons which he may venture
to preach henceforward. At one
tiling only we are astonished ; that
is, that the champion of such a
cause a professor has not been
able to deal with his subject except
by a strain of whimsical assertions.
Is it necessary for us to teach a
professor that mere assertions are
good for nothing in science ? A
professor like Mr. Huxley should
have understood that, in the case

538

Modern Thought in Science.

of new theories, the absence of
proof makes men suspect the intel-
lectual poverty of the orator. Still,
the fact remains : the lay-preacher
asserted much, and proved nothing.
The only excuse which we think he
<:an offer may be that a layman has
no special vocation and no special
grace for preaching; or, perhaps,
tli at nemo dat quod non habet ; or,
lastly, that the improvement of na-
tural knowledge is in no need of
proof, the assertion of any profes-
sor being considered as a sufficient
demonstration. And this leads us
to the third of Mr. Huxley's discov-
eries.

Let us hear him. He asks :
** What are among the moral con-
victions most fondly held by bar-
barous and semi-barbarous people ?"
And he answers :

" They are the convictions that author-
ity is the soundest basis of belief; that
merit attaches to a readiness to believe ;
that the doubting disposition is a bad
one, and scepticism a sin ; that when
good authority has pronounced what is
to be believed, and faith has accepted it,
reason has no further duty. There are
many excellent persons who yet hold
by these principles, and it is not my
present business or intention to discuss
their views. All I wish to biing clearly
before your minds is the unquestionable
fact that the improvement of natural
knowledge is effected by methods which
directly give the lie to all these convic-
tions, and assume the exact reverse of
each to be true."

Then he adds :

" The improver of natural knowledge
absolutely refuses to acknowledge au-
thority as such. For him, scepticism is
the highest of duties, blind faith the one
unpardonable sin. And it cannot be
otherwise ; for every great advance in
natural knowledge has involved the ab-
solute rejection of authority, the cherish-
ing of the keenest scepticism, the anni-
hilation of the spirit of blind faith ; and
the most ardent votary of science holds
his firmest convictions, not because the

men he most venerates hold them, not
because their verity is testified by poi-
tents and wonders, but because his ex-
perience teaches him that, whenever he
chooses to bring these convictions into
contact with their primary source, na
ture whenever he thinks fit to test
them by appealing to experiment and
observation nature will confirm them.
The man of science has learned to be-
lieve in justification, not by faith, but by
verification" (pp. 636, 637).

This language is undoubtedly
clear, and its meaning unmistak-
able. All Englishmen who have
any disposition to believe on good
authority, from Queen Victoria
down to the meanest of her subjects,
are to be ranked among barbarians
or semi-barbarians. And as Mr.
John Stuart Mill has already decid-
ed, in his high wisdom, that barbari-
ans can be justly compelled (for
their own good, of course) to bear
the yoke of a tyrant, we can, by a
genial union of the views of these 1
two great men, substantiate the re-
sult of their combined teaching.
" Barbarians, for their own good,
can be subjected to tyranny" this
is the major proposition drawn
from Mr. Mill. " But Englishmen
who respect authority and believe
are but barbarians" this is the
minor of Mr. Huxley. The conse-
quence is brutal but evident, and
gives us the measure of the liberal-
ity of a certain class of liberals.
Fortunately, Prof. Huxley is a very
amiable man, and perhaps he does
not hold without limitation the
aforesaid principle of his philoso-
phical friend. He even conde-
scends to declare that "there are
many excellent persons who yet
hold those convictions of barbarous
people," and says that "it is not
his present business or intention to
discuss their views." Still, we are
sorry that these "excellent per-
sons " are condemned without a

Modern TJ to light in Science.

539

hearing; and as for discussion, our
impression is that Mr. Huxley is
much afraid of it, at least " for the
present." We should prefer that
our views were discussed before we
are insulted on account of them.
Who knows whether the issue of
such a discussion would not show
that the true barbarians, after all,
are those very worshippers of
"scepticism" or of the "Un-
known " and of the " Unknow-
able "?

But let us abstain from retalia-
tion ; we are barbarians, and our
word is worth nothing as long as
we continue to hold that "author-
ity is the soundest basis of belief."
And yet we fancy that the London
plague could only be believed be-
cause the authority of a great num-
ber of eye-witnesses was the sound-
est basis of belief. Mr. Huxley
will say that we are mistaken, as
" the improver of natural knowledge
absolutely refuses to acknowledge
authority as such " ; but he has
forgotten to tell us on what grounds
he himself believes the London
plague. Is it perchance because
" his experience teaches him that,
whenever he chooses to bring his
convictions into contact with their
primary source, nature whenever
he thinks fit to test them by ap-
pealing to experiment and observa-
tion nature will confirm them"?
We are exceedingly anxious to know
the truth. Will the lay preacher,
who is so kind, enlighten us by a
clear answer?

We have just said that a little
discussion would very likely show
that Mr. Huxley's remarks apply
to his equals rather than to those
whom he endeavors to stigmatize.
And as we do not belong to the
school or sect of which Mr. Hux-
ley is the representative, and accor-
dingly do not enjoy the privilege

of boldly asserting what cannot Im-
proved, so we are obliged to show
what are the reasons of our convic-
tion.

Mr. Huxley believes that " man
is not the centre of the living world,
but one amid endless modifications of
life" Whence does this convic-
tion come ? The learned professor
cannot be ranked among civilized
people unless he be able to show
that his conviction is not grounded
on authority, but on scepticism,
which is "the highest duty " of an
improver of knowledge. He must
be prepared to show that " he holds
it, not because the men he most
venerates hold it, not because its
verity is testified by portents and
wonders, but because his experience
teaches him that, whenever he thinks
fit to test it by appealing to experi-
ment and observation, nature will
confirm it." Unfortunately for him,
and in spite of his uncommon
power of making broad assertions,
he cannot have -recourse to such an
answer, inasmuch as it would be
received with loud peals of laugh-
ter even by his devout flock of St.
Martin's Hall. In conclusion, he
has caught himself in his own trap,
and we are afraid he must declare
himself to be (horrible to say !) a
barbarian, and an awful barbarian
too; for it is with open eyes, and
with other aggravating circumstan-
ces, that he has done what, accord-
ing to him, only "barbarous peo-
ple " do.

This being the case, no one needs
to ask why Mr. Huxley informs us
that it is not his present business
or intention to discuss the views ot
those " excellent persons " who still
believe. He believes himself more
than they believe. They believe
" when good authority has pronoun-
ced " ; ' the lay preacher believes
even without good authority. Those

540

Modern Thought in Science.

"excellent persons " smile with the
" keenest scepticism " at his theory
of the Unknown and of the Un-
knowable ; but the lay preacher
believes in his theory without proof
and against proof, and thinks
that "reason has no further duty."
And it is remarkable that he does
not content himself with believing
what may appear to be a view of the
present or a fact of the past. This
would be too little for him; he
believes a great deal more : he be-
lieves in what may be called a
dream of the future. Yes :

"If these ideas be destined,^ / be-
lieve they are, to bs more and more firm-
ly established as the world grows older ;
if that spirit be fated, a.t [believe it is, to
extend itself into all departments of hu-
man thought, and to become co-exten-
sive with the range of knowledge ; if, as
our race approaches its maturity, it dis-
covers, as I believe it will, that there is
but one kind of knowledge, and but one
method of acquiring it then we, who
are still children, may justly feel it our
highest duty to recognize the advisable-
ness of improving natural knowledge "
(P. 637).

Who would have thought or im-
agined that a man could be so ill-
advised as to condense three pro-
fessions of blind faith in the very
lines in which lie intends to con-
clude in favor of scepticism ?

The consequence of all this is ap-
palling. For how now can Mr. Hux-
ley again present himself to his de-
vout congregation of St. Martin's
Hall? What can he say in his de-
fence ? The best would be to dis-
semble, if possible, and to ignore
with a lofty unconcern his numer-
ous blunders; but men are shrewd,
and the expedient might seem an
implicit confession of failure. As
for " discussing the views of those
excellent persons " who still hold
the principles of faith, there can be

no question. This would be too
much and too little : too much for
the man, too little for the purpose.
And, in fact, since Mr. Huxley is
himself guilty of that of which he
accuses others, he cannot strike
others without wounding himself.
The only practical thing would be,
in our opinion, an explicit, gener-
ous, and humble confession of guilt.
Why not ? The lay preacher is not
the first professor who has spoken
nonsense, nor will he be the last.
We are all liable to error and sin ;
and recantation and repentance are
a right of humanity. On the other
hand, he is not the only man who is
guilty of believing he is in very
good company ; for " there are
ma-y excellent persons who still
believe," though undoubtedly he
goes further than they do. Still,
we apprehend that a lay preacher
may find himself a little embarrass-
ed in a subject of this sort ; and
as we have already shown what a
deep and sincere interest we feel in
lay sermons, and have gained, per-
haps, a title to a special hearing on
the part of the lay preacher, so, to
relieve him, at least partially, from
the heavy burden, we venture to
offer him the following plan of a
new Lay Sermon to be delivered at
St. Martin s Hall on a day not yet
appointed.

The exordium might contain the
following thoughts : " My friends, a
sorrowful duty calls me to speak un-
to you. On January 7, 1866, a pro-
fessor from this very place preach-
ed a sermon on the improvement
of natural knowledge by unbelief,
and maintained that to believe on
good authority was a principle of
barbarous or semi-barbarous peo-
ple. . . . That professor, alas! was
myself. . . . Well, it is my pain-
ful duty to tell you to-day that
you have been humbugged. . , ,

Modern Thought in Science.

541

(Cheers from the audience.) Do
net cheer; have pity on me, my dear
brethren. I have sinned against
myself, against you, and against
mankind. This is the distressing
truth of which I am now ready to
make the demonstration."

The confirmation would have
three parts. In the first he might
say : " I have sinned against myself
in two ways : First, because I
uttered assertions calculated to
show that I am more credulous
than those whom I reprehend.
Now, if men are condemned by me
on the ground that they believe * on
good authority,' what will be the
sentence reserved for me, who be-
lieve on bad authority and on no
authority? Secondly, because I
put myself in an awkward position
as a scientific man. The distance
of the earth from the sun I hitherto
admitted on authority; the speci-
fic weight of most bodies on author-
ity; the discovery of certain geo-
logic curiosities on authority ; the
ratio of the circumference to the
diameter on authority, etc., etc.
Verification would have taken too
many years of work ; and this
seemed to me a good excuse for
assuming that there was no harm
in believing. But now, as I have
declared ' scepticism to be the
highest of duties,' to be consistent,
I shall be obliged to appeal with-
out intermission to experiment and
observation, and even to calcula-
tion; 'for the man of science has
learned to believe in justification
not by faith, but by verification '
And so good- by to my lay sermons !
It will be quite impossible for me,
while calculating anew the basis of
the Napierian logarithms or the
circumference of the circle, or
while testing Faraday's discover-
ies by actual experiments, or tra-
velling to verify the assertions of

geological writers, to dream of
popular eloquence."

After developing these or similar
thoughts, he would pass to the se-
cond part and say : " I have sinned
against you ; for the principal aim
of my sermon was to make you be-
lieve what I was then saying. How
is it possible, dear friends, that I
should have taken pleasure in thus
treating you as barbarians or semi-
barbarians? Civilized men, accord-
ing to the theory which I then ad-
vanced, ' refuse to acknowledge au-
thority as such.' ' Scepticism,' ac-
cording to the same theory, 'is the
highest of duties,' and 'blind faith
an unpardonable sin.' Such was
my doctrine on January 7. Yet
this very sin, this unpardonable
sin, I suggested to you on that
same day, and you committed it !
In fact, you have believed me. . . .
Now, for this no one is more re-
sponsible than myself. I have been
your tempter; I did my best to ex-
tort your belief; I caused you to
believe on my authority, to believe
as barbarians believe ! I plead
guilty. Still, as you are so kind, I
hope that you will excuse me. I
admitted, after all, that 'there are
many excellent persons who yet
hold the principle that merit at-
taches to a readiness to believe,'
and therefore both you and myself,
in spite of all that you have believ-
ed, may be excellent persons. An-
other very good reason in my favor
is that the subject of that sermon
was ' the advisableness of improving
natural knowledge'; now, our com-
mon fault is a very good demon-
stration of such an advisableness.
I might add a third reason. I told
you, and I trust that you have not
forgotten it, that ' we are still chil-
dren.' Now, children, when they
err, deserve indulgence, etc., etc."
In the third part he would say

542

Modern Thought in Science.

something like the following : " I
have sinned against mankind ; for
my sermon was calculated to create
the impression that those who be-
lieve ' when good authority has pro-
nounced what is to be believed'
are all barbarians or semi-barba-
rians. Tli is, I must be allowed to
say, was a very great mistake, and
perhaps an 'unpardonable sin.'
The London plague is believed 'on
good authority,' by all Englishmen
at least, and yet let me frankly say
it Englishmen are not all barba-
rians. All civilized nations believe
that there has been a king called
Alexander the Great, a mathemati-
cian called Archimedes, a woman
called Cleopatra, an emperor called
Caligula, and they believe it only
' on good authority '; and how could
this be, if belief were the lot of bar-
barous or semi-barbarous people ?
What I say of profane history must
be said of the Biblical also, and
even of the ecclesiastical. No
doubt, dear brethren, there has
been a man called Moses, who was
a great legislator and prophet ;
there has been a man called Solo-
mon, who was wiser than you and
myself; there has been a man call-
ed JESUS, who wrought miracles in
the very eyes of obstinate unbeliev-
ers, and rose from death (a thing
which we, men of progress, have
not yet learned to do), thereby
showing that he was no mere man,
but man and God. To say that this
God is 'unknown' or 'unknowa-
ble' is therefore one of the great-
est historical blunders. Men have
known him, have loved him, and have
obeyed him. Those who have be-
lieved in him became models of
sanctity, of charity, and of generos-
ity ; millions among them were
ready to die, and really died, for
his honor, and many of them were
the greatest and most cultivated

minds that have enlightened the
world. We scientific infidels, as
compared with them, ' are still
children.' Our Newton believed,
Galileo believed, Leibnitz believed,
Volta believed, Galvani believed,
Ampere believed, Cauchy believed.
Faraday believed. These were
men ; these have created modern
science. But what are we unbeliev-
ers? What have we done ? Where
are our creations? creations, I
say, not merely of modern time,
but of unbelievers? 'We are chil-
dren' I am glad to repeat it. We
have invented nothing. We, in our
capacity of unbelievers, are only
parasitic plants which suck the sap
of a gigantic tree Christianity
and live upon it, and yet we have
been so ill-advised as to call our-
selves 'improvers of natural know-
ledge,' and, worse still, we have at-
tached the name of barbarians to
' excellent persons/ even though we
are no better than they, etc., etc."

In the peroration he might say :
" And now we come to our conclu-
sion. The conclusion evidently is
that true barbarians are not those 1
who believe 'on good authority,'
but those who endeavor to ' siill
spiritual cravings ' with purely ma-
terial objects. No, dear brethren,
spiritual cravings cannot be stilled
by knowledge of material things
alone. Spiritual cravings imply
the existence of a spiritual soul :
and a spiritual being cannot be sat-
isfied with the knowledge of mat-
ter alone, etc., etc. As for the idea
of drawing, 'a new morality ' from
the improved natural knowledge, I
need scarcely tell you that it was
only a joke. You know too well
that morality transcends the physic
allaws, and cannot come out of mat-
ter; and you know also that a ' new'
morality is as impossible as a new
God, etc." And here the orator

Modern Thought in Science.

543

might give way to the fulness of
his feelings, according to the peni-
tent disposition of the moment.
Hitherto we have addressed our-

knowledge of physical laws, and yet
it is presented by him as compre-
hensive of all possible knowledge;
whereas it is evident that natural

selves to the lay preacher exclu- knowledge extends far beyond phy-

sively ; we will now address a word
to the man. We trust that Pro-
fessor Huxley will not feel offend-
ed at our remarks and suggestions,
it is true that unbelievers, whilst
ready, and even accustomed, to at-
tack all mankind, are often very sen-
sitive when they themselves areeith-

sical things. We might have ob-
jected to the captious expression
"blind faith," on account of the
latent assumption that faith is not
prompted by reasonable motives
and has no reasonable grounds.
We might have pointed out the
recklessness of the proposition :

er unmasked or criticised. But we " There is but one kindof knowledg
feel persuaded that Professor Hux- and but one method of

Our

ley will not be angry with us.
reason is, first, that we might have
smiled in secret at the lay sermon
on the advisableness of improving
natural knowledge by unbelief; and
if \ve did it the honor of a lengthy
refutation, we have given the ora-
tor a greater importance than he
himself would have expected. On
the other hand, we have been at-
tacked ; and, accordingly, we would
have been cowards had we been
afraid of answering. Moreover, we
have treated him not only fairly,
but with great indulgence. What
we have said is only a small part
of what we might have said. We
made no remark on his proposition
that ; ' whether these ideas (which
alone can still spiritual cravings)
are well or ill founded, is not the
question" (p. 636) ; and yet this as-
sertion on account of its neutral-
ity between truth and error, would
have supplied abundant matter for
criticism ; but we abstained. We
could have animadverted on the
very phrase " natural knowledge,"
which he takes as meaning the

acquiring

it " a proposition which, consider-
ing the general spirit of the sermon,
would mean that philosophy, theo-
logy, and religion are a heap of im-
postures. We might have dwelt on
the assertion that " verities testified
by portents and wonders " are not
to be admitted on this ground by
the votary of science ; as if portents
and wonders were not facts, or as
if the votary of science were obliged
by his profession to blind himself
to the natural evidence of super-
natural facts.

It appears, then, that we had co-
pious materials for further criticism ;
but we have not found it necessary
to dwell upon them. What we have
said is, in our opinion, sufficient for
the defence of those principles which
every enlightened man most cher-
ishes as the very foundations of hu-
man society. We have remained,
therefore, within the limits of a fair
and equitable reply ; and if we have
laughed at the ignorance of the un-
believer, we have respected as far
as possible the person of the pro-
fessor.

544 d. Christmas Legend.

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

'TWAS midnight, and the Christmas bells were chiming loud and clear

Peal after peal glad tidings bore to Christians far and near.

Those throats of metal seemed to chant in solemn tones and slow :

En puer nobis natus est : laus Jesu Domino.

The night winds heard, and thereupon took up the holy song

First learned by them when angel hosts surprised the shepherd throng.

The very river caught the strain, and whispered as it ran :

"Glory to God in heaven above ; on earth be peace to man."

The ocean from the river took the tidings glad and good ;

Like monks white-cowled its crested waves in mighty chorus stood ;

Then, hastening on with joyous shout, cried loud from shore to shore :

The Christ is born : let ail the world its King and God adore.

Floating flakes of fleecy snow fell fast o'er frozen earth,

Just as they fell that winter night that saw the Saviour's birth ;

Through painted casements all ablaze with saintly forms and fair

Streamed light that tinged the drifted snow with color here and there ;

The mighty organ loudly pealed and mingled in accord

With holy voices chanting high the anthems of their Lord :

" Venite Adbremus " sang the choristers that night

Within the old cathedral church, which shone with many a light ;

" Et Verbum Carofactum est" thus sung the chant again,

While clouds of fragrant incense rose and floated through the fane.

Many a frocked and cowled monk and many a hooded friar,

Many a knight of high degree and many a faithful squire,

Many a youth and many a maid and many a lady fair,

Knelt side by side, and, kneeling, prayed upon the pavement bare.

But, lo ! beside a pillar's base where scarce the taper's ray

Could light the gloom that hung around or pierce the shadows gray;

There knelt a son of Israel's creed, whose dark and swarthy face,

Black raven hair, and liquid eyes bespoke his Jewish race.

What did he there, that Hebrew boy, that scion of the East ?

Why knelt he there 'mid Christian souls to keep a Christian feast?

Why were his eyes devoutly fixed upon an image fair ?

Why prayed that unbaptize"d child, why sang, why knelt he there ?

Of wealthy Jewish parents born, young David oft had heard
The boys of that old city tell of Jesus Christ the Word,
Who, of a Jewish Virgin born, came down on earth to dwell,
To save mankind from sin and death ; and oft had heard as well
How Mary, God's dear Mother, loved all Christians great and small,
And how she never failed to hear a contrite sinner's call.
So he, too, learned to love her well, and each and every day
That Jewish lad would clasp his hands and most devoutly say
" O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel's race !
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face."

A Christmas Legend. 545

Thus day by day and month by month young David ever cried,
And more to learn of Christian truth with fondest ardor sighed.
On Christmas Eve lie heard the bells ring sweetly from the spire,
And of one Mark, a chorister, did earnestly inquire :
" Dear Mark, why chime thy church's bells so joyously to-night,
While all the painted windows shine with such unwonted light ?"
U O David !" quick his friend rejoined, "the bells are ringing clear.
In greeting to the holiest feast throughout the Christian year;
For on this night, long years agone, was born our Blessed Lord,-
By Mary in a manger laid, by angel hosts adored.
But see, dear friend, I cannot now to speak with you delay;
For swiftly to the sacristy I needs must haste away.
I am a chorister, you know," he said with honest pride ;
Then added, as he turned to leave his young companion's side :
^ " My voice to-night in holy song to faithful souls shall tell
How Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came down on earth to dwell.
Good-night, good-night," at last he said, and then away he ran.
Poor David's eyes were filled with tears, his cheeks were pale and wan ;
But as he listened to the chimes that quivered on the air,
From out his inmost heart the boy sent up his simple prayer :
" O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel's race !
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face."
While thus he prayed he turned his steps towards flie sacred fane,
Nor paused until he gained the porch, where such a wondrous strain
Of holy music greeted him that, trembling, half with fear
And half with joy, he hid himself, and there saw passing near
A noble rank of men and boys in wonderful array,
With flambeaux in their hands which made the church as light as day.
First came a fair-haired Christian boy, of figure tall and slight,
A smoking censer in his hand, and clad in robe of white.
Then came two acolytes, who bore two candlesticks of gold,
With tapers tall of perfumed wax of costliness untold.
A young subdeacon slowly marched these acolytes between ;
A massive silver cross he bore aloft with reverent mien.
Then, two and two, came choristers in linen fair and white ;
The younger first, in order due, each holding to the light
His psalter, silver-clasped, and all in vellum richly bound.
Here David gazed intently, and, so gazing, quickly found
His little friend, the chorister, who walked with steady pace,
Whose silvery voice in ringing tones filled all the holy place.
The bishop then with lordly train walked last of all the band,
A golden mitre on his head, a crosier in his hand.
His vestments 'broidered were with pearls, and rays of green and red
From emeralds fair and rubies bright on every side were shed.
When all had passed, poor David crept from out his hiding-place,
And slowly followed up the throng with soft and stealthy pace.
Then, fearing lest his Jewish dress might some attention draw,
He sank down at the pillar's base where first his form we saw.
Then, as the holy service rose to God, and voice of prayer,
And hymns and canticles of praise filled all the listening air,
VOL. xxiv. 35

546 A Christmas Legend.

The Hebrew lad fell prone upon his face, and there adored,
Whilst once again to Mary he the oft-said prayer outpoured :
"O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel's race !
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face."
" Thou seest it !" cried at David's side a clear and heavenly voice,
Whose very tones, though soft and low, made David's heart rejoice.
He raised his face, and forthwith saw a vision standing nigh,
Around whose head there brightly shone the glory of the sky.
Twas Mary's self, and thus she spoke in accents sweet and mi!3 :
" Fear not. Arise and come with me, my well-beloved child."
The lad arose ; Our Lady dear then grasped his trembling hand,
And led him to the chancel gates unseen by all the band.
Just as they stood beneath the Rood loud rang the sacring-bell,
Which did to all the holy time of Consecration tell. t
This when she heard, our Mother knelt upon the marble floor ;
For Mary's Son is Mary's God and Lord'for evermore.
She then arose and stood unseen till Holy Mass was o'er,
Then forward stepped, and, with the lad, the prelate stood before.
" Behold," she said, and as she spoke the church was filled with light,
And all fell down upon their knees in wonder at the sight.
" Behold. I bring you here a soul who, though he knew me not,
Has ever called upon my name, and aye bewailed his lot
Because he knew not as he wished the true, the Christian creed :
I bring him that he may become an Israelite indeed."
She spoke, and bright the radiance gleamed around her saintly head,
And odors most celestial were throughout the building .shed.
Then, as the whole assembly gazed on all with mute surprise,
She vanished in a silver cloud from 'fore their wondering eyes.
The holy bishop first found voice, and thus devoutly said :
" Mother of God, thy blest command shall be at once obeyed.
Divine behests brook no delay ; so here, before the night
'Doth older grow, let me bestow the laver's saving rite."
The water brought, redemption's stream o'er David flowed that hour,
And sparkled on his forehead white foke dewdrops on a flower.
" Te Deum laudamus " chanted then the choristers with joy,
And rushed to give a kiss of peace unto the happy boy.
But what is this ? He does not stir nor lift his bended head !
David, his white robe yet unstained, was kneeling calm and dead.
On that Te Deums outstretched wings his soul had upward soared
To keep in heaven its Christmas morn with Mary and his Lord.

Sir T/iomas More.

547

SIR THOMAS MORE.

A HISTORICAL ROMANCE

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON,

WHEN the great city lay buried
in that obscurity which the mantle
of night had thrown over all, and
while she seemed to sleep, resting
on her bed of earth, by the banks
:>f the river that flowed for ever with
^ a measured sound when she seem-
ed to sleep at last, although neither
the scholar, nor the afflicted, nor the
criminal whom she enclosed in her
bosom could have extinguished in the
depths of their being the fire of in-
telligence which consumed them
there was to be seen a silent and fu-
gitive figure gliding along by the
walls of the Tower, upon which a no-
ble and slender form was reflected.
The light footfall made no sound,
the sighs of her heart were stifled,
and the foldsof her veil hung motion-
less. She seated herself on the stone
threshold of the awful gate, and for a
long time wept in silence.

" Naught !" she said. " Not a
sound to be heard. These walls are
like the hearts of the judges. Chil-
dren weep," she said again. " What
are tears but weakness and water?
Not a gleam ! It seems they have
here neither fire nor life. What is
this that consumes my heart? Weep,
women ! weep in your silken robes,
under your downy coverings ! As for
me, it is the night wind dries my
tears, and the damp earth drinks
them up ! When wilt thou cease
to weep, and when will the heart of
Margaret feel revived ? . . But why
be astonished to feel it tremble ?
Has it not been broken like a pre-

cious vase which can never more be
mended ?

" ' Come, Margaret, white Mar-
garet !' they used to say when you
trod on the grass of the fields,
Come, death, or yet a moment of
life."

And the young girl, standing on
tiptoe, with strong arm and power-
ful effort, raised the heavy bronze
griffin, which fell resounding upon
the brass of the doors, and then she
started, for at times she was a wo-
man .

But there was no response ; and
when the sound of the iron had
ceased to vibrate, and, it seemed to
her, had exhausted itself in the air.
nothing was heard but the mono-
tonous dashing of the waves which
came to die at the foot of the
wall ; and nothing more disturbed
the silence of the night.

" Deaf as the pity in their souls !"
she said after some moments.

And this time she knocked with-
out flinching ; for already Margaret
had recovered from her fears. But
a long and mournful silence con-
tinued to reign.

Whilst she was trying so ineffec-
tually to reach her father, Sir Tho-
mas re-entered the Tower, exhaust-
ed by fatigue. He had been con-
fined in a still more gloomy and
narrow cell. A miserable lamp,
high placed, dimly lighted the ob-
scurity. He was seated in a corner,
and, alone at least, he went over in
his mind the agonies he had en-

548

Sir Thomas More.

dured in that fatal journey. " Where
is my daughter now ?" lie said to
himself. " Alas ! I saw her but an
instant going out from before the
judges. She will have seen that
axe turned toward me. She will
have said to herself there is no
more hope ; that I was branded with
the seal of the condemned; that what
she had heard was indeed true. If
only she had returned to Chelsea !
For they will not permit me to lin-
ger : Cromwell's eyes gleamed with
a ferocious light. Yet what have 1
done to this man to make him
hate me so intensely ? My God, per-
mit me not to be betrayed into
an emotion of hatred against" (Sir
Thomas hesitated) " against my
brother," he continued with courage;
"for, after all, he is a man like my-
self, formed in the same mould, ani-
mated by the same intelligence ; and
it is better to be persecuted than
to be the persecutor. Pardon him,
then, O my God ! Let your mercy
be extended toward him, surround
him on all sides, and never remem-
ber agajnst him the evil he has
wrought on me."

While reflecting thus Sir Thomas
suddenly heard a slight noise. He
paused, and, seized with inexpressi-
ble anxiety, listened almost without
breathing.

" It was in such manner lie walk-
ed I It is he! It is Rochester!"
he cried. " But no, I am mistaken ;
that cannot be," he said, casting his
eyes around him. " They have
changed my cell; alas! I could not
hear him even should he be there.
It is an error of my troubled ima-
gination."

But the noise increased, and Sir
Thomas soon heard them opening
the doors which led to his cell.
Some one was approaching.

" Again ! " he said. " They will
not, then, allow me a moment of

repose." And he saw Sir Thomas
Pope coming in, bearing a roll of
paper in his right hand.

Pope approached More and pre-
sented the paper.

Sir Thomas calmly took it from
his hands, and, looking at Pope,
said : " What ! Master Pope, the
king lias already signed the death-
warrant ?" Glancing over the pa-
per, he saw that his execution was
set down for the next morning at
nine o'clock.

" The king, in his ineffable clem-
ency," said Pope with an air of
constraint, "commutes your pun-
ishment to that of decapitation."

" I am much beholden to his
majesty," said Sir Thomas. " Still,
good Master Pope, I hope that my
children and my friends may never
have need of any such favor."

More smiled at first ; then he re-
garded Pope with an expression of
indefinable melancholy, and was si-
lent.

" It is true it is too true," stam-
mered Pope, " that this is not a
great favor. But permit me, Sii
Thomas, to avow to you that your
conduct appears to me so strangely
obstinate that I cannot explain it,
and that you yourself seem to have
had the wish 'to irritate the king
against you to the last degree.
Thus, you abandon your family, you
leave your home, you lose your
head, and iff rather than take an
oath to which our bishops have
readily consented."

" Yes, consented, and not wished
to take," replied Sir Thomas, " part-
ly through fear, partly through sur-
prise. They have taken it, you say ;
but I fear that they may be already
repenting it. Good Master Pope, if
you live you will surely see many
strange events taking place in our
unhappy country. In separating
herself, in spite of the law of God,

Sir TJioinas Hlore.

549

from the Church of Rome, you will
see England change her face; in-
testine wars will rend her; the blood
of her children will flow in every
direction for centuries, perchance.
Who can foretell whither tho path
of error will lead us when once we
have taken the first step ? Doubtless
we are still Christians ; but Chris-
tians who, separated from the mo-
ther that gave them birth, will soon
have lost the revivifying spirit they
have received from her. The Cath-
olic faith, I know, cannot perish
from the earth ; but it can depart
from one country into another. If,
in three hundred years from now,
we were permitted to return, you
atid I, to tli is world, we should find
the faith, as to-day, pure from all
error, one, and resting upon the in-
divisible truth, yet submitting to
that supreme Head, to this key of
St. Peter, which indeed some mor-
tal men shall have carried a mo-
ment in their hands, and which is
so violently attacked to-day. But
my country, this land that I love
for it holds the ashes of my father
what is it destined to undergo ?
The incoherence and diversity of
human opinions; the violence, the
absurdities of the passions which
shall have dictated them. Divided
into a thousand sects, a thousand
clashing opinions, you will not find
a single family, perhaps, where they
are united in one common faith, in
the same hope and the same char-
ity ! And this divine Word, the Sa-
cred Scriptures, which we have re-
ceived from our fathers, abandoned
to the ignorance and the pride of a
pretended liberty, will have, per-
haps, become only the source of
horrible crimes and frightful cruel-
ties, in place of being the founda-
tion of all good and of every vir-
tue !"

" Verily, Sir Thomas," said Pope,

"you frighten me! How can it
hap that the ruin and disasters you
have described should be in store
for us? No, no, I do not believe
it ; because it is then you would see
us all bound up around the centre
of unity which they think to de-
stroy to-day by a word ! expres-
sions of a spiritual power which the
prince may not, in fact, exercise."

" He may not, as you say," re-
plied Sir Thomas ; " but he will
exercise it nevertheless, and at least
I shall not have to reproach my-
self with having contributed to it.
Oh! no," he continued, "no; and
I am happy to shed my blood in
testimony of this truth. For lis-
ten, Master Pope : I have not sacri-
ficed twenty years of my life in the
service of the state without having
studied what were her true interests,
and consequently those of society,
which is at the same time her foun-
dation and support ; and I declare
to you that I have recognized and
am thoroughly convinced that the
Catholic religion, the realization of
the figurative and prophetic law
given to the Jews, the development
and complete perfection of the nat-
ural law. can alone be the founda-
tion of a prosperous and happy so-
ciety, because it alone possesses
the highest degree of morals possi-
ble to attain; it alone bears fruit
in the heart; it alone can restrain,
and is able even to destroy, that
selfishness, natural to man, which
leads him to sacrifice everything to
his desires and gratifications a
selfishness which, abandoned to it-
self and carried to its greatest
length, renders all social order im-
possible, and transforms men into a
crowd of enraged enemies bent on
mutual destruction.

" All that tends to disrupt, then,
all that would alter or attack, this
excellent religion, is a mortal blow

550

Sir Thomas Afore.

aimed at the country and its citi-
zens, and necessarily tends to de-
prive them of that which ensures
their dignity, their safety, their hap-
piness, their hopes, and their future.
Look around you at the universe,
and behold on its surface the peo-
ple of those unhappy countries
where the light of the Catholic faith
has been extinguished or has not yet
been kindled. Study their govern-
ments, and behold in them the most
monstrous despotisms, where blood
flows like water, and the life of man
is considered of less value than that
of the frivolous animal which amus-
es him. Read the cruel laws their
ferocity has dictated ; learn the still
more crying acts of injustice they
commit, and how they pursue, as
with a tearing lash, those whose
weakness and stupidity have deliver-
ed them up as slaves ; tremble at the
recital of the tortures and barbari-
ties they inflict before death, to
which they condemn their victims
without appeal as without investi-
gation ; behold the arts, spiritual
affection, sublime poesy, perish
there ; ignorance, instability, mis-
ery, and terror succeed them, and
reign without interruption and with-
out restraint. Ah ! these noble
ideas of right, of justice, of order
and humanity, which govern us,
and ensure among us the triumph
of the incredulous and proud phi-
losopher, which makes him say and
think that they alone are sufficient
for society he perceives not, blind
as he is, that these are prizes in
the hand of religion, who. extends
them to him, and that, if he speaks
like her, she speaks still better than
he. I do not say no, I do not say
that we will fall as low as the Turk,
the Indian, or the American savage.
So long as one glimmer of the Gos-
pel, one souvenir of its maxims,
shall remain standing in the midst

of us, we will not lose all that \ve
have received since our ances-
tors came out of the forests where
they wandered, subsisting on the
flesh of wild animals ; but we will
begin to recede from the truth, we
will cover it with clouds; they will
become darker and darker, and soon,
if we still go on, it will be >no long-
er with a firm and resolute step, but
rather like gloomy travellers wan-
dering in a vast desert without a
breath of air or a drop of water."

Pope listened to Sir Thomas
without daring to interrupt him,
and felt his heart touched by what
he said. For this admirable man
possessed the faculty of attracting
all who saw him immediately to-
ward him; and when they heard
him speak, the strength, the just-
ness of his thoughts and his argu-
ments penetrated little by little in-
to their minds, until, almost without
perceiving it, they found themselves
entirely changed, and astonished
to feel that they were of the same
opinion as himself.

Pope leaned against a stool which
was there, and remained very
thoughtful ; for he had taken the
oath himself, without dreaming that
it could result in such serious con-
sequences. Neither his convic-
tions, however, nor his courage were
such as would make him desire to
give his life for the truth; but he
could not refrain from, admiring
this devotion in the illustrious man
before him. He looked at him with-
out speaking, and seemed entirely
confounded.

Mistaking the cause, and seeing
him abstracted and silent, Sir
Thomas supposed the conversation
had wearied Pope ; he therefore
ceased speaking, and, taking up the
death-warrant, he read it a second
time. At the end his eyes filled
with tears and his sight grew dim.

Sir Thomas More.

551

: ' It is, then, fixed for to-morrow !"
he exclaimed " to-morrow morn-
ing. One night only ! Oh ! how
I wish they would permit me
to write to Erasmus.* Pope,"
said he, '*shall I not be permitted
to see once more, for the last time,
ray dearly-beloved daughter ? I
fear that she may be still in the
city. I would like her to be sent
away that Roper should take her.
Ah ! Master Pope, it is not the
riches or honors of this world which
are difficult to sacrifice, but the
affections of the heart, of the soul
that lives within us, which is en-
tirely ourselves, without which the
rest is nothing." And he again re-
lapsed into silence.

" I do not think you will be able
to see her," said Pope, replying to
the question of Sir Thomas ; " and
even " he added with painful hesi-
tation, " I am also charged to ask
you not to make any remarks to
the people on the scaffold. The king
hath expressly so willed, and then
he will permit your wife and chil-
dren to assist at your interment."

"Ah!" replied Sir Thomas, "I
thank his majesty for manifesting so
much solicitude about my poor in-
terment ; but it matters little where
these miserable bones be laid when
I have abandoned them. God,
who has made them out of nothing,
will be able to find the ashes and
recall them a second time into be-
ing when it shall please him to re-
store them to that indestructible
life which he has so graciously
vouchsafed to promise them."

" You wish to speak, then ?" an-
swered Pope. " Nevertheless, I be-

* The learned Erasmus was then at the height of
his brilliant fame. After numerous visits to England,
where he had formed an intimate friendship with
Thomas More, he fixed his residence at Bale, in
Switzerland. Admired by all the princes of his
time, by all his learned contemporaries and a crowd
of illustrious men, -he contributed' by his powerful
writings to restrain Germany from barbarism.

lieve it would be better not to an-
ger the king more."

"No, no!" replied Sir Thomas,
"my dear Master Pope, you are
mistaken. Since the king desires it,
I will not speak. Most certainly 1
intended doing so ; but since he
forbids it, I will forbear. If they
refuse me permission to see my
daughter," replied Sir Thomas, "1
hope, at least, I may be able to see
the Bishop of Rochester; since he
has taken the oath, they will not
fear."

"Taken the oath!" cried Pope.
" Why, he has been executed ; he
died to-day !"

" He died to-day!" repeated Sir
Thomas. " My friend died to-day !
O Cromwell ! May God, whose pow-
er is infinite, hear my voice, grant
my requests : may the same dan-
gers unite us, that, following close in
thy footsteps, my last sigh may be
breathed with thine !

And More, plunged in the deep-
est grief, slowly repeated the mem-
orable words, the solemn words,
which the holy bishop had pro-
nounced in presence of the Lord
and of his friend during the vigil
of St. Thomas, when they were
alone together in his home at Chel-
sea.

"Rochester would not take the
oath, then !" continued More in a
stifled voice, clasping his hands and
elevating them toward heaven.

" Alas ! no," replied Pope.

" Cromwell told me he had."

" He lied," answered Pope, and
his eyes filled with tears.

" He would not swear ?"

"Never!"

" Pope," said More, "I beg you
to let me write to Erasmus. To-
morrow I shall be no more ! You
are the last living man to whom I
shall be able to speak."

"Ah! Sir Thomas," cried Pope

552

Sir Thomas More.

uneasily, " if that letter were seized,
what would become of me ?"

" Let me write a few words on
this leaf," replied Sir Thomas, look-
ing at a leaf of white paper be-
longing to the book which con-
tained his condemnation " a word
on this leaf," he continued. " Pope,
you can cut it off and send it later
when there will be no danger for
you. Nay, good Pope, grant me
this favor," he added. " I have
neither pen nor ink ; but I have
here a piece of charcoal, which I
have already tried to sharpen."

" Ah ! Sir Thomas," replied Pope,
" I have not the heart to refuse
you ; however, I shall have cause,
perhaps, to repent it."

"No! no!" cried Sir Thomas.
" If you cannot send him this last
farewell without being afraid, you
can burn it."

" Write, then ; I consent," said
Pope ; and he handed the death-
warrant to Sir Thomas, who had
returned it to him.

More seized it, and wrote the fol-
lowing words :

"Erasmus! O Erasmus! my friend,
this is the last time I shall have the hap-
piness of pronouncing your name. An
entire life, O my friend ! is passed ; it has
glided by in a moment. Behold one
about to end like a day that is closed. I
have loved you as long as I have had
breath ; as long as I have felt my heart
throb in my bosom the name of Erasmus
has reigned there. Alas ! I have so many
things to say to you. Though the words
die on my lips, your heart alone will be
able to comprehend mine. May it enter ;
may it hear in my soul all that More has
wished to say to Erasmus !

" When you receive this page, I shall
be no more ; it is still attached to the
writ which contains my sentence of
death. Erasmus, I am going to leave
Margaret. I abandon my children ! Our
friend Pierre Gilles is here. I saw him
for a moment the moment when they
were pronouncing sentence on me.
Without doubt, to-morrow morning, I

shall see him at the foot of the scaffold.
I shall be kept at a distance from him ;
I shall not be able to say a single word
to him. My eyes will be directed toward
him, my hand will be stretched out ; but
my heart will not be permitted to speak
to him ! O Erasmus ! how I sUlffer. And
Margaret O my friend ! if you had seen
her, how pale she was, what anguish
was painted on all her features. I could
wish that she loved me less : she would
not suffer so much in seeing me die.
Erasmus, not one minute ! Time is short ;
the hour approaches. Oh! when J could
write those long letters so peaceably,
when science alone and the good of
humanity occupied us both ; when I saw
those letters despatched so quietly to go
in search of you, and said to myself: ' In
so many days I shall receive his reply ! '
. . . No more replies, Erasmus ! If ever
you come to England, you will ask in
what corner they have thrown my ashes.
Oh ! what would become of me if I were
not a Christian? What happiness to
feel our faith rising up from the depths
of wretchedness, to hear all our groans
and lamentions, and to answer them ! I
die a Christian ! I die for this faith so
pure and beautiful ! for that faith which
is the happiness and glory of the human
race. At this thought I ft el myseif reani-
mated ; new strength inspires my heart ;
hope inundates my soul. 1 shall see
you all again. Yes, one day one day
after a long absence I shall clasp you
once more to my bosom in the presence
of God himself. I shall see again my
daughter ! We will find ourselves in-
vested with our same bodies. ' I shall see
my God,' said Job; 'for I know that
my Redeemer liveth,and that I shall rise
again at the last day ; I will go out of this
world into that which I am about to
enter, and then I shall cee my God. It
will be I who shall see him, and not an-
other.'

" Erasmus, to live for ever, to love for
ever ! Farewell.

" Your brother, your friend,

" THOMAS MORE."

The charcoal began to crumble
in his hands. He was scarcely able
to trace the last words. He press-
ed his lips on them and returned
the book to Pope.

Meanwhile, Margaret, tired of

Sir TJioinas More

553

knocking, and losing all hope of
reaching her father, was seated
upon the stone step before the door
of the prison, and, being wrapped in
her veil, she remained motionless
and mute, like a statue of stone
whose head, bowed upon its gar-
ments, is the personification of sor-
row and silence.

Thus she sat absorbed in thought,
and the burning tears had bathed
her hands and ran down on her
knees, when the footstep of a man
who was approaching from the
quay aroused her from her reverie.
Alarmed, she arose abruptly, and,
placing her hand upon a long and
sharp dagger she had attached to
her side, she stood awaiting the in-
truder ; but she recognized Roper.

" Margaret, "he exclaimed, "what
are you doing there?" And he
spoke these few words to her in a
melancholy tone of voice more ex-
pressive of pain than reproach ; be-
cause he sought her, knowing well
where he would find her.

" It is you, Roper," said the
young girl, and she resumed her
seat as before. William Roper then
came and seated himself by her
side; taking her cold and wet hand,
he pressed it to his lips with an
inexpressible oppression of heart.
"O Margaret!" he said at last with
a deep sigh, " why stay you here?"

44 To see him again to-morrow
yes, to-morrow ! But tell me, Roper,
why I feel so weak ; why my blood
runs so cold in my veins ; why I
no longer have either strength or
energy ; why, in fact, I feel myself
dying, without being able to cease
to exist ! O William ! look at. that
dark river in front of us, and that
black hill lifting its head beyond
Well ! when the sky begins to grow
white on that side, that will be the
light of to-morrow which will dawn ;
that will be the hour of the execu-

tion approaching ; and then you will
see the eager crowd come pressing
around the boards of the scaffold,
come to feast on the cruelty of
the misfortune it applauds, to enjoy
the death its stupidity has not or-
dered. You will see them decked
out in their ribbons, while the bells
of the city will ring for the feast the
great feast of St. Thomas ; for that
is to-morrow, and to-morrow they
will come to see my father die.
Then all that i love will be torn
from me, and nothing more will re-
main to me on earth. Oh ! how hap-
py are the strong : they break or per-
ish. Roper, speak to me of Roches-
ter. I loved him also, that venerable
man. No, do not speak of him.
Hush ! I know all; I have seen every-
thing. They dragged him to the
scaffold ; he prayed for them while
holding his feeble, attenuated neck
upon the fatal block ; and, detached
from the earth, his soul continued
in heaven the canticle it had com-
menced in this world."

"Alas ! yes," said Roper. "They
had to carry him to the scaffold on
a chair, because he was no longer
able to sustain himself."

" Ah ! Roper," cried Margaret,
"behold the fatal light! Here is
the day!" And she fell, almost de-
prived of consciousness.

" No, Margaret, no ; the hour
strikes, but it strikes only the small
hours of the night. It is not yet
day, my beloved it is not day !"

"Oh! how cold I am," said the
young girl, shaking the veil which
enveloped her, all humid with the
dews of night. " Roper, is there
no more hope, then ? Do you believe
it? Do you believe there is no
more hope that to-morrow I will
see my father die?"

"Alas!" said Roper, "Pierre
Gilles has gone to seek the queen
and throw himself at her feet."

554

Sir Thomas More.

" Say not the queen !" cried Mar-
garet. " Give not the name of queen
to that woman !"

"At least, so they call her," said
Roper. " She is all-powerful ; if
she would only ask his pardon !
But they press her so much ! But,
no, she will not do it, Margaret ;
she is a hyena covered with a
beautiful skin. She managed to pro-
cure the head of Rochester, and
with her foul hand dealt it an in-
famous blow.* Ah ! Margaret, I
have done wrong in speaking to
you thus." And Roper was silent,
regretting the words that indigna-
tion had forced him to utter.

"She struck it!" cried Marga-
ret. " She recoiled not before
those white locks dripping with
.the blood her crimes caused to
flow ! William, I shudder at it !
Oh ! can you believe it ? The
only time that I have seen my fa-
ther he spoke to me of her with
tears in his eyes; he said that he
prayed God to raise her soul from
out the miserable depths into which
she had fallen. Roper, look!
there is day!"

" No, Margaret, no !"

" But it will come ! Ah ! how the
hours fly, and yet I would be will-
ing . . . No ! no ! nothing. Wil-
liam, I feel as though I were dying !
Yet I would wish to see him again
again once more !"

Roper took the hand of his af-
fianced. It was burning ; the ir-
regular and rapid throbbing of her
veins betokened the agony that her
soul endured.

" Well," she continued after a
moment's silence, " speak, then

* This fact is related by an English historian,
who has written the life of the Bishop of Roches-
ter The same author adds that Anne Poleyn, in
giving the blow, cut her finger against one of the
teeth which the axe had broken ; that there came a
sore on the finger ; that they had the greatest difn-
;ulty in getting it healed, and she earned the scar
mtil her death.

speak to me of Rochester ; tell me
how the saints die."

" Margaret, I can talk no more ;
I feel so crushed by the excess of
these afflictions that I have not
even dared to glance at them."

" Yes, you were deaf and blind ;
you always will be, and for a long
time I have been telling you so.
It is a long time, also, since I saw
all, since I felt this horrible hour
coming on, since I measured the
weakness of my hands and curbed
the strength of my mind. It is
long since I knew that I must re-
main alone in this world ; for this
life will not depart from my breast,
and without crime I cannot tear it
away ! I must live, and live de-
prived of everything. Do you see
this weapon, Roper ?" And Mar-
garet drew the poignard, the blade
of which flashed. " Were I not the
daughter of More ; feared I not
the Lord ; if his law, like a seal
of brass, had not engraven his
commandments on my lips and
in my heart, you should see if
I would not deliver my father
if Cromwell, if Henry, struck
down suddenly by the arm and the
hatred of a woman, would not have
already, while rolling in the dust
and pronouncing my name, cried
to the universe that cursed was the
day when they had resolved to
assassinate my father ! In giv-
ing my life I became mistress of
theirs ! Ah ! where would they be
to-day this brave king, this power-
ful favorite ? A little infected dust,
from which the drunken grave-dig-
ger would instinctively turn away !
But, William, raise your eyes; look
at those numberless stars that gleam
so brightly above our heads! The
word of Him who has suspended
them thus in the immensity of the
heavens humbles my spirit, enchains
my will. He ordains, I am silent;

Sir Thomas More.

555

lie speaks, I obey. Impotent by
his prohibition alone, I can die, but
not resist him."

And Margaret, pressing her lips
upon the blade of the threatening
weapon, cried : " Yes, I love thee
because thou art able to defend or
avenge me ; and if thy tempered
blade remains useless in my hands,
say that it is God himself who has
ordered it. Let them render thanks,
then, to that God whom they pro-
voke and despise ; let them return
thanks to him ; for neither their
guards nor their pride, their crimes
nor their gold, could have prevented
Margaret from sweeping them from
the earth which they pollute, and
breaking their audacious power like
a wisp of straw that is given to the
winds !"

She turned toward Roper, trans-
ported by courage and grief. But
she saw that he was not listening,
and that, entirely crushed by the
misery he experienced, he had not
sufficient energy in his soul to try to
resist it.

"He is already resigned!" she
said. An expression of scorn and
disgust contracted the features of the
young girl ; she abruptly withdrew
the hand he held in his own; mov-
ing away from him, she went and
seated herself farther off, and, re-
maining with her eyes fixed upon
the east, awaited the moment of
harrowing joy which, while restor-
ing her father to her, would tear
him away from her for ever.

As the hours slowly tolled, each
one awaking a dolorous echo in her
heart-- when at last she saw the first
rays of morning stealing over the
heavens, and the rosy tint which pre-
cedes the flame of Aurora she turn-
ed again toward Roper; but, happy
mortal ! his heavy eyelids had lull-
ed his afflicted soul to sleep. As a
reaper reposes sweetly in a field

covered with rich grain, so Roper
slept peacefully with his head rest-
ing against the walls of a prison.

Margaret arose instantly, and,
seized with indignation, she advanc-
ed toward him, and, with her hands
clasped, stood regarding him. " He
sleeps!" she said "he sleeps!
Truly, man is a noble being, full of
courage, of energy, of impassibility,
of strength of mind. It is thus that
they accomplish such great things !
Dear Roper, you belong to this
mass of men which crowds us in on
every side, absorbing and devouring
our lives ! You are their brother,
their friend; like them, during the
day, you love that which laughs,
that which sings, and you sleep dur-
ing the night. Well ! I will laugh
with you, with them. Are you wor-
thy of beholding me weep ? No ; my
father alone shall have my last tears,
and carry with him the secret of my
soul."

And Margaret, seizing the hand
of Roper, shook it violently. He
awoke, startled.

"It is day!" he said. "Ah! it
is day ! Margaret eh ! you are
weeping."

" No, I am not weeping," replied
the young girl. " I have slept also,
slept very well and I am comfort-
ed !"

" Comforted ! What do you mean ?
Has Pierre Gilles obtained his par-
don ? Have they granted his free-
dom ?"

"Yes, they have granted his
freedom from life. In a word,
they will shorten it, they will drag
him from the midst of you. Is
that a misfortune or a benefit, an
injury or a favor? This is what I
cannot decide. But as for me, I
remain here!"

" Margaret," cried Roper, " what
is wrong with you ?" And he gazed
at her, astonished at the cutting

556

Sir Thomas More.

irony and the bitter despair ex-
pressed in the tone of her voice
and imprinted on her features. " I
no longer recognize you."

" Yes, I am changed, Roper.
Henceforth you shall be my only
model. Who is that young woman
dressed in gauze, crowned with
flowers, whom the light and rapid
dance carries far from the banquet
and the cups filled with fragrant
cordials who casts far away from
her the memory of her father, and
has forgotten the grave of her mo-
ther ? That is the wife of William,
Margaret Roper. No, I do not
want that name. Go, keep it ; give
it to some one who resembles your-
self, to whom you may bear pre-
sents, and who, on hearing you say
it, will believe that one can be
happy yes, will believe that it is
possible to be happy !"

" Margaret," said Roper, more
ai^d more surprised, " I cannot com-
prehend what you would say."

" Nor do I any more," replied
the young girl, wiping her forehead;
for she was warm. " But do you
understand at least, Roper, that the
city is awake, that they are prepar-
ing the scaffold down below, that
trie soldiers are astir within, that
I hear the clanking of their arms,
that we are very soon going to see
my father pass ? Tell me, Roper,
how do you contrive to become so
unfeeling, to love nothing, to regret
nothing? Have you a secret for
this? Give it to me give me that
which makes one neither feel nor
speak ; that one can sleep beside
the axe and the prison, when with-
in the prison lies a father whom
they are about to immolate !"

And she fixed her piercing eyes
on him.

"Ah ! Margaret. Yes, I have slept,
I have done wrong; but fatigue
overcame me. It seemed to me I

saw him; I dreamed that I had res-
cued him."

" Yes, your dreams are always
happy; but look, Roper, here is
the reality."

Margaret withdrew to one side
under the walls of the Tower ; for
the door of the fortress was opened,
and they saw a troop of soldiers,
fully armed, preparing to march out.

"Tower Hill .'"cried their com-
mander; and they filed out in
great numbers. Others succeeded
them ; they arranged themselves
in two columns, which extended
from the gate of the Tower to the
place of execution, still dyed with
the blood of Rochester.

Meanwhile, the rumor spread
abroad rapidly that they had sent
for the two sheriffs ; that Sir Tho-
mas More, former lord chancellor,
r was going to be executed; and
from all directions crowds of peo-
ple rushed precipitately some re-
membering the lofty position the
condemned had occupied; the great-
er number, without thinking of any-
thing (coming to see the criminal
as they would come to see any
other), impelled by instinct, habit,
or want of occupation, arrived with-
out aim, as without reflection.

Who can paint the anguish of
Margaret when she felt herself sur-
rounded, jostled, elbowed, by this
turbulent throng, crowding and
shouting, which pushed her up
against the prison walls, threatening
to carry her forcibly from the inch
of ground which she had held all
night; and more still by this igno-
ble mob of malefactors, vagabonds,
of adventurers of all kinds, who
came in those days of murder to
learn in the public square what
their own end would be, and to be-
hold the funeral couch society had
destined for them on the day they
should fail in audacity or skill

Sir Thomas More.

557

Who can describe, express, or feel
the shame that overwhelmed her
soul in spite of her reason, and suf-
fused her pure brow with the blush
of ignominy, when she heard them
pronounce the name of her father,
howling and clapping their hands
because the criminal was slow in
appearing and the tragedy they
awaited did not begin ? Her weary
eyes sought Pierre Gilies in this tu-
mult, and he was not there. He,
at least, would have understood
Margaret. She was unable to ex-
plain his absence ; he had no more
hope unless the queen had detain-
ed him. But he must know that
the execution was near, that the
hour had arrived. And if he had
obtained it, and should this pardon
arrive too late ! A thousand times
Margaret, rendered desperate, was
on the point of addressing the fickle
crowd surrounding her. She want-
ed to say to them : " I am his
daughter ! Oh ! save my father.
He who sacrificed his life, his com-
forts, his happiness, to govern you
wisely, to render you full justice,
to reconcile your families, is going
to perish unjustly!" But her anx-
ious gaze fell only on faces coarse,
stupid, indolent, impassible, or vi-
cious. Then she felt the words die
on her lips, while courage and hope
expired in her heart.

The hours glide away in these
mortal agonies ; for they pass as
rapidly in the excess of sorrow as
during the intoxicating seasons of
joy and happiness. Presently Mar-
garet heard a confused noise arise.
The masses moved ; the soldiers
drew up closer, brandishing their
arms they were afraid of being
overwhelmed. The crowds climb-
ed on everything they could find :
the quay; the carts, carriages, steps
they took possession of all, made
ladders of everything. Margaret

is drawn into this frightful whirl-
pool; she struggles in vain, trying
to make room and to stand firm.
A loud clamor arose, re-echoed, in-
creased, was reproduced in the dis-
tance. "He comes! he comes!"
they cried on all sides. " How
pale he is ! That is he ! that is Sir
Thomas More, the old lord chan-
cellor ! Oh ! how poor he looks.
He walks with difficulty ; he leans
on a stick ; he has a cross of red
wood in his hand ; hefcows on each
side of him. There are the sheriffs
walking behind him. There is a
tall black man who follows them.
Do you see the lieutenant of the
Tower? He is there also. Hush !
he makes a sign with his hand.
He smiles ! How fast they carry
him along ! One has not time to see
him. Are they afraid, then, that we
will take him away by force ? Eh I
no person thinks of that. He has
done something very bad, they say.
We believed him so good ! Ah I
here is somebody stopping him.
Look! look! He speaks! he speaks!
Yes, he speaks !" For Margaret,
reduced to despair, animated by a
superhuman strength, has broken
through the ranks, passed through
the guards. She throws herself on
the neck of More; she sees him, she
embraces him, she clasps him to
her throbbing, palpitating bosom.

"My daughter! my daughter!"
said More, pressing her to his heart ;
" oh ! what anguish to see you
here."

And his cheeks, pale and fur-
rowed by suffering, were wet with
tears that brought no relief to his
soul.

At this spectacle the guards them-
selves were moved. " That is his
daughter, his poor daughter!" they
exclaimed on all sides ; and by a
unanimous movement of respect
and compassion they stepped aside,

558

Sir Thomas More.

forming a circle around him, while
the tears flowed from all eyes.

" How beautiful she is !" said the
men. "How young she is!" ex-
claimed the women.

" My father ! my beloved father !"
cried Margaret, shuddering, "beg
of God that I may not survive you ;
that I also may soon leave this
world when you abandon it ! O
my father! bless me again, and
swear to me that you will ask God
to let me diealso."

She threw herself on her knees
without letting go his hands, which
she bathed with a torrent of tears and
pressed against her face as though
without power to release them.

"Dearly beloved daughter!"
said More, resting his hand upon
her long, dishevelled locks, " oh !
yes, may the Lord bless you as I
love and bless you myself. You
have been a sacred charge, a trea-
sure of joy and happiness which
he has given me ; I return it to
him ! He is your first Father he
will never abandon you ; and one
day a day not far distant, for the
life of man is but a breath that
passes in a moment we shall be re-
united, to be no more separated, in
a blessed eternity ! Margaret, since
I have had the happiness of seeing
you before I die, take my blessing
to your brothers and your sisters ;
tell them, and also all .my good
friends, to pray the Lord for me !
You know them ? O Margaret ! let
Pierre Gilles learn from you how
much I have loved him; how deep-
ly I am touched, and grateful for
this voyage he made, I doubt not
for me alone. Alas ! if I feel a
regret in dying, it is because of not
being able to tell him this myself.
Why is lie not with you ? But
I perceive Roper, my beloved
daughter; give him also a thou-
sand blessings. You know that I

have regarded him for a long time
as my son ; love him as you have
loved myself, and let your tears
flow not without consolation, be-
cause, since it pleases God to per-
mit me to die to-day, I am perfect-
ly resigned to his will, and I would
wish, nothing changed." And Sir
Thomas, bending over her, clasped
her closely to his heart.

"Let me follow you !" she gasp
ed in a low voice; for she was no
longer able to speak.

" Margaret, you give me pain."

" I would follow you," she said
in still more stifled tones.

" Ah ! Kingston, "exclaimed More
(and the perspiration poured from
his forehead), "my good friend, as-
sist me in placing her in the hands
of her husband."

" I will do it," cried a bellowing
voice well known to Sir Thomas.

" Master Roper, come and take
your wife away." And they saw
the hideous face of Cromwell pass.
who surveyed those who accom-
panied the condemned.

In the meantime William Roper
had succeeded in pushing his way
through the crowd ; he took the
hand of More, and kissed it, weep-
ing.

" Take her, my son," said More,
entirely occupied with Margaret.
" I confide her to you, I give her to
you ; be her support, her friend,
her defender!" And he turned to
resume his march.

Margaret, observing this move-
ment, again endeavored to rush to-
ward him ; but the crowd hurried
on, the guards closed around, and
she found herself separated from
her father.

He cast upon her a last look,
which he carried to the skies. She
uttered a piercing cry; but already
he had moved on and far away.

She rushed forward, endeavor-

Sir Thomas More.

559

ing again to break through the
crowd; but curiosity had made
them form like a rampart, growing
every instant around her.

She heard the commands of the
military authorities; already she
could not see beyond the group
that surrounded her ; then she al-
most lost the use of reason. " Save
my father ! save him !" she cried,
extending her suppliant hands to-
ward those who environed her,
whose sympathies were diversely
excited according to their differ-
ent characters.

"Why have they brought this
young woman to this place ?" said
the good ones. " His daughter,
his poor daughter !" murmured the
more compassionate, " She looks
like a lunatic !" replied the others.
" She will die from this ; it will kill
her. It is most cruel ! If the king
had only granted his pardon ! He
might have done it."

" Yes, pardon, pardon !" repeated
Margaret, frenzied and wandering.
"They 1 have granted his pardon,
I assure you. Pierre Gilles has
been to Hampton Court to find
that woman. Roper, is it not
so? Roper, I am dying; take me
away." And she grew pale and
seemed ready to faint. Three or
four hands were immediately ad-
vanced to sustain her; but Roper
would not suffer them to touch her,
and, raising her in his arms, he ask-
ed them to make way for him to lead
her out of the crowd and from the
place. The crowd opened with re-
spect, and he assisted Margaret to
the same place where she had pass-
ed the night awaiting, with her eyes
fixed on the horizon, the terrible
day which was to remove her for
ever from her father.

" It is daylight, daylight," said
Margaret. " Yonder, Roper ! And
when night comes on, he will be

already cold in death ! O Roper !
all this in one day. William, give
him back to me ! What have they
done with him ? Oh ! no, he will
not die. He is going to the king !"

She kept her eyes fast closed, and
poor Roper regarded her with
anxiety.

" They have forced him away !
You know the place where the sol-
diers have taken him. I have seen
it I have seen everything. But
that was yesterday, Roper. I have
lost my reason," she suddenly ex-
claimed, opening her eyes, filled
with terror. " Tell me, where is
he ? They will let me bury his
body, will they not ? I will kiss
his face, I will embalm him ; and
you will bury me beside him, will
you not, Roper ? They will not
leave it on the bridge that head ;
I will remain on my knees until
they give it to me ! O Heaven !
dost them hear dost thou hear the
cries of the people ? All. is ended ;
the crime is consummated ! My
father has left the earth ! Roper,
let us go to the church ; I want to
pray to pray until eternity !"

Alas ! Margaret spoke truly. Ar-
riving at the scaffold, More, after
having embraced the executioner
and given him a gold angel in token
of forgiveness, was beheaded by the
same axe, upon the very block on
which the head of his friend Roch-
ester had fallen a few hours before.

Thus perished these two illustri-
ous men, the glory and honor of
England. Thus began the cruel
schism which since then has torn
so many children from the church,
separated a great number of Chris-
tians from the common trunk, and
deprived, in the course of centuries,
so many souls of the knowledge of
the eternal and indivisible truth.

And now, when old England un-
rolls before the eyes of the eager

560

Advent.

explorer of the past the long list
of her kings, she places one of her
fingers upon the bloody diadem
which encircles the brow of Henry
VIII. , and with the other she points
out to the moved heart the spot
where, their dust mingled together,
sleep within the walls of her most
ancient fortress the victims of the
fury of this king. For she also,
that first cause of so many woes
the young Anne Boleyn, so proud
of her fatal beauty passed from the
throne to the scaffold at the very
moment when Catherine was dying
of misery, pain, and neglect in the
depths of an obscure city. The
odious Cromwell, who had guided
her to that scaffold, was not. long
in following her, and his ignoble
blood was at last brought to expi-

ate in the same place that of the
illustrious More

Such, reader, is the recital which
as a faithful historian I resolved to
set before you. A book is a thought.
Mine has been written to empha-
size a truth in our days too often
forgotten which is, that religion
alone can lead men to happiness
and perfection ; that, being the most
perfect law which it is possible to
conceive of or attain, it is to her
alone we should attach ourselves,
and it is by her alone the state will
see reared in its midst wise and
just rulers or noble and generous
citizens ; that all, in fine, will see
wisdom, science, order, and pros-
perity flourish.

PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

ADVENT.

CLEAR as the silver call
Of Israel's trumpets on her holy days,
Calling her children from all walks and ways,

The church's accents fall.

With sweet and solemn sound
Where winter's ice imprisons lake and stream,
Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleam,

They make their joyful round

Joyful, and yet how grave ;
Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,
And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,

Who cometh, strong to save.

As, at a mother's feet,

The children of one household sit to learn
Some sweet domestic lesson, each in turn

His portion to repeat,

Advent. 561

So, at this holy tide,
Calling us round her for exalted talk,
From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,

She bids us turn aside

And list while she relates
The blessed story old, yet ever new
Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,

Whose dawn she celebrates.

Now the rapt prophets sing

Their anthems in each bowed and listening ear ;
Now the bold Baptist's clarion voice we hear

Down the glad centuries ring ;

Till, fired with joy as they

Who spread their garments 'neath his precious feet,
With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,

Our glad hosannas pay.

Yet list ! Another note
Blends with the holy song our Mother sings,
And, high above the harp's exultant strings,

Clear, trumpet-like doth float.

He comes to judge the world ;
/.'o garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,
While into flames of fire for evermore

The worthless chaff is hurled.

Lord ! we would put aside
The gauds and baubles of this mortal life
Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,

The tawdry garb of pride

And pray, in Christ's dear name,
Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light ;
That at his coming we may stand aright

And fear no sudden shame.
VOL. xxiv. 36

5 62

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1876.

THE year has been one of grave anxie-
ty to all the world. It opened in shad-
ow ; it closes in gloom. Among nations
as among individuals there prevails a
feeling of uneasiness, of dread at a some-
thing impending. Here at home we are
happily removed from the dangers that
the European nations have for centuries
invited. We have no national crimes to
answer for. We have not persecuted
God's church. We. have not martyred
his confessors. We have not sealed
our Constiiution with heresy. We have
not betrayed a faith committed to our
keeping. And these are things worth
piiding ourselves on, worth confirming
ourselves in, in the centennial year of
our Republic. They are the brightest
jewels in the nation's crown, and may
they shine there for ever !

Of course we have had our faults
abundance of them. We have made mis-
takes, and in the course of human events
iwill probably make many more, for na-
aions never become great without suffer-
ing and sacrifice ; they can no more
.hope to escape these fiery proofs than
individuals. But at least we have, as a
nation, been guiltless of the graver sins
;against God, his church, and humanity.
And it is on this fact above all that men
who believe in a God ruling over this
world found their hopes for the future.

It is not our purpose here even to
glance at our history in the past hundred
years. Our present business is with the
year just closing. Looking at the plain,
level facts before us, we confess that they
wear an ugly aspect. It is painful to be
compelled to acknowledge that the dawn
of the hun/iredth year of our national
existence might have been far brighter.
Unhappily, the legacy of many years of
mistakes, misgovernment, and let it be
confessed with pain of malfeasance in
high places, both in State and national
offices, has accumulated to fall upon this
year of all others. One good, at least, has
come from it. The nation, in American
fashion,, injured as it was, has at
length faced the evil, which is in itself
and due to no extraneous influence at
all. The year opened with investiga-

tions. Indeed, it has been pre-eminently
ayear of investigations ; and much matter
there was to inquire into. The result
showed a wide-spread corruption in the
national administration. This corrup-
tion Avas probably one of the results of
the war ; but it was none the less cor-
ruption on that account. The Rebellion
had been crushed, heroic deeds had been
done. V<x victis ! There was an army of
political heroes waiting for their reward.
There are more ways than one of sacking
a city. In these days we sack nations
as witness Germany and France and
arrange the terms of the sacking in
peaceful convention. There are insects
that thrive and grow fat on corruption.
Some of these set on the carcase of the
dead South. Others settled on the
offices of national, State, and municipal
government. They have been eating
their way into the body politic for six-
teen years. There is only a rotten shell
left, and this year that shell fell to pieces.
In treating of the last Presidential
election in our annual review of four
years back, we wrote: "General Gran:
was re-elected. The opposition arrayec
against him . . . utterly broke down.
General Grant's is undoubtedly a na
tional election ; we trust, therefore, that
his future term may correspond with the
confidence placed in his rule by the na-
tion ; may be productive of all the good
which we expect of it for the nation at
large ; may heal up old wounds still
sore ; and may lead the country wisely
into a new era of prosperity and peace."
It is plain that we bore no ill-will to
the President. What shall we say of his
administration to-day? What need we
say in face of the action of the country
regarding the administration?

The heart sickens at going over the
record of the year. It is only the cul-
mination of the preceding years of ill- gov-
ernment which have been duly noted in
this review, and which there is no special
reason now to enumerate. We would
not undertake to say tfiat the govern-
ment under President Grant has, as a
iv hole, been a failure ; but in great part
it undoubtedly has been. We use a stu-

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

563

diously mild term in describing it as
eminently unsatisfactory, and the verdict
of the nation, as given in the recent Pre-
sidential elections, endorses our opinion.
Whoever may be seated in the Presi-
dent's chair for the next four years, Pre-
sident Grant and his party have been
condemned by the feeling and vote of
the country, not because he was so fool-
ish as to aspire to a third term on the
strength of an administration that fell to
pieces of its own rottenness and on a
proposed anti-Catholic ticket, but simply
because the country was sick of it. The
disgrace and fall of the Secretary of War,
the recall of the American Minister at
the English court, the disclosures of cor-
ruption and inexcusable expenditure in
the civil service, the plain traces of cor-
ruption in every department of the pub-
lic service down to the most obscure,
such as the peddling in post-traderships
by the brother of the President all of
which came to a head within the present
year ; the stanch support given by the
President to men whom he had appoint-
ed to office, many of whose dealings were
shown to be of a most doubtful character,
so much so that some of them just es-
caped the fate of thieves by technicalities
of the law that in themselves were moral
condemnation all this was only the
rotten ripeness of a growth diseased
from the beginning.

But if the year, notwithstanding
gloomy forebodings, to which we had
grown accustomed, has been one of dis-
grace and disaster where pride and glory
ouglit to have had place, it has not been
without its bright side. The Presiden-
tial elections have been a series of sur-
prises. Late in last year, as we noted
at the time, President Grant made what
not only we but all the world regarded
as a bold and infamous bid for a third
term in his speech at Des Moines. He
aimed at riding into power on that favor-
ite, and too often successful, hobby of a
hard-pressed politician an anti-Catho-
lic ticket. This, in politics in these days,
we take to be the last resource of an ig-
noble mind. Nevertheless, the bid was
undoubtedly well timed. All the world
is up in arms against the Catholic
Church. No government dare hold out
a hand to help her and hope to live. It
is only recently that the President of
Ecuador did so, and what was the re-
sult? Hefell at the hand of an assassin,
as DC Rossi fell before him. The senti-

ment of English speaking peoples had
been appealed to with all the force and
violence of which such a man as Mr.
Gladstone is capable, and his words
were widely read in this country, being
multiplied and confirmed by the secular
and sectarian press. The President saw
his opportunity, and took it at its flood-
tide in a speech that was as ingenious as
it was malignant. A Methodist bishop,
in a large and important conclave of
Methodist ministers, took up the cry, and,
amid the acclamations of his brethren,
nominated General Grant for a third
term. Then came out from the holes
and corners those imps of mischief, who
are always at hand to do evil work at a
time when the minds of men are excited
secret societies and tendered their ser-
vices and votes to President Grant. An
adroit bidder for the Presidency bade
higher and went further even than the
President on the same ticket. He look-
ed the winning man, and the secret so-
cieties transferred their allegiance to
him.

This was undoubtedly a clever diver-
sion for the Republican party. Dark
clouds hovered over them, but there
stood the Pope. He was their old ally in
difficulties, and, if only they held him up
to execration, the bull they were goading
would turn aside from the lancers who
were drawing his life-blood, and charge
only on the red rag. How miserably
they misread the people of this country
has been seen.

The real issue was between a corrupt
and an incorrupt government. No
" making of demonstrations " could con-
ceal this fact from an outraged people.
To use homely but expressive language,
" the pious dodge would not work," es-
pecially in the hands of men like Grant
and Elaine. The Pope was not the author
of the rings, small and great, throughout
the country ; he had nothing to do with
post-traderships ; he had not stolen a
penny from the civil service ; Kellogg
and Chamberlain were ruling in the
South, and not he ; Schenck was not his
Minister to London, Babcock his private
secretary, Belknap his Secretary of War,
Robeson his Secretary of the Navy, Pierre -
pont and Williams his legal advisers,
Shepherd his trusted confidant, and
Chandler his pet minister. The time had
gone by to fight with shadows when there
were such glaring realities before the peo-
ple. The corruption was homespun, unfor

564

The Vear of Our Lord 1876.

tunately. It was of native growth. It had
aggravated and increased the financial
depression, in which foreign countries
had a hand to some extent. It had fos-
tered a lavish display and gilded vulgar-
ity which were not only unbecoming
republicans but rational beings of any
class or kind. It had laid the road open
to constitutional dangers, and honest
citizens had good reason to dread a
prolongation of the term of a man who
had too military a way of looking at civil
affairs, and regarded lawful opposition
somewhat in the light of military insub-
ordination. These things were before
the people, and they laughed at the idea
of dragging the Pope in.

General Grant was thrown aside ; Blaine
was thrown aside. A man whose record
seems to be stainless was named in his
place Mr. Hayes, the Governor of Ohio.
A far abler man was set up as the Demo-
cratic candidate Mr. Tilden, the Gover-
nor of New York. The election was
probably the most stubbornly contested
ever known, and the day after showed Mr.
Tilden with 184 electoral votes and his
opponent with 166. Three States remain-
ed doubtful three Southern States where
the negro vote predominated, and two at
least of which, by the confessions of both
Republicans and Democrats, had been
vilely misgoverned since the war. The
country had to wait, as we still wait, for
the returns from those States. At the very
utmost they could only give the Repub-
lican candidate a majority of one in the
Electoral College, while, whatever way
they went, the votes of a vast majority of
the people were undoubtedly given to
the Democratic candidate. The fact was
undeniable : the voice of the American
people was for a total change.

Then ensued a scene unexampled, per-
haps, in history, certainly in the history
of this country. The administration
came out in all its force. State rights
were invaded by the military in South
Carolina as in the opening of the year
they had been invaded in Louisiana for
the purpose of sustaining the Republican
candidates, right or wrong while a na-
tion looked sullenly on.

The country has undoubtedly been on
the verge of danger ; but we cannot de-
spair of the Republic while so magni-
ficent an exhibition is given by the peo-
ple of calmness, forbearance, and good
sense through days and weeks fraught
with every incentive to exasperation and

violence. We cannot foretell who will
be the next President, but the will of the
people is manifest and unmistakable.
Politicians high and low have received a
bitter lesson, which the nation has in-
deed dearly bought. Let us continue
to be jealous of those whom we elect,
of our own wills, to carry on the busi-
ness of this great country, and we will
force honesty even from the dishonest.

We have not space to deal with nation-
al topics of lesser moment, though of
great interest and importance. With the
centennial year came our first Interna-
tional Exhibition. It brought the eyes
of friendly nations upon us, and, while
the exhibition of the products of other
and older peoples was a lesson to our-
selves, a still greater lesson to them was
the exhibition of our own industry and
productiveness. The advance in the
art and industry of the United States at-
tracted the admiration of competent cri-
tics from all civilized nations. A more
significant sign even than this is the
alarm in England at the rapid growth of
our iron trade, while our grain floods
English markets. Ten years ago forty-
four per cent, of the grain sent to England
came from Russia, fourteen percent, from
the United States. Now forty four per
cent, is sent from this country, and twen-
ty-one per cent, from Russia ; this, too,
at a time when business generally at
home was never duller a dulness that
the Presidential crisis has confirmed.
Yet even at our present condition we
are, as a people, more prosperous than
most of the European nations. The
money that people generally squandered,
and that was allowed to be squandered
in the national, State, and municipal
governments, has at least not been spent
in the forging of cannon and the muster-
ing of dread armaments of war. in
which so keen a rivalry is exhibited by
the European monarchs. Such comfort,
at least, as this consideration affords is
fairly open to us.

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE.

And now we turn to Europe. It
would take the eye of a prophet to read
the future, the pen of a Jeremias to paint
the present, of the continent to which
God, through his church, gave the lead-
ership of the world. The European
crisis that all men saw coming seems
come at last. Four years ago we closed

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

565

our review by saying : " War looms on
the European horizon, gathers in silent
thunder clouds all around. A flash is
enough to kindle the combustion and
make the thunder speak. Who shall
say when or whence it comes ? Europe
is arming, and we have good authority
for saying that ' the next war will rage
over half a century' Bismarck himself.
For the church we foresee an increase of
bitter and severe trials. . . ."

Well, the thunder-clouds have gather-
ed and are now impending, During the
greater part of the j^ear the world has
waited with bated breath to see them
burst and the bolts that smite nations
fall. The hand of Providence is in it.
The sins of three centuries seem to be
gathering to a head at last. There is no
nation in Europe that can call the other
friend. There is no such thing as the
comity of nations. The big battalions
alone take right and wrong into their
hands. Treaties most solemnly and
formally ratified within a quarter of a
century are torn to pieces as waste paper.
Such alliances as are patched up between
the Powers are rather personal than na-
tional the alliances of savage'chieftains
against some rival, to be broken'as occa-
sion requires when the allies may fly in
turn at each other's throats. France and
Germany are sworn foes ; Russia and
England hate each other ; Austria trem-
bles between Germany and Russia ; Tur-
key is doomed, but seems resolved to
sell its life dearly, and draw all Europe
in to witness and operate at the death.
Italy seems ready to follow the beck of
Germany, and Spain is consumed with
her own troubles. Add to this that each
nation is disorganized within itself. The
war, as will be shown later on, has prov-
ed a curse to Prussia, and, through Prus-
sia, to all Germany. The empire is far
from consolidated ; the Catholics have
been alienated from the government ;
the socialists, who are now in the ascen-
dant, have been denounced by Prince
Bismarck ; the Protestants have lost
what unity thev ever possessed, and have
shown an example of weak subserviency
to infamous laws that has won for them
the contempt of the world. In Russia the
emperor himself dreads the future. The
long-pent up elements of discord are
bursting through at last, and even his
immense power cannot restrain the nation
from a war which, it is generally believed,
his mind and heart condemn. Austria

has its Hungary, and its persecution like
to that of Germany ; England its Ireland
and a people that, with all its wealth, it
cannot find employment for or feed. It
has its India, also, with Russia for a
neighbor. France has its Imperialists, its
Legitimists, its Socialists of the fiercest
kind ; Italy its secret societies, its per-
secutions, its people that groan under an
incompetent government and scandalous
monarch. What a picture ! And in the
background millions of armed men,
millions of starving people, bankrupt
treasuries, general disaffection, a thou-
sand conflicting passions of race, of
religion, of social and moral theories,
and the pale ghosts of murdered kings
vainly warning the handful of monarchs
who are riding over the old ruts red
with so many an awful disaster ! Such
is Europe in the year of our Lord 1876.
Why is Europe not united ? why is it not
at rest? why is it ever on the verge of
war? why is its surface being constantly
changed ? why are its governments so
diverse ? why is it the stronghold of the
foes of all government? why is it brist-
ling with armies and weighed down by
armaments ? why, wherever the eye turns,
is it faced by cannon?

That the Reformation divided Europe
into two hostile camps is a fact acknow-
ledged by all students of history. We do
not say that previous to the Reformation
there were no wars among the Catholic
European nations. There were bloody,
long sustained sometimes, and bitter.
But they were wars of dynasties rather
than of nations, for which the feudal sys-
tem, that in its essence and construction
was a pagan system, was chiefly account-
able. The people hated not each other.
They were one in faith, one in religion,
oae in their worship, one in their hopes
of a hereafter and the means to attain it,
one in their recognition of one supreme
head of the church in which all believed.
While they were just as much Germans,
French, Italians, English, Irish, as they
are to-day, they all worshipped one God
in one manner. English saints we re re-
vered in Ireland, Irish saints in England,
German saints in France, French saints
in Italy. While Charlemagne was bat-
tling with pagan hordes and Moslem in-
fidels, Irish missionaries went forth and
spread themselves along the borders of
the Rhine, diffusing- the light of faith and
knowledge in their path. They were
welcomed as angels, not looked upon as

$66

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

aliens and foes, as are the missionaries
of Protestant societies to-day in Catho-
lic lands, who only stir up strife wher-
ever they set their foot. Thus there exist-
ed something stronger, broader, more uni-
versal than nationalism, which destroyed
not nationality, but taught all men that
they were brethren, and that geographical
lines were blotted out in the sight of
God and in the common home of faith.
Then was exemplified the sacred words
of Scripture : " This is the victory which
overcometh the woild, your faith." It
was this faith that out of barbarism
drew and moulded the mighty nations
of Europe. It was this faith alone that
saved Europe from being overrun by the
Moslem as it already had been by the
pagan North. Just at the moment when
the Moslem power was about to receive
its last check and overthrow came the
Protestant Reformation, which was not
only a religious revolt, but a disruption
of Chriscendoin. To that we owe the
presence of the Turk in Europe and all
the fatal consequences that have flowed
from it, now at their ripest, when the
moribund carcase that the faithless
kings and nations allowed to lie there
and rot threatens, in its final dissolution,
their descendants with ruin. To that
movement also we owe the bitterly hos-
tile lines that have been set up between
nations that once were brethren. To it
we owe the persecutions and the cruel-
ties that have resulted on either side
from the day when a man's religion as-
sumed a political and geographical char-
acter. To it we owe something worse
than all this the substitution of doubt
for faith, and the questioning of all author-
ity, both human and divine. To the im-
pious setting up of the monarch as the
great high-priest of the nation we owe
the absolutism which has crushed peo-
ples, been overthrown and crushed in
turn by them, and risen again only to
repeat the old story of devastation.

Ever since that fatal outbreak Europe
has been steadily drifting back into the
old paganism to which such civilization
as letters give is only a thin veneer ; and
paganism, at its highest, is only a step re-
moved from barbarism. What is called
progress would have come without Pro-
testantism, and been estimated at its
true v.slue as a means to a higher life
for all the world ; not as an end, not as
the all in all in this life. Mere worship-
pers of progress make this world their

heaven and self their god. This is the
growing feeling in nations to-day, and
the Reformation it was that, however un-
consciously at the beginning, formulated
it into a religion.

It seems to us that the present state
of Europe is the logical and plain out-
come of the great religious revolt in these
last days. What nation to-day has a re-
ligion ? Has Russia? Has England?
Has Germany? Has France? They each
have religions fragments of religions or
no religion as apart from one another
as the poles. At the very least this de-
priving men of a unity in their highest
beliefs is fraught with interminable dis-
cord. And never were the minds of men
more disturbed than they are to-day.
Protestantism has almost run its course,
and, by its own confession, disbelief in
Catholicity is resolving itself more and
more into disbelief in all things spiritual
and necessary bowing to brute force
in the material and moral order. Men
look around blankly and ask, \Vhere
do we stand ? And the answer is, No-
where. Men are born and live, they
eat and sleep, they sin and die in their
sin, passing through life in a sort of
dumb wonder that life should be.
Life is a hopeless mystery to those from
whose eyes heaven has been shut out.
Then all those hard social problems be-
come unanswerable. Why, they cry out
in despair, should kings have our blood
and sustenance? Why should we kill
each other to make them great or small ?
Why should they live and we die? Why
should our lives be spent in drill, portion-
ed out by the corporal, and our means be
dragged from us to buy cannon? These
thoughts are boiling and seething in the
hearts of the masses, and kings know it.
They and those they favored have destroy-
ed faith and religious unity. They have in
its place what is called socialism, which
means revolt against all things that be.
The name of priest was made hateful by the
calumnies of false teachers with the sanc-
tion of kings ; and now the name of
king is coupled with that of priest in the
mouths of the irreligious masses. The
first French Revolution was but the awful
flash of a fire that smouldered and still
smoulders under the thrones of Europe.
It has set kings up and set them down
like toys with which a child is pleased and
then breaks, and then takes others to
make its sport and break again. The
history of Europe from the Reformation

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

567

down is a continuous conflict between
despotism and revolution. The fullest
liberty is the only safeguard against it;
but the fullest liberty may no longer be
allowed to the peoples, for the Christian
spirit and the Christian guiding hand
have been withdrawn ; deprived of which,
1 berty of the masses means license and
lawlessness, government either absolu-
tism or a strong tendency thereto.

SOCIALISM.

Let it not be thought that we are draw-
ing a fancy picture. " Socialistic jour-
nals," said Prince Bismarck in a speech
delivered early in the year, " had recently
done much harm, and had done so with-
out let or hindrance. The poor people
who subscribed for socialistic papers
read but one journal, and were perverted
by that one. They had an indistinct
idea that they were badly off, which wjs
no doubt true, a-nd they therefore were
ever ready to believe the insane promises
held out by the socialistic journals. The
result was that the German operative no
longer worked as much and as well as
did the English and French, and that
German manufactories could no more
compete in the great markets of the
world. A nation that had been indus-
trious and steady to a proverb had, by
the incessant agitation of the socialistic
press, been brought to this sad pass."

Prince Bismarck cannot well com-
plain. The only press he could not tol-
erate was the Catholic. The publica-
tion of a letter of the Pope was the signal
for suppression of the paper, and fine
and imprisonment of the publisher. He
used the socialist press to inflame the
hatred of the people against the Catho-
lics, and now finds that in the unlawful
use of dangerous weapons he has only
cut his own fingers. In a debate in t'.ie
Prussian Parliament Count Eulenburg,
the Minister of the Interior, was compel-
led by a Catholic deputy to admit that
" the government did tolerate the ex-
cesses of the socialist papers and socie-
ties for awhile, although the existing
legislation enabled them to interfere."

" I have always been Intransigent f"
said Garibaldi 1 ;st February. " Brought
up with republican principles, through
having served the Republic in America,
I could not change my opinions, only I
thought in the past that it was necessary
to suppress our republican sentiments,

because, in order to unite Italy, the mon-
archy was necessary. But not for this
have we renounced our republican prin-
ciples. As republican principles are the
principles of honest people, there cannot
be an honest government which is not
republican. However, we are obliged
to get on by compromises, which the
force of circumstances demands. / do
tiot tell you to-day to make a revolution.
We must adapt ourselves to the times.
Nevertheless, vindicate progress to the
last gap. Keep yourselves in the path
of progress. Do not let yourselves be
weakened to-day ; the country groans
under depredations, the unjust acts of
the government. When we compro-
mised with the monarchy, we might have
expected from it that the country would
be well governed ; but it is not. The
monarchy must also complete its course ;
but the Gui/.ots and the Polignacs of to-
day do nothing but accelerate its fall."
" In conducting the government of the
world," said Mr. Disraeli in his speech
at Aylesbury in August last, "there are
not only sovereigns and ministers, but
secret societies, to be considered, which
have agents everywhere reckless agents,
who countenance assassination, and, if
necessary, can produce a massacre." " I
think," he said, in speaking of the ne-
gotiations for adjusting matters in the
East and staving off a little longer the fatal
hour, " that in the spring of the present
year the negotiations might have result-
ed in peace on principles which would
have be^n approved by every good man ;
but unexpectedly Servia that is to say,
secret societies of Europe, acting through
Servia declared war on Turkey."

On the eve of the German elections
the Promnzial Correspondent warns Ger-
many against the socialists in this sol-
emn fashion : " As for the aim of social-
ism, we can have no doubt whatever
about it. For on all occasions the mem-
bers of the partv make known this aim
more or less openly. It is the utter
overthrow of all order established in the
state and in society, the destruction of
all social culture, which has found its
expression in religion and morality, in
the family and in property, in art and
science, in industry and commerce ; and
all this for the erection of a chimerical
workingmcn's state, wherein would fall
all the power of .Government and all the
enjoyments of life to the pretended pro-
letarians, or men who possess nothing."

568

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

The invincible opposition of the Ca-
tholic Church to secret societies of every
kind, the frequent warnings of the Holy
Father and of the Catholic episcopate,
clergy, and press throughout the world,
have generally been laughed at as a
clerical bugaboo, set up to frighten wo-
men and children. Well, we have not
quoted from a single Catholic so far, and
certainly the threats coming from so
many different quarters, and from men
whose words are not idle, are sufficiently
strong.

THE COURSE OF EVENTS IN EUROPE.

Leaving this, the general and gravest
aspect of European affairs, we proceed to
touch on more specific topics of public
interest which have arisen during the
year. Many must necessarily be omitted.

Not even the gravity of the Eastern
complications has been able to with-
draw the eyes of the world from France.
The story, repeated in these columns
year after year, of the country's wonder-
ful advance in material prosperity is hap-
pily confirmed. We wish that the pros-
pects of a satisfactory government were
on a par with this material advance.
There exists still a feeling of great un-
rest in France. The various political
parties are as far apart as they ever
were, and it seems impossible to bring
them together so as to carry on
the business of the country in that
healthy constitutional fashion where op-
position is a spur rather than a material
hindrance to the government, where the
government has not to deal constantly
with a strong body of irreconcilables,
and where cabinet crises need not be ex-
pected at any moment on what to out-
siders often look like trivial points as,
for instance, the one of which we hear
as we write : the concession by a Catho-
lic nation of military honors at their
burial to men who have lived and died
unbelievers, and. whose funerals, by their
own expressed desire or the will of their
relatives and friends, are devoid of all
religious ceremony and a renunciation
of the Catholic religion. Now, it seems
to us that such a question as that should
-not be permitted to necessitate the resig-
nation of a ministry and the consequent
throwing out of gear of the chief govern-
ment machinery.

For difficulties like this those who
arrogate to themselves the exclusive title

of republicans in France the party that
regards M. Gambetta as its leader and
Victor Hugo as its prophet is chiefly re-
sponsible. It has taken a distinctly anti-
Catholic basis in what undoubtedly is a
Catholic country. The name for it is
" anti-clerical," which is a distinction
without a difference. It palliates the ex-
cesses of the Commune, while it opposes
freedom of education.

There seems, unfortunately, to have
been too much truth in what Mgr. Du-
panloup said early in the year when
speaking of the university question : " To
make us love the republic, the first thing
done is to identify it with a war against
religion." And the venerable prelate's
words received strong confirmation from
so decidedly un-Catholic a writer as
the Paris correspondent of the London
Times, who wrote to that journal while
the Chamber was still fresh from the
elections: " On observing the attitude
of the Chamber it is evident that the reli-
gious controversy is the great motive of
all its passions. In the last Assembly,
at least in its early days, every speaker
courting applause had only to attack the
Empire. In the present, as yet, the
most frantic plaudits are reserved for
whoever attacks not only the clergy, but
any creed whatever. This is a fresh dis-
cord about to be added to so many old
ones."

If there is any truth in the report of
Prince Bismarck's views of /the French
elections as given in the letter of a Ger
man diplomatist, extracts from which
appeared in a Rouen newspaper, the
prince-chancellor agrees with both of
these views. The report in question at
least smacks of the man.

"The chancellor," says the German
diplomatist, " does not appear to be af-
fected in any particular way by the result
of the elections. In a conversation I
had with him a few hours ago he re-
marked : ' I doubt if the French Radicals
will get into power ; but should they, I
am sure they will begin eating the priests
before they tackle the Germans ; the task
is so much easier, and I have no desire
to balk their appetite in that direction.' "

On December 31, 1875, the French
National A ssembly was dissolved, though
its actual dissolution only took place in
March, 1876, at the meeting of the new
Chambers. The elections followed, and
the voice of the people was certainly
for a republic. The question of edu-

The Vcar of Our Lord 1876.

569

cation immediately became a great sub-
ject of debate. In July, 1875, was pass-
ed a law allowing mixed juries, com-
posed half of examiners appointed by
the state and half of their own professors,
to question the candidates for degrees,
and decide whether or not to grant the
degrees. Not a very monstrous conces-
sion, surely, yet on the strength of it the
Catholic University of Paris was found-
ed and inaugurated on January 10, 1876.
This was too much for republicans of
the Gambetta and Victor Hugo stamp.
Accordingly, to M. Waddington, " an
Englishman by birth and education, and
moreover a stanch Protestant," as the
Paris correspondent of the London
Times triumphantly announced to that
journal, was confided the Ministry of
Education. It seems that M. Wadding-
ton was actually born in France, his
father being an Englishman who was
there naturalized, but the rest of the de-
scription is accurate enough. Of course
M. Waddington's stanch Protestant con-
science could not allow of this con-
cession to Catholics, whatever his Eng-
lish education might have done. He
moved immediately to repeal clauses 13
and 14 of the law of July, 1875, which
embodied the concessions above men-
tioned.

Now, what is this system of state mono-
ply of education in France against which
the Catholic conscience rebelled ? It
owes its origin to the despotic genius of
the first Napoleon, and we cannot do
better than describe it in the words of a
critic who will, in the eyes of non-Catho-
lics at least, be above suspicion: "He
[Napoleon I.] formed one great universi-
ty," says the London Times, " which was
only the state acting as an autocratic
teacher. The chief dignitary of that
university was the Minister of Public
Instruction, and all the officials, from
the highest to the lowest, were servants
of the government. The state appoint-
ed all the professors in the Sorbonne,
the College de France, the law schools,
the Polytechnic School, the Military Col-
lege, and the crowd of Lycees through-
out the country. Indeed, the state does
so still." It will be seen how open was
such a system to abuse, particularly when
the " state " in France has changed hands
half a dozen times since Napoleon orga-
nized his system. " The state alone could
grant degrees in Medicine, Law, and
even Theology. The system was com-

pleted by the stipulation that no one
could open even the pettiest of infant
schools or the greatest of colleges with-
out ministerial authority. Thus the
state could despotically decide what
books should be studied by every scho-
lar in France, by whom and how each
should be taught, what moral or political
ideas should be spread through every
school or college, and what amount or
kind of knowledge should be exacted
from every candidate for the- practice of
medicine or the bar. No more rigid srs-
tem of intellectual despotism u>as ever fas li-
ioned by the wit of man."

After a prolonged, fierce, and bitter
debate, M. Waddington carried his mo-
tion through the Chamber of Deputies,
but it was happily thrown out in the
Senate ; and there the matter stands.

If French republicanism is made to
assume a distinctly anti-Catholic char-
acter on the part of those who look
upon themselves as the only true re-
publicans in France, then France can-
not hope for a good government from it.
It remains for the Catholics to show and
prove themselves the veritable republi-
cans by devoting themselves absolutely
to the country and the government as
they stand. They have the game in their
own hands. The French nation seems
to be profoundly and reasonably mis-
trustful of kings and emperors. Yet a
republic in which Victor Hugo, Gambet-
ta, and the apologists and leaders of the
Commune are to be the chief actors would
be worse than the Empire. France
would have had revolution ere this
only for the strong, wise, and just man
who holds the reins of power with so
firm a grasp, and swerves not an rnch
either to the " Right " or to the " Left."
\Vhat a contrast between Marshal Mac-
Mahon and our own soldier-President !
We can only continue to hope for the
best from all parties. Time may teach
them to coalesce and deal fairly with all.
Could they only do this, the mightiest
bulwark would be raised up on the con-
tinent of Europe against the threatened
encroachments of absolutism on the one
hand and the madness of socialism on
the other, and in this France would at-
tain to a height of power and true great-
ness that no king or emperor ever
brought to her.

Germany goes on its way resolutely.
The persecution of the Catholics, which is
now an old story, has not been abated a

570

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

jot. To it is added, as has already been
indicated, an attempted persecution of
the socialists. But the socialists, be-
sides being too strong, are hard to catch.
The recent elections for the Prussian
Chamber of Deputies show an immense
gain for the party of National Liberals,
who represent every wing of socialism
from its highest to its lowest aspects.
The Catholics remain much the same as
before. The result is not favorable to
Prince Bismarck, who seems to be grow-
ing more querulous than ever. An ar-
rangement has been brought about by
which the Prussian railways have been
transferred to state control, and an at-
tempt was made to extend it to all Ger-
many, which has thus far -proved unsuc-
cessful. Still the military hand every-
where, and here is a result of it on which
we have often dwelt, but which grows
more sadly manifest every year. The
Berlin correspondent of the London
Times, writing of the accounts of Prussia
for 1874 and the estimates for 1875, after
struggling manfully but hopelessly to
make the figures wear a favorable aspect,
finally confesses : " These figures point
a moral. Comparatively easy as it may
be to balance the Budget in 1876, the
present is the last year in which this can
be done. Next year there will be few, if
any, surpluses to draw upon. On the
most favorable assumption the Prussian
needs may be covered without having
recourse to fresh imposts ; but how about
the wants of the Empire in 1877 ? * The
Empire in the current year lives upon its
usual income of custom, excise, and a
modicum of state contributions, patch-
ing up its deficit by consuming the rem-
nant of accumulated funds left. A year
Jience realities both in Prussia and in the Em-
pire will have to be faced ivith empty pockets.
If industry has revived by that time, the
taxes will be augmented ; if not, the
only alternative will lie between a loan
and the reduction of military expendi-
ture. In any circumstances the situation
in which Germany is placed by the mili-
tary preparations all round will then be
acutely felt."

Such is the cost of military glory and
power in these days. What doth it pro-
lit the people? We have seen Prince

* This letter was written on January 19, 1876,
consequently previous to the complications which
have since arisen in Eastern Europe, and which, if
war break out, would of necessity considerably add
to " the wants of the Empire in 1877."

Bismarck's views on the German \ orV
ingmen, who, instead of becoming the
strength and support of the Empire, arc
becoming its terror. How could it be
otherwise with the means taken to edu-
cate them? No picture could be sadder
than that drawn by the chancellor of the
present condition of the German work-
ing classes. Industry cannot thrive on
bayonets and cannon. Social order can-
not prevail where the minds of men have
been debauched for a purpose by the free
dissemination of evil doctrines, and when
they have ever before their eyes the
steady persecution of the best citizens.
He has outlawed the church of God.
He cannot wonder at the devil stepping
in and claiming his prey,

A still greater shock was given to Ger-
man feeling by the report of Prof. Reu-
leaux, their chief commissioner at our
Centennial Exhibition. His conclusions,
in brief, were : i. That the main object
of the German manufacturers is to pro-
duce an article which shall be cheap and
nasty. 2. That German manufacturers
find it easy to succeed in this line, con-
sidering that the men they employ are
deficient in skill and taste. 3. That
judging by the German display at the
Exhibition, the German nation seem to
be steeped in utter servility, so great is
the number of Bismarck statues, Red
Princes, and other heroes of the war, in
every conceivable material, from gilt
bronze down to common soap.

" For the real cause of the decline [in
prosperity] in Prussia," says the London
Times, "vft must look to the military
system of Germany. That system, as we
have often pointed out, is the most costly
in the world. By sending to the drill-
ground for years all her best and most
promising youth by taking her most ac-
complished young men frum the univer-
sity, from the learned professions, from
the factory or the laboratory, to fill the
ranks of her army she causes a greater
interruption of trade, and lays a heavier
burden on the nation, than that which
the cost of the war has imposed on
France. ... In Germany all other inte-
rests are sacrificed to the needs of the
greatest army ever supported by any
state. The intellect of the nation is set
to do military work with such rigor that
civil pursuits are sensibly suffering.
Trade is sacrificed in order that the
country may be covered with troops
drilled to the precision of machines.

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

571

Military railways are made without re-
gard to commercial necessities. So
crushing is the blood-tax that crowds of
the most stalwart peasantry and the
most skilful artisans are crossing the
Atlantic in spite of the depression of
tiade in America; and so soon as pros-
perity shall return to the United States
the emigration from Germany may be
multiplied two or three fold. Such is
the price at which Germany bought the
military dictatorship of Europe."

Italy seems to be going from very bad
to worse. The people groan under their
burdens, and the successive ministries
seem utterly incapable of coping with
the difficulties by which the)'- are beset
on all sides. The telegram announcing
the opening of the Italian Parliament on
Nov. 20 tells us that in his speech from
the throne Victor Emanuel, referring to
the relations between church and state,
said : " The extensive liberties granted the
church ought not to impair public liber-
ties. The government would therefore
propose bills for rendering efficient the re-
servation in the laws respecting the Pa-
pal See."

Here is an instance of the " exten-
sive liberties " of the church. A report,
dated March 14, informs us that " the
fifty-sixth birthday of king Victor Ema-
nuel, and the thirty-second of his eld-
est son, has been signalized in Rome
by a ceremony of great interest. A
new public library, which has been
added to the Collegio Romano, and
which has received the name of the king,
was formally opened by the Minister of
Public Instruction." (We wonder if in
the portfolio of the present Italian Minis-
ter of Public Instruction the good old
commandment, "Thou shall not steal," is
written.) " He explained that on the
very site of the new building the Jesuits
had striven for the triumph of principles
against which King Victor Emanuel's
career has been an unceasing battle."
(This statement is crushingly true.) " The
library is also the monument of a victory
in another respect, for it contains 650,000
volumes which belonged to the suppress-
ed monasteries."

What a victory ! " The opening of such
a building," said the London Times, with
unconscious irony, " appropriately mark-
ed the birthday of a king whose name
will forever be connected with the great-
est of all changes in the political fortunes
of the Papacy." It notices with keen re-

gret in the same article that there is a
lamentable tendency among Italians " to
forget how much they owe to this king."
" Her [Italy's] people cannot speak too
gratefully of the king whose rare com-
bination of courage and political sagaci-
ty has helped to give them back their
self-respect as well as their nationality."

Well, when Englishmen worship a
Garibaldi and cherish a Mazzini, we may
expect their leading journal to speak in
this strain of a Victor Emanuel. The
Mantegazza affair will be too fresh in the
memory of our readers to need our
using it as one of many instances show-
ing the kind of man this model king is,
and how likely the Italians are to remem-
ber " how much they owe " him. One of
the things they owe ' him is the sup-
pression of monasteries) and convents.
It must be rather bad when a journal
like the London Saturday Review con-
siders it as on the whole rather a use-
less measure in its results. A strong
effort is undoubtedly being made by the
Italian government to destroy the Pa-
pacy and dam up the Catholic religion
at every vent. Only do this, it says to
its subjects : Kill off. these religious so-
cieties from the face' of the earth ; and.
as for yourselves, join what devil's so-
cieties you please for this is liberal
Italy.

In assuming charge of the religious
properties, however, the Italian govern-
ment assumed also the liabilities attach-
ed, and it met with many strange mis-
haps. Wonderful to read are the ac-
counts of some of those bills presented
by worthy citizens to the government of-
ficials. The Dominicans for instance, are
certainly not famed as being great eaters
of flesh either in Italy or anywhere else.
Yet here are the worthy Dominicans of
Sta. Maria sopra Minerva, whose pro-
perty was seized, charged by a modest
butcher with a " little bill" of 20,000 fr.
for butcher's meat ! This is only one of
many such that were presented.

The first report of the Commission of
Vigilance charged with the ecclesiastical
property seized was presented early in
the year. It showed that, according to
the schedule laid before Parliament in
the spring of 1873, there were then in
Rome 126 monasteries occupied by
2,375 monks, and 90 convents occupied
by 2,183 nuns in all, 216 religious
houses with 4,558 inmates, exclusive of
hospitals and pensions under monastic

572

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

supervision or direction, the colleges and
the houses of the generals. Of these 216
houses 119 were seized and 44 others de-
clared exempt from the operation of the
law. The property that thus passed into the
hands of the Commission was disposed of
as property usually is put up at auction
for the most part ; 250 lots were put up at
13,042,629 fr., and knocked down at 16,-
142,697 fr. The total value of the pro-
perty thus seized is estimated at 61,161,-
300 fr. To complete the pleasing picture
it only remains to add that the receipts of
the Commission from July 22, 1873, when
it began its operations, up to the end of
1875, were 11,116,376 fr., while the ex-
penditure was 11.570,428 fr.

Meanwhile, the dispossessed monks
were left at liberty to run about the
world and seek for a living wherever they
could find it, while the Commission of
Vigilance manipulated their property.
As for the nuns, provision was made
that all of them who within three months
after the publication of the law made ex-
press and individual requests to remain
in the houses they occupied should be
permitted to do so until the number in
each house should be mercifully reduced
by death to six, when the government
might concentrate them elsewhere. Sig-
nor Nicotera, however, seems resolved to
root them out altogether.

Such is Catholic Italy. The readers
of THE CATHOLIC WORLD have seen in
a recent article * the tendency of the
ecclesiastical policy of the Italian gov-
ernment. In this alone is it resolute.
The country at large is as ill-governed
as ever. The police are corrupt. In
many districts life is still at the mercy of
brigands, some of whom, as was recently
shown, have their allies among those
moving in the best circles of society.
Scandals thicken around throne and
government. As for the new govern-
ment, that steadfast friend of young
Italy, the London Times, wrote thus
as long ago as May 4 : " The new Ita-
lian ministry came into power just a
month ago, and it has already had to de-
clare the impossibility of its own former
programme, and to adopt both the mea-
sures and the practice of the government
it overthrew and supplanted. It deals
with public meetings, with the press, and
with the telegraphic office as conserva-

* " How Rome stands To-day," CATHOLIC
WOELD, November, 1876.

lives, and even the Pope, had done be-
fore ; and, what is more, it finds that if it
is to save Italian finance from a down-
ward career, it has no choice but to
adopt the Grist-tax, which was the one
particular crime of its predecessors.
The Left is disappointed and sullen. The
populace of the country towns is furious.
For some years the owners, the occu-
piers, and the tillers of land have found
that ' unification' and representation are
costly privileges. The fact is now
brought home to them ; and when all
classes in an agricultural district are of
one mjnd, they are apt to express them-
selves roughly."

Like all petty persecutors, Switzerland
shows itself the most virulent in its at-
tack on the rights of conscience. Great
Powers try to devise some pretext at
least for their persecutions. Switzer-
land is troubled by no such scruples as
this. The laws are strained to the ut-
most to punish Catholics, and, when thcv
will not precisely fit the case, they arc
made to fit as speedily as possible. In-
deed, law there has become a farce. The
correspondent of the Journal des Debats,
which is noted for its solid opposition in
the Catholic Church, draws a lively pic-
ture of the proceedings at the " election"
of an " Old Catholic " pastor; and as it is
characteristic of a thousand things that
are constantly occurring in Switzerland,
we give it at length. The letter is dated
Sept. 20 : " The confessional contest
continues at Geneva. I won't trouble
you with the details of the skirmishes
which occur every day. That would be
monotonous. As a r/siiw/, here is what
passes from month to month : A Catho-
lic commune has a church, a curd, a par-
ish, and one hundred electors. Fifteen
or twenty of these declare themselves
liberal Catholics. They demand a cure
who shall be elected by the parishioners,
as the law requires. But the party chiefs
do not always find a liberal clergyman to
order. Plenty present themselves, it is
true, but for the most part they are more
liberal than Catholic, and more libertine
than liberal. The Superior Council
wishes for honest men only, who shall
not be too ignorant, who are good
speakers, with a conscience, if possible,
and capable of making a good show.
But this is a combination of qualities
hard to find in those who go out from
the Roman fold. As soon as they have
found one whose recommendations are

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

573

of the best, they write to the twenty elec-
tors : 'We have found your man; voto
away to-morrow.' They vote ; the eighty
Roman Catholics go not to the ballot-
box, therein obeying the stupid order re-
ceived from Rome, and the curt is elect-
ed. From that out the church and the
parish are his. All he has to do is to
take possession. The keys are de-
manded from the mayor. The mayor
refuses to give them up. He is recalled ;
the gates are forced, and liberal Catholi-
cism is duly installed in the holy place,
where nothing is left but the four walls.
bo clean has been the picking that the
new-comers cannot even find a bell.
Whereupon the eighty Roman Catholics,
with their wives, children, and friends,
gather together in a barn around their
cnrf, now become a martyr, while the
official priest, installed in the church of
the commune, preaches to a congregation
of two the gendarme and the rural guard.
He has not even the benches to preach
^to, for they have all been taken away.
In addition, he is pestered by the zealots
of the opposite party, who insult him in
the street, steal his vegetables, and eat
his rabbits. To console himself he mar-
ries, which at least brings him a female
parishioner.

" Behold what passes from month to
month. But to be serious : It is in this
way that three-fourths of the revolutions
begin. The liberal electors are for the
most part infidels ; but they have children
whom they send to catechism. There
were more than nine hundred of these
this year. Behold a future flock de-
tached from Rome. Moreover, there are
foreigners who second the movement.
A fairly large number of young girls
have already made their First Commu-
nion in the liberal churches. Many mar-
riages have taken place there."

In Spain the Carlists were utterly de-
feated by overwhelming numbers and
faithlessness on the part of man}- of their
chieftains early in the year. Don Carlos
escaped, and the insurrection was at an
end. While Spain was shifting from
hand to hand, and presenting to the
wotld a hopeless picture of internal dis-
order, we supported the cause of a reso-
lute man who had certainly a strong and
brave following, not all confined to the
North ; whose views of government were
far more liberal than they were repre-
sented to be by his foes ; who knew the
meaning of morality; who displayed great

capacity in welding into a formidable
army a set of undisciplined hordes
whose personal character was above sus-
picion ; who, as kings' claims go, had a
strong claim to the Spanish crown, sup-
ported to this day by a formidable party
in Spain ; and who, had he once grasped
the. power of the throne, would not have
been a likely man to relinquish it. What
Spain wants to-day is a ruler, and we
believe Don Carlos would have ruled the
country wisely and well. We were always
open, however, to just such a solution of
the Spanish difficulty as has actually ta-
ken place. In our review of the year
1872, while saying that we did "not ex-
pect to find Amadeo r s'name'at the head
of the Spanish government that ' day
twelvemonth," we added : " a good re-
gent, not Montpensier, might bring about
the restoration of Don. Alfonso ; but
where is such a regent ?" Pavia did the
work, and if the young king can only be
surrounded by good advisers he need
dread *no domestic foe. He is undoubt-
edly the lawful king of the nation, and,
as such, all good men are bound to sup-
port him. But Spain is still so uncertain
that it is open to almost any surprise.
Its debt is enormous. When Queen Isa-
bella was driven from the throne, the
capital of the debt was $1,250,000,000.
To-day it is about $3,500,000,000 which
represents in startling fashion what a
country gains by revolution and the
clash of dynasties.

Space does not allow of entering more
largely into the internal affairs of Europe,
or even of glancing at the disturbed con-
dition of affairs in the states of South
America, which is only a reflex of Euro-
pean life in its general and worst phases.
With a brief mention of a few of the
memorable dead, we pass on to consider
the question which is uppermost in men's
minds to-day.

For the Catholic, during the past year,
one name overshadows all that of Car-
dinal Antonelli, whose official life in
the service of his Holiness was a long
and severe battle against overwhelming
odds. The wonder is, not that he failed
in the end but that he stood so long.
He, together with his illustrious ctuef,
was a true friend of liberty, but not of
that liberty which means disorder. This
he was to the end of his days, as is shown
by his admiration for our own Republic
and his rejoicing at the victory of the
Union. His life was spent in storms ;

574

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

and in days when physical force takes all
things into its hands, his was the gigantic
task to beat back the flood, as he suc-
ceeded in doing for almost a quarter of a
century. His name will be memorable
not only in Catholic annals but in Euro-
pean history, and his example for stead-
fast courage, unwavering faith, and un-
swerving devotion to the chair of Peter
one of the most conspicuous in all time.
Another holy and venerable man, re-
nowned In a different way Cardinal
Patrizzi followed him close. Another
man who has graven his name on the
century, and who was, perhaps, the bright-
est intellectual lieht that the New World
has yet given to the faith Dr. Brown-
son went out with the year. As his
career and work have been treated at
length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we need
say no more of him here. His bright and
promising daughter, Sarah (Mrs. Tenney),
the author of the Life of Prince Gallifzin
and other works, followed him recently.
The name of Francis Deak stands alone
among the list of secular statesmen. His
life teaches the value of patience against
hope, and of persistent but lawful agita-
tion for the rights and liberties of peoples.
He went to his grave amid the tears of a
nation and the sorrow of a world, a pa-
triot of patriots and a Catholic of Catho-
lics.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.

Russia,. Austria, and England have
been almost completely wrapped up in
the Eastern difficulty, which we do not
pretend to be able to solve, and which we
doubt if any man could solve, however
read in the secrets of European cabinets.
Never was a question more shifting in its
character, more unexpected in its sur-
prises, more delicate to touch, more diffi-
cult to adjust. Time was when short
work might have been made of it. Here
are the facts : A nation steeped in cor-
ruption, foreign in every sense to Europe,
which has steadfastly refused to enter
European life and thought and action,
occupying one of the fairest regions only
td pollute the very dust where heroes
trod, and whida the ashes of saints
once consecrated. Christian principali-
ties and peoples are subject and made to
pay tribute to this power, which has only
strength enough to be cruel, and energy
enough to sin. It is needless to point

out what would be the action of Europe
were Europe only, one in faith. Its very
faith would have revolted against such a
people in such a place, and beyond doubt
the Turks would have had the alternative
of becoming subject to Christian rule or
of leaving Christian shores.

But these thoughts enter not into the
calculations of governments which are
themselves no longer Christian. They
approach the subject like robbers before
whom is spread out a rich booty, and the
question is, Who shall have the biggest
share? Russia is resolved to have it;
Austria trembles for her frontier ; Eng-
land sees all that she fought for in the
Crimea slipping from her grasp, and is
left without courage to fight and without
a friend to help her.

It would take a volume to follow out
all the intricacies of this affair, and at
the end we should only be left at the
very starting-point. If we may hazard
an opinion, we believe that there will be
no war, at least this winter. As for the
alarm at the anticipated occupation of
Constantinople by Russia while, if the
Russian Empire be not dissolved befoic
the close of the present century, by one of
the most terrific social and political con-
vulsions that has ever yet come to pass,
that occupation seems to lie very much
in the order of possibilities we doubt
much whether it will occur so soon as
people think. England is not the only
rival of Russia. The alliance of the em-
perors is nothing more than an alliance
de convenance which would snap at any
moment. Russia herself has recently
given notable example of what value she
sets on troublesome treaties, when she
has the power to throw them aside. It
would seem to us difficult for Russia to
occupy Constantinople without first mas-
tering and garrisoning Turkey ; and Tur-
key is an empire of many millions,
whom fanaticism can still rouse to some-
thing like heroic, as well as to the most
cruel and repulsive, deeds. These mil-
lions, even if they would, could not well be
transported to Asia at a moment's notice.
But even granting all this, granting Rus-
sia the governing power and it will
have that or nothing in what now is
Turkey, how would its more immediate
neighbors, Austria and Germany, regard
so enormous an accession of power to an
empire that already grasps the East and
West in its hands, that is brave, enter-
prising, aggressive; daily growing in in-

The Year of Our Lord 1876.

575

felligence,* as a nation one in religion,
and subject to the will of one man, whose
presumptive heir is the bitter foe of Ger-
many ? The religion' of Russia is opposed
to that of all Europe, with the exception
of Greece. Russia is greedy, strong, poor,
;ind cruel. So cold a nation, that has not
yet quite thrown off the shell cf barbar-
ism, drifting down into one of the fairest
European provinces, would take a cen-
tury, at least, to thaw into civilization.
Indeed, the possibilities that Would arise
from such a movement are beyond fore-
shadowing. Yet people who talk sogiib-
ly of Russia seizing Constantinople
never seem to regard them. We may be
very sure, however, that they are regarded
by powers who, in such an event, would be
neighbors and necessary rivals of Russia ;
and that they, while they are in a position,
as to-day Germany is, to forbid tres-
pass, will be very careful how far they al-
low a people to advance who, given an
inch, take a country. Germany, it is be-
lieved by many, wants Austria. With
Austria as part of Germany, Germany
might well defy Russia, and the ambition
of founding a consolidated empire ex-
tending from the borders of France to
the borders of Russia, from the North
Sea to the confines of Italy, seems to us
worthy of the mind of Prince Bis-
marck. And it might have been, were
he safer at home ; but it needs some-
thing more powerful than blood and iron
to frame and consolidate such an empire.
It needs peace, unity of sentiment, unity
of interests, unity of faith, the assurance
of liberty, none of which Germany pos-
sesses to-day. Indeed, the chancellor
himself has disavowed such designs,
fearing that the welding of Austria into
Germany would give the Catholics the
preponderance in the empire which they
now lack. Certain it is that some agree-
ment has been made between tho empe-
rors which has imparted an ominous neu-
trality to Germany, and under which

* The Report of the Russian Education Depart-
ment for 1875 showed, excluding Finland, the Cau-
casus, and Central Asia, 22,768 elementary schools,
with 754,431 males and 185,056 females, and i school
to 3 924 inhabitants. In the German provinces,
there is i school to 2,044 persons, i scholar to 15
males and 24 females. In the Gymnasia, where
the pupils have the option of learning French or
German, 11.382 prefer German and 8.508 French,
the preponderance for German being almost entirely
furnished by the pupils who entered during the
two years preceding. This latter fact we take to
be a sign of the times.

troubled and enfeebled Austria is in the
eyes of all observers restive. But under
all these combinations of the great Euro-
pean Powers there frowns the spectre of
socialism, with allies wherever men are
aggrieved, and which will not down for
all the artillery of empires. From it an
outburst may be expected at any mo-
ment, in the quarter most unexpected,
and in situations the most critical. Its
power cannot be weighed, measured, or
calculated upon. It works in the dark,
yet universally. It is as strong in the
Southern States of America as in Eu-
rope. Its excesses shock all men for a
time, but it feeds on discontent ; and dis-
content to-day possesses the world. It
can only be met and conquered
by the Christian conscience, but it has
long been the effort of kings to destroy
that conscience, to deprive it of light,
and render it a passive agent in the
hands of force. Thus are empires for
ever digging their own graves.

And what is the outlook? Bleak in-
deed to the eye of the world, but bright
to the eye of faith. Throughout the pon-
tificate of our Holy Father, Pope Pius
IX., the church has been treading the
weary way of the Cross. The world is
only to be won to Christ by suffering and
sacrifice. Christ himself no longer suf-
fers in the flesh, but in his mystical
spouse, the church. "When I shall be
lifted up," he said, " then will I draw all
men to me." It is the same with his
spouse. She has had her hour of earthly
triumph ; she has had her agony ; she
has felt the kiss of many a Judas on her
cheek ; Sadducee and Pharisee alike
hate her ; she has been betrayed by her
own into the hands of her enemies ; she
has been led before the rulers of this
world, and they have pronounced, each
in his way, sentence upon her, and the
sentence is death. She has been delivered
up to the hands of the rabble, mocked,
derided, bruised, crowned with thorns,
forced to bear her own cross. She has
mounted to the very height of Calvary.
Her garments have been stripped from her,
and, naked, she stands before the work'.
The consummation is at hand. Despoil-
ed of all things, and lifted up between earth
and heaven, a spectacle to God, to angels,
and to men, she draws all eyes to her.
while the executioners, under the very
shadow of the Cross, gamble for her gar-
ments. Free from all the trappings of
this world, deserted, abandoned of men,

57 6

New Publications.

it is then that the divinity within her
shines forth with naught to dim its bright-
ness. When Christ yielded up his spirit
into the hands of his Heavenly Father,
darkness covered the earth, the veil of
the Temple was rent, the dead walked the

streets of Jerusalem, and an earthquake
shook the world. Nature was all con-
fusion, and from that very hour began
the victory of the Cross. Is not a like
scene before s to-day? The darkest
hour is on us ; the future is God's.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE LITTLE BOOK OF THE MARTYRS OF
THE CITY OF ROME. By the Rev.
Henry Formby. London : Burns &
Gates. New York : The Catholic
Publication Society. 1877.
We can do no more now than call the
attention of our readers to this exceed-
ingly beautiful little work) advance sheets
of which lie before us. It is full of ad-
mirable illustrations of scenes i,n the
lives of the early martyrs, and nothing
could be better adapted as a Christmas
present for Catholic children.

THE NORMAL HIGHER ARITHMETIC. De-
signed for advanced classes in common
schools, normal schools, high schools,
academies, etc. By Edward Brooks,
A.M. Published by Sower, Potts &
Co., Philadelphia.

This excellent text-book contains more
than the average number of practical ex-
amples. This fact, considered in connec-
tion with the intelligent and exhaustive
treatment of commercial arithmetic, com-
mends the book to teachers in need of
a manual for drill purposes. Besides,
most of the material is new, and the au-
thor brings to his task a greater com-
mand of language than seems to have
been possessed by the older authors, thus

ensuring clearness and variety of state-
ment. The treatment of exchange shows
the peculiar merits of the volume to
advantage.

A large portion of the first half of the
volume is devoted to a scientific treat
ment of arithmetic. In many respects
this is waste labor. No use can be made
of it in the class-room. Who, for example,
stops to consider the properties of the
number eleven ? Less science and more
practice would mend the first two hun-
dred and fifty pages. This done, and
the answers carefully corrected, the book
will rank first of its class.

EXCERPTA EX RlTUALI ROMANO, PRO AD-
MINlSTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AB
COMMODIOREM USUM MlSSIONARIORUM.

Baltimori : apud Kelly, Piet et Socios,
1876.

This new edition of the ritual is an im-
provement upon previous ones in the
beauty and clearness of the print. In
other respects no changes have been
made, except in the paging.

We notice a misprint, " Suspice" for
" Suscipe," on p. 159. There may be
others, but hardly can be any of impor-
tance.

THE

t a r i o .

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV., No. 143. FEBRUARY, 1877.

FREDERIC OZANAM/

OzANAM'sname and writings were
made known to the portion of the
English-reading world interested in
the Oxford movement by the bril-
liant pages of the British Critic more
than thirty years ago, while he was
still in the bloom of his youthful
fame and success as a professor of
the Sorbonne. The preface to his
biography says that he is not widely
known in England, and the same
is probably true of America, speak-
ing in reference to non-Catholics.
Among Catholic scholars here, and
we fancy in England also, his name
and works are well known and in high
repute. They deserve, nevertheless,
to be better known and more highly
honored. There is scarcely a purer
or more brilliant career to be found
recorded in the annals of Catholic
literature in this century than his.
He was the founder of the Society
of St. Vincent de Paul a sufficient
title to honor and gratitude. He
was a model of moral loveliness and
Christian virtue, a type of the true
Catholic gentleman, adorning a high
sphere in society, and at the same

* Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne :
His Life and Works. By Kathleen O'Meara.
Edinburgh : Edmonston & Douglas. 1876.

time heartily devoted to the welfare
of the humblest, the poorest, and
even the most degraded and vicious
classes. He was a thoroughly
learned man in his own department,
a captivating writer, a master of
the minds and hearts of the studious
youth of France, a knightly cham-
pion of the faith without fear and
without reproach, an author of clas-
sical works of peculiar and enduring
value. The charm of his private,
personal character, as a child, a
friend, a husband and father, a
member of the social circle, equals
the lustre of his public career.
Spotless and fascinating from the
beginning to the end of his life, the
bright and winning grace of the fig-
ure which he presents in the history
of his life receives dignity and pa-
thos from the suffering which over-
shadowed and eclipsed his light be-
fore its meridian was attained. He
was born in 1813; his professorship
at the Sorbonne filled the space be-
tween his twenty-seventh and thirty-
ninth years of life that is, from
1839 to 1852 and he died the next
year at the age of forty, after seven
years of repeated attacks of illness
and a continued decline. We will

578

Frederic Ozanam.

pass in rapid review the incidents
of this brief but fruitful career, and
endeavor to place before our read-
ers a reduced sketch of the charac-
ter and work of Frederic Ozanam,
as faithfully and artistically portray-
ed by his accomplished biographer.
The family records of the Oza-
nams trace their origin to Jeremiah
Hozannam, a Jew, who was praetor in
Julius Cnesar's thirty-eighth legion,
and received the township of Bou-
lignieux, near Lyons, as his share in
the military partition of the conquer-
ed Gallic territory. His lineal de-
scendant, Samuel Hozannam, was
converted by St. Didier in the
seventh century. The name was
altered to Ozanam by the grandfa-
ther of the subject of the present
notice. Dr. Ozanam, Frederic's
father, was a distinguished man,
and both of Frederic's parents were
persons of remarkable virtue and
piety. He was born in Milan, but
educated at Lyons, every possible
care being taken of his intellectual,
moral, and religious culture. In
childhood and youth he was deli-
cate, precocious, exemplary in morals
and religion, extremely diligent and
successful in his studies, and every
way admirable and lovable in charac-
ter. At one time during his boyhood
he was tormented by temptations
against faith, which were so rife,
and to a multitude of the studious
youth of France so dangerous, at
that epoch. To him they were
not dangerous, but salutary ; for they
had no other effect except to stimu-
late him to a study of the rational
.evidences of the Catholic religion,
>and to leave in his heart a vivid
.and tender sympathy for the vic-
rims of doubt and error. After a
-very thorough course of classical
study under an eminent teacher
the Abbe Noirot which he com-
pleted at seventeen years of age,

Frederic Ozanam was placed in a
lawyer's office at Lyons, where he
remained one year, employing all
his leisure time in linguistic and
literary studies. Before complet-
ing his nineteenth year he was sent
to study at the great Law-School
of Paris, where he remained six
years, after which, at the age of
twenty-five, he was admitted to the
bar and to the degree of Doctor in
Letters, taking the next year his de-
gree of Doctor of Laws. Ozanam had
studied well his jurisprudence, and
was perfectly competent to prac-
tise his profession, or even to hold a
chair as professor in a law-school.
This was not, however, his vocation,
and he had little taste or inclina-
tion for such a life. His legal ca-
reer was, therefore, very brief and
only an episode in his life. In re-
spect to his true vocation he had
many doubts and anxieties. He
was extremely averse to the thought
of marriage, and, being so fervently
religious, he naturally felt certain
predispositions toward the sacerdo-
tal or monastic state. He visited
the Grande Chartreuse, correspond-
ed with his friend Lacordaire, and
held many consultations with his
director. The final result was that
he chose the profession of litera-
ture, and married, with the fuM and
hearty approbation of his friend
and counsellor, the Abbe Noirot.
His chief end in choosing his pro-
fession was the advancement of the
cause of religion and the church;
and the generous aspirations, direct-
ed by the most elevated and en-
lightened views, which developed
into so glorious and successful, al-
beit in time so brief a fulfilment, al-
ready preoccupied his mind and
heart from the time that he was
seventeen years old.

In point of fact, he had really
found his vocation at that time, and,

Frederic Ozanam.

579

notwithstanding bis apparent diver-
gence to the legal profession and
his various waverings of purpose,
he actually began to prosecute it
steadily by his studies and by such
active efforts as his age and condi-
tion permitted, from that early but
prematurely ripe period of his
life. The programme of his studies
and literary labors is laid down in
a letter to a friend, written when
he was seventeen years old. With-
out neglecting his professional
studies, he was able, thanks to his
wonderful mental gifts, his reten-
tive memory, and his habits of in-
tense, continuous application, as
well as to the definiteness and unity
of the scope and plan which he fol-
lowed, to acquire that solid and ac-
curate erudition which furnished the
material fused and moulded into
such beautiful forms by the fire of
his eloquence and the constructive
art of his imagination.

The state of things among men
of science and letters, and the youth
studying at the great schools, when
Frederic Ozanam went to Paris,
was, in a religious aspect, most
dreary. His father had feared to
send him there on account of the
infidelity and immorality with which
the whole atmosphere was poisoned,
but had at last resolved to trust to
the firmness of his principles and
the purity of his character. His
trust was fully justified. During
his student-life Ozanam began, in
concert with a few other young men
like-minded with himself, that
counter-revolution or crusade for
the restoration of the old religion
of France, among the young stu-
dents and also among the working-
men of Paris, which we devoutly
trust will end in the fulfilment of De
Maistre's prophecy that within this
present century France will be once
again completely Christianized.

There is nothing more melan-
choly in all history, after the apos-
tasy of Juda from the standard of
her Lion, than the lapse of France
from her fidelity to the cross and to
the vows of that national baptism in
the deepest, purest waters of Cath-
olicity, from which she derived her
life, her strength, and her unparal-
leled glory in Christendom. It is
like the fall of Solomon, so beauti-
ful, so wise, so royal in magnanimity
and splendor, so favored of God, so
renowned as the builder of the
Temple and the palaces of Sion,
degrading those later years which
ought to have been crowned with a
venerable majesty by turning his
heart to strange women and to the
abominations of the heathen It is
a grief almost without consolation,
and accompanied by surprise and
indignation, that a people like that
of France, and especially its intel-
ligent and educated portion, living
amid the monumental glories of
their Catholic history, could be in-
sensible to their own honor, mock
at all which makes their nation
venerable, destroy the noble work
of their ancestors, and, like the Is-
raelites defiling themselves with the
base heathen of Chanaan, turn away
to the worship of the fetich of the
Revolution. How much more deep-
ly must the bosoms of those French-
men who are not degenerate be
stirred by such emotions ! There
were always among the sons of Is-
rael of old elect souls, the true
children of the promise, such as Jos-
eph, Gideon, Samuel, David, Isaias,
Daniel, Judas Machabeus, who
burned with zeal and holy enthu-
siasm for the cause of the God of
their fathers ; and they never ceased
to rise up when they were most
needed until the final apostasy of
the nation. The people of France
have never apostatized from Christ

580

Frederic Ozanam.

as a body, although a great multi-
tude of apostates have deserted the
faith and loyalty of their ancestors,
and the revolution which they stirred
up under the traitorous banner of
Voltaire, " the wickedest, the mean-
est, and the most unpatriotic
Frenchman of the last century,"*
has swayed to a great extent the
politics and education of France
for a hundred years. Paris has
gone far beyond France in this road
of apostasy, but even there impiety
has never gained a complete and
lasting conquest. On the contrary,
martyrdom, heroic charity, and in-
tellectual valor in the sacred cause
have made it their most illustrious
palestra, and, we trust, have expiat-
ed the guilt of that peerless city,
and averted the doom which would
seem to await it if the divine justice
should exact the due meed of retri-
bution.

Among the elite of the youth of
France, the class most immediate-
ly and universally exposed to the
deadly influence of impious litera-
ture and education and withdrawn
from the control of the clergy, gift-
ed and pure souls have arisen, fill-
ed with the inspiration of genius
and religion, like Daniel and his
companions in the captivity, who
have escaped the violence of fire
and stopped the mouths of lions.
First among these is Chateaubriand,
who in his old age honored Frederic
Ozanam with his special friendship
and was loved reverently by him in
return. Notwithstanding a short
period of defection from the faith,
and considerable faults in his cha-
acter and writings, Chateaubriand
deserves to be called the father of
the new generation of Catholic
youth in France. There is no simi-
lar autobiography of more exquisite

* Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

charm than the history of that
childhood and youth in which this
great man shows us how he was
trained and formed to that peculiar
type of genius which so captivated,
and to a great extent re-formed in a
Catholic mould, the intellectual and
imaginative youth of France. La-
martine deserves a considerable
meed of recognition, also, for ser-
vices of the same general nature,
though he was far less true and
constant to his first loyalty. Victor
Hugo promised in the beginning to
devote a genius of a much higher or-
der than either of these two emi-
nent men possessed to the true wel-
fare of his country and mankind,
but unhappily was seduced by the
fell spirit of the Revolution. Even
he shows a reaction from the un-
mitigated, fanatical hatred of the
Catholic past of France and Chris-
tendom which animates the worst
section of the anti-Catholic sect.
The moderates or liberals, the men
of compromise between the revolu-
tionary section and some kind of
vague natural religion or philosophy
under a spiritual or semi-Christian
semblance, who have had the pre-
dominance at Paris in government,
education, and the general leader-
ship of the public affairs of France,
since the time of the First Empire,
have also belonged to a half-way
party, in which the effect of resurg-
ing Catholicity is visible. They have
been allied with the outside row of
Catholics, who were either only
nominally such, or, if really, incon-
sistent and weak in their allegiance
to the church. Their position pre-
sented, therefore, a much weaker
and more easily assailable front to
Catholic aggression than one more
extreme and openly revolutionary
would have done. Nevertheless,
the young world of Paris students
were as effectually, and more quietly

Frederic Ozanam.

581

and irresistibly, alienated from real
faith in the religion of tlieir baptism,
and every principle or duty of prac-
tical Christian morals and piety, by
tlieir utterly secular and free-think-
ing education in the public schools,
so long as no counter-influence was
brought to bear upon them, as if the
Catholic religion had been proscrib-
ed by penal laws. It was possible,
however, to bring this influence to
bear upon them. The liberty grant-
ed to indifferentism, infidelity, and
atheism might be made use of to
the advantage of Catholicity. In
the schools where free thought and
free expression were a law, the pos-
sessors might be invaded and over-
thrown by intellectual and moral
weapons, if there were found aggres-
sors able to wield them and bold
enough to enter the arena. On such
a battle-ground, where the field is
in the domain of history and philo-
sophy, where reason is umpire, and
where facts and arguments, elo-
quence and logic, appeals to the in-
tellect and the heart, the lessons of
the past and the examples of those
men to whom the verdict of time
the most impartial of judges has
decreed an apotheosis, are the ar-
senal of the combatants, the Catho-
lic cause must win, if its champions
are worthy of their cause.

When Frederic Ozanam came to
Paris the other side had the field
to themselves, like the challengers of
Ashby- de-la- Zouche on the morn-
ing of the tournament, before the
young Ivanhoe rode into the lists.
The venerable Sorbonne, that an-
cient shrine of sacred learning, had
become a theatre, where shallow,
rationalistic philosophers like Jouf-
froy declaimed against revelation
and the Catholic Church. Ozanam
soon found a small number of reso-
lute, high-spirited young men like
himself, who had been well trained

at home in their religion and were
determined to adhere to it faithful-
ly. Under his leadership they be-
gan to send in objections to the
statements and arguments of their
infidel professors, which necessarily
commanded some attention and re-
spect and had influence with their
fellow-students. Jouffroy himself, at
the hour of death abjured infidelity,
received the Sacraments devoutly,
and declared that one half-page of
the catechism was worth more than
all the philosophical systems. It
was at this time that Ozanam
founded the Society of St. Vincent
de Paul. The Abbe Lacordaire,
the Abbe Gerbet, and other emi
nent priests of Paris, and even
the archbishop, interested them-
selves in the band of young Catho-
lic students, and under their guid-
ance the career of their leader,
Frederic Ozanam, became, during
his whole student-life, a truly noble
and successful apostleship. Thus
the way was prepared for him to
carry on the same work in a much
more efficacious manner as a pro-
fessor at the Sorbonne.

In the year 1839 Ozanam, being
then twenty-six years of age, a
professorship of philosophy at Or-
leans and one of commercial law
at Lyons were offered him, and
the latter appointment accepted.
He resigned it, however, after one
year, in order to accept the position
of assistant-professor of foreign
literature at the Sorbonne. At
this time an additional professor-
ship of foreign literature at Lyons
was offered to him, which would
have secured to him, together with
the law-professorship, an income of
$3,000 a year. He was -just about
to be married to a young lady of Ly-
ons. Nevertheless, he chose the
position of assistant to the profes-
or of foreign literature at the Sor-

Frederic Ozanam.

bonne, although it was a precarious
one, and brought him an income of
less than $500, in order that he
might be better able to carry out
the one noble purpose to which he
'had devoted his life. Together
with his professorship at the Sor-
bonne he held also, for a few years,
another at the College Stanislas,
which he was obliged to relinquish
when, in 1844, on the vacancy of
tiie chair of foreign literature at
the Sorbonne, he received the ap-
pointment to fill it from the govern-
ment. For all these early and
brilliant successes he was in great
measure indebted to the warm
friendship and patronage of M.
Cousin and M. Villemain, a fact
most honorable to these distinguish-
ed men, who, as is well known,
were leaders of the rationalist school,
yet nevertheless, like the eminent
Protestant, M. Guizot, really carried
out in respect to Catholics their
professions of liberality. M. Oza-
nam continued to fulfil his duties at
the Sorbonne during twelve years,
with some considerableinterruptions
caused by illness. His published
works are chiefly composed of the
substance of the lectures which he
delivered.

The great idea which was before
the mind of Ozanam from the period
of his early youth was, the justifi-
cation of the Catholic religion by
the philosophy of universal history.
Eventually, he was led to concentrate
his attention principally upon the
period embraced between the fifih
and fourteenth centuries, with espe-
cial reference to the German empire
and to the mediaeval philosophy re-
flected in the poems of Dante,
whose strong attachment to the
German party in Italy is well
known, though perhaps not so gen-
erally well understood. Frederic
Schlegel has said: "It is pre-emi-

nently from the study of history
that all endeavors after a higher
mental culture derive their fixed
centre and support, viz., their com-
mon reference to man, his destinies
and energies. History, if it does
not stop at the mere enumeration
of names, dates, and external facts ;
if it seizes on and sets forth the
spirit of great times, of great men,
and great events, is in itself a true
philosophy, intelligible to all, and
certain, and in its manifold appli-
cations the most instructive. Then
history, if not in itself the most bril-
liant, is yet the most indispensable
link in that beautiful chain which
encompasses man's higher intellec-
tual culture ; and history it is which
binds the others more closely togeth-
er. It is the great merit of our age
to have renovated the study of his-
tory, and to have cultivated it with
extraordinary zeal. Within the last
two or three decades alone so much
has been achieved and produced
in this department, that historical
knowledge has been perhaps as
much extended in that short space
of time as formerly in many cen-
turies." * The scope and solution
of universal history are found in the
history of Christianity viewed in
connection with the Judaic and
patriarchal epochs of revealed re-
ligion which preceded the advent
of the Messias. The most impor-
tant portion of Christian history is
that which relates to Western
Christendom, the European family
of nations which grew up under the
immediate spiritual and temporal au-
thority of the popes. This was the
true civilta cattolica, the millenial
kingdom of Christ on earth, whose
rise, progress, and gradual decad-
ence occupied the space between the
fifth and sixteenth centuries, whose

* Lectures on Modem History. Bohn's Ed.
pp. 1-3.

Frederic Ozanam.

583

icmnants are all that has any moral
grandeur or value in the modern
age, whose restoration and triumph
under a new form are the only fu-
ture hope of humanity.

The foundations of heresy and
infidelity are laid in the falsification
and perversion of history, and in
the general ignorance of historical
facts which opens the way for soph-
ists to spin their webs of lies around
the deluded minds of the multitude.
To find some other source of the
greatness, virtue, happiness, evolu-
tion in the line of its destiny, al-
ready actually exhibited in its history
by the human race, especially its
elect portion, and still possible in
futurity, besides the revealed reli-
gion and Catholic church of God, is
the problem of the anti-Catholic,
anti-Christian, anti-theistic sophists.
Germany is their principal territory,
the Gath and Ascalon of the Philis-
tines who defy the armies of the
Living God with their weapons of
erudition and reasoning that are
like a weaver's beam. From the
days of the old secular and ecclesi-
astical princes of Germany who re-
volted against the supremacy of
Rome, down to Luther, his asso-
ciates and successors, even to our
modern German sophists, apostates
and persecutors ; the pretence of an
autochthonous culture has been set
up for Germany with a degree of
pride, arrogance, and insolence
which has no parallel, and is fre-
quently so offensive and boastful as
to be ridiculous not only in the eyes
of the rest of the world but in those
of all sensible and catholic-minded
Germans. Christianity is consider-
ed by men of this school as the
cause of a decline from the autoc-
thonous civilization. War with the
Christianity of the Latin races, and
a return to unalloyed Teutonism,
are regarded as the conditions of

a magnificent future development,
political, scientific, and literary,
which shall create a German empire
in every respect supreme mistress
of the modern world.

Ozanam 's chief object was to
combat this claim by showing, not
that Germany has nothing to be
proud of and no greatness to aspire
after, but that she is indebted for
her past and present glory, and
must be indebted for any fulfilment
of a glorious destiny in time to
come, to Christianity and Roman
unity, without which the Germans
would have remained always, and
will again become, barbarians. We
must refer the reader to Miss
O'Meara's interesting pages for a
fuller account of the way in which
Ozanam prepared himself for his
task, and afterwards fulfilled it by
his lectures on German history.

Schlegel had given him a bril-
liant example of the way in which
history can be brought up to that
high standard of scientific, ethical,
and literary excellence which is
set forth in the quotation we have
made above from his lectures. The
value and practical utility of the
ideas there presented and illustrat-
ed so nobly by the literary career
of Ozanam cannot be too much in-
sisted upon. History is emphati-
cally the modern field most neceV
sary and advantageous for Catholic
polemics. The history of particu-
lar epochs, of special classes and
orders in society, of individual men
of mark, of institutions, of branches
of science, art, or learning in a
word, of every kind of topic which
can be made distinct and interest-
ing by being localized, limited in
respect to time, or otherwise so
brought within clear and defined
boundaries that it becomes vivid
and real to the intellect and imagi-
nationis that which we have spe~

58 4

Frederic Ozanaui.

cially within our intention. More-
over, the charms of style are essen-
tially requisite. Happily, we have
begun to supply the dearth of such
books in the English language,
partly by such as are originally
written in English, partly by trans-
lations. John Henry Newman has
given us a certain quantity of his-
torical writing worthy of compari-
son with " Livy's pictured page,"
and justly meriting for him the
title, so felicitously invented by an
Italian critic, of " the Claude Lor-
raine of English literature." The
accomplished authoress of Christian
Schools and Scholars is another skil-
ful miner in the gold-fields of Ca-
tholic history ; and Mrs. Hope, also,
has shown in her volumes on the
conversion of the Teutons and An-
glo-Saxons how specially adapted
to labor successfully in this depart-
ment are cultivated women. Mon-
talembert's Monks of the West is an
unrivalled masterpiece, as all know ;
and if we were to catalogue all the
various pieces of historical com-
position on similar topics to be
found in recent European literature,
enough of them would be found to
make a small library. All books
of this kind in the English language
would, however, make but a small
collection, merely enough for a
nucleus of a library of Catholic his-
torical literature. The educated
and reading classes in England and
the United States have been, within
a very recent period, shockingly ig-
norant of the history of all except a
few nations during a few epochs, in
regard to which they have received
a certain amount of information
from popular works, mixed up with
a great amount of. error and misre-
presentation. There has doubtless
been an improvement slowly tak-
ing place for the last thirty years,
and becoming continually more

rapid as it advances. Yet, rating
this improvement at the highest
value it can possibly be imagined to
have, the amount of knowledge, es-
pecially in regard to the real, genu-
ine history of Christendom, which
is current among the readers of
only English books, or even acces-
sible to them, is lamentably small.
Even the most of those who are
supposed to know something of
foreign literature may, without in-
justice, be taxed with the same lack
of information. We consider, there-
fore, that the example of Ozanam is
one which has a special fitness in it
to allure and stimulate those whose
vocation it is to give instruction, by-
lectures or writings, to a zealous
imitation. There are Australian and
Californian mines waiting for those
who will work them, in which those
who have not the ability to dig out
great masses of the golden ore may
find nuggets and gold-dust in
abundance to increase the common
treasure in general circulation.
Historical works of original and
thorough research are wanted.
Where translations from German,
French, and Italian works suffice,
let them suffice, and original au-
thors take up new topics. Would
that, even by the easy method of
translation from foreign languages,
our English historical literature
might . be enriched, and that the
taste for solid reading were suffi-
ciently diffused to enable enter-
prising publishers to employ the
hundreds of persons able and will-
ing to undertake this work ! Besides
these more extensive historical
works, there is a great need for
others of lesser magnitude, for
which the materials already exist in
abundance. All that is necessary
to make these rich materials avail-
able is, that they be worked up by
those who possess the art of con-

Frederic Ozanam.

535

veying instruction and imparting de-
light to inquisitive minds by the
skilful use of their vernacular idiom
in a way suited to the capacity and
taste of their listeners or readers.
Teachers in colleges and schools
who are able to lecture to their pu-
pils will, in our opinion, stimulate
their minds to thought and study
much more easily and efficacious-
ly by lectures on topics of this
kind than by adhering exclusively
to the mere class routine. And we
venture to suggest also to those
who give lectures to literary asso-
ciations or general audiences, that
they would do well to exchange
their usually trite and abstract top-
ics of vague and general declama-
tion for specific and individual sub-
jects taken from the historical do-
main. We may say the same to
those who undertake to write books,
or articles for the periodicals. And
here it occurs to our memory to
refer to certain historical and bio-
graphical articles which have ap-
peared in some of our magazines as
specimens and illustrations. The
Civilta Cattolica has published a
long series of brief but remarkably
accurate and graphic historical
sketches of the lives and reigns of
the Sovereign Pontiffs, under the
title of / Destini di Roma. The
Month has repeatedly given short
articles of the same kind, either
singly or serially, which are perfect
models of the popular historical
style. Our children and young
people, and indeed all people what-
ever who can be induced to hear
or read anything instructive, with
the exception of a small class of se-
verely-disciplined minds, must be
charmed in order to be taught.
Truth must be made visible ; in
concrete, distinct, and brilliant pic-
tares, images, representations of
actual realities, living examples ; as

a splendid form in symmetrical fig-
ures. This is the reason why
works of imaginative genius are so
keenly relished by the multitude,
and especially those fictitious nar-
ratives called novels and romances,
whose particular form is most easily
apprehended by the common imagi-
nation. Fiction, in so far as it is
constructed according to the rules
of true art, is but a shadow of real
life. The reality is far more inte-
resting. Compendiums and text-
books must indeed be dry, and
they are necessary, as grammars and
dictionaries are both extremely dry
and extremely necessary. But, be
sides these dry skeletons of history,
we need other books in which the ep-
ic and lyric harmony and dramatic life
of man's variegated action on the
earth are reproduced works which
bear the same relation to dry annals
that the jEneidot the Cid sustain to
Latin and French grammar. They
should be composed with such a
charm of style that an intelligent
boy or girl would eagerly take them
under a tree of a fine summer-day,
and beguile delightfully a long af-
ternoon in their perusal, if they are
for juvenile readers ; and if they
are of a more ambitious aim, that
they allure their readers to burn
the midnight oil over their pages.
Nor would we exclude historical
romances from the category of use-
ful and instructive literature, if
they are constructed in conformity
to the truth of history and incul-
cate wholesome moral lessons.

It is an error to consider litera-
ture as merely a means of instruc-
tion for a secular purpose or of
transitory pleasure, and to confine
the effort at cultivating the spiritual
faculties in view of the soul's ever-
lasting destiny, to the use of means
directly religious. This is one form
of the erroneous doctrine that the

586

Frederic Ozanam.

temporal order ought to be sepa-
rated from the spiritual order, and
therefore education be secularized.
If there are any who think that the
clergy have no interest in any but
their own technical, professional
studies, and that catechisms, didac-
tic sermons, ascetic books, and bio-
graphies of saints written in that
formal method which is so inex-
pressibly unnatural and tedious,
with virtues tied up in separate
bundles and commonplace disserta-
tions overloading the narrative, are
the only and sufficient means of
salvation, we might say to them :
Look at the Bible, and study the
method which the divine Wisdom
adopted. It is a book of history,
poetry, eloquence ; with little of
professedly abstract, didactic in-
struction. It is an inspired litera-
ture, and the sermons of our Lord
even are thrown into a popular
and concrete form which addresses
the imagination more directly than
the understanding. The Bible, as
well as nature, reason, and expe-
rience, teaches us the practical les-
son that for the young and for the
multitude object-teaching is the
proper and only successful method.
The divine philosophy, as well as
the human, must be taught by ex-
ample, and history is philosophy
teaching by examples. In the his-
tory of Christendom, both public
and private, the sacred history of
the Old and New Testament is con-
tinued. The church is the spouse
of Christ. The Evangelists paint
the picture of the bridegroom, and
Catholic historians of the bride. To
win admiration and love for her, it
is enough to represent her as she is.
Frederic Ozanam was inspired
with this idea,- which was infused
into his soul by the Holy Spirit
who consecrated him to his high
vocation. He devoted himself to

his literary and historical labors as
a professor at the Sorbonne, not for
the sake of science, fame, or any
earthly advantage or emolument,
but as an apostle of the Catholic
religion; that he might win the stu-
dious youth of Paris to love Catho-
lic truth and return to the church
of their ancestors. For fifty years
no Catholic lecturer, speaking as a
Catholic, had been heard in that
ancient, desecrated temple of the
Christian philosophy of the glorious
days gone by of France. The voice
of Ozanam was heard, without the
slightest flattening of its Catholic
tone, with no timid reticence of his
Catholic principles, and it capti-
vated that crowd of turbulent, un-
believing youth by its magic elo-
quence. His biographer tells us :

" No man in his position was ever so
much beloved in Paris ; it was almost an
adoration. After hanging upon his lips
at the Sorbonne, bursting out every now
and then, as if in spite of themselves, into
sudden gusts of applause, and then hush-
ing one another for fear they should lose
one of the master's words, his young au-
dience would follow him out of the lec-
ture-hall, shouting and cheering, putting
questions, and elbowing their way up for
a word of recognition, while a band of
favored ones trooped on with him to his
home across the gardens. They never
suspected what an additional fatigue this
affectionate demonstration was to the
professor, already exhausted by the pre-
ceding hour and a halfs exertion, with
its laborious proximate preparation. No
matter how tired he was, they were never
dismissed ; he welcomed their noisy com-
pany, with its eager talk, its comments
and questions, as if it were the most re-
freshing rest. There was, indeed, only
one reward that Ozanam coveted more ;
this was when some young soul, who
had come to the lecture in doubt or un-
belief, suddenly moved by the orator's
exposition of the faith, as it was embo-
died or shadowed forth in his subject,
opened his eyes to the truth, and, like
the blind man in the Gospel, cried out,
' giving thanks.'

" One day, on coming home from the

Frederic Ozanam.

Sorbonne, the following note was handed
to him : ' It is impossible that any one
could speak with so much fervor and
heart without believing what he affirms.
If it be any satisfaction I will even
say happiness to you to know it, enjoy
it to the full, and learn that before hear-
ing you I did not believe. What a great
number of sermons failed to do for me
you have done in an hour : you have
made me a Christian ! . . . Accept this
expression of my joy and gratitude.'
You have made me a Christian ! Oh ! let
those who believe and love like Ozanam
tell us what he felt, what joy inundated
his soul when this cry went forth to
him." *

Ozanam's authority over the stu-
dents was never more strikingly
manifested than on the occasion of
The excitement caused by the pub-
lic announcement which the cele-
brated historian Lenormant made
of his conversion to Christianity.
He had been an infidel, then a vva-
verer between scepticism and faith,
for years before he declared him-
self on the Catholic side. The lead-
ers of the infidel party stirred up
the students who attended his
course of historical lectures to vio-
lent demonstrations of hostility.
Ozanam espoused his cause with
the most chivalrous courage, and
took his place by the side of M. Le-
normant in the lecture-hall. When
the storm of yells, hisses, hootings,
and blasphemous outcries burst
forth in a deafening tumult, he
sprang to his feet beside the lec-
turer with an attitude and a glance
of indignant defiance which evok-
ed at once from the fickle mob of
youths a counter-storm of violent
applause. A scornful gesture hush-
ed them into a sudden silence,
broken only by the thunder of
Ozanam's invectives and the elo-
quence of his appeals to their honor
and the principles of liberty which
they professed to respect, but had

* P. 200.

so grossly violated. He mastered
them completely, and M. Lenor-
mant then proceeded to deliver his
lecture without interruption. The
next day, however, through the in-
fluence of those consistent advo-
cates of toleration, Michelet and
Quinet, the course was closed by
an order of the government.

The active labors of Ozanam
were by no means restricted to his
department of duty as a profes-
sor. He was a zealous leader in
Catholic associations, a frequent
contributor to the journals, an un-
tiring workman in the cause of
practical charity and all undertak-
ings for the improvement of the
class of artisans and laborers. It
is impossible to make any accurate
estimate of the actual results of his
efforts in the cause of religion and
humanity. In the words of his bio-
grapher : " The work that he ac-
complished in his sphere will never
be known in this world. God only
knows the harvest that others have
reaped from his prodigal self-devo-
tion, his knowledge, and that elo-
quence which so fully illustrated
the ideal standard of human speech
described by Fenelon as ' the
strong and persuasive utterance of
a soul nobly inspired.' For Ozan-
am was not merely a teacher in the
Sorbonne he was a teacher of the
world ; and his influence shone out
to the world through the minds and
lives of numbers of his contempora-
ries who did not know that they
were reflecting his light."

What is awaiting France we know-
not. The world, but especially all
Catholics throughout the whole ex-
tent of the church's domain in the
world, have watched with intensest
interest the events which have oc-
curred in France since the reign of
Pius IX. began under such un-
wOnted and marvellous auspices,

588

Frederic Ozanam.

and has continued so much beyond
the period of human expectation.
They have never ceased to pray for
France, to sympathize with the he-
roic efforts of genuine French pa-
triots, the true children of Charle-
magne and St. Louis, and to watch
anxiously for the time when the
prognostic of the learned and elo-
quent Dr. Marshall shall be fulfilled :
*' When France falls upon her
knees, let the enemies of France begin
to tremble" The blood of three
martyred archbishops of Paris, the
blood of Olivaint and his noble fel-
low-victims, the blood of Pimodan
and those generous youth who fell
at Castelfidardo, the chivalry of
Lamoriciere and La Charrette, the
vows of the pilgrims of Lourdes
and Paray-le-Monial, the valiant
struggles of the champions of the
faith, the prayers and sacrifices of
that crowd of the noblest daughters
of France which fills her renovated
cloisters, cannot surely remain for
ever powerless to lift the dark cloud
which overhangs the kingdom of
the fleurs-de-lis. There has been
enough of the blood of the just
poured out in France within the
last century to redeem not only
France but Christendom. If Chris-
tendom is to be regenerated, France
must first come forth renewed out
of her second baptism in blood and
fire. The cry of anguish, though
not of despair, which she sends up
to heaven by the mouth of her elo-
quent spokesman, the bishop of the
city of Joan of Arc, " Oh allons
nous ?" must be answered : " We go
to victory over traitors within and
enemies without, and our triumph
shall be that of the Catholic Church."
Frederic Ozanam had once said
to the young men of a literary cir-
cle : " Let us be ready to prove that
we too have our battle-fields, and
that, if ne^d be, we "can die o"h

them." In point of fact, he did
really sacrifice his own life in the
fulfilment of his task. Such a deli-
cate physical constitution could not
naturally long survive the intense,
continuous strain to which it was
subjected by a spirit which exer-
cised a relentless despotism over
the body. In a letter to his broth-
er Charles he tells him, by way of
encouraging him to follow his ex-
ample, that in 1837, when he was
preparing his examination for the
higher degrees, he had, during five
months, worked regularly ten hours,
and during the last month fifteen,
daily, without counting the time
spent in classes. With much more
naivete" than good sense, he observes
that " one has to be prudent, so as
not to injure one's health by the
pressure ; but little by little the con-
stitution grows used to it. We be-
come accustomed to a severe active
life, and it benefits the temper as
much as the intellect." Notwith-
standing the remonstrances of
friends, he continued almost the
same extent of application to study,
until his health gave way entirely;
and even during the journeys he
was obliged to take for relaxation
he rather varied the kind of labor
in which his restless mind engaged
than exchanged it for rest and re-
creation. His first severe illness at-
tacked him only four years after he
began lecturing at the Sorbonne.
This was followed at intervals by
other attacks, and a general failure
of health which obliged him to in-
termit his courses and take several
journeys in France, Italy, England,
and Spain, during which he gather-
ed the materials of some of the
most delightful of his minor works.
It is a curious and characteristic
incident of his visit to England,
worth recording, that he was turn-
ed out of Westminster Abbey by

Frederic Ozauam.

589

the pompous beadle, whom all tour-
ists must well refLiember, for kneel-
ing down to pray at the tomb of
Edward the Confessor. His last
lecture at the Sorbonne was given
some time during the spring of
1852. It was a dying effort. He
had persisted in dragging himself to
the lecture-hall while a remnant of
strength remained, in spite of the
entreaties of friends and medical
advisers. At length he had been
forced to take to his bed, exhausted
with weakness and consumed by
fever. His cruel and unreasonable
pupils clamored at the deprivation
of the intellectual banquet to which
they had been accustomed, and,
with the inconsiderate spirit of
youth, accused him of neglecting his
duty through self-indulgence. Oza-
nam heard of this, and, in spite of
all remonstrances, he rose from his
bed, was dressed and taken in a
carriage to the Sorbonne. Pale
and haggard, unable to walk with-
out support, but with an eye blaz-
ing with unwonted fire, and a voice
clear and shrill as a silver clarion,
he sang his death-song amid enthu-
siastic applause.

As the peroration of his last
speech and of his life he exclaim-
ed : " Gentlemen, our age is ac-
cused of being an ag$ of egotism ;
we professors, it is said, are tainted
with the general epidemic ; and yet
it is here that we use up our health ;
it is here that we wear ourselves
out. I do not complain of it ; our
life belongs to you ; we owe it to
you to our last breath, and you
shall have it. For my part, if I
die it will be in your service."
With ardent but foreboding con-
gratulations and applauses, which
all felt to be farewells, the students
of the Sorbonne heard and saw
the last of Ozanam. The finale of
his career had been reached ; his

coursers touched the goal, and the
wreath and palm were decreed by
acclamation to the hero who bore
them away to die. The next morn-
ing it was feared that he might not
survive ten days. He lived, how-
ever, about sixteen months longer,
wandering in company with his
wife and little daughter, from Eaux-
Bonnes to Biarritz, from Biarritz to
the Pyrenees, to Spain, and at last
to Italy, then to Marseilles, where
he closed his earthly life on the
Feast of the Nativity of Our Lady,
1853, surrounded by his relatives
and friends, and by his brothers of
the Society of St. Vincent de Paul.
His published works fill eleven vol-
umes of considerable size, and for
a just appreciation of their charac-
ter and value we refer the reader to
the twenty-fifth chapter of Miss
O'Meara's biography.

We have endeavored to excite
rather than to allay the curiosity
of our readers, by merely designat-
ing the salient points of a life which
is crowded with a great variety of
traits and incidents such as make up
a subject worthy to be handled by
a skilful artist in the painting of
character. We have not by any
means exhausted the material fur-
nished by the intelligent and grace-
ful narrator of Ozanam's life, or
even touched upon those personal
and private details of his domestic
history which lend so poetic a
charm to the story of his public
career. Those in whom we have
awakened an interest for one who
presents the living ideal of a per-
fect Catholic layman in an exalted
sphere of action, will defraud them-
selves grievously if they fail to
make themselves more fully ac-
quainted with it by the perusal of
his biography. The author, al-
though she now appears for the first
time under her own proper name,

590

Frederic Ozanam.

is already known by her Life of
feishop Grant, published under the
nom de plume of Grace Ramsay,
and is a daughter of Dr. O'Meara,
the author of Napoleon in Exile; or,
a Voice from St. Helena. Her con-
tributions to the pages of this maga-
zine have been numerous and always
considered as among the best of
our literary articles. In the work
we are reviewing she has done jus-
'tice to the high estimate we had
previously formed of her merit as
a writer, and to her subject, the
one most suited to call forth her
power which she has thus far at-
tempted. Besides a full knowledge
of her subject; that ardent glow of
admiration for the hero of her story
which is so requisite, and is one of
the special charms of portraits of
noble men drawn by a feminine
hand; and graphic power regulated
by delicate and correct taste in
delineation and description, the
author has shown remarkable tact
and good sense in respect to all
those questions which have caused
division and discussion between dif-
ferent Catholic parties in France.
Without suppressing any part of
the history of M. Ozanam and his
period, or attempting to throw a
veil over any of his opinions which
involved him in the domestic con-
troversies then existing, and not
yet settled, respecting the relations
of the Catholic cause and national
politics, she has judiciously avoid-
ed taking the part of an advocate,
and preserved the quiet, impartial
attitude of a historian. We have
occasionally noticed some evidences
of haste, and neglect to put the last
finishing touches upon the construc-
tion of sentences or the details of
the narrative. We are also at a
loss to understand the author's
motive for using certain French
words, such as angoisse and de'cou-

ragement, rather than the corre-
sponding English^terms. For the
incorrect title on the back of the
cover, Life and Works of F. Oza-
nam, we suppose the publisher is
accountable ; for the author has en-
titled her own work very properly
on the title-page, Frederic Ozanam,
Professor at the So r bonne : His Life
and Works a phrase whose mean-
ing is essentially changed by the
inversion of its parts, and made to
convey the impression that the com-
plete works of Ozanam are contain-
ed in one small volume, together
with his life. Apart from this ble-
mish, which can be easily corrected,
the mechanical execution of the
work is neat and tasteful. The Life
of Ozanam is another gem added
to our small cabinet of treasures
by the skill and industry of a gift-
ed, cultivated woman. We trust
the success of Miss O'Meara's first
appearance under her own name
will encourage her to new efforts,
and stimulate other women similar-
ly gifted to follow her example by
laboring in a department of litera-
ture for which they are specially
competent. The example of Fred-
eric Ozanam, mirrored in her clear,
impartial pages, presents its own na-
tive, intrinsic beauty and splendor
as a model for pure, disinterested,
high-souled Catholic young men
who aspire towards an ideal of true
intellectual and moral greatness
which is elevated and at the same
time attainable in the laical state
and a secular profession. It is to
be hoped that the publication of
this Life will make the Catnolic stu-
dents of England and the United
States generally acquainted both
with Ozanam's beautiful character
and with his thoroughly erudite,
yet classically elegant and attrac-
tive, works on the history and litera-
ture of the middle ages.

Amid Irish Scenes.

AMID IRISH SCENES.

" I do love these ancient ruins :

We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some rev'rend history ;
And, questionless, here in this open court,
Which now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather, some lie interred who
Loved the church so well and gave so largely to 't
They thought it should have canopied their bones
Till doomsday."

ik There is a joy in every spot

Made known in days of old
New to the feet, although each tale
A hundred times be told."

WHO has not heard of the Rock of
Cushel Cashel of the Kings? " The
first object," exclaimed Richard
Lalor Sheil, "that in childhood I
learned to admire was that noble
ruin, an emblem as well as a memori-
al of Ireland, which ascends before
us, at once a temple and a fortress,
the seat of religion and nationality;
where councils were held, where
princes assembled ; the scene of
courts and of synods ; and on which
it is impossible to look without feei-
ing the heart at once elevated and
touched by the noblest as well as
the most solemn recollections."
From whatever side the traveller
approaches the ancient metropolis
and residence of the kings of Mun-
ster, the first object to meet his eye
is the Rock, which lifts itself above
the surrounding country, as proud
to wear its monumental crown.
From the earliest times this hill
seems to have been dedicated to
religion. Its Round Tower, which
is still entire, would lead us to asso-
ciate it with the pagan rites of the
ancient Irish ; and the tradition
which designates the Rock as the
place where the kings of Munster
were proclaimed confirms this view.

It is certainly associated with the
early dawn of Christianity in Ire-
land ; for St. Patrick, St. Dedan,
St. Ailbe, St. Kiran, and other holy
men held a synod in Cashel.

St. Patrick's visit was in 448; he
baptized Prince yEngus and held
solemn feast in Cashel of the Kings
"till all the land was clothed with
Christ." Here on the Rock he
gave the shamrock its immortal
fame :

41 From the grass

The little three-leaved herb, stooping, I plucked,
And preached the Trinity."

Without entering into the contro-
versy concerning the origin of the
Round Towers, we will take Cor-
mac's Chapel to be the most an-
cient Christian ruin on the Rock.

This stone-roofed church was
built, as is generally supposed, by
Cormac McCullenan, the famous
king-bishop, who began to reign
in the year 902. But Petrie is of
opinion that we owe this chapel to
Cormac MacCarthy, King of Mini-
ster, and that it is the Teampul
Chormaic of whose solemn conse-
cration by the archbishops and
bishops of Munster, in presence of
the priests, princes, and people, the

592

Amid Iris k Scenes.

Annals of Innisfallen make mention built by Donald O'Brien, King of

in 1134.

However this may be, all agree
that the chapel is one of the most
curious and interesting specimens
of early Christian architecture in
Ireland. Like all the stone-roof-
ed chapels of the primitive Irish
Church, it is divided into nave and
chancel, with a tall, square tower at
their northern and southern junc-
ture. Within the southern tower,
which on the outside is ornamented
with six projecting bands, there is
a stone staircase leading to apart-
ments above the chapel said to
have been occupied by King Cor-
mac. These rooms receive the
light through windows which are
circular on the outside, but square
within, and were heated by hot
air, conveyed into them through
flues in the wall the first instance
known to us of the use of a me-
thod of warming houses generally
thought to be of very recent inven-
tion. The doorways leading into
the chapel are in its northern and
southern walls, and are richly
adorned with columns, capitals,
mouldings, and sculptured figures.
On the lintel of the northern en-
trance there is a group in basso-re-
lievo representing a Centaur in the
act of shooting a lion which is
about to devour some smaller ani-
mal that is crouching at its feet.
This is supposed to represent the
contest between paganism and
Christianity for the possession of
Ireland during the repeated inva-
sions of the Danes.

The cathedral stands between
the Round Tower and Cormac's
Chapel, embracing them in such
way that they all seem to be but
parts of one magnificent ruin.
This church, which consists of a
choir, nave, and transepts, with a
square tower in the centre, was

Limerick, in the year 1169. Its
greatest length from east to west is
two hundred and ten feet, and the
breadth of the transepts is a hun-
dred and seventy feet. It is both
a fortress and a church true sym-
bol of the perfect union of the na-
tional and the religious spirit in
Ireland. The walls, which are of
great thickness, are hollow, so as
to afford a safe passage from one
part of the building to another in
case of danger. At the western
end, instead of the great doorway
usually found in churches, there is
a massive square guard-tower of
great height, resembling the forti-
fied castles which are common
throughout the kingdom.

This formerly contained a vaulted
apartment having no exterior win-
dows, and but one small entrance.
Over this vault was the great room
of state, which could be reached
only by stairs within the walls,
barely wide enough to admit one
person. The roof was surmounted
by battlements and a parapet. The
monuments whose ruins crown the
Rock of Cashel were all built be
fore the Saxon had set foot in Ire-
land, and it is impossible to look
upon them without admiration for
the men who called them into ex-
istence. They certainly had little
to learn, in architecture at least,
from the rude Norman barons who,
taking advantage of the internal
feuds which distracted the people,
overran and subjugated the coun-
try.

It was in the year noi that
Mtirtogh O'Brien, King of Mun-
ster, convened a great assembly of
the clergy and people of Ireland at
Cashel, " and made such an offering
as king never made before him
namely, Cashel of the Kings, which
he bestowed on the devout, without

Amid Irish Scenes.

593

the intervention of a laic or an ec-
clesiastic, for the use of the reli-
gious of Ireland in general." We
have a letter of St. Anselm to Mur-
togh O'Brien, in which he praises
him for his excellent administra-
tion of the kingdom. His successor,
Cormac MacCarthy, by whom the
chapel was built, was the intimate
friend of St. Malachi.

Driven from his throne by Tur-
logh O'Conor, King of Connaught,
he refused to take up arms to re-
gain it, but withdrew from strife
and placed himself under the direc-
tion of this great saint. In his so-
ciety he led a penitential life, tak-
ing no nourishment but bread and
water, and wholly absorbed in hea-
venly contemplation. After some
years he was replaced upon the
throne, and, in gratitude, built two
churches at Lismore, where he had
been the companion of St. Mala-
chi, and one at Cashel of the Kings.

The most famous of the bishops
of Cashel was Cormac McCullenan,
who was at the same time King of
Munster, and who has been con-
sidered as the founder of the chapel
on the Rock which still bears his
name. In his reign, which began
in 902, the throne of Cashel had
become almost in every respect the
equal of that of Tara. No longer
content with his own provincial re-
sources, he put forth a claim to
tribute from the whole southern
half of Ireland. This involved him
in war with the people of Leinster,
who, supported by the supreme
monarch, met Cormac in battle and
routed his army. The king him-
self was slain, and his body was
conveyed to Cashel for interment.

In the northern wall of the chapel
there is a recess, once filled by a
sarcophagus which is now in the
cathedral. Upon the slab which
covered this tomb the name of

VOL XXIV. 38

Cormac, King and Bishop of Mun-
ster, was inscribed in Irish charac-
ters. Within the tomb itself, when
opened some years ago, there was
found a bronze crosier with gilt ena-
mel, of great beauty and exquisite
finish, which from its form and style
of workmanship there is good rea-
son for believing to be as old as
the chapel itself; and this has led
Petrie and other Irish antiquarians
to maintain that King Cormac Mac-
Carthy was also a bishop, though
the tradition is that the tomb
is not his, but that of the great
Cormac McCullenan.

After Murtogh O'Brien's gift of
Cashel to the church in the year
nor, its bishops gained in import-
ance and power. In the latter half
of the twelfth century the see was
filled by Donald O'Heney, who was
of the royal family of the Dalcas-
sians. The Four Masters declare
that he was the fountain of religion
in the western part of Europe, that
he was second to no Irishman of
his day in wisdom and piety, and
that in the Roman Law he was the
most learned doctor in the whole
kingdom. He took part in a coun-
cil held in 1097, in which Water-
ford was erected into a bishopric,
and died in the following year.

In 1152 Pope Eugene III. sent
Cardinal Paparo as legate to Ire-
land with authority to confer the
pallium upon four of the Irish pre-
lates. One of these was Donat
O'Lonargan, Archbishop of Cashel,
during the lifetime of whose im-
mediate successor Henry II. in-
vaded Ireland. He landed at Wa-
terford on the i8th of October,
1171, with five hundred knights and
four thousand men-at-arms, and ap-
peared rather as a protector than.
as an enemy of the Irish people.
From Waterford he marched withs
his army to Lismore, and thence

594

Iris I i Scenes.

to Cashel. Early in the following
year, by his order, a synod was
held in Cashel for the purpose of
regulating ecclesiastical matters in
Ireland. The chief pretext, as is
known, for the Norman invasion
was the correction of abuses in the
Irish Church, and it was ostensibly
with a view to effect this that the
council was called. Its decrees
have been preserved by Giralclus
Cambrensis, the eulogist of Henry
and the enemy of the Irish, and, far
from confirming the prevailing no-
tion concerning the existence of
grave disorders, they furnish the
strongest argument in favor of the
purity of the Irish Church at that
time ; and even had there been
serious abuses, the murderer of
St. Thomas of Canterbury was,
one would think, hardly a fit in-
strument for doing away with
them.

Giraldus himself, the avowed par-
tisan of the English and the author
of innumerable falsehoods relating
to Irish history, was forced to ad-
mit that the clergy were faithful in
the discharge of their spiritual
duties, pre-eminent in chastity, and
remarkable for their exceeding ab-
stinence from food.

" The clergy," he says, "of this
country are very commendable for
religion, and, among the .divers vir-
tues which distinguish them, excel
and are pre-eminent in the preroga-
tive of chastity. They attend also
diligently to their psalms and hours ;
to reading and prayer ; and, re-
maining within the precincts of the
churches, do not absent themselves
from the divine offices to the cele-
bration of which they have been
appointed. They likewise pay
great attention to abstinence and
sparingne^s of food; so that the
greatest part of them fast almost
every day until dusk, and until they

have completed all the canonical
offices of the day."

As an off-set to this confession,
drawn from him unwillingly, lie
accuses the Irish clergy of drinking
at night more than is becoming
(plusquam deceref), but does not go
the length of saying that they drank
to inebriation, which, indeed, would
be altogether incompatible with
the virtues which he is forced to
admit they possessed. Felix, Bi-
shop of Ossory, who was present
when Giraldus made this statement,
resented as false his allusion to the
indulgence of the Irish clergy in
wine. But, even taking the account
of Giraldus in its full extent, we
must admit that the Irish priests,
at the time of the Norman invasion,
had nothing to learn from the ex-
ample of the ecclesiastics who had
followed the conquerors from Eng-
land ; and we are inclined to hold
with Lanigan that there was in that
day no church in Christendom in
which there were fewer abuses.

It was to Maurice, Archbishop of
Cashel, who died in 1191, that Gir-
aldus made the objection that Ire-
land had never had any martyrs.
" It is true," replied the archbi-
shop; "for, though the Irish are
looked upon as barbarous and un-
cultivated, yet have they always
paid reverence and honor to priests;
nor have they ever raised their
hands against the saints of God.
But now there is come amongst us
a people who know how and are
accustomed to make martyrs.
Henceforth Ireland, like other na-
tions, shall have her martyrs."

Giraldus has himself recorded
this retort as a sharp saying. His
heart would have failed him could
he have looked into the future and
beheld the whole people weltering
in their martyr-blood; the sword
always uplifted ready to strike, the

Amid Irish Scenes.

595

land made desolate, the populous
cities empty, the solemn cathedrals
in ruins, the monasteries sacked
and burned, until Ireland, that made
no martyrs for Christ, became, for
him, the great martyr-nation of
all time. Cashel itself was to have
its martyrs, chosen some of them
from among its archbishops. Mau-
rice Fitzgibbon, of the noble fam-
ily of the earls of Desmond, filled
this see when Elizabeth ascended
the throne. His birth was not more
eminent than his virtue. Every ef-
fort was made by the queen to in-
duce him to prefer honors to con-
science. But in vain. He spurned
the royal favor which could be ob-
tained only by the sacrifice of his
faith, was arrested for refusing to
take the oath of supremacy, and
thrown into prison in Cork, where,
after years of suffering and cruet
treatment, he died on the 6th of
May, 1578. His successor was Arch-
bishop O'Hurley, who, through his
mother, Honora O'Brien, was de-
scended of the house of Thomond.
A wretched informer was set to
watch him, but, through the timely
warning of a friend, he escaped just
as he was on the point of being de-
livered into the hands of the officers
of the government, and found an
asylum in the castle of Slane. His
place of refuge was soon discovered,
and Lord Slane was ordered under
the heaviest penalties to bring the
archbishop with the least possible
delay to the Castle of Dublin. On
his trial he was put to torture, in the
vain hope that his excruciating suf-
ferings might bring him to renounce
his faith. In the midst of his tor-
ments his only sister was sent into
his prison to add her prayers to the
cruelties of his tortures. He im-
plored her to fall upon her knees
and ask pardon for so great a crime.
As a last resort he was offered par-

don with the promise of high hon-
ors if he would yield. The heroic
martyr replied that when he had
health to enjoy the world, such
things had not power to move him ;
and now that he was weak and bro-
ken, it would be folly to deny his
God for pleasures which he could
not enjoy. Sentence was then pass-
ed upon him, and on the 6th of May,
1583, in the sixty-fifth year of his
age, he was dragged to the place of
public execution in Stephen's Green,
and there hanged. His head was
then cut off, and his body quartered
and placed upon the four gates of
the city.

The first Protestant Archbishop
of Cashel was the notorious Miler
Magragh, who apostatized during
the reign of Elizabeth, and whom
Camden calls " a man of uncertain
faith and credit, and a depraved
life." During the fifty-two years
of his occupancy of this see he
squandered its revenues, alienated
its lands, and, lest the memory of
his misdeeds should perish, took
care to erect in the cathedral a
monument to himself to recall to
succeeding generations the lavish
manner in which he spent the ill-
gotten goods of apostasy and ser-
vility. The epitaph, which he
wrote himself, records among other
things that for fifty years he wor-
shipped England's sceptre and
pleased her princes. When Don-
ald O'Brien's grand cathedral pass-
ed into the hands of Protestant
bishops, it began to be neglected
In 1647 Lord Inchiquin, one oi
Cromwell's generals, laid siege to it,
and, after a severe bombardment,
took it by storm. Twenty priests
who had taken refuge in the castle
retired into the vault, and the sol-
diers, not being able to break in
the door, brought turf and made
a fire, by which they were either

Amid Irish Scenes.

roasted or suffocated. The west-
ern tower, which was directly expos-
ed to the battery of Inchiquin, was
greatly damaged, and after the cap-
ture the roof of the cathedral was
blown off with cannon. When the
troubled times of the Common-
wealth had passed away, the choir
was again fitted up and used for re-
ligious worship, until in 1749 the
Protestant Archbishop Price aban-
doned this hallowed sanctuary al-
together, leaving it to the mercy of
time and the elements. The groin-
ed arch underneath the belfry was
broken down, and the bells were
carried off to Fethard and Clonmel.
The interior of the church was fill-
ed with the fragments of the fallen
roof, beneath which were buried
tombstones, capitals, corbels, and
pillars ; and the noble Rock where
for ages the heroes and saints of
Ireland had dwelled and prayed,
abandoned of men, was given up to
the owl and the bat. In 1848, while
the people were dying from hun-
ger, the great tower, that had been
battered by Cromwell's cannon,
opened, and the southern half fell
to the ground with a terrific crash;
but so excellent was the mortar
which had been used in the build-
ing that it remained firm while the
stones were shattered. The walls
of the cathedral still stand firm and
unshaken as the Rock on which
they are built. There is no nobler
ruin in Great Britain. The abbeys
of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Holy-
rood are contemptible when cf>m-
pared with the Rock of Cashel.
Even in its fallen state it has the
lofty bearing of a king.

"They dreamed not of a perishable life
Who thus could build."

When Cromwell beheld it he ex-
claimed : " Ireland is a country
worth fighting for."

A fairer country, in truth, could
not easily be found than that which
unfolds itself beneath the eye of
the traveller who ascends the pen-
tagon tower of the ancient castle
of the kings of Munster. To the
west the Golden Vale expands in
tracts of emerald and gold ; to the
east rich pastures and well-culti-
vated uplands gradually rise to-
wards the distant hills of Kilken-
ny; and on the north and the south
the glorious prospect is bounded
by the Slieve Bloom and Galty
Mountains. In the distance, under
the hill of Knockgrenagh, is the
ruin which sheltered Sarsfield the
night before he fell upon and de-
stroyed the siege-train of William
of Orange, which was on its way
from Cashel to Limerick. In the
vale under the Rock lies the no-
ble ruin of Hore Abbey, originally
founde'd by Benedictine monks, but
transferred in 1272, by Archbishop
McCarvill, to the Cistercians. He
also united with it the hospital for
lepers built by David le Latnner
in 1230, the ruins of which may
still be seen standing in a field on
the road to Cahir. In 1561 Queen
Elizabeth, having expelled the
monks, gave the abbey with its ap-
purtenances to Henry Radcliffe, and
to-day only the roofless walls re-
main. While the Penal Code was
in vigor no Catholic was allowed to
dwell within the limits of the town
of Cashel. At present, in a popula-
tion of six thousand, there are but
a hundred and eighty Protestants.
Nevertheless, the venerable ruins of
the Rock are still in the hands of
the dignitaries of the Church of
England. It is certainly a short-
sighted and unwise policy which
thus commits the ancient sanctua-
ries of Ireland, so dear to the hearts
of her people, to the custody of
those who look upon them as relics

Amid Irish Scenes.

597

of a superstitious faith, and prize
them only as trophies of conquest.
The Irish people cling to memories
and are governed more than others
by their affections ; and so long as
the English government persists in
maintaining a state of affairs which
constantly places before their eyes
the wrongs and outrages of which
they have been the victims, so long
will they be restless and dissatisfied.

To continue to allow an eccle-
siastical establishment, which has
never been and can never be any-
thing else than a political contri-
vance for the humiliation and op-
pression of the Irish people, to re-
tain possession of these shrines of
religion, is a wanton insult to the
double love they bear to their coun-
try and their faith. It was this
twofold love, flowing in one chan-
nel, that upheld them in all the
dark centuries of woe ; and now
that brighter days have come, Eng-
land cannot fail to recognize the
increasing strength of Irish patri-
otism and Irish faith.

Let the Rock of Cashel, with its
holy ruins, its sacred tombs of
kings and bishops, be given back to
the people to whom it belongs. It
is valueless except for its* associa-
tions, and these associations are
without value to the persons in
whose hands it is allowed to remain.
Let the glory of other days come
back to these sacred walls. Mil-
lions of Catholics in the United
States would consider it an honor
and a privilege to be permitted to
rebuild this sanctuary of God. Again
on the holy mount let the lamp of
Christ's real presence burn as glow-
ed the light that for a thousand
years burned before St. Bridget's
shrine. Let the swelling notes of
the deep-toned organ lift again the
soul to God, while mitred bishops
and surpliced priests, with all the

believing throng, sing forth the song
of thanks and praise. In the re-
surrection of a people, in the new
rising of a faith, let this temple,
given back to God and to Ireland,
stand as a commemoration.

Seven miles north of Cashel, and
three miles south of Thurles, on the
banks of the river Suir, lie the ruins
of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A
convent was built on this spot at a
very early period of the Christian
history of Ireland. The fame of
the sanctity of the monks attract-
ed members to the community, and
also pilgrims from a distance. In
1169, two years before the Nor-
man invasion, Donald O'Brien,
King of Limerick, accompanied
by a brilliant retinue, v ; sited the
place, and was led by his devotion
to found and endow the abbey.
The charter of foundation, one of
the witnesses to which was Maurice,
Archbishop of Cashel, of whom we
have already made mention, opens
with these words: "Donald, by the
grace of God, King of Limerick,
to all kings, dukes, earls, barons,
knights, and Christians of whatso-
ever degree, throughout Ireland,
perpetual greeting in Christ." This
charter was afterwards confirmed by
the English kings John, Henry III.,
Edward III,, and Richard II. The
abbey received its name from the
possession of a portion of the true
cross which was given in mo, by
Pope Pascal II., to Donough O'Brien,
King of all Ireland and grandson
of Brian Born. Princes and bish-
ops were eager to enrich this mon-
astery, and the fame of the miracles
wrought by the sacred relic drew
to it crowds of worshippers. With
increasing wealth, the buildings
grew in splendor and extent. The
church is built in the form of a cross,
with nave, chancel, and transept.
At the intersection of the cross

A vi id Irish Scenes.

there is a lofty square tower, and in
the transepts two beautifully-groin-
ed chapels. In the monastery there
were eight dormitories for the
monks, besides numerous chambers
for the entertainment of visitors
attracted by devotion ; for the laws
of hospitality were never forgotten.
The abbot, who was mitred, was a
peer of Parliament and secular lord
of the county of " The Cross of
Tipperary." When Henry VIII.
suppressed the great abbeys of
Ireland, he granted Holy Cross,
with its temporalities and also the
spiritual jurisdiction, to James, Earl
of Ormo.nd and Ossory, whom he
regarded with special favor. Eliza-
beth confirmed this grant to Thom-
as, Earl of Ormond, who, though
educated in the Anglican schism,
became a Catholic several years
before his death, and left his estates
to Earl Walter, a stanch defender
of the faith.

The monks who had been expell-
ed from the abbey still lingered in
its neighborhood, in the hope that
they might somehow be permitted
to return and end their days in the
sacred cloisters in which they had
given to God the best part of life. At
times they met by night within the
hallowed enclosure to offer up the
divine Sacrifice; and when Mary
ascended the throne, they once
more took possession, but were
again expelled by Elizabeth, and
finally dispersed. The cells, dor-
mitories, and guest-chambers, so
long consecrated to meditation
and all holy exercise, were con-
verted into stables for the housing
of cattle. The church, which con-
tained the tombs of many noble
families, escaped desecration, but
not the ravages of time and neglect.
From the year 1580 to the close of
the century no priest dared appear
in public throughout the province

of Munster, and even the most care-
ful disguises were not sufficient to
hide them from the fury of their
enemies; but in 1600 Hugh O'Neil
turned his army towards the south
of Ireland, and, proceeding by slow
marches, finally encamped " at the
gate of the monastery of Holy
Cross."

" They were not long there," say
the Four Masters, "when the holy
Rood was brought to them, and the
Irish gave large presents, alms, and
offerings to its conservators and
monks in honor of Almighty God ;
and they protected and respected
the monastery, with its buildings,
the lands appropriated for its use,
and its inhabitants in general."

The monks remained in possession
of the abbey for several years, and
for the first time since its suppres-
sion in 1536 an abbot of Holy Cross
was chosen. The succession was
kept up till the beginning of the
eighteenth century, and expired in
the first dark years of the Penal
Code with Thomas Cogan, the last
of the abbots of Holy Cross, who
died on the loth of August, 1700,
and was buried in the choir of the
old church, in the tomb where the
bones of his predecessors are await-
ing the day of resurrection.

O gray walls, sacred ruins of
Holy Cross ! ye have a spirit's feeling,
and work upon the soul till it for-
gets all glad and pleasant scenes to
blend with the gloom and desola-
tion that have come to abide with
you. The gentle river still flows
by, but where is the great strong
life-current of faith and love that
here was fed from God's eternal
fount? Cold are the burning lips
of love that wore the pavement
smooth ; cold the great warm hearts
that beat with highest impulse of
divine charity. No more from
their chalices mysterious monks

Amid Irish Scenes.

5Q-)

drink deep love of God and men ;
no more at early morn is heard their
matin song; no more to heaven as-
cends their evening hymn. Gone
is the dim religious light that
shone through mystic windows.
The tapers are quenched, the bel-
fries mute. No more floats on the
breeze

"The heavenliest of all sounds

That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies."

The dead only are here, and
around them the silence they so
loved and broken walls, which, if
they mourn not, make others grieve.

" Once ye were holy : ye are holy still ;
Your spirit let me freely drink and live. 1 '

As a monastic ruin the Abbey of
Holy Cross is, in the estimation of
the people, second to no other in
Ireland ; and it owes this celebrity
less to the beauty of its architecture
than to the possession of the holy
Rood.

The marble shrine in which this
famous relic was preserved may
still be seen in the southern transept
of the church. The relic itself, at
the time of the suppression of the
abbey, passed into the hands of the
Earl of Ormond, in whose family it
remained for nearly a century, when
Earl Walter gave it for safe-keeping
to Dr. Fennell, who left it to James,
second Duke of Ormond. It was
finally deposited, in the .early part
of the present century, in a shrine
in the chapel of the Ursuline
Nuns at Blackrcck, near Cork,
where it is to remain "until such
time as the church of the Holy
Cross, with the monastery of Cister-
cian monks attached thereto, shall
be rebuilt."

Though Holy Cross is a ruin and
in the hands of Protestants, the Cis-
tercian Order still survives in Ireland
in the monastery of Mount Melleray.

It was, a few months ago, our
privilege to pass a brief time in this
sanctuary of religion, where the most
unworldly life is made to subserve
the highest social ends.

Mount Melleray is but a fc\v
hours' ride from Cork. The excur-
sion is made by railway to Youghal,
an ancient town, once famous in
Irish history, lying near the mouth
of the Blackwater. At the entrance
to its splendid and picturesque har-
bor, now almost entirely abandoned,
there stands a ruined tower, which
was formerly part of a convent of
nuns who at night kept torches
blazing in this lighthouse to enable
vessels to enter port with safety.
Near the town the house which Sir
Walter Raleigh owned, and in which
he lived for several years, is still
pointed out to the traveller. In his
garden here he planted in 1586 the
first potatoes grown in Ireland.

A boat leaves Youghal twice a
day and ascends the Blackwater as
far as Cappoquin. The trip is
made in about t\vo hours. The
scenery is unsurpassed even in Ire-
land. There is nothing finer on the
Rhine. The river winds through
fertile valleys with rich meadows
and fields of waving corn, until a
sudden turn brings us into the pre-
sence of barren mountains, which,
in their desolation, seem to mock
the smiling prospect below. From
almost every jutting rock ruined
castles or churches look down upon
us. In these mountains above
Cappoquin, and overlooking the
Blackwater, lies the Trappist mon-
astery of Mount Melleray.

Forty-five years ago a few poor
monks, driven from their peaceful
home, settled here in the raidst
of a dreary wilderness. They had
obtained from the Protestant land-
lord of the place six hundred acres
of mountain peat-land on a lease

6oo

Amid Irish Scenes.

of ninety-nine years. No one but an
Irish landlord would have thought
of demanding rental for what had
always been a desert, and, so far as
he was concerned, might for ever
remain a desert. The monks, how-
ever, paid him his price and set to
work to make the desert bloom.
On their land there was not a tree
or blade of grass, and before they
could begin to plough or dig they
had to go over the ground and pick
up the stones with which it was
covered. But for them a life of
solitude was to be a life of labor,
and they were not discouraged.
They knew that half the soil of
Europe had been reclaimed and
brought under cultivation by monks,
whose lives were none the less con-
secrated to prayer and study. Half
a century has not yet passed, and
the barren waste is covered with
rich fields of corn and green mea-
dows. With their own hands the
monks have built a large monas-
tery and church, whose tall spire is
seen from the whole surrounding
country. In their gardens the
finest vegetables grow, and in their
dairy the best butter is made. A
few years ago they opened a col-
lege, in which they give an, excel-
lent classical education to youths
whose parents may not be able to
pay the higher pensions of other
institutions. The buildings are
large and well provided with what-
ever is necessary to the health and
comfort of the students; and the
food, though plain, is of the best
quality. A part of the monastery
is fitted up for the accommodation
of guests ; and, as the hospitality
of the monks is well known, they
are rarely without visitors, drawn
thither sometimes by curiosity, but
oftener by the desire of spending a
few days in solitude in communion
with God. In the guests' book

we found the names of persons
from almost every part of Europe
and America. We have visited the
monasteries of the Trappists in
other countries, but nowhere else
have we received the impressions
made upon us at Mount Melleray.
It was Edmund Burke who said
that to his mind the Catholic Church
of Ireland bore a closer resemblance
than any other to the church of
the apostles ; and we could not
help reflecting that these monks
were more like the Fathers of the
Desert than any men whom we
had ever seen. How terrible is
this place ! How this life of hon-
est religion lays bare the shams
and pretexts with which weak and
soft worldlings would hide the athe-
ism of their faith ! If God is all in
all, and the soul more than the body,
a Trappist is greater than a king.
To these men the future world is
more real than the present. The
veil of time and space has fallen
from their eyes ; the immeasurable
heavens bretik open, and God's
kingdom is revealed. Divine pow-
er of the love of Christ, which makes
the desert beautiful, and solitude a
perpetual feast ! What heavenly
privilege to forget the world and
to be with God only; to turn from
men, not in loathing or hate or bit-
terness, but with a heart as sweet
as a child's, and to follow Christ in-
to the mount where the celestial
glory encircles him ! W T ith St.
Peter we exclaim : It is good to
be here ! A single day, O Lord !
spent in thy tabernacles is more
precious than a thousand years.

In this life in death is found a
life the world dreams not of, as

" Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe";

as in the presence of the dying \ve
see only the blackness and the

Amid Irish Scenes,

601

gloom, when the soul already hears
God's angels sing, and beholds the
light that never fades.

The highest joy is of the soul, and
the more it lifts itself from flesh and
earth the greater is its delight. In
these solemn walls, with their silent
monks clad in white, it seemed to
us that we were upon the threshold
of another world, far away from
the ebb and flow of men's affairs.
We felt no more the feverish throb
of the great world's pulse, nor
heard the noisy hum of commerce
or the nations' angry battle-cry.
The blatant shout of Progress no
longer deafened us. We were in the
mood to ask ourselves: Is it not,
after all has been said, progress to-
\\ards death that men speak of?
Do not all the lines along which
they advance converge until they
meet in the grave ? But we crave
life, not death. Is there no hope ?
Must we join the rabble, the com-
mon herd, that stands in wonderment
in the world's great toy-shop, eager-
ly peering at stones and metals and
skins of beasts, gazing at blank
walls and rattling machinery, and
shouting : Ha ! this is progress ? Is
there no room for the soul, no hope
of life ? Is mechanism all in all,
and is all progress mechanical?
Here, at least, were men who believ-
ed in the soul; who, despising all
the counsels of fear and cowardice,
had turned from the world and set
their faces towards the life that is
and is to be. They never speak

except in prayer and psalmody
They rise in the night and spend
hours in the thought of God and
the soul. Silently they go forth to
their work, and in silence return
to pray. Their bed is a board,
their food bread and coarse vege-
tables. And so from day to day
and from year to year in their
hearts they make the ascent to
God.

It is easy for us to deride the life
which we have not the courage or the
strength to lead. These, at least, are
men with brave hearts and great
thoughts. They are not the crea-
tures of circumstance, the slaves of
routine, the self satisfied and un-
conscious victims of the universal
tyrant. They are not held by
bonds of flesh and blood. No mean
ambition moves them. A king's
crown is but a bauble, like the toy
of a child; and whatever ceases to
be has no kindred with the soul
tli at was not born to die. They
wage battle for the possession of the
infinite, and in the divine struggle
take on the heroic mood that makes
all things possible. And we who
stood for a moment on this heaven-
ly battle-ground, a looker-on, unfit
to take part in such celestial war-
fare, would fain have lingered on
the hallowed spot, knowing full
well that the world to which we
turned again has no happiness even
to promise like that which is found
in this holy mountain where God is
seen and loved.

602

A Story of the Far West.

A STORY OF THE FAR WEST.

GOLD CITY they had called it in
its palmy days, though even then it
was a city in name only. It was
known as Gomorrah now ; and its
few inhabitants gloried in the title,
for Edverson had struck a vein of
gold there in the first flush of the
mining fever, and a crowd of for-
tune-hunters flocked to the place,
only to discover, when it was too late,
that the first " lucky find " was the
last. Then the tide of population
ebbed away, leaving behind it the re-
fuse those who were too poor, too
discouraged, too sunk in idleness or
sin, to try for anything better. The
houses were no more than shanties,
which the women made no attempt
to keep tidy ; children lived and died
there who never heard God's holy
name except in curses ; to most of
them even the day of the week was
unknown.

Three men ruled the place, one
by fear, one by kindness, one be-
cause he was tavern-keeper. They
were familiarly known as the Law-
yer, the Doctor, and the Parson.
One day, worthy to be marked with
red ink joyfully in the sad annals
of Gomorrah, the Lawyer most evil
soul there, and most dreaded an-
nounced his intention of going to
England, and, when the next day
dawned, he had departed with no
more warning and with no word of
farewell. Men, women, and children
drew a long breath of relief, yet spoke
of him for weeks afterwards in whis-
pers and guarded words, as if they
feared at any moment to see his
hated presence among them once
again, and feel his heel of iron on
their necks.

One afternoon, early in November,
his two associates sat together in
the door-way of the tavern, the only
decent dwelling within sight. He
who was known as the Parson wns
a short, stout man, who boasted a
collegiate and theological education
of some sort, no one knew what,
and a pastoral charge of five years,
no one knew where. But it was a
fact undisputed, either by himself
or others, that he was now the very
minister of Satan. Both he and the
Lawyer knew how to sin as deeply
as any one, but kept a kind of con-
trol over themselves. The man
who was their boon companion, and
yet hated them both with an impo-
tent hatred, had no such power.

He was far superior to them in
most respects. Gentle born, with
wealthy surroundings, he had re-
ceived a superior education, and
gave promise of superior excellence
in his profession, but had never
been taught to curb a single pas-
sion. From one level to another
he fell, till in Gomorrah he hid him-
self from all who had known him or
his in his brighter days. Yet no man
there was so liktd and did so much
to help as he. The love of his pro-
fession clung to him through every-
thing, and it was impossible for him
to see disease and accident without
trying to alleviate the trouble. Boys
and girls playing and quarrelling in
the streets would stop the maddest
sport, the bitterest fight, to help the
Doctor home as he came reeling
from the tavern, or to cover his face
from the hot sun as he lay like a log
by the roadside ; would do it with a
grateful remembrance of the time

A Story of the Far West.

603

when " he nursed me in the fever "
or " lie splintered my broken leg " ;
and often he was saved from a mid-
night carousal by a call to some
forlorn bedside, where he waited on
filthy wretches with as quick skill
and attention as once he had serv-
ed the finest ladies in his great
city home. No one knew how he
hated the place in which he lived,
and above all the man with whom
he sat that autumn afternoon ; but
he had lost all hope of better things.

Through their gloomy silence
and the clouds of tobacco-smoke
the Parson and the Doctor beheld
a sight which had not been seen
in Gomorrah for many a day the
white cover of an emigrant wagon.

" Tom Town send, from High
Bend," exclaimed Syles, " the Law-
yer's old chum there. Who's he
got with him ?"

The Doctor made no reply, but
stepped forward to meet the stran-
gers. Behind the driver sat a young
man with a good, kindly face, but
lacking in practicality and force.
On his arm he supported a woman,
whose broad forehead, square chin,
and firm mouth bespoke strong
character, if one was able to think
of that in noticing the serene holi-
ness of the eyes and expression.
Her face was pale as death.

" You're wanted here, Doctor,"
called the driver. " Here's a case
of chills and fever that's not a com-
mon one, and I've seen 'em by
hundreds."

" Are you the Doctor ?" the young-
man asked with a look of relief, as
if he had heard of him before ; and
together they carried into the ta-
vern and laid upon the settle the
powerless form of the woman.

"Not this place!" the man ex-
claimed, lifting his head when he
had laid his precious burden down.
"Where is Mr. Dalzeli's house?"

"Mr. Dalzell?" the Doctor re-
peated. " I do not know what you
mean."

" Why, surely yes, we must be
right. He came from here, he
said."

"Who? What?" his hearers
asked, with a grim suspicion in
their hearts. " Where are you from,
sir ?"

"lam Reuben Armstrong, from
Suffolk, England. A Mr. Dalzell
sold me his house and claim in
Gold City. Where are they ?"

The Doctor's eyes fell, and Syles
slunk into the shadow of the door.
It was long before they could make
him understand the truth ; and when
at last he comprehended it, Syles
stole out of his presence with a sense
of shame such as he had never felt
before, leaving the Doctor to give
the almost heart-broken fellow the
only reason for courage that he
knew how to give him to bear up
bravely for his wife's sake.

It was but too easy to grasp the
sad story. Armstrong had been a
well-to-do gardener, with a pleasant
little house and a snug sum of
money in the bank ; but, as the Doc-
tor inferred even then, he had
married a woman much his supe-
rior in character and station, whose
friends looked down upon him,
and thought he could never do
anything worthy of her. When the
Lawyer told his plausible story and
showed his well-planned map when
he described his possessions, to be
sold at a very low figure, because, as
the evil owner dared to affirm, he
must be with his aged parents in
Nottinghamshire during their de-
clining years Reuben was only too
ready to drop into the net.

They told his wife his "poor
Esther" nothing that night. In-
deed, she was too i:l to notice that
they moved her from the tavern to

604

A Story of the Far West.

the cabin next door, which was
their home. In that tavern Reuben
declared she should not stay one
hour.

That night the first snows fell,
shutting off Gomorrah for the win-
ter from any intercourse with the
outer world, and for weeks the Doc-
tor strove against all odds to save
Esther Armstrong's life. But for
her Reuben would soon have sunk
to the level of his neighbors not in
sin, but in inertia. He seemed to
have no courage left to begin life
over again ; he was sure that Esther
must die, and then there would be
no use of his living. He spent his
time in watching beside her, doing
everything about the house for her
that was possible ; refusing all help
save the physician's, and only ac-
cepting that because he could not
avoid it.

When the Doctor came in to see
Esther on the morning after her ar-
rival, Reuben had made the room
as comfortable as he could with the
furniture which they had brought
from home, and Esther was lying
in her bed, everything white about
her, and she herself looking more
pure and white than even the fall-
ing snow without.

" Am I very ill ?" she asked
calmly; and before the grave eyes
bent upon him the Doctor could
return no answer but the truth.

" You are a very sick woman,
.Mrs. Armstrong," he said, "but I
hope we may see you pull through
bravely yet."

" Will you ask the priest to come
to me ?" she said.

The Doctor started to his feet
and made a rapid stride across the
room. It brought him face to face
with a crucifix, a picture, and a
rosary.

" Madam," he said reverently-
she seemed to him like a saint as

she lay there "do you know what
sort of a place you are in ? We
have no such beings as priests here."

" Oh !" she replied serenely, " you
must mistake. Mr. Lazell certainly
told us that there was one. We
would never have come else.'

The Doctor bit his lip to keep
back the oath which rose. " Mr.
Lazell, as you call him, lied,
madam."

She asked no questions, but her
searching eyes drew the truth from
him. Sooner or later she must
know all. Before that holy calm a
tempting desire came over him to
try how deep her religious feeling
really was.

"Madam," he said, "you call
this place Gold City, but we know
it as Gomorrah. There is no priest
within miles of us. God isn't here
at all."

She pressed her hands hard
against her heart. He felt that she
shrank from him inwardly.

" Is there any woman who will
come to me ?" she asked.

" There is not one who is fit to
touch you," he replied " not one
We do not know what goodness is.
You have been deceived into com-
ing here. Now, if you love your
husband, live for him ; for nothing
else can keep him from being like
the rest of us."

"You are mistaken," she said
gravely. " You do not know my
husband. But, Doctor, if I must
die, will you promise me to send in
time for a priest ?"

The Doctor bit back an oath.
If " Mr. Lazell " had been there at
that moment, not even Esther's pre-
sence could have saved him from
the hatred of nine wretched years
kindled that day into relentless
fury. The Doctor had known enough
of Catholics at home God help
him ! but his had been Catholic

A Story of the Far West

605

baptism in his babyhood to fear
the effect on her of what he had to
siy. Had it been of any use, he
would have lied to her ; but the
next neighbor entering would have
revealed all.

" There is no priest near us," he
replied, " and it is impossible to get
one in the winter."

She put her hand quickly to her
heart again. " God's will be done,"
she said slowly ; " God's will be
done " over and over and over
again. They could not stop her.
Reuben begged her to hear him,
to rest, to grow calm, but it was of
no avail. All day long, and far in-
to the night, she tossed in fever,
delirious always, but her holy self
even in her delirium. Now she
sang snatches of hymns; and now
an exquisite strain of some old
chant, which the Doctor had heard
in great cathedrals, rose upon Go-
morrah's tainted air; but oftenest
she called for a priest, or said :
" God's will be done." Late that
night the fever abated a little, and
she opened her eyes calmly ; but it
was only to hear the clamor upon
the night air of stamping feet, ring-
ing sounds like tankards dashed
on table or floor, the twang and
clash of noisy instruments, scraps
of vile song, brawls and oaths and
blows.

" What is it?" she cried. " Where
arc we? Oh! I know"; and then
sank into delirium again.

So for a week it lasted ; then the
fever died away, leaving her like a
shadow. She made no complaint,
never asked again for a priest,
never spoke again of death ; yet the
Doctor knew, as well as if he had
seen it, that hers was a broken
heart. But another life was bound
up with her life, and for its sake, as
well as for Reuben's, she tried and
prayed to live. It was plain that

her affection for her husband was
intense; no matter what his weak-
ness and imprudence had made her
suffer, no one ever knew her fail in
her honor and her love,.and he sel-
dom saw her otherwise than outward-
ly cheerful for his dear sake. What
she endured perhaps only the Doc-
tor truly fathomed, and his sound-
ing-line was far too short. Reuben
was too engrossed in her to care
much personally for what passed
about them; but the Doctor judged
by what the place had been and
was to him, even in his degraded
life. Fallen as he was, he loathed
it from the very bottom of his
heart; still, with every gentlemanly
instinct that was left in him, he
shrank from the outcasts whom he
lived with daily, though knowing
himself to be fallen yet lower than
they. By his own suffering, from
which he did not try to escape; by
his own horror of the pit whose
vileness sickened him while still he
chose to sink even deeper in it, he
knew something of what it must be
to Esther's pure heart to live in
Gomorrah. Something that was
all.

He and Reuben strove to keep
sight and sound of evil from her;
yet all their care could not banish
at times strange visitors from her
bedside haggard women, flaunt-
ing women, all of them with evil
tongues; no care could keep the
children always from door or win-
dow, and often she saw, by frosty
dawn or at high noon or in the
early twilight, wild, wolfish eyes
staring at her, gaunt fingers point-
ing, and heard children's voices
speak of her in terms wherewith
oaths and low epithets were mixed
not through malice, but because
they knew no other way.

No one knew what hours she lay
awake by day and night in one

Goo

A Story of the Rir \Vcst.

agony of intercession; and she
herself, praying often and hoping
against hope for the sacraments to
prepare her soul for death, never
knew here into what union with her
1 ord that passion of prayer for
souls was bringing her, as hour by
hour the awiul clays wore on.

The Doctor saw her face, as it
grew more sharp and thin, grow
more holy, till he often felt unwor-
thy to look upon it, and wondered
how Reuben Armstrong had ever
won a treasure of which it seemed
to him no mortal man was worthy.

A poor, weak soul was Reuben's,
truly, in man's sight. But God and
the angels must have loved it with
a special love. God knew how
earnestly that sorrowful heart im-
plored that the light of its eyes
might be taken from it, if so Esther
might escape from suffering and en-
ter into peace ; and when night shut
him in with her alone, the angels
heard how he strove to drown the
riot next door by prayers and lita-
nies beside her, till often he slept
exhausted on the hard floor by her
bed.

But the children most of all
weighed heavily upon Esther's soul.
Even when she could not see them
she heard their voices ; even when
she could not hear them, she fancied
how their lives were spent, though
even her keen fancy did not reach
the whole of the painful truth ; and
as the birthday of the Holy Child
drew nearer, she felt more keenly
their ignorance of all sacred things,
shuddered to think of her own
child being born in such an atmos-
phere, then came to love those little
ones as if they were her very own,
and to plead lor them with a moth-
er's insatiable pleading.

Eight days before Christmas they
laid her baby in her arms and saw
her smile a happy mother's smile.

Eight days they lived in trembling
hope. On Christinas morning the
Doctor saw the dreaded, unmistaka-
ble sign of fever She had waken-
ed very bright, Reuben said, and
very early, with words of Christ-
mas joy, as if she had forgotten
where they were, and fancied it
was home. Then some sound from
the tavern had brought back the
truth; there had come the quick
pain at her heart, and then delirium.
All day long she talked there iras
no possibility of silencing her. She,
so tender of others, now with no
control over herself, laid her whole
heart bare; and they, who thought
they had known and prized her
well, knew as if for the first time
what a saint of God had been among
them prayers for her husband and
for her baby, but not for them
alone : prayers for every soul in
that place of death ; people named
by name of whom they would have
supposed she had never heard, but
for whom she pleaded as if for her
own flesh and blood; eager, loving,
most frequent supplication for the
little children ; prayers for the \
man who had lured them from their
happy home ; intensest pleading for
pity and pardon for his and all these
souls.

"Didst thou not die for them.
Jesus, my Jesus for them as well
as for me ? Save them with me, xi\ e
them with me with me, my Jesus !
By thy Sacred Heart that broke
us, save us, have mercy on us!"
And then, over and over, as if with
some peculiar, long-sustained inten-
tion or compact, "Remember, ()
most pious Virgin Mary! Remem-
ber, remember!"

And there was one frequent sup-
plication in which no name
mentioned, as if it were borne sa
constantly from her heart to the
Sacred Heart that she had ceased

./ S/ory <>/ the

l[\-s/.

to need io speak the name : " (luin
thyself ///<// soul, my Jesus. l>y
thy Cross, thy Heart, thy Mother,
gain thj i li that soul."

Tht-v heard only oil:- petition for

herself, lui that so anguished, so

desperate, tint the strong man
broke inlo SODS to hear it : one hun-
gry cry for (lod's hoi y sacraments,
lor (lod's anointed priest, to come
to her before her de;ilh, yet never
uttered without ;i more intense
prayer still " My Clod, my Cod, thy
will be done, thy will be done "; and
even (h;!t. was entiiely merged at.
last in her prayers lor those who
had made her lite one long :igony
at rtS.clofl

Suddenly she sal straight uj) in
her bed, her eves bla/.ing as if with

.in unearthly, reflected light, her

cheeka brilliant with more- than the

fever Hush.

"Hark, hark, hark!" she said,
with a. ring of eestalie. joy through
every word. " Do you not hear the
saenng-bell ? Kncd, all of you.
The priest comes comes with my
Lord at last."

Her eye.-, were fixed upon the
door that no hand opened, yet she
seemed lo watch some one enter,
and i - MHO one draw nearer,

nearer lo her, and she folded her
hands reverently, and bent, her
head as if in adoration. They un-

derstood : she believed a priest was

there; and they, seeing nothing,
he;iring nothing, of what she evi-
dently was sure she saw and heard
they who watched her fell down lip-
on their knees and hid their faces
as in some divine presence. The
next, words that bmke the still.
were the words of a dying penitent
alone with a priest of ( iod : ki I eon-
less to Almighty (Iod and to you,
my father."

Steadily, as if lor weeks she had
prepared her soul for this in faith

and penance, Kslher Armstrong
made her dying confession, with

a contrition sore aa ii she \\-cie the

lowest sinner in GottK>l pths

of sin, and iheii cr.ived absolution
humbly ami in tears. When ! :
u.is sil. -nee, and they dared to look
at her, she \\ as |\ ing ba< k am

her pillows, whispering, " Forgiven,
forgiven !"

They moved to ;; ive her nourish-
ment, and tin- movement, rous-ed

her, though not to recognition, she
started up once marc, lifting her

hand.

"Hark, hark !" she said .
"Do you not hear him? IK- is
Baying Max;, ami they sing SWcel Iv
RS an;;els."

All round the world, that Christ-
in-i - day, one song of praise was
rising, one pure offering was offered
ii]) to Him who was born and givt n
for Us on that day. Grand cat he
drals were ablaze with lighis and
rich with bloom; far down the
choir the altar tapers shone, like
stars through clouds of im
waving upward to the fretted roof,
and the lull tide of chant swelled
high to join the chant of an;.'
in lowly chapel as in great, cathe-
dral the priest of God and the ,
pie of God adored the Holy i
upon his Mother's breast. In ( '.o-
morrah, in a. decaj ing chapel, while
Oath ami brawl :.oiinded without,
one soul heard seraphic musie
\\ hich no other car could hear; one
soul beheld a I'riest. whom no other
-joined in his offer-
Of the tremendous Sacrifice.
I'or an hour, upheld by suprrhu
man si ivngi h, she knelt upi\
in an ecstasy of spiritual communion
thai grew too deep for prayer. \\
the cjQCfc Struck twelve, she
s 1 o w I y , "lie inissa cst ; 1 >< '<> y-nt/i\rs ' ' ;
then, With a long-drawn, rapturous
sigh, lay down again, but not as if

6o8

A Story of the Far West.

she knew or remembered husband
or child or friend.

The Doctor left her then, but at
the close of the day he was sum-
moned hastily, to see now without
mistake that the battle of her life
was almost ended.

" Stay with her, Doctor," Reuben
pleaded. " It's a sore struggle. Try
something more."

" I can't stay, man," he answer-
ed. " There is no more to do. I'd
give my right hand to save her; but
I can't see her suffer and be un-
able to help her. She's the only
white soul here, and now she is
going."

He turned to the bedside, and
stood silently looking at the face
with the dread shadow on it. Sud-
denly opening her eyes, her gaze
fell first on him, and, startled out
of her usual composure, she gave
an irrepressible shudder. He un-
derstood what it meant. She had
treated him always with perfect
courtesy and confidence as her phy-
sician and true friend ; he knew
for there had not been wanting
those to tell him of it that she had
silenced with dignified rebuke the
evil tales that more than one had
tried to tell her of him, not because
they disliked him, but because they
loved to talk. But he knew also,
what they did not, that in her pure
heart she shrank from him, that his
very presence was loathsome to her ;
and there had been times when, in
her bodily weakness, she had been
unable to control her aversion to
his slightest touch. He had borne
it quietly, humbling as it was, but
it was doubly bitter to bear at the
very last

" I will bid you good-night, Mrs.
Armstrong," he said, trying hard to
steady his voice. " You will not
want me any more this evening, I
think."

" Good-by, Doctor," she said, and
he saw that she knew all.

"You will not want me," he re-
peated mechanically.

" I want you there" she answer-
ed with a great effort. " Promise
me that you will be there."
He did not speak.
" Promise," she repeated, and
the tone brought back the memory
of her prayers that morning. " I
am dying dying; and yet I can-
not die. Night and day I prayed
it : * Gain thyself that soul, my Je-
sus. By thy Cross, thy Mother, thy
broken Heart, gain thyself that soul.'
I prayed and prayed it ' I am worn
out with the praying, and yet I
cannot die. Promise me to be
there."

The sweat stood on his forehead
in great drops. " You do not know
what you ask," he cried. " There
are sins enough upon me without
adding that of a broken vow to you,
and here. There is no saving a soul
like mine."

She did not answer him. She
lifted up her eyes, away from him,
away from earth, to God.

" Sacred Heart of my Jesus," she
prayed in agony, " win this soul, and
let me die."

For weeks he had kept himself
sober and decent for her sake ; now
he had thought to rush out from
her presence, to drown his grief in
viler sin than ever ; and, lo ! she was
still holding him, was binding eter-
nal chains upon him, to draw him
away from corruption unto God.
As a physician he knew that it was
a case where a mighty will alone
was keeping life in a body nearly
dead ; it would have been an aw-
ful sight to see, even had he had no
interest in it. She was living only
to win him unto immortal life. An-
gels and devils may well have stood
still before that struggle, where one

A Story of the Far West.

609

dauntless soul at the point of death
held Satan's power at bay.

" I promise," he said at last, as if
the words were wrung from him.
"But pray for me always."

" The Mother of God prays for
you," she said with strange empha-
sis. " Call upon Jesus and Mary
night and day. You will not need
me."

And then he saw that she needed
him no longer, thought of him no
longer, and he went away.

Reuben Armstrong shut and lock-
ed the door behind him. There
was no more that science or skill
could do. Now, for one brief hour,
Esther was his alone. The eyes
which the Doctor had seen grow
dim to him lit up with untired af-
fection as Reuben drew near the
bed; a look of rest came over her,
and she signed to him to lay her
baby on her arm.

" My baby, my little Christmas
baby," she murmured tenderly.
" Did the priest baptize her this
morning, Reuben ? Oh ! how could
you overlook it, dear ? Then you
must do it. Now now !"

There was an excited ring in her
voice, and Reuben hastened to do
at once what he had felt from the
first must soon be done; for the
baby's life evidently hung upon a
thread. A few drops of water, a
few divine words, and Esther's eyes
shone exultingly upon her child.

kb She will never be anything but
God's child," she said. " Oh ! I am
glad she cannot live. It is the
other children, that are not his, that
you must care for, Reuben."

'' No, no !" he cried. " No, Es-
ther, I cannot live without you."

" Listen, Reuben," she said. Ly-
ing there with her child upon her
;irm, she looked like a vision of the
Holy Mother herself, and when
she spoke her voice had a tone in
VOL. XXTV. 39

it which seemed divinely sweet.
" Listen, Reuben. This place is
God's. He wants it. You must
live and not die for him.'''

"O Esther !" he sobbed, "not
without you not without you."

" Yes, Reuben, without me
all alone. My darling, my darling,
save these little children's souls for
God."

One greater than she spoke, on
that holy night, through Esther's
lips, and touched and won her hus-
band's wounded heart.

u I will, Esther," he sobbed. " I
will try hard"; and even then, upon
that solemn parting, as if to stamp
the promise with an awful seal, the
tavern clamor broke shrill and vile
upon the Christmas air.

How long it was that she spoke
no word wrapped for the last
time in her passion of interces-
sion Reuben did not notice ; he
only knelt on beside her, living up-
on every breath she drew. But, at
the turn of the night, she looked
full at him, clasped both his hands
in hers, spoke so that the voice and
the words rang in his heart through
all his after-life spoke not to him,
but for him, and her words were
those of the Memorare. Then, like
one who has laid down for ever
in most safe and tender keeping
a heavy burden borne long and
painfully, she crossed her hands
upon her heart, but not now as if
in pain ; a look of glad surprise
came upon her face.

" Hark !" she said. " He is com-
ing again. My Lord and my God !"

When the Doctor entered Reu-
ben's cabin next morning, he found
it in perfect order the baby asleep
in its cradle beside the hearth ; Es-
ther lying in a sort of funeral state,
all done for her that could be done ;
and beside her knelt Reuben, whom
the Doctor scarcely recognized at

6io

A Story of the Far West.

first for the change upon him. In
that night he had become an old
man, and his friend believed that
but for the baby's sake he would
have died; yet, two days later, the
baby died, and still Reuben lived.

" A poor fool !" people called him.
He had lost all interest in temporal
matters, seemed hardly to know the
use of money, and barely support-
ed himself by the odd bits of work
which he did for the idle women
from house to house. Soon, how-
ever, they discovered that he had
one talent, and that was for man-
.aging children. A woman one day
suggested to him that he should
"" bide at home, and mind some ba-
bies for 'em, to keep 'em out of
harm's way; and he might teach
the live-year-olds their letters, too
being fit for naught else," she added
in a tone as clear as that she used
for the other words ; but Reuben did
not mind.

The proposal met with general
favor ; the women promised to sup-
ply him with meals from their own
poor tables, " better than he'd get
hisself, anyhow," they said ; and
.that was all he needed to keep
him through the winter.

It seemed at first sight a very
forlorn life. Where others less care-
less and simple could have lived in
comfort, he lived in cold and hun-
ger ; one by one everything which
he had brought from his distant
home disappeared given away to
people in distress, or yielded with-
out question to exorbitant and un-
founded demands. Yet that bare,
poverty-stricken room grew to be
the one fair place in Gomorrah.
There, for long hours of :he winter
days, might be seen a cluster of
children gathered about a man who
seemed in some respects as much a
child as any of them, and who

taught them to be tidy and affec-
tionate and good. A few learned
their letters, but many learned their
prayers, and the babies often said
for their first word the name of
Jesus, and all came to gaze lov-
ingly upon the crucifix, and touch
with pitying reverence the wounded
hands and feet. Often the parents
heard from childish lips the story
of the Infant Saviour. No home
now with a child in it where Sun-
day was not known. Men and
women, large boys and girls, swore
and fought in the streets still/but
it soon became a rare sight to see a
little child so forget itself; it would
make Master Reuben sorry, and he
said that it made the Heart of Jesus
bleed. No one stopped him at
such work; he was too poor a fool
for them to mind him.

But he had another work with
which they meddled much. The
promise which the Doctor had
made by Esther's death-bed was not
forgotten by him who made it, but
it was broken again and again.
His own lower nature which had
ruled him all his life would have
been enough, and more than enough,
for such a man to struggle against ;
but, besides that, the fiends in hu-
man shape who peopled Gomor-
rah seemed leagued with invisible
evil ones to work his utter ruin
They scoffed at his feeble efforts to
do right ; they lured him or they
maddened him it was all one to
them into the old haunts of temp-
tation ; and the very efforts which
he made to escape, the very memo-
ry of Esther's words and holy looks,
the very thought of purity and self-
control, seemed to make the evil
deadlier and grosser, when, after
sore struggle, he gave way.

And he did struggle, he did pray,
poor soul ! There were hours when
he lay upon the earth in some cold

A Story of the Far West.

611

hut or in the open air, fighting, it
seemed to him, with no less than
Satan's self. But he had been a
slave to self too long and too delib-
erately to be able to gain freedom
easily. Scenes of the past rose be-
fore him; he knew himself in his
true degradation. Sins about which
a kind of lurid fascination can be
thrown in books or real life for a
time he saw more and more plainly
in their actual shape and color, and
it drove him mad with disgust and
shame. Few were daring enough
that winter to trust their sick folk
to his skill. For days together he
would join in riot and carousal, till
delirium tremens followed, and then
strong men fled in fear before him.

But when that time came, and
houses were locked tight and no
one else dared face him as he went
raging about the town, falling on
the uneven streets, bruising and
wounding himself, there was one
who did go out to meet him. A
tottering, feeble creature went
meekly forth, stood in his path,
took blows and curses without re-
sistance, and presently no one
knew by what magic spell led him
to his own poor cabin and locked
himself in with him alone.

That was the reason why Master
Reuben never did what his tender
and lonely heart yearned to do to
make a home for the orphan chil-
dren of Gomorrah. No one but
himself must be allowed to see
what passed in his cabin while the
Doctor was there ; no one else must
be exposed to the dangers he had
to meet. But the room where they
had watched the mysterious joy of
Esther's Christmas feast saw far
other sights and echoed to far other
sounds than angel music as the
winter wore away. There were
mornings when no children came
to Reuben's house , when some

woman more pitiful, some man
more brave than the others, crept
near and laid food on the threshold,
then fled away to tell in trembling
of the cries they had heard as of
some wild beast mad with fury, or
some lost soul shrieking in the tor-
ment of despair. Sometimes, too,
they told of blows or noises like a
heavy fall ; and often, when Ren-
ben came among them again, he
bore marks that proved the stories
true, but they never learned the
cause from him.

And he as the winter passed, the
only truly happy faces that Gomor-
rah saw were Reuben Armstrong's
and little children's. By and by
they heard him sing sweet carols
and hymns and chants; he taught
the children to sing with him, and
used to lead them down the streets,
and into the snowy fields, and to
visit Esther's grave, to the sound
of holy song. People stopped in
many an evil deed or word to lis-
ten ; then left the word unsaid, the
deed undone. It came to be a
fashion in Gomorrah to stroll to
Reuben's cabin of a Sunday to see
how joyfully the children kept the
day. Nay, it was even known that
once a whole party at the tavern
had left their drinking-cups, to
stand for an hour at the next door,
listening to the music. Truly, good
and evil were in strange contrast
that winter in the almost forgotten
place which had no intercourse with
the outer world. There was a w6rld,
unseen, in which it was remember-
ed night and day.

At length they asked Reuben
why he looked so happy, and he
answered : " It is almost spring.
Then the priest will come." And
when they laughed and asked him
how he knew, he answered simply :
" God will send him."

When the snow began to melt

6l2

A Story of the Far West.

and the streams ran gayly down the*
hillside, a-nd grass was green, one
week, remembered for years after in
that region, the whole place rang
with the story of a carousal which
even Gomorrah wondered at ; the
whole place waited to see whether
the Doctor or Reuben would ever
come forth alive from their self-
imposed prison. When Reuben
opened his door again, and gather-
ed his children round him, there
was a look of peculiar expectation
on his face. He greeted each child
with special gladness, and told one
of the mothers that he was quite
sure the priest was coming very
soon, " for we need him a good deal
now," he said.

That afternoon there came into
Gomorrah a man wearing the reli-
gious habit, and asked at the tavern
if a Mrs. Armstrong was living in
that place.

Syles stared at him blankly.
"What do you know of her?" he
said.

" I met some one," the priest an-
swered, " while on my way to the
States, who begged me, if I ever
came this way, to find such a wo-
man and give her a message from
him. Is she here ?"

" Dead," said Syles briefly.

" She had a husband. Where is
he?"

" Next door with a madman.
We leave him alone such times."

" No, no, Parson," said a lounger
near by. " Where've ye been that
ye haven't heard ? Doctor's out of
his fit to-day, and Reuben's got his
school again. I'll take ye there,
stranger. It's a sight we're proud
of in Gomorrah."

Out of the tavern into the filthy
street, followed by a dozen or more
wretches, the priest went sadly with
a load upon his heart. The horrors
he had seen already were enough

to sicken him ; he wondered what
new evils he would meet with now
of which Gomorrah was proud.

" They're used to spectators,'
said his guide. ** We watch 'em as
we like. Door or window 'tan't
no difference to them ; we an't par-
ticular here."

It was a bare, small room, with a
table and some benches, an empty
fireplace, beside it a powerfully-
built man trembling and crying by
himself, like one unnerved by some
long illness ; on one wall was a
print of the Blessed Babe and the
Holy Mother, and below this was a
crucifix. Facing these was a band
of twenty little children in soiled
and ragged garments, but with clean
hands and faces, too absorbed by
what was being said to them to heed
what passed without. All eyes
were fixed on a small man with a
great fresh cut across his forehead
and a bruised and very simple
face.

"Yes, children," he was saying,
" it was the blessed child Jesus who
was born on Christmas night. He
loves us all very much indeed, and
of course we all want to love him.
Some time he is going to send his
priest here to baptize you ; then
what will you all be?"

u God's little children." The
answer rose sweetly and with a kind
of merriment from every lip, and
Reuben's face shone.

" Surely, surely," he said. " Now
we will sing, because we love him
and want to thank him. Yes, I
know the song you want 'The
Three Poor Shepherds.' "

We were but three poor shepherds.

All keeping our flocks by night,
When Monseigneur the blessed angel

Came suddenly into sight

Came suddenly through the darkness,
While a glory round him fell ;

I wot not if it were Michael
Or the Angel Gabriel.

A Story of the Far West.

613

' But his voice was like a trumpet,

So full, and glad, and true ;
k Listen,' he said, ' my children :
There is good news for you

1 ' Good news for men and maidens,

A great, glad gift for them ;
For the faire Sire Christ, the blessed,
Is born in Bethlehem.'

Then a Gloria in Excelsis

They sang with glad accord ;
Peace and good-will to all mankind

From the Sire Christ the Lord.

1 And unto a lowly stable

Silently went we three,
And there the kine, each in its stall,
Was on a bended knee.

' A nd there was Messire St. Joseph ;

And Mary the mother lay,
With the Holy Child in swaddling bands,
All on a cushion of hay.

' Each dumb beast looked in our faces,

But never unbent the knee ;
Our sweet Ladye she raised her eyes
And smiled full tenderly.

' l Ah ! faire Sire Christ,' all humbly

We cried with urgent plea,
' Anneal us now of thy great mercie,
For that we are so glad of thee.

' ' For that we are glad and joyful

That good days are begun,
That the great God for a blessing
Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.'

' Then Our Ladye the Holy Mary

Took some wood in her hand,
And crossed the pieces, and gave them,
That we all might understand.

1 And we kissed the token humbly.
And bowed before the Childe ;
For we knew, like Monseigneurs the angels,
That God had been reconciled.

* So joyfully and with gladness
All softly we went our way,
And with many an old Te Deuin
We tell the tale to-day."

Then once more, like a chorus
which even the children just begin-
ning to talk seemed to know in part :

" For that we are glad and joyful

That good days are begun,
That the great God for a blessing
Hath sent us his faire Childe Son."

The door opened slowly and a
voice which all ears could hear said
reverently, "Pax vobiscitm" The
good days were begun.

Strange how calmly they all re-

ceived him ! Reuben never asked
him how he came there ; he had
looked for him and prayed for him
a long while, and he was there at
last. God, of course, had sent him.
One by one he brought the children
to speak with him, and to have him
pronounce on their fitness to be
made God's children ; and the tears
stood in the priest's eyes as he lis-
tened to their simple, fearless an-
swers, that witnessed to what Reu-
ben's work of faith had been. When
they were gone away to their homes,
which were far less homes to them
than Reuben's cabin was, Reuben
came to the priest as simply as any
one of them had come, and asked
to be allowed to make confession.

"You'll stay here and be good.
Doctor," he said soothingly. " I
shall only be in the other room,
and I've locked the door hard."

The Doctor made a sort of moan-
ing assent.

*' He's just had a very sad time,"
explained Reuben, " and he needs
you very much, father. By and by
please let him speak to you."

How wonderful to listen, in that
place of revenge and murder, to
Reuben's quiet,, brief confession
no complaints, no bitterness, no
anger, except that for one day he
had felt hatred toward some one,
against whom, however, he brought
no accusation, and for this sin he
felt especial contrition.

"I met lately," the priest said
slowly, when the confession was fin-
ished, and marking with care the
effect his words would have, " a
man known sometimes as Lazell."

Reuben gave a start as of joyful
surprise, and would have spoken,
but the priest continued :

" I saw him die a felon's death
upon the gallows."

"No, no !" cried Reuben in dis-
tress one might have supposed he

614

A Story of tJic Far West.

had been told of a brother's shame-
ful death. "Oh! no, father."

" It was a just punishment," the
priest replied.

"No, no!" cried Reuben. "You
do not know this place- They do
not have helps here like other peo-
ple, or like me. Oh ! but God sav-
ed his poor soul at the last ?"

" He spoke to me," said the
priest, " of a woman named Esther
Armstrong, to whom he had done a
great injury. Was not that true?"

" He did not understand," said
Reuben with sorrowful compassion
" I am sure he did not understand
what harm he did, because, you
know, he couldtit have hurt her.
And he did not see good women
here ; they have such hard times
here, poor things."

" He said he could not forget her
that something always reminded
him of her. He begged me to find
her out and ask her to forgive him."

" She died," said Reuben softly.
" She forgave him. She prayed for
him a great deal, I think."

" God answered her, then," the
priest said. " I trust that he re-
pented truly."

A great light of" joy woke upon
Reuben's face. " Then he will save
the rest, " he exclaimed triumphantly.

" But you, "the priest asked " do
you forgive him ?"

"I?" repeated Reuben with a
puzzled look. " O father ! it was
very wrong of me ; I was angry
with him at first. But it was my
fault, really, though Esther never
blamed me ; I was a pooT fool,
father, or I never should have
brought her here."

And so Reuben Armstrong took
to himself his lifelong title humbly
so poor a fool, indeed, that he had
forgotten that he had anything to
forgive his fellow-men.

The next day Reuben saw his

whole flock of little ones gathered
into the Good Shepherd's fold ;
and then the Holy Sacrifice was
offered up, and Reuben's soul
was strengthened by the Divine
Food.

The Doctor had sullenly refused
to be present. Reuben found him,
on his return, lying face downwards
on the cabin floor, the picture of
despair.

" There is no hope," he said when
Reuben knelt by him, and begged
him to have recourse to confession.
" I want drink nothing but drink.
I must have it. I cannot save my-
self."

" That 's true enough," said Reu-
ben. "You can't, and I can't, but
God can. You keep saying that I
don't know everything about you,
and that nobody does, and that God
will never forgive you. But he
has sent his priest at last, and you
need not be afraid to say any-
thing to him. You must not hide
anything, and he has the power
to hear it and tell you what God
says."

Like one driven to a last resort,
the Doctor turned to the waiting
priest, and Reuben in the next room
gave thanks and prayed, while, in
the place where a saint had made
her last confession, this man, who
was indeed of "the scum of sin-
ners," made his first.

Truly, the Sacrament of Penance
is a divine and awful thing. God
grant that they who vilify and re-
ject and misrepresent it know not
what they do ! The burden of souls
which a missionary priest in the far
West has to bear in the confessional
is a tremendous one ; this priest had
been in prison-hulks of Australia,
and through all the mining regions
of California and Arizona, yet had
never met a case so desperate as
that before him now, where hope

A Story of the Far West.

615

seemed so hopeless, the power for
better things so nearly overcome.
But the poor penitent, as one by
one without reserve he revealed the
sins so long kept secret, as well as
those that were known of men and
noised abroad, felt keen relief
through all the degradation, tasted
somewhat of the sweetness hid in
this sacrament of blessed bitterness,
won from it that strength which is
a better thing to have than joy or
consolation, met there and knew
there Him "at whose feet Mary
Magdalene came to kneel in the
house of Simon the leper."

** I am going away, Reuben," the
Doctor said that night, abruptly and
sadly. "Yes," seeing the other's
look of surprise, " there is hope
for me, perhaps, but not here."

"Away?" Reuben repeated.
"Away from me? I thought I'd
have you always, Doctor."

" To be the hurt and the trouble
I have been to you ?" said the Doc-
tor, deeply touched. " No, no,
Reuben, I cannot keep my promise
here. I must leave the past en-
tirely, and the old associates, and
go where I can repent if I ever
can. There is no such thing as
an easy repentance for me." And
Reuben felt in his tender heart,
once more to be bereaved, that the
words were true.

When the priest left Gomorrah
the next day, promising that it
should not be forgotten, one went
with him for whom no other hope
remained but the total surrender of
will and liberty, the total crucifix-
ion of tiie flesh. Reuben heard
from him once, in the course of his
journey, then all tidings ceased ;
but he was too simple and too busy
to wonder at it, too 'full of faith to
doubt the final triumph. His char-
acter was not like Esther's ; the
burden of souls could never be to

him what it had been to her ; God
led him by a different path from
that she trod in pain.

But in a lonely monastery, high
up among frowning rocks and per-
petual snows, a man who had come
to it from far across the seas lived,
for a few sad years, a life of deep-
est penance. Never by day or
night did the battle with evil cease,
yet over him there seemed to be by-
day and night a special heavenly
care. That lonely cell was haunt-
ed constantly by visions of the
past, by temptations that were mad-
dening, by thoughts and words of
evil import, which an increasing
approach to holiness made flesh
and heart shrink to recall. No
sign of the cross, no prayer, no
penance, could banish them. Pur-
sued, haunted, tempted to the very
end, yet to the very end he called
on Jesus, Mary, and to the very end
the answer came.

None but those whose lives were
one of close union with the Sa-
cred Heart of Jesus dared minister
at that death-bed, learning there, in
fear and trembling, new lessons of
the hideousness of sin, and of the
power which an evil life can give
to Satan in the hour of death. But
again and again they heard the
poor lips whisper, "I deserve it, I
deserve it; I thank God "; they saw
the weak hands cling to the cruci-
fix, the glaring eyes gaze in their
anguish upon the Word made flesh ;
and he who endured to hear the
last confession brought to him
afterward, with awed and pilying
reverence, the Body of the Lord,
It was no saint, no life-long, scarred,,
victorious warrior of the Cross,
whom they laid to rest at last, his
hard fight done ; yet over that body
which, even in their snow-clad re-
gion, they had to hurry to its buri-
al they dared to give God thanks

6i6

T/irce Lectures on Evolution.

in humble faith for another sinner
ransomed.

Humbly and faithfully, in far-
away Gomorrah, Reuben Armstrong
lived to a good old age his poor
fool's life ; and men and women
came to look with gentle reverence
upon the feeble form which went
in and out among them on errands
of daily mercy, never tiring. By
and by the neighbors learned to
know the place by a better name
than the evil one which it grew to
hate rather than glory in. " It
cannot be so very bad," they said,
" when there are such good chil-
dren in it." And as from time to
time a priest came there, he always
found one more soul desirous for
confession, or one more child or
grown person ready for holy bap-
tism, and Reuben never again knelt
alone to receive holy Communion.

When the Doctor went away,
Reuben opened his heart and
home to the vagrant orphans, and

there, some years after, he welcomed
gladly the miserable Parson, more
pitiably needy than any of them.
" Master Reuben's baby" they call-
ed him, and Reuben often told e\-
ultingly how good and obedient he
was. No one envied him his charge
unless it was the angels, who share
in such blessed work.

A railroad runs through the town
now, and it is becoming a place of
some importance poor enough and
bad enough, alas ! but stamped out-
wardly and openly with the sign of
the Cross. For over Esther's grave
loving hands have reared a little
chapel a constant token that the
offering of her broken heart has
been accepted, that her dying pray-
er lias been remembered.

And there, troubled by no doubts
and haunted by no fears, weak in
body and weaker still in intellect,
but very strong in his immortal
soul, Reuben waits patiently and
happily till his work is done.

THREE LECTURES ON EVOLUTION.

WE live in a time when scientific
men seem to acquire celebrity al-
most in proportion as they succeed
in perverting the conclusions of
natural science so as to make them
contradict revealed truth. At this
we are not surprised ; for the man-
agement of the interests of science
has lately fallen, to a great extent,
into the hands of an anti-Christian
sect, which is either unable to un-

derstand or unwilling to recognize
.the testimony that nature bears to
the existence, power, and wisdom

of its Creator, and to the veracity
of his word. To this sect Professor
Huxley belongs. They call him
"a great scientist" and "a great

philosopher"; and people invite
him to lecture; and a certain press
hastens to publish his thoughts, that
the world may learn how religious
dogmas can be swept away by " sci-
entific " discoveries, and especially
by "scientific" reasonings. Un-
fortunately for Prof. Huxley, his
lectures on the Evidences of Evolution,
which are the last effort of his
mind, are as deficient in logic as
most of his other productions. In
other words, the conclusions of the
lecturer are not legitimate, and the
premises themselves are not always
exempt from objectionable features.
We hardly need tell our readers
that neither any Christian dogma

Three Lectures on Evolution.

has been swept away by these lec-
tures nor any evolution established,
except in so far as the lectures
themselves may be considered as
an evolution of sophistry.

In the first of his three lectures
Prof. Huxley begins with a false
statement of facts :

" It has taken long indeed, and accu-
mulations of often fruitless labor, to ena-
ble men to look steadily at the glaring
phantasmagoria of nature, to notice her
tluctuations and what is regular among
her apparent irregularities ; and it is
only comparatively 'lately, within the last
few centuries, that there has emerged the
conception of a pervading order and de-
finite force of things, which we term the
course of nature. But out of this con-
templation of nature, and out of man's
thought concerning her, there has in
these later times arisen that conception
of the constancy of nature to which I
have referred, and that at length has be-
come the guiding conception of modern
thought. It has ceased to be almost
conceivable to any person who has paid
attention to modern thought that chance
should have any place in the universe, or
that events should follow anything but
the natural order of cause and effect. "

The truth is that "modern
thought" has had no part whatever
in the discovery of the constancy
of nature. This discovery is as old
as mankind. All ancient philoso-
phers, even before Aristotle, knew
the constancy of the natural laws,
and this knowledge has never died
away, that modern thinkers should
claim the h<5nor of reviving it. The
same is to be said of " the concep-
tion of a pervading order and defi-
nite force of things," as we find
that old Greek and Latin books are
full of this conception, which is
likewise common to all our mediae-
val writers, and, indeed, to all rea-
sonable men. That " chance " could
have no place in the universe was
so well known to the ancients that
Cicero emphatically declared any

man to be silly who would suspect
the possibility of the contrary.*
Hence no person ever needed " to
pay attention to modern thought "
to conceive that chance could have
no place in the government of the
world. Finally, that events cannot
but follow " the natural order of
cause and effect " is the oldest of
scientific truths, and the first prin-
ciple of scientific reasoning. A
lecturer who pretends that we owe
these truths to " modern thought "
shows no respect for his audience.
On the other hand, if " modern
thought " is so poor and barren
that it envies the scientific claims
of past generations, and stakes its
reputation on fiction and plagiar-
ism, what can we say of the wisdom
of the modern thinker who affords
a ground for arguing that " modern
thought " stands convicted of dis-
honesty as much as of incapacity ?
The professor a little later says :

"Though we are quite clear about the
constancy of nature at the present time
and in the present order of things, it by-
no means follows necessarily that we are
justified in expanding this generalization
into the past, and in denying absolutely
that there may have been a time when
evidence did not follow a first order,
when the relations of cause and effect
were not fixed and definite, and when
external agencies did not intervene in
the general course of nature. Cautious
men will admit that such a change in
the order of nature may have been pos-
sible, just as every candid thinker will
admit that there may be a world in
which t\vo and two do not make lour,
and in which two straight lines do not
enclose a space."

This sentence shows that we are
dealing rather with an empiricist
than with a natural philosopher.
Why should not the constancy of

* Quis est fain t'ecors, qui en qu(ptatita inente
fiunt.casu putet passe fieri ? U ho is so silly as
to believe that things so wisely ruled can be the
effect of chance ?

6i8

Three Lectures on Evolution.

nature at the present time justify
our conviction that nature has been
no less constant in the past? Sure-
ly, if we proceed only empirically,
the facts of the present will teach
us nothing certain as to the facts
of a remote and unknown past.
But it is remarkable that this pure-
ly empirical method would leave
us equally uncertain as to the facts
of the future, though modern scien-
tists assure us that " the future must
be similar to the past." The truth
is that no valid induction can be
made from mere facts without the
aid of a rational principle as the
ground of our generalization. If
such a principle is certain, our in-
ference is certain ; and if the prin-
ciple is only plausible, our inference
will be plausible in the same de-
gree. Now, have we not a certain
principle from which the constancy
of nature can be demonstrated with
no reference to particular time ?
We have such a principle. We in-
fer the constancy of nature from
the constancy of the agencies by
which the physical order is ruled.
All elementary substances are per-
manent ; their matter and their ac-
tive power are never impaired; the
law of their activity is as fixed and
definite as their permanent consti-
tution ; and therefore they do not,
and they cannot, act at present in
a different manner from that in
which they have acted from the be-
ginning, or from that in which they
will act as long as they hist. This
is the principle by which we are
fully justified in extending the con-
stancy of nature to all antiquity
and to all futurity, and in averring
that such a constancy is not an ac-
cidental result of circumstances, but
a necessary consequence of the prin-
ciple of causality.

But Mr. Huxley seems not to
understand this principle. He im-

agines a time when the relations of
cause and effect may not have been
fixed and definite, and even con-
ceives the possibility of a world
in which two and two do' not make
four. This is modern thought in-
deed; for we do not believe that
any indication can be found of a
similar thought having ever been
entertained in past ages. But we
would ask : If in a certain world
two and two did not make four,
ho\v could Mr. Huxley know that
they make four in this world? And
if the relations of cause and effect
had at any given time remained
vague and indefinite, how could he
account for the fact that they are
now definite and fixed ? For the
relation of cause and effect consists
in this : that the impression pro-
duced by the cause is the exact
equivalent of the exertion made in
its production; and he who im-
agines a time when such a relation
was not fixed and definite must as-
sume that an effect can be greater
than the exertion in which it ori-
ginates, or that the exertion can be
greater than the impression it pro-
duces. But if so, on what ground
can the professor affirm that the
relation of cause and effect has now
become fixed and definite? We
see the effect, but we cannot see
the exertion ; we see the fall of a
body, but we cannot see the action
of gravity. How, th^n, can Mr.
Huxley ascertain that the action of
gravity is neither greater nor less
than the momentum impressed on
the body? Thus the relation of
cause and effect, in his theory, can-
not be known ; and mechanical sci-
ence becomes impossible. In the
same manner, if, in another world,
two and two do not make four, ma-
tkematics are an imposition.

The lecturer says also that there
may have been a time " whenexter-

Three Lectures on Evolution.

619

nal agencies did not intervene in
the general course of nature "; but
\ve believe that this must be a lapsus
lingua j for, as he does not admit
that external agencies do now inter-
vene in the general course of na-
ture, to say that the case may have
been exactly the same in all remote
times is not to adduce a reason of
the supposed disturbance of the re-
lations of cause and effect, of which
he is speaking, nor would it serve
to limit, as lie wishes, our "general-
ization." The context, therefore,
shows that what the lecturer intend-
ed to say was that there may have
been a time when external agencies
did intervene in the general course
of nature. In fact, however, he
said the contrary. Perhaps the
professor, considering that he was
speaking to an American audience
with whose religious opinions he
was little acquainted, thought it
wise to give such a turn to his
phrases as to avoid all profession of
belief or disbelief in the existence of
a Creator. But, however this may
be, the idea that God's intervention
in the course of nature would dis-
turb the relation of cause and effect
is quite preposterous ; for if God in-
tervenes, his action carries with it-
self its proportionate effect, while
the actions of other causes maintain
their natural relations to their ordi-
nary effects. When a man raises a
stone from the ground, does he dis-
turb the relation of cause and effect ?
or does he abolish gravitation ?
Certainly not. Gravity continues
to urge down the body, while it is
raised ; but the effect corresponds
to the combined actions of the
two distinct causes. Now, the
same must be said of God's inter- "
vention with natural causes. The
effect will always correspond to
the combined causalities ; and
therefore the relation of the effect

to its adequate cause remains un-
disturbed.

To assume, as the lecturer does,
that at the present time God has
ceased to intervene in the course
of nature, is to assume something
for which there is not the least war-
rant. God's intervention in the
course of nature is continuous; for
without it nature can neither act
nor exist for a single moment, as
every one knows who is not absolute-
ly ignorant of philosophy. But this
is not all. God, seeing that men try
to blind themselves to the fact of
his intervention in the ordinary
course of nature, gives us in his
mercy not unfrequent proofs of his
intervention by works so far above
nature that no effort of scientific
infidels can evade their testimony.
These works are miracles. " Mod-
ern thought" denies miracles, as ir-
reconcilable with the " constancy
of nature" ; but the history of the
church is full of well-authenticated
miracles, and there are to-day living
in different countries thousands of
unexceptionable witnesses who can
testify that miracles are, even now,
an almost daily occurrence among
the Christian people. We, too, ad-
mit " the constancy of nature," but
we are not so dull as to interpret
this constancy as modern thought
strives to interpret it. It is the laws
of nature that are constant, not the
course of nature ; the former
alone are connected with the
essence of things and are immuta-
ble ; the latter depends on acciden-
tal conditions, and can be interfer-
ed with not only by God, but even
by man, as daily experience shows.
Hence the intervention of external
agencies does not impair the con-
stancy of nature, and the argument
of modern thinkers against the
possibility of miracles falls to the
ground.

62O

Three Lectures on Evolution.

Mr. Huxley, after stating that
the question with which he has to
deal is essentially historical, affirms
that " there are only three views
three hypotheses respecting the
past history of nature." The first
hypothesis is that

" The order of nature which now ob-
tains has always obtained ; in other
words, that the present course of nature,
the present order of things, has existed
from all eternity. The second hypothesis
is that the present state of things, the
present order of nature, has had only a
limited duration, and that at some period
in the past the stale of things which we
now know substantially, though not, of
course, in all its details, the state of things
which we now know arose and came
into existence without any precedent
similar condition from which it could
have proceeded. The third hypothesis
also assumes that the present order of na-
ture has had but a limited duration, but
it supposes that the present order of
things proceeded by a natural process
from an antecedent order, and that from
another antecedent order, and so on ;
and that on this hypothesis the attempt
to fix any limit at which we could assign
the commencement of this series of
changes is given up."

Of these three hypotheses, the
first is discarded by the lecturer as
untenable, because "circumstantial
evidence absolutely negatives the
conception of the eternity of the
present condition of things." In
this we agree with him, not only on
account of geological evidence, but
also, and principally, because the
world is mutable, and therefore
contingent; which proves that it
must have had a beginning. It is
remarkable that he denies the eter-
nity of the present condition of
things, but does not deny the eter-
nity of matter. Modern thought
could not admit of such a denial ;
because, if matter is not eternal,
the admission of a Creator becomes
unavoidable.

The second hypothesis the pro-
fessor calls the " Miltonic " hy-
pothesis, and he proceeds to ex-
plain why he calls it so :

" I doubt not that it may have excited
some surprise in your minds that I
should have spoken of this as Milton's
hypothesis rather than I should choose
the terms which are much more familiar
to you, such as ' the doctrine of crea-
tion,' or 'the Biblical doctrine,' or ' the
doctrine of Moses,' all of which terms, as
applied to the hypothesis to which I
have just referred, are certainly much
more familiar to you than the title of
the Miltonic hypothesis. But I have had
what I cannot but think are very weighty
reasons for taking the course which I
have pursued. For example, I have
discarded the title of the hypothesis of
creation, because my present business
is not with the question as to how nature
has originated, as to the causes which
have led to her origination, but as to the
manner and order of her origination.
Our present inquiry is not why the ob-
jects which constitute nature came into
existence, but when they came into ex-
istence, and in what order. This is a
strictly historical question, as that about
the date at which the Angles and Jutes
invaded England. But the other ques-
tion about creation is a philosophical
question, and one which cannot be solv-
ed or approached or touched by the his-
torical method."

Then he gives his reasons why
he avoids the title of Biblical hy-
pothesis :

" In the first place, it is not my business
to say what the Hebrew text contains,
and what it does not ; and, in the second
place, were I to say that this was the
Biblical hypothesis, I should be met by
the authority of many eminent scholars,
to say nothing of men of science, who, in
recent times, have absolutely denied that
this doctrine is to be found in Genesis at
all. If we are to listen to them, we must
believe that what seem so clearly defined
as days of creation as if very great
pains had been taken that there should
be no mistake that these are not days
at all, but periods that we may make
just as long as convenience requires.
We are also to understand that it is con-

Three Lectures on Evolution.

621

sistcnt with that phraseology to believe
that plants and animals may have been
evolved by natural processes, lasting for
millions of years, out of similar rudi-
ments. A person who is not a Hebrew
scholar can only stand by and admire
the marvelous flexibility of a language
which admits of such diverse interpreta-
tions." (At these last words the audience
is said to have laughed and applauded.)
" In the third place, I have carefully
abstained from speaking of this as a
Mosaic doctrine, because we are now as-
sured upon the authority of the highest
critics, and even of dignitaries of the
church, that there is no evidence what-
ever that Moses ever wrote this chapter
or knew anything about it. I don't say
I give no opinion it would be an im-
pertinence upon my part to volunteer an
opinion on such a subject ; but that be-
ing the state of opinion among the schol-
ar? and the clergy, it is well for us, the
laity, who stand outside, to avoid en-
tangling ourselves in such a vexed ques-

Then the lecturer makes a short
refutation of Milton's hypothesis,
and concludes his first lecture by
promising to give in the following
lectures the evidences in favor of
the hypothesis of evolution.

It seems to us that the whole of
the preceding reasoning is nothing
but plausible talk, and that the ex-
planations of the lecturer lack sin-
cerity. First, he pretends that the
" doctrine of creation" is a philo-
sophical question, which cannot be
solved by the historical method.
Why can it not ? Creation is no less
a historical than a philosophical
fact. The book in which we read
it is a historical book, more than
three thousand years old, whose
high authority has been recognized
by the wisest men of all past gener-
ations, and whose truthfulness has
been confirmed by monuments of
antiquity and by the study of pro-
fane histories. If, then, Prof. Hux-
ley was truly anxious to follow the
historical method, why did he not

compare the details given in Gene-
sis about the manner and order of
the origination of nature with the
manner and order suggested by
geological discoveries ? On the other
hand, if the question was to be treat-
ed by the historical method, was it
wise to appeal to a poet as the best
interpreter of history ?

As to the philosophical treatment
of the doctrine of creation, we are
glad to see that the professor has
had the good sense of abstaining
from it. This forbearance on his
part was imperative for many rea-
sons, and especially because, as ap-
pears from some expressions of
his, he was quite incompetent to
judge of the doctrine on its philo-
sophical side. He says that it is
not his present business to investi-
gate " the causes which have led to
the origination of nature," nor to
inquire "why the objects which
constitute nature came into exis-
tence"; as if there were any other
ivhy besides the will of the Creator,
or any other causes besides his om-
nipotence. But Mr. Huxley seems
afraid of a Creator ; hence he does
not speak of a God, but of " causes"
and " external agencies" ; nor does
he mention creation, but only " orig-
ination." Vain efforts ! For, if na-
ture has had an origination, it either
originated in something or in noth-
ing : if in nothing, then such an
origination is a real creation ; if in
something, then such an origination
was only a modification of some-
thing pre-existing contingently (for
nothing but the contingent is modi-
fiable), whose existence must again
be traced to creation. Had the
lecturer honestly followed the his-
torical method, he would have bold-
ly started with those profound
words of Genesis : " In the begin-
ning God created heaven and
earth," and he would have found a

622

Three Lectures on revolution.

solution, no less philosophical titan
historical, of his question.

These remarks go far to show
that the professor's reasons for ig-
noring the Biblical history (which
he, of course, calls the " Biblical hy-
pothesis'") are mere pretexts. Sure-
ly it was not his business to explain
the Hebrew text; but this is no ex-
cuse. The only point which had a
real importance in connection with
the question at issue was whether
the so-called days of creation were
natural days of twenty-four hours
or periods of a much greater length.
Now, this point could have been in-
vestigated with the Latin or the
English text as well as with the
Hebrew. Moreover, since "many
eminent scholars," and even "men
of science," as he states, have abso-
lutely denied that the doctrine of
the six natural days is found in
Genesis at all, was it not plain that
the geological epochs, wholly un-
known to Milton, could not be con-
sidered as contradicting the Bibli-
cal record, but might rather coin-
cide with that narrative, and help
us to clear up some obscure phrases
which we read in it ? Prof. Hux-
ley pretends that, if we listen to
these eminent scholars and men of
science, " we must believe that what
seem so clearly defined as days of
creation are not days at all, but
periods that we may make just
as long as convenience requires."
This is, indeed, the conclusion we
draw from a full discussion of the
subject ; but we should like to know
on what ground the professor as-
sumes that the Genesis speaks so
dearly of natural days. It is the
contrary that is clearly implied in
the language of the sacred writer.;
for it is evident that the three days
which preceded the creation of the
sun could not be natural days of
twenty-four hours; and since their

length has not been determined by
the sacred writer, we are free " to
make them just as long as conveni-
ence requires." This reason, which
may be strengthened by other ex-
pressions in the context, and by
many other passages of the Bible
where the word day is used indefi-
nitely for long periods of time, led
many old interpreters, St. Augustine
among others, to deny what Prof.
Huxley so confidently asserts about
the clearness of the Scriptural testi-
mony in favor of natural days. The
professor evidently speaks of a sub-
ject which he has never studied,
with the mischievous purpose of
creating a conflict between science
and faith.

What shall we say of his amusing
hint at the " marvellous flexibility ' ;
of the Biblical language? Though
greeted with applause and laughter
(by an audience that knew nothing
about the Hebrew language), such a
hint was a blunder. It is not the flex-
ibility of the language that has ever
beeft appealed to as the ground of dif-
ferent interpretations ; it is the ex-
treme conciseness of the narration,
and the omission of numerous details,
which might have proved interesting
to the man of science, bat which
had nothing to do with the object
pursued by the sacred writer. For
the aim of the writer was to instruct
men, not on science, but on the
unity of God and his universal do-
minion. On the other hand, all
languages have numbers of terms
which can receive different inter-
pretations ; and the very word da\\
which the lecturer takes to mean so
clearly twenty-four hours, is used
even by us in the sense of an in-
definite length of time. We say, for
instance, that to-day anti-Christian-
ity is rampant, just as well as that
to-day it has rained; and we hope
that Professor Huxlev will not on

Three Lectures on Evolution.

623

this account find fault with the En-
glish, language, or sneer at its " mar-
vellous flexibility."

Finally, the professor says that he
spoke of the Miltonic theory rather
than of the " Mosaic doctrine," be-
cause "we are now assured upon
the authority of the highest critics,
and even of dignitaries of the church,
that there is no evidence whatever
that Moses ever wrote this chapter
or knew anything about it." This
allegation is not creditable to the
judgment of the lecturer.

The Genesis is the undoubted
work of Moses, as all ancient and
modern scholars, both Jew and
Christian, testify. If, however, Pro-
fessor Huxley, upon the authority of
his perverse or ignorant critics and
of the rationalistic dignitaries of a
false church, believes the contrary,
it does not follow that the historical
method obliged him to substitute
the Miltonic theory for the Biblical
history under pain of "entangling
himself in a vexed question." If
there was a vexed question, he could
discard it with a word. Nothing
prevented him from speaking of
" what is styled \\\e Mosaic doctiine."
The truth is that the professor
labored all along to demolish the
Mosaic doctrine under the name
of Miltonic hypothesis, thinking, no
doubt, that by this artifice he might
just say enough to satisfy his friends
the free-thinkers, without shocking
too violently the public mind. The
artifice, however, proved unsuccess-
ful ; and if the professor has seen the
criticism passed on his lectures by
the American press, he must now
have acquired the conviction that
the Miltonic hypothesis did not de-
serve the honor of a scientific re-
futation.

In his second lecture Mr. Hux-
ley begins to deal with the evidences
of evolution. He points out that

such evidences are of three kinds
viz., indifferent, favorable, and demon-
strative. The first two kinds he is
prepared to examine at once, whilst
the third he keeps in reserve for his
last lecture. One might ask what
an " indifferent evidence " is likely
to mean. For, if any fact has no
greater tendency to prove than to
disprove a theory, such a fact does
not constitute " evidence " on either
side. This, of course, is true; but,
in the language of the professor,
"indifferent evidence" designates
those facts which are brought
against his theory, and which he
believes to admit of a satisfactory
explanation without abandoning the
theory. Thus he relates how

" Cuvier endeavored to ascertain by
a very just and proper method what
foundation there was for the belief in a
gradual and progressive change of ani-
mals, by comparing the skeletons of all
accessible parts of these animals (old
Egyptian remains) such as crocodiles,
birds, dogs, cats, and the like with those
which are now found in Egypt ; and he
came to the conclusion a conclusion
which has been verified by all subse-
quent research that no appreciable
change has taken place in the animals
which inhabited Egypt, and he drew
thence the conclusion, and a hasty one,
that the evidence of such fact was al-.
together against the doctrine of evolu-
tion."

Again, the professor states that
the animal remains deposited in
the beds of stone lining the Niagara
"belong to exactly the same forms
as now inhabit the still waters of
Lake Erie"; and these remains,
according to his calculation, are
more than thirty thousand years
old. Again :

" When we examine the rocks of the
cretaceous epoch itself, we find the re-
mains of some animals which the closest
scrutiny cannot show to be in any re-
spect different from those which live n:
the present time." ".More than that:

624

Three Lectures on Evolution.

At the very bottom of the Silurian series,
in what is by some authorities termed
the Cambrian formation, where all signs
appear to be dying out, even there,
among the few and scanty animal re-
mains which exist, we find species of
molluscous animals which are so closely
allied to existing forms that at one time
they were grouped under the same gen-
eric name. . . . Facts of this kind are
undoubtedly fatal to any form of evolu-
tion which necessitates the supposition
that there is an intrinsic necessity on the
part of animal forms which once come
into existence to undergo modifications ;
and they are still more distinctly oppos-
ed to any view which should lead to the
belief that the modification in different
types of animal or vegetable life goes on
equally and evenly. The facts, as I have
placed them before you, would obviously
contradict directly any such form of the
hypothesis of evolution as laid down in
these two postulates."

Here, then, we have facts which
" contradict directly " any form of
necessary evolution. Now let us see
how the professor strives to turn
them into indifferent evidences of
spontaneous evolution. He says :

" Now, the service that has been ren-
dered by Mr. Darwin to the doctrine of
evolution in general is this : that he has
shown that there are two great factors in
the process of evolution, and one of
them is the tendency to vary, the exist-
ence of which may be proved by obser-
vation in all living forms ; the other is
the influence of surrounding conditions
upon what I may call the parent form
and the variations which are thus evolv-
ed from it. The cause of that production
of variations is a matter not at all proper-
Iv understood at present. Whether it
depends upon some intricate machinery
if I may use the phrase of the animal
form itself, or whether it arises through
the influence of conditions upon that
form, is not certain, and the question
may for the present be left open. But
the important point is the tendency t<
the production of variations. Then
whether those variations shall survive
and supplant the parent, or whether the
parent form shall survive and supplant
the variations, is a matter which depends
entirely on surrounding conditions."

From this theory the lecturer
concludes that the facts above
mentioned as contradicting the doc-
trine of evolution are *' no objec-
tion at all," but belong to that class
of evidence which he has called in-
different. "That is to say," as he
explains, " they may be no direct
support to the doctrine of evolution
but they are perfectly capable of
being interpreted in consistency
with it." This is to tell us that
Darwin, in order to evade the testi-
mony of numerous facts which con-
tradict evolution, had to resort to a
very bold but gratuitous assump-
tion. In fact, on what ground can
he pretend that all living forms
have a tendency to vary from one
species to another, and that such a
tendency may be proved by obser-
vation, when we have so many facts
which prove that such a tendency
has not shown itself for thousands
and tens of thousands of years ?
As yet, no case of evolution from
one species to another has been as-
certained ; and it surely requires a
peculiar evolution of logic to affirm,
in the presence of such a known
fact, that the tendency to vary may
be proved by observation. That
there may be varieties within the
range of one and the same species
is a well-known truth ; this is what
observation has abundantly proved.
But Mr. Darwin pretends that the
tendency to vary is not confined
within the range of the species, but
extends from one species to an-
other, so as to produce not only
individual and accidental modifi-
cations, but also essential changes
and differentiations; and this is
what observation has hitherto been
unable to prove. Thus the profes-
sor's appeal to the Danvirian hy-
pothesis is quite illogical, as it is
nothing but a begging of the ques-
tion.

Three Lectures on Evolution.

625

It is singular that Professor Hux-
ley himself, after telling us that the
tendency to vary is proved by ob-
servation, immediately refutes his
own assertion by showing that the
whole theory of evolution rests on
no actual observation, but on the
mere hope of some possible obser-
vations which the future may keep
in reserve for its triumph. Here is
what he says :

" The great group of lizards, which
abound so much at the present day, ex-
tends through the whole series of forma-
tions as far back as what is called the Per-
mian epoch, which is represented by the
strata lying just above the coal. These Per-
mian lizards differ astonishingly little
in some respects from the lizards which
exist at the present day. Comparing the
amount of difference between these Per-
mian lizards and the lizards of the pre-
sent day with the prodigious lapse of
time between the Permian epoch and the
present age, it maybe said that there has
been no appreciable change. But the
moment you carry tne researches further
back in time you find no trace whatever
of lizards, nor any true reptile whatever,
in the whole mass of formations beneath
the Permian. Now, it is perfectly clear
that if our existing palseontological col-
lections, our existing specimens from stra-
tified rock, exhaust the whole series of
events which have ever taken place upon
the surface of the globe, such a fact as
this directly contravenes the whole the-
ory of evolution, because that postulates
that the existence of every form must
have been preceded by that of some form
comparatively little different from it."

So far, then, as existing speci-
mens of palaeontology are concern-
ed, everything " directly contra-
venes the whole theory of evolu-
tion "; that is to say that obser-
vation, far from proving the theory,
tends to disprove it. The lectur-
er, however, not dismayed by this
crushing evidence, appeals to " the
whole series of events" which must
have preceded the epoch of the
oldest existing specimens ; and he
VOL. xxiv. 40

invites us to take into considera-
tion " that important fact so well
insisted upon by Lyell and Darwin
the imperfection of the geologi-
cal record." No doubt the geo-
logical record is imperfect ; but
this imperfection cannot be made
the ground of an argument in fa-
vor of evolution. To make it such
would be like interpreting the si-
lence of a witness for positive in-
formation. Prof. Huxley saw this,
and, anticipating the objection which
was sure to rise in the minds of his
hearers, made an effort to evade it
by saying : " Those who have not
attended to these matters are apt
to say to themselves, * It is all very
well ; but when you get into difficulty
with your theory of evolution, you
appeal to the incompleteness and
the imperfection of the geological
record'; and I want to make it
perfectly clear to you that that im-
perfection is a vast fact which must
be taken into account with all our
speculations, or we shall constant-
ly be going wrong." The read-
er will notice how bluntly the lec-
turer ignores the drift of the objec-
tion. The objection is: "When
you appeal to the remotest epochs,
about which geology gives us so-
very scanty information, you ap-
peal to the unknown ; and this is a
very singular method of answering
that series of known facts which
directly contravene the theory of
evolution." The answer of the
professor is: "You have not at-
tended to- these matters. Do you
think that the geological record is
perfect ? I tell you that it is most
imperfect and incomplete, and I
am going to show that such is the
case." This answer confirms the
objection, and shows that the the-
ory of evolution is illogical.

The professor then mentions " the
tracks of some gigantic animal which

626

Three Lectures on Evolution.

walked on its hind legs," and re-
marks that, although untold thou-
sands of such tracks are found upon
our shores, yet " up to this present
time not a bone, not a fragment, of
any one of the great creatures which
certainly made these impressions
has been found." And he con-
cludes : " I know of no more strik-
ing evidence than this fact affords
from which it may be concluded, in
the absence of organic remains, that
such animals did exist." Of course
they did exist ; but their existence
is no argument against those innu-
merable facts which bear positive
witness against the theory of evo-
lution. And yet the lecturer ven-
tures to say :

" I believe that having the right
understanding of the doctrine of
evolution on the one hand, and
having a just estimation of the
importance of the imperfection of
the geological record on the other,
would remove all difficulty from the
kind of evidence to which I have
thus adverted ; and this apprecia-
tion allows us to believe that all
such cases are examples of what I
may here call, and have hitherto
designated, negative or indifferent
evidence that is to say, they in no
way directly advance the theory of
evolution, but they are no obstacle
in the way of our belief in the doc-
trine." That a long series of posi-
tive facts establishing the fixity of
species during a great many thou-
sand years are no obstacle in the
way of our belief in an opposite
theory, owing to the mistiness of
all older geological records, which
allows us to dream of facts contrary
to the course of things ascertained
by constant observation, is an idea
which " modern thought" may con-
sider brilliant, but which common
sense absolutely rejects.

In the remaining part of this

second lecture Mr. Huxley deals
with the evidence of intermediate
forms : " If the doctrine of evolu-
tion be true, it follows that animals
and plants, however diverse they
may be, must have all been con-
nected together by gradation al
forms, so that from the highest ani-
mals, whatever they may be, down
to the lowest speck of gelatinous
matter in which life can be mani-
fested, there must be a sure and
progressive body of evidence a se-
ries of gradations by which you
could pass from one end of the
series to the other." Let us remark,
by the way, that the phrase " the
highest animals, whatever they may
fo," comprises rational animals that
is, all mankind ; which would imply
that our rational soul should be
traced " to the lowest speck of ge-
latinous .matter " as its first origin.
We need not dwell here on this
absurdity. The professor confesses
that " we have crocodiles, lizards,
snakes, turtles, and tortoises, ami
yet there is nothing no connecting
link between the crocodile and
lizard, or between the lizard and
snake, or between the snake and
the crocodile, or between any two
of these groups. They are sepa-
rated by absolute breaks." Such
being the case, it would seem that
the professor had a sufficient ground
for denying the theory of evolution
altogether. But, no ; whilst con-
fessing that there is " no connect-
ing link," he pretends that we must-
show that no connecting link has
ever existed. His words are :

" If, then, it could be shown that this
state of things was from the beginning
had always existed it would be fatal to
the doctrine of evolution. If the inter-
mediate gradations which the doctrine
of evolution postulates must have ex-
isted between these groups if they are
not to be found anywhere in the records

Three Lectures on Evolution.

627

of the past history of the globe all that
is so much a strong and weighty argu-
ment against evolution. While, on the
other hand, if such intermediate forms
are to be found, that is so much to the
good of evolution, although . . . we
must be cautious in assuming such facts
as proofs of the theory."

The wisdom of this last caution
is undeniable ; but is there not a
contradiction in the phrases " there
is no connecting link " and " the
intermediate forms may be found " ?

He then proceeds to show some
osteologic relations by which birds
and reptiles seem to be connected,
but from winch, as he concedes, no
proof of the theory of evolution
can be formed, and he concludes
in the following words : " In my
next lecture I will take up what I
venture to call the demonstrative evi-
dence of evolution." Let us, then,
give up all further examination of
the second lecture, and proceed to
a short inquiry upon the kind of
evidence condensed in the third.

We must say at once that the
evidence contained in the whole of
this third lecture neither directly
nor indirectly demonstrates that
one species of animals has been
evolved out of another species.
Granting that the animal remains
described by the professor corre-
spond entirely to his description of
them, and waiving all question about
the correct interpretation of the
same, we shall merely pass in re-
view the logical process by which
such remains are made to give tes-
timony to the Darwinian view.

In the exordium Mr. Huxley as-
sumes, as a point already establish-
ed in his second lecture, that the
evidence derived from fossil remains
" is perfectly consistent with the
doctrine of evolution." We have
seen that this is not true. .-.The pro-
fessor, entirely forgetful of all the

facts which he himself had acknow-
ledged to " directly contravene the
whole theory of evolution," insists
on the relations between birds and
reptiles and their intermediate
forms. " We find," he says, " in
the mesozoic rocks animals which, if
ranged in series, would so complete-
ly bridge over the interval between
the reptile and the bird that it
would be very hard to say where the
reptile ends and where the bird be-
gins." And he adds that "evi-
dence so distinctly favorable as this
of evolution is far weightier than
that upon which men undertake to
say that they believe many important
propositions ; but it is not the high-
est kind of evidence attained." If we
ask the professor why this evidence
is not the highest, he will give us
this reason :

" That, as it happens, the intermediate
forms to which I have referred do not
occur in the exact order in which they
ought to occur if they really had formed
steps in the progression from the reptile
to the bird ; that is to say, we find these
forms in contemporaneous deposits,
whereas the requirements of the demon-
strative evidence of evolution demand that
we should find the series of gradations
between one group of animals and an-
other in such order as they must have
followed if they had constituted a suc-
cession of stages in time of the develop-
ment of the form at which they ultimately
arrive. That is to say, the complete evi-
dence of the evolution of the bird from
the reptile should be of this character,
that in some ancient formation reptiles
alone should be found, in some later
formation birds should first be met with,
and in the intermediate formations we
should discover in regular succession
forms which I pointed out to you, which
are intermediate between the reptile and
the birds."

This answer proves not only that
the evidence alleged is not the
highest kind of evidence in favor of
evolution, but also that the evidence
conflicts with the hypothesis of evo-

628

TJircc Lectures on Evolution.

lution in such a manner as to cut
the ground from under the feet of
the lecturer. For if the intermedi-
ate forms between the reptile and
the bird are contemporaneous with
the reptile and the bird, it follows
that the bird has not been evolved
from the reptile through those in-
termediate forms. It is therefore
in vain that Mr. Huxley appeals to
this evidence as " so distinctly fa-
vorable to evolution."

The body of the lecture consists
of an attempt to show, from the os-
teology of the genus Equus, that our
modern horse proceeds from the
Orohippus. The lecturer first de-
scribes the characteristics of the
horse, using the term "horse" in a
general sense as equivalent to the
technical term Equus, and meaning
not only what we now call the horse,
but also asses and their modifica-
tions zebras, etc. He 'invites us to
pay a special attention to the foot
and the- teeth of the horse ; and then
he reasons as follows :

" If the hypothesis of evolution is true,
what ought to happen when we investi-
gate the history of this animal ? We
know that the mammalian type, as a whole,
that mammalian animals are characterized
by the possession of a perfectly distinct
radius and ulna two separate and dis-
tinct movable bones. We know, further,
that mammals in general possess five
toes, often unequal, but still as complete-
ly developed as the five digits of my
hand. We know, further, that the gene-
ral type of mammals possesses in the leg
not only a complete tibia, but a complete
fibula. The small bone of the leg is, as
a general rule, a perfectly complete, dis-
tinct, movable bone. Moreover, in the
hind-foot we find in animals in general
five distinct toes, just as we do in the
fore-foot. Hence it follows that we
have a differentiated animal like the
horse, which has proceeded by way of
evolution or gradual modification from
a similar form possessing all the charac-
teristics we find in mammals in general.
If that be true, it follows that, if there be
anywhere preserved in the series of rocks

a complete history of the horse that is to
say, of the various stages through which
he has passed those stages ought grad-
ually to lead us back to some sort of ani-
mal which possessed a radius, and an
ulna, and distinct complete tibia and fib-
ula, and in which there were five toes
upon the fore limb no less than upon the
hind limb. Moreover, in the average
general mammalian type, the higher
mammalian, we find as a constant rule an
approximation to the number of forty-four
complete teeth, of which six are cutting
teeth, two are canine, and the others of
which are grinders. In unmodified mam-
mals we find the incisors have no pit, and
that the grinding teeth as a rule increase
in size from that which lies in front to-
wards those which lie in the middle or at
the hinder part of the series. Conse-
quently, if the theory of evolution be cor-
rect, if that hypothesis of the origin of
living things have a foundation, we ought
to find in the series the forms which have
preceded the horse, animals in which the
mark upon the incisor gradually more
and more disappears, animals in which
the canine teeth are present in both sexes,
and animals in which the teeth gradually
lose the complication of their crowns,
and have a simpler and shorter crown,
while at the same time they gradually in-
crease in size from the anterior end of
the series towards the posterior."

The professor then proceeds to
show that all these conditions are
fulfilled :

" In the middle and earlier parts of the
pliocene epoch, in deposits which be-
long to that age, and which occur in
Germany and in Greece, to some extent
in Britain and in France, there we find
animals which are like horses in all the
essential particulars which I have just
described, . . . but they differ in some
important particulars. There is a differ-
ence in the structure of the fore and hind
limb, . . . but nevertheless we have
here a horse in which the lateral toes,
almost abortive in the existing horse,
are fully developed."

This horse is the Hipparion.

In the miocene formations "you

find equine animals which differ

essentially from the modern horse

. in the character of their fore

Three Lectures on Evolution.

629

and hind limbs, and present impor-
tant features of difference in the
teeth. The forms to which I now
refer are what are known to consti-
tute the genus Anchithenum. We
have here three toes, and the mid-
dle toe is smaller in proportion, the
lower toes are larger . . . and in
the fore arm you find the ulna, a
very distinct bone," etc., etc.

Lastly, in the oldest part of the
eocene formation we find the Oro-
hippus, which is the oldest specimen
of equine animals :

" Here we have the four toes on the
front limb complete, three toes on the
hind limb complete, a well-developed
ulna, a well-developed fibula, and the
teeth of simple pattern. So you are able,
thanks to these great researches, to show
that, so far as present knowledge ex-
tends, the history of the horse type is
exactly and precisely that which could
have been predicted from a knowledge
of the principles of evolution. And the
knowledge we now possess justifies us
completely in the anticipation that when
the still lower eocene deposits and those
which belong to the cretaceous epoch
have yielded up their remains of equine
animals, we shall find first an equine
creature with four toes in front and a
rudiment of the thumb. Then probably
a rudiment of the fifth toe will be gradu-
ally supplied, until we come to the five-
toed animals, in which most assuredly
the whole series took its origin."

To say plainly what we think of
this long argumentation, we believe
that it demonstrates nothing but
the eminent talkative faculty of the
lecturer. It all comes to this : Un-
modified mammals have five fingers
and five toes, whereas the modern
horse has only one. Therefore the
modern horse is but a modification
of a pre-existing form, and is to be
traced to the hipparion, the anchi-
therium, the orohippus, and other
more ancient forms which we have
not yet discovered, but which we
hope to discover hereafter. Now,

tins style of reasoning is simply
ridiculous.

First, even granting all the pre-
mises of the professor, the conclu-
sion that one species is derived
from another by evolution would
still remain unproved. For who
told Prof. Huxley that the animal
remains on which he bases his ar-
gument belong to different species,
and not to different varieties of one
and the same species ? Surely, a
greater or less development of one
or two bones cannot be considered
a sufficient evidence of specific dif-
ference ; for -we know that even in
the same variety there may be a
different development ; as in the
hound, which sometimes possesses
a spurious hind toe, and in the
mastiff, which occasionally shows
the same peculiarity. Hence the
professor has no right to assume
that the horse, the hipparion, the
anchitherium, etc., are animals of
different species ; and therefore
his argument has nothing to do
with the evolution of one species
from another.

Secondly, to assume without
proof that " unmodified mammalia "
have five fingers and five toes is to
assume without proof the very con-
clusion which was to be demonstrat-
ed ; for it is to assume that the
modern horse, which has neither
five fingers nor five toes, is not an
unmodified mammal, but a product
evolved by some more ancient form.
Now, this is what logicians call peti-
tio principii.

Thirdly, what does Prof. Huxley
mean by unmodified mammalia?
What are they ? For, in his theory
of evolution, every animal is a modi-
fication of a preceding form, and
the whole series of living beings
contains nothing but modified or-
ganisms. To find, therefore, an
unmodified mammal, it would be

630

Three Lectures on Evolution.

necessary to find the first of all
mammals from which all other
mammals of the same class have
proceeded. This first mammal is
still to be discovered, as the profes-
sor concedes. How, then, could he
know that the unmodified mammal
has five fingers and five toes ? And
if he did not know this, how did he
assume it as the very ground of his
pretended demonstration ?

Fourthly, how does Prof. Huxley
know that the horse proceeds from
the hipparion, the hipparion from
the anchitherium, and the anchi-
therium from the orohippus ? Of
this he knows nothing whatever.
He has no other ground for his
assertion, except the different ages
to which those deposits belong:
but a difference of age does not
prove that the older is the parent
of the younger. Alexander the
Great existed before Annibal, Anni-
bal before Csesar, Caesar before
Napoleon. Will our professor in-
fer from this that Napoleon was
the lineal descendant of Alexander
the Great ?

Fifthly, it is not true that " the
history corresponds exactly with
what one could construct d priori
from the principles of evolution."
The principles of the theory of evo-
lution demand that the more com-
plex organisms be considered as
evolved from the less complex, and
the more developed as evolved
from the less developed; for, ac-
cording to the theory, the further
we gtf back towards the origin of
life, the nearer we approach the
" protoplasm " or the " gelatinous
matter." It would therefore be
more in accordance with the theory
of evolution to say that the five-
toed animals must have proceeded
from animals possessing a simpler
and less developed organism, and
that the horse is the parent of the

hipparion, and of the anchitherium
and of the orohippus, which is quite
contrary to geological evidence.
Hence geological evidence flatly
contradicts the principles of evolu-
tion. In other terms, if mammalia
of different species have been evolv-
ed from one another, those animals
whose organism is more developed
must be more modern. Now, the
orohippus has an organism more
developed than that of the horse.
Therefore the orohippus, by the
principles of the theory, is more
modern than the existing horse.
But geological evidence shows the
contrary. Therefore geological
evidence directly conflicts with the
principles of evolution.

Sixthly, the whole argument of
the professor may be condensed in
the following syllogism : If the the-
ory of evolution is true, then we
must find such and such fossils.
But we find such and such fossils.
Therefore the theory of evolution is
true. By this form of reasoning
one would prove anything he likes.
Thus, for example, we might say, if
Professor Huxley has graduated at
Yale College, New Haven, he must
know the Hnglish language. But
he kaows the English language.
Therefore he has graduated at Yale
College, New Haven. The fallacy
consists in supposing that such
and such fossils could not be found,
except in the hypothesis that evolu-
tion is true. Hence, to avoid the
fallacy, the conditionate proposition
should have been inverted that is,
it should have been : If we find
such and such fossils in such and
s ( h deposits, then the theory of
evolution is true. But this propo-
sition co .ild not be assumed with-
out proofs.

But, says the lecturer .

" An inductive hypothesis is said to be

Tlirec Lectures on Evolution.

631

demonstrated when the facts are shown
to be in entire accordance with it. If that
is not scientific proof, there are no induc-
tive conclusions which can be said to be
scientific. And the doctrine of evolution
at the present time rests upon exactly as
secure a foundation as the Copernican
theory of the motion of the heavenly
bodies. Its basis is precisely of the same
character the coincidence of the observ-
ed facts with theoretical requirements.
As I mentioned just now, the only way
of escape, if it be a way of escape, from
the conclusions which I have just indicat-
ed, is the supposition that all these dif-
ferent forms have been created separately
at separate epochs of time ; and I repeat,
as I said before, that of such a hypothesis
as this there neither is nor can be any
scientific evidence ; and assuredly, so far
as I know, there is none which is sup-
ported, or pretends to be supported, by
evidence or authority of any other kind."

These sweeping assertions are all
founded on the assumption that the
facts have been shown to be in en-
tire accordance with the hypothesis.
But we have shown that the facts
contradict the hypothesis. It is
therefore a scientific necessity to
deny the hypothesis. Moreover,
scientific hypotheses are not proved
by the mere coincidence of the ob-
served facts with theoretical re-
quirements ; it is necessary to show,
further, that the observed facts can-
not be reconciled with a different
theory. Hence, even if the profes-
sor had shown the agreement of the
facts with his hypothesis, he would
still have had no right to conclude
in favor of his hypothesis on that
ground alone; for he would have
been obliged to show also that the
Mosaic theory does not agree with
those facts. What he says about
" the only way of escape" is a vain
boast, which has no real importance
except in as much as it may serve
for nv orical effect. We have no
need of seeking a way of escape ;
for we still follow our own old way,
which remains unobstructed. We

need not " make the supposition
that all different forms have been
created at separate epochs of time,"
though they may have been so
created ; nor do we require " scien-
tific evidence " of the truth of crea-
tion, for we have sufficient Biblical
and philosophical evidence of it ;
nor do we want evidence of certain
distinct or " separate" creations, for
we have this evidence in the Book
of Genesis. If any one needs " a
way of escape," it is the professor
himself, who has ventured to defend
a theory equally condemned by the
Mosaic history of the origin of things
and by the characteristic peculiari-
ties of the geological remains which
he has produced. As for us, even
if it were proved that the horse, the
hipparion, the anchitherittm, and the
orohippus are animals of different
species, nothing would oblige us to
admit that these animals have been
created "at separate epochs of
time" that is to say, in different
Scriptural days ; for these days, or
epochs, are each sufficiently long to
encompass the events to which the
geological record bears testimony.
On the other hand, were we to as-
sume that such animals have been
created at separate epochs of time,
we do not see on what ground the
professor could refute such a con-
jecture. He might say, of course,
that there is no " scientific evidence"
for the supposition ; but we might
reply that there are many facts
which science must accept on other
than scientific evidence ; and we
might even maintain that those fos-
sil remains on which the lecturer has
founded his pretended demonstra-
tion are themselves a primd facie
evidence in favor of said supposition,
But the supposition is not needed,
as we have remarked.

The professor concludes his lec-
ture thus : " I shall consider I have

63:

Three Lectures on Evolution.

done you the greatest service which
it was in my power in such a way
. to do, if I have thus convinced you
that this great question which we
are discussing is not one to be dis-
cussed, dealt with, by rhetorical
flourishes or by loose and superfi-
cial talk, but that it requires the
keenest attention of the trained in-
tellect, and the patience of the most
accurate observer."

These words were applauded by
the audience, and we too are glad
to applaud. But we may be al-
lowed to doubt if the lecturer, in
dealing with the question of evolu-
tion, has shown much respect for
the maxim which he proclaims.
We do not mean, of course, that
Professor Huxley's intellect is un-
trained, or that his scientific obser-
vations are inaccurate, but we think
we can safely say that his logic is not
as accurate as his scientific obser-
vations, and that his trained intel-
lect is apt to relish sham arguments
and superficial talk. When a man
can gravely express the opinion
that " there may be a world where
two and tw.o do not make four,"
the intellect of that man makes .a
poor show indeed ; nor does it
make a better show by assuming
that " there may have been a time
when the relation of cause and ef-
fect was still indefinite." In like
manner, when a man in the discus-
sion of a historical question ignores
all historical documents except those
which he thinks favorable to his
views ; when he strives to evade the
evidence of certain facts which can-
not be reconciled with his theory ;

or when he brings as a proof of the
theory what under examination is
found to clash with the principles
of the same theory, we must be ex-
cused if we cannot admire his logic.
The lecturer's misfortune is that
he is a victim of that proud and
absurd system of knowledge which
is named "modern thought." The
apostles of this system strive to
suppress God. The universe, ac-
cording to them, is not necessarily
the work of an intelligent Being.
Give them only a few specks of
" gelatinous matter," and they will
tell you that nothing else is requir-
ed to account for the origin of life,
intellect, and reason. If you say
that this is impossible, because the
effect cannot be more perfect than
its causality, they will inform you
that the words cause and effect,
though still tolerated, are becoming
obsolete, just as the ideas which
they express. If you ask, How did
the " gelatinous matter " itself ori-
ginate ? they will let you under-
stand that their science cannot go
so far as to attempt a clear answer ;
because, as Prof. Huxley adroitly
puts it, " the attempt to fix any
limit at which we should assign the
commencement of the series of
changes is given up." This suf-
fices to form a just estimate of the
scientific hypotheses concocted by
the leaders of "modern thought."
We are apt to boast of our superior
knowledge : but it is one of the
disasters of our time that the ab-
surd theories of such a perverted
science find ready acceptance
among educated men.

Up the Nile.

633

UP THE NILE.

WHEN Philip's son, on his way to
the temple of Jupiter Ammon in
the African desert, selected the
abode of the fabulous Proteus for
his future city, the gods encouraged
their nmch-loved child with a fa-
vorable omen. For whilst Dinocra-
tes, the architect, was marking out
the lines upon the ground, the
chalk he used was exhausted ;
\vherenpon the king, who was pre-
sent, ordered the flour destined for
the workmen's food to be employed
in its stead, thereby enabling him
to complete the outline of many
of the streets. An infinite num-
ber of birds, says Plutarch, of sev-
eral kinds, rising suddenly like a
black cloud out of the river and
lake, devoured the flour. Alexan-
der, troubled in mind as the work-
men, no doubt, were both in mind
and body, although the historian
does not so relate consulted the au-
gurs. These discreet men, who read
the divine Mind in their own fashion,
advised him to proceed, by observ-
ing that the occurrence was a sign
the city he was about to build
would enjoy such abundance of all
things that it would contribute to
the nourishment of many nations.
The workmen having swallowed
their indignation in place of their
food, the work proceeded, and Al-
exander, before continuing his jour-
ney, witnessed the commencement
of his flourishing city, B.C. 323.
Thus rose up Alexandria, the gate
of the Orient. Centuries are as
naught in its calendar; nay, thou-
sands of years sive but a feeble idea

of the length of its civilized exist-
ence. Enter the portals of the
Alexandria of to-day. What a
new world spreads out before you !
Is it not all a masquerade? These
strange boatmen with their bright-
colored robes, their magpie chatter-
ing are they real? Color coloi
everywhere : the cloudless blue sky
above, the green waters beneath,
the dark complexions, the red,
green, yellow of their garments,
the endless confusion of colors in,
around, and about. Close the eyes,
or they will be dazzled. Struggle
now, or see, those fellows will tear
you apart and carry you in pieces
to the shore, head in one boat, legs
in another happy you if even both
legs are in the same boat. Fight
hard now to retain your entire in-
dividuality. Well done ! Now fol-
low this handsome Arab ; he is a
dragoman and will protect you.
Take his olive-green suit and
bright red fez for a guide. See
how he strikes right and left; and,
by Allah ! down go a score of boat-
men. Are they hurt ? No matter ;
they are only Arabs, and menials at
that. He has you in "his own boat
now sound, too, nothing wanting ;
feel, if you are in doubt yes, head,
arms, legs, body, all here ; and he
stands in the stern and smiles com-
placently. He will talk to you in
any language, unintelligibly perhaps,
but then with such grace and dig-
nity ; you must pretend to under-
stand him. He will give you any
information, from the cost of build-
ing the pyramids to the price of

634

Up the Nile.

donkey-hire; will take you any-
where to Pompey's Pillar, As-
souan, the Mountains of the Moon.
And when you timidly inquire
where the mountains are, think-
ing you might like to make a
short visit, he smiles patronizingly,
and waves his hand gracefully to
the south. Up there ! three thou-
sand miles or more. But what is
that to him ? You are surprised
that he should have creditors, a
man of his appearance ; but you are
relieved, for he pays his debts, and
the custom-house officials smile,
place their hands on their hearts,
and bow your luggage out of the
custom-house. You are already be-
ginning to feel proud at being the
friend of so great a man. That
famous flirt Cleopatra lived here,
and toyed with the hearts of men
some of them real men, too; not
the Egyptian fops of the day, the
Greek society men, or the Roman
swells, but such men as Antony,
who lost half the world for her at
Actium. She it was who amused
herself by swallowing pearls, and
finally left this world to avoid the
honor of adorning the triumph of
Octavius. The augurs were right.
Alexander's city did contribute to
the nourishment of many nations,
physically and intellectually. Its
sails whitened every sea, bearing to
the capital and provinces of the em-
pire the treasures of Egypt, Arabia,
and India. Students flocked to its
schools ; its great library contained
over seven hundred thousand vol-
umes. Even as late as A.D. 641,
when Amru captured the city after
a siege of fourteen months, in his
letter to Omar he tells him that he
found there four thousand palaces,
as many baths, four hundred places
of amusement, and twelve thousand
gardens. Amru was inclined to spare
the library, being urged to do so

by John Philopanus ; but Omar sent
orders : " If the books contain the
same matter as the Koran, they are
useless ; if not the same, they are
worse than useless. Therefore, in
either case, they are to be burnt."
Even in their destruction they
were made useful ; for Abdollatiff
says there were so many books that
the baths of Alexandria were heat-
ed by them for the space of six
months. Those mystical enigmas
of Western childhood Cleopatra's
Needles turn out to be but obelisks
after all, and not of the best. They
stood originally at Heliopolis, but
Tiberius set them up in front of the
Caesarium in honor of himself.
Those old emperors were fond of
raising monuments to themselves,
that future generations might won-
der at their exploits, which many
times were performed in imagina-
tion only. One has fallen, and is a
white elephant on the hands of En-
gland. The English do not kno\v
what to do with it. Mohammed
AH gave it to them, and even offer-
ed to transport it free of expense to
the shore and put it on any vessel
sent to remove it. Possibly he
thought it reminded the people too
much of Tiberius, and wanted to
set up one for his own glorification.
No vessel was sent, and here it re-
mains, half covered with debris.
Pompey's Pillar is a column of high-
ly-polished red granite ninety-eight
feet nine inches in height, twenty-
nine feet eight inches in circum-
ference, erected by another of those
modest Roman emperors Diocle-
tian byname for the same purpose
that Tiberius set up the old obelisk.
It is a wonder that some of these
unpretentious rulers, with their char-
acteristic modesty, did not carry out
the idea proposed to Alexander by
Dinocrates, and have Mount Athos
cut into a statue of themselves,

Up the Nile.

635

holding in one hand a city of ten
thousand inhabitants, and from the
other pouring a copious river into
the sea. Perhaps they thought this
city would be deserted, the inhabi-
tants fearing that natural instinct
would cause the hand to close and
grab up everything, people and all.
What a motley mass of humanity
throng its narrow streets Greeks,
Jews, Turks, and people of almost
every nation in Europe, but few
Copts, the descendants of the old
Egyptians. When Cambyses made
his trip to Egypt, 524 B.C., he per-
suaded most of them to leave the Del-
ta and retire to the Thebaid, where
their descendants are found to this
day. It is hard to understand the
Copt. In other parts of the world
a man who can trace his pedigree
a few centuries back carries that
fact in his face, and considers him-
self, and is considered, above other
men. Here we talk in an off-hand,
familiar way with Copts living in
the same place where their ances-
tors have lived for six thousand
years or more men who can trace
their ancestry through a long roll
of illustrious names to the world's
conquerors, the Rameses and Qsi-
tarsens ; and they were not proud
of it in fact, they did not seem to
know anything about it. Perhaps
it was such an old, old story that it
had been forgotten ages before.

A well-managed railway leads to
Cairo. Strange ! a railway in the
land where the grandson of Noe
settled, where Joseph outwitted the
king's cunning ministers : Mash el
Kaheral, the victorious city, called
Cairo by the Western barbarians,
with donkeys and camels, eunuchs
and harems, palm-trees and daha-
beeahs, all within sight of the station,
and yet to be pushed into an omni-
bus ! O Western civilization ! will
you never let this picturesque world

alone? To travel five thousand
miles, thinking all the way of riding
on donkeys like Ali Baba, or perch-
ed high on a camel like Moham-
med, and then be conveyed to the
hotel in an omnibus, as though in
London or New York ! I thought
I could detect a frown on the
Sphinx's usually impassible face, as
one passed it the other day. You
can easily imagine the pyramids
holding serious debate as to the
advisability of ruining themselves
as objects of interest by tumbling
over and crushing out these new-
fangled contrivances. We are go-
ing up the Nile, so we steal a hasty
glance at the pyramids, nod to the
Sphinx as though we had been on
speaking terms for three or four
thousand years, visit the citadel
at sunset, get bewildered at the
strange sights, do and see every-
thing in the orthodox style, and are
off. Going up the Nile, I determin-
ed to write a book, so voluminous
notes were taken measurements
and statistics enough to puzzle the
brain of an antiquarian ; such me-
teorological observations, too !
Probabilities would have found it
hard to digest them. All travellers.
do this. Coming down the Nile, I
concluded that I would not write a
book. Most travellers do this. Be-
fore going to the East I had no idea
of the vast amount of literature ex-
isting touching Egypt, the Egyp-
tians, and the Nile trip. Returning,
I was conversant with it. I had seen
the people through the richly-tinted
glasses of euphonious Curtis, had
studied them through the sombre
spectacles of erudite Wilkinson and
Lane. I had watched them through
the soft lens of a woman's tender
mind, and been startled at their
wondrous doings under the magni-
fying-glasses of highly marvellous
Prime. I intended telling why I

636

Up the Nile.

went to the East. Most writers
think an apology due their readers
for leaving home, or, at least, that
they should give their reasons, the
difficulties of engaging a dahabeedh,
to report what the reis said, and
how our dragoman answered him
all in broken English, of course.
But I will simply tell a short story
how certain pale-faced howadjii
from the West sailed up to the sec-
ond cataract of the Nile and back
again, and what befell them.

The wind blew from the north,
and we started. Now, it is a pecu-
liarity of the Nile trip that the wind
always blows from the north before
the dahabeeahs start, although it
generally takes four or five pages
to tell it, after "everything is on
board and all impatient for the
start," and the reader is left in
some doubt as to whether the boat
is going at all. But as the course
is to the south, and these boats can-
not tack, the reader may no\v un-
derstand why he is kept so long
waiting until " the breeze blows
fresh from the north, the great sail
drops down like the graceful plu-
mage of some giant bird, and the
shores glide past like the land of
the poet's dream." We commenced
the voyage by running aground, and
we continued it somewhat in the
same way. We did not travel on
land ; for I said something above
about the direction of the wind
and its connection with our start-
ing, so that one might infer we were
on a boat. But scarce a day pass-
ed that we did not run aground at
least once, and often three or four
times. Finally we became so used
to it that, seated in the cabin, we
could tell by the shouting what
means were being employed to
shove the boat off. The invoca-
tions were always the same. Would
a good Moslem, think you, call up-

on any but the two sacred name?,
Allah, Mohammed the God and the
Prophet? But the intonations of
the voice told the story. Grunting
out these sacred names, starting
from the extremity of the toes,
struggling and fighting with each
nerve and muscle as they came up,
told us unmistakably that they wjre
pushing with long poles. Now a
fearful colic seizes the crew ; they
groan and cry, and in the deepest
misery implore God and the Pro-
phet to free them from their suffer-
ings ; and we are well aware that
they are in the water, making pre-
tended strenuous efforts to raise
the boat with their backs. A
bright, lively chorus tells us that
they are setting sail. A dead si-
lence informs us to amoral certain-
ty that they are eating their meals.
Let me tell you something about
the dahabeeah ; for it is to be our
home for many weeks. The Sitta
Mariam, as we called it, was nine-
ty-seven feet long, sixteen in width,
and drew three feet of water. The
forward part was reserved for the
use of the crew. In the hold they
kept food and clothes. On the
deck they slept the more fastidi-
ous ones on sheepskins, the others
upon the bare boards. In the Orient
everything is just the reverse of
the Occident. We cover our feet
and expose the head while sleeping.
They wrap up the head with care,
and expose the feet to the some-
times chilly air of the night. A
box placed near the bow, six feet
high, the same width, and two feet
deep, served for a kitchen. Aft of
the forecastle were nine state-rooms,
and a dining-saloon fifteen feet
square. A flight of steps led to
the upper deck, which extended to
the stern of the boat. Handsome
Turkey rugs, divans, and easy-chairs
made this a most comfortable loung-

Up the Nile.

637

x ing place for 'the howadjii ; and, in
sooth, when not eating or sleeping,
we spent all our time here. Near
t he stern we had a poultry-yard, sev-
eral coops filled with turkeys, chick-
ens, and squabs. We always had
one or two live sheep with us, car-
ried in the rowboat called felluka
which floated astern. The fore-
mast was placed near the bow, and
from its summit, forty-two feet from
the deck, swung the large yard or
trinkeet, one hundred and fifteen
feet long. From this was suspend-
ed the triangular sail called "la-
teen." When furled, the rope was
so bound around it that, although
securely held, yet, by a strong pull
directly downwards, it was immedi-
ately let loose. In the rear, aft the
rudder, we carried a smaller sail of
the same description, called a " ba-
lakoom." The boat was of three
hundred and eighty ardebs about
forty tons burden. I have said
that we called it the Silta Maria in.
or " Lady Mary. " Originally it was
named The Swallow, and the year
before a native artist had been en-
gaged to paint this name upon it.
Thinking the word should be writ-
ten as an Arabic one, he commenc-
ed at the wrong end. To add to
this, by some mischance he omitted
a letter; the result was the name
on the side of the boat in large,
bold letters, "Wallow."

A few words concerning the ship's
company. The howadjii were four
Americans. The next most impor-
tant personage is Ahmud Abdallah
i.e., servant of God our dragoman,
he of the olive-green suit and red
fez. Has any one ever determined
the precise etymology of the word
dragoman ? Often I am constrain-
ed to think that it is an abbreviation
of the words " dragger-of-man."
On one point I am clear: this will
give a more accurate idea of the

position of the individual than any
other yet suggested. From the
time you come in contact with one
of this species until you run away
from him for he will never leave
you, unless your money should be-
come exhausted he is continually
dragging you around. Do not think
the howadji is bullied by his drago-
man. On the contrary, the meekness,
suavity, and urbanity of that indi-
vidual are beyond description. He
receives his master's orders in si-
lence and with bowed head, but a
keen observer might often detect a
sneering smile, showing how little he
thinks of obeying them. Ahrnud was
a handsome Arab, thirty-six years
of age and an Oriental Brummel.
What a wardrobe of bright-colored
trousers and richly-embroidered
vests he had ! Each afternoon
he would sqftat cross-legged upon
his bed, and ponder Tor an hour or
more over the sacred mysteries of
the Koran. An hour scarce suffic-
ed to dress, and then he would ap-
pear on deck in his 'suit of bright
Algerine cloth, the little jacket re-
lieved by a white vest set off with
red or blue, his feet encased in red
slippers beautifully contrasting with
his stockings of immaculate white-
ness, on his head the jaunty fez.
When the sweet breezes were waft-
ing us softly up the stream, and a
stillness and repose unknown in
other lands seemed to pervade all
nature, Ahmud, in his gorgeous at-
tire, would appear on the quarter-
deck, seat himself in the most com-
placent manner, light his cigarette,
and appear the ideal of self-satis-
faction and contentment. We had
contracted to pay him a certain
sum per duiu ; in return he was to
supply boat, sailors, food, and every-
thing requisite for the voyage as
he expressed it : " You pay me so
much every day; no put hand in

638

Up the Nile.

pocket at all." When reproved, he
would become sulky like a spoilt
child, and remain in that state for
several days, replying as concisely
to our questions as politeness would
permit, and otherwise having noth-
ing whatsoever to say to us. AH
Abdakadra,his brother-in-la\v, was a
fine -looking young Arab of twenty-
three. He was supposed to be the
assistant dragoman. My private
opinion of course not communicat-
ed to him is that he was solely in-
terested in supplying those mate-
rials with which the highways of
another and still warmer clime are
thought to be paved. This is not
a very lucrative occupation, nor one
conducive to man's advancement in
this world; but, notwithstanding our
advice, he persisted in it. I do not
think there ever issued from the
lips of any man so many resolutions
of doing so much, so many good in-
tentions; and I am morally certain
that so many resolutions and inten-
tions never before were so utterly
fruitless. Shortly after we started
he came to me full of excitement,
and informed me that he was going
to write a guide-book for the Nile.
" Now," said he, " there is Ibrahim,
our waiter; he has made this trip
several times, and yet knows nothing
about the temples or tombs I doubt
whether he has even seen them.
This is my first trip. I. will take
notes and write a book. Will you
lend me your Murray to assist me ?"
I t consented. The book remained
unopen in his room for two months.
I then called the loan. He took
not a note, but left many, on tem-
.ples, obelisks, and tombs. When
visiting temples, AH was the first to
arrive, and when we came up we
were informed by enormous letters,
written with a burnt stick, that Ali
Abdakadra had visited that temple on
the current day. When sent upon an

errand he did not wish to pefform.
he would proceed at a pace which
could be easily excelled by a not
overfed crab. One of our party, at
Ali's earnest request, spent some
time instructing him in taxidermy.
He would take back to Cairo any
number of birds and sell them ; had
even counted his profits, and told
us how he would expend them.
Result : He half-skinned a hawk in
the most bungling manner, and then
left it hanging up until the offen-
sive odor caused us to order it to
be cast overboard. Ibrahim Saleem
is our waiter not a talker, but a
worker, a model of neatness and
propriety, performing his duties
with perfect regularity and order.
Reis Mohammed Suleyman, a short,
well-built man, is the most labori-
ous of them all. The responsibility
of the boat is upon him. and he is
fully equal to it. He is a very
quiet man, except when angered,
and then through his set teeth
swears by Allah and the Prophet
to wreak the direst vengeance upon
the offender. He is pious, however,
and prays frequently. When a
sheep is to be killed, he is the butch-
er; and never was sheep more
skilfully killed and prepared for the
table. Any sewing of sails, clothes,
or of anything else that is to be done
is brought to him and, squatted cross-
legged on the deck, he is trans-
formed into a tailor. In the even-
ings, when the rest of the sailors
amuse themselves with song and
dance, Reis Mohammed will sit for
hours in perfect silence, holding the
line in his hand, and, after thus pa-
tiently waiting, will draw up a cat-
fish weighing from twenty to thirty
pounds. He is devotedly attached
to his merkeb (boat), and woe be-
tide the unfortunate sailor who in-
jures it in the slightest manner ! It
is customary, when we reach the

Up the Nile.

639

towns wherein any of the sailors
reside, for them to leave the boat
for a few hours or for the night, if
we remain so long and visit their
homes. Reis Mohammed lived at
Minieh ; when we reached it he
would not leave, preferring to stay
with his boat to the pleasure of
seeing his wife or wives. I can see
Reis Ahmud, the second captain,
before me now, leaning like a statue
upon the broad handle of the rud-
der, the only evidence of life be-
ing the thin clouds of smoke is-
suing from his lips. Hour after
hour he would maintain that posi-
tion, moving only when it was ne-
cessary to shift the helm, and then
not using his hands, but moving it
by the weight of his body resting
against it. His eyes were most sin-
gular in appearance, and for a long
while I was puzzled to account for
their strange effect. Coming on the
quarter very early one morning, I
found him kneeling before a small
glass and staining around his eyes
with a black substance called kohl.
He is the drummer of the crew, and in
the evenings, seated with the sail-
ors, he plays the darbooka, or na-
tive drum. This instrument is of
the same shape and material as
those used at the festive gatherings
of the Egyptians ere Moses was
nay, even before the wrath of God
had showered the deluge of waters
upon the iniquitous world. It is
made of earthenware in the shape
of a hollow cylinder surmounted by
a truncated cone; this is covered
with sheepskin. It is played with
the fingers. Ali Aboo Abdallah,
our cook, is to be noticed princi-
pally on account of his name, which
illustrates the system of nomencla-
ture in vogue among certain Mo-
hammedans. Before he was mar-
ried his name was Ali something or
other. His first boy was named

Abdallah, and the father then be-
came Ali Aboo i.e., the father of
Abdallah the son giving the name
to the father, to show the world
that the latter was the proud pos-
sessor of an heir. A seeming bun-
dle of old clothes lying on the deck,
but showing, by faint signs of anima-
tion at meal-time, that animal life
existed within it, represented Ali el
Delhamawi,Reis Mohammed's uncle,
the oldest man of the crew. The
duty of this animated rag-bag was
to ho.ld the tail of the sail during
the upward voyage, and to go
through the movements of rowing
on the home-trip. Next in order
come Haleel en Negaddeh, a surly,
well-built Arab, appointed by the
owner to look after the welfare of
the boat ; Mahsood el Genawi, a
slim, cross-eyed fellow ; Ahmud
Said el Genawi, a fine specimen
of a man, the most powerful and
the hardest worker among them
all; Hassein Sethawi, a tough,
wiry little fellow, the barber of the
crew ; Ashmawi Ashman, the baby
of the party, the best-dressed man,
petted by the others, and, as a nat-
ural consequence, doing but little
work ; Gad Abdallah, another ser-
vant of the Deity ; Ahmud es Soef-
fle and Hassein es Soeffle, known
to us by their most striking non-
Arabic peculiarity silence and
Haleel el Deny, the queer-looking
old man who cooks for the crew.
Last, but not least, comes Moham-
med el Abiad, or Mohammed the
White, the blackest man of all. He
was the funny man, the court-jester.
He was always saying funny things,
so we were told, and whenever he
opened his lips the others burst out.
laughing, including sober old Reis
Mohammed. He was useful to us
by keeping the crew in good-hu-
mor. All his physical strength was
exhausted in expelling the sallies

640

Up the Nile.

of wit from his mouth. He had his
own ideas concerning manual labor,
which, summed up into a maxim,
were about as follows : Make it ap-
pear to others that you do more
work than anyone else; do as little
as you possibly can. For squatting
and doing nothing he was unsur-
passed. In grunting, singing, and
contorting every lineament of his
visage when at work he excelled all
the others taken together. Here is
a specimen of his funny sayings : On
asking him, through Ahmud, why
he was called " the white" when he
was so black, he said it was be-
cause his father was called Moham-
med the Green, and he was the
blacker of the two. At this the
crew laughed immoderately. Ori-
ental wit or humor is doubtless un-
appreciable by the dull minds of
the Western Christian dogs.

Now that you know us all boat,
crew, andhowadjii come, sail with
us, see the strange scenes, watch
the moving panorama, and witness
the daily comedies enacted around
us.

We are about to stop under the
cliffs of Gebel Aboo Lay da, the
Arabian chain, which here borders
immediately on the river not a
very safe place, either; for Ali re-
quests me to fire some pistol-shots
to frighten away the thieves. There
is no village near, and we have no
guard. When we stop near a vil-
lage, two or three miserable-look-
ing creatures crouch around a fire
on the bank. They are our guard.
I feel morally certain "that as soon
as we leave the quarter-deck the
guard goes to sleep. I have come
to this determination from a study
of these Arabs. Their idea of
worldly happiness is eating, smok-
ing, and sleeping ; of heavenly bliss,
the "same, with the beautiful houri
added. The next day we reach

Manfaloot. It is market-day, and
the sailors are going ashore to buy
provisions. The strange sights and
scenes so confused me that I was
not quite sure of being awake.
Sometimes it seemed like a play ; I
was nervous, and hurried for fear
the curtain should fall before every-
thing could be seen. How I wish-
ed my ears changed into eyes, and
a pair set in the back of my head !
Now I begin to comprehend the
scenes about me. Perhaps this is
real life after all. That tall, hand-
some woman carrying herself so
erect, with the jar balanced on her
head, is perhaps not doing this
for our amusement merely. I can
sleep now without laughing. I am
becoming part of this strange world.
Let us look around Manfaloot while
the sailors are laying in our stock
of provisions. Here is the shopping
street. Nature has kindly spared
these people the need of a committee
on highways. Each individual has
resolved himself into a pavier. No
taxes for these streets two rows
of houses built of sun-dried bricks,
running parallel, with a space of
severity feet between. Sidewalks
and glitters are trodden hard by
the passers-by a cheap, primitive
mode of paving; a little dusty at
times, 'tis true, but then Allah sends
the dust : it can do no great harm,
and there is no need of repairs. Look
at this house. The owner has vis-
ited Mecca. How do we know it ?
See that railway train painted over
the door, with a bright blue engine ;
two engineers, each three times as
tall as the engine, smoke-stack and
all ; the cars red, green, yellow, run-
ning up and down hill at the same
time. Six of them are filled with
giants painted green apt color,
too, for men who would travel on
such a train. It looks like the slate-
drawing of a school-boy. Yes ; but

Up the Nile.

641

these are modern Egyptian hiero-
glyphics. The train tells us that
the owner has travelled ; and where
should a good Moslem go but
to Mecca ? So the owner is a
hadji and wears a green turban.
All the children suffer with ophthal-
mia. This ophthalmia must be
something like lumps of sugar ; the
flies seem to think so, at least.
What a crowd is following us ! But
they are respectful ; seem amused at
the pale faces and curious garments
of the howadjii. How their eyes di-
late at the sight of Madam's gloves !
"The Sitta has a white face and
black hands. Allah preserve us ! she
is actually taking off her hands.
No, it is the outer skin ; and now they
are pale like her face. By the Pro-
phet ! this is strange." They crowd
around her, touch her hands, then
her gloves, timidly and respectful-
ly ; no, they cannot understand it.
Abiad is going to ask for a sheep ;
the crew have selected him, for
they feel confident we cannot refuse
him when he asks in his humorous
way. Followed by the grinning
crew, he appears before us, and, put-
ting up his hands to the sides of his
head to represent long ears, ejacu-
lates, " Ba-a ! ba-a !" We were not
convulsed with laughter, but the
good-hearted " Sitta " promised
them a sheep for Christmas-time,
which was near at hand.

This fertile country contains
about five millions of inhabitants.
Above Cairo the valley of the Nile
and Egypt are synonymous. For,
where neither artificial irrigation
nor the magic waters of the Nile
give life to the parched soil, the
sand of the desert renders the coun-
try as utterly unproductive as the bit-
ter waters of the Dead Sea. The
river varies in width from three
hundred and sixty-five yards at Ha-
gar Silseleh to a mile or more in
VOL. xxiv. 41

other parts. The narrow strip
of productive soil is in no part
more than ten miles in width, save
where the quasi-oasis of the Fyoom
joins the west bank near Benisoeef.
In many places the banks of the
river mark the boundaries of the
available soil. The cultivation of
the land follows the receding waters.
The rising of the Nile commences
in July, and the greatest height is
reached about the end of Septem-
ber, from which time the waters
gradually recede. In December
we grounded upon a certain sand-
bank covered with two feet of water.
I noted the spot, and when we pass-
ed it on our return voyage, about
the 6th of March following, the
natives were planting melons upon
it in a layer of the richest and most
productive soil, left there by the re-
ceding waters, borne upon their
bosom from the far-distant sources
of the Blue Nile. From its far-off
Abyssinian home the fertilizing Blue
Nile flows on to Khartoom, where it
meets the White Nile coming from
still more distant parts, and from
there the single river rushes on in
its long, uninterrupted voyage to the
sea. Until quite recently the cause
of the annual overflow of the Nile
was unknown. The priests, the
most learned men of ancient Egypt,
were unable to give Herodotus any
reason for it. Some of the Greeks,
wishing, says he, to be distinguish-
ed for their wisdom, attempted to
account for these inundations in
three different ways. But the care-
ful historian, placing no confidence
in them, repeats them, as he says,
merely to show what they are : The
Etesian winds, preventing the Nile
from discharging itself into the sea,
cause the river to swell. The ocean
flowing all around the world, and
the Nile flowing from it, produce
this effect an opinion, he observes,

6 4 2

Up the Nile.

showing more ignorance than, the
former, but more marvellous. The
third way of resolving this difficul-
ty is by far the most specious, but
most untrue : the Nile flowing from
melted snow. For how, he asks in
his quaint way, since it runs from a
very hot, from Libya through the
middle of Ethiopia to a colder region
Egypt can it flow from snow ?
And he then goes on, with seeming
modesty, to venture his own opinion :
" During the winter season the sun
being driven from his former course
by storms, retires to the upper part
of Libya. This, in a few words, com-
prehends the whole matter ; for it is
natural that the country which the
god is nearest to, and over which
he is, should be most in want of
water, and that the native river
streams (/>., the sources of the Nile)
should be dried up. He attracts
the water to himself, and, having so
attracted it, throws it back upon the
higher regions. I do not think, how-
ever, that the sun on each occasion
discharges the annual supply of wa-
ter from the Nile, but that some re-
mains about him. When the winter
grows mild, the sun returns again to
the middle of the heavens, and from
that time attracts water equally from
all rivers. Up to this time those
other rivers, having much rain-water
mixed with them, flow with full
streams; but when the showers fail

them, and they are attracted in sum-
mer by the sun, they become weak,
and the Nile alone, being destitute
of rain, is hard pressed by the sun's
attraction in winter. In summer it
is equally attracted with all other
waters, but in winter it alone is at-
tracted. Thus I consider the sun
is the cause of these things " (Hero-
dotus, Euterpe). From that time
many able minds have given to
the world vain conjectures up-
on this most interesting subject.
The extensive discoveries of mod-
ern African explorers have furnished
a much clearer idea of the cause of
this beneficent overflow than the in-
genious theory of Herodotus or the
opinions of his wise Grecian friends.
During the first few days of the in-
undation the water has a green tint,
which is supposed to be caused by
the first rush of the descending tor-
rents, carrying off the stagnant wa-
ters from the interior of Darfour.
This is thought to be unwholesome,
and the natives store up before-
hand what water they may need for
these few days. A red tint follows
this, caused by the surface-washing
of red-soiled districts. When the
inundation subsides, the water is of
a muddy color, pleasant to drink,
and quite innocuous. The paint-
ings of the old Egyptians represent
these three conditions of the river by
waters colored green, red, and blue.

Six Sunny Monttis.

643

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE HOUSE OF YORKE," " GRAPES AND THORNS, " ETC.

CHAPTER IX.
A BRIGHT EVENING.

EVERYBODY knows the great sights
of Rome by repute, if not by sight,
and it may safely be said that no
one cares to hear more of them in
the way of description. Indeed,
seeing them first, we almost regret
having heard so much, and find it
difficult to free the real object from
the debris of our preconceptions.
There is, however, an endless num-
ber of less notable objects, little bits
here and there a stair, a street, a
door-way, or garden, half rough, or
almost altogether rough, but with
some beautiful point, like a gem
that has had one facet only cut.
These, besides their own beauty,
have the charm of freshness. The
stale, useful guide-book, and the
weary tribe of tourists, know them
not.

One of these unspoilt places is to
be found almost next door to casa
OttanfOtto. It is a chapel attach-
ed to an Augustinian convent in
which the changed times have left
only one frate with his attendant
lay brother. The chapel has a
rough brick floor, and large piers
of stone and mortar supporting,
most unnecessarily, the white-wash-
ed roof, and the walls at either side
are painted with a few large fres-
cos of saints. There are two cha-
pels only, one at each side of the
principal altar, adorned with such
poor little bravery as the frati
and the frequenters of their church
nearly all beggars, or very poor
could afford. The chapel has, how-

ever, one beauty a Madonna and
Child over the high altar. The Mo-
ther, of an angelic and flower-like
beauty, holds the Infant forward to-
ward the spectator, and the Infant,
radiant with a sacred sweetness, ex-
tends his right hand, the two fingers
open in benediction.

Mass is said here early in the
morning, and a Benediction of the
Blessed Sacrament given every
Tuesday evening an hour before
Ave Maria, the bells ringing always
three times for each service.

The Signora had spoken at home
of this little church of Sant' Anto-
nino, and had laughingly called the
attention of the family to the slip-
shod ringing of the Angelus, where
the different divisions of strokes,
the bell being swung from below,
" spilled over," as she expressed it,
in a number of fainter strokes before
and after the regular ones. " But
it is a dear little place to go to,"
she said. u There one finds the
Lord as one might have found him
when on earth visibly in the midst
of the poor, with but few followers,
and no splendor of circumstance to
take one's eyes away from him.
And sometimes, if one's disposition
be fortunate, his presence over-
flows the place."

Coming homeward alone, one
evening, just as the bell rang, Mr.
Vane stepped into the chapel, and,
after hesitating a moment inside the
door, went up the side aisle and
seated himself in a corner. He

644

Six Sunny Mont/is.

had been there more than once
early in the morning, but this was
his first evening visit, and he did
not care, for several reasons, to en-
counter any of his family, should
they come.

The congregation was, as the
Signora had said, poor enough.
There were a few old women, with
kerchiefs on their heads ; a sober,
decent man, who hid himself in a
retired corner, and knelt with his
hands covering his face during the
whole service ; a lame old man, with
a worn and sorrowful face ; and a
young mother, with an infant in her
arms and two little ones clinging to
her skirts.

Not one of these paid the slight-
est attention to the others, or show-
ed any consciousness of being, or
expecting to be, observed. All
looked toward the altar, on which
the Host was now exposed, and all
prayed with a fervor which could
not but communicate itself to the
spectator ; for it was the quiet fervor
of faith and habit, and was not ex-
cited by beautiful sights, or music,
or the presence of a crowd. They
beheld the mysterious token of the
Holy Presence, and the Madonna
the Lady of Health, they called her
and worshipped, as untroubled
by vanity as by doubt.

The two little ones whispered
and played behind their mother's
back, but no one was disturbed by
them. No one ever hushes the
play of children in a Roman church.
The infant crowed and prattled
at first, and pulled the kerchief
from its mother's head ; but espy-
ing presently the candles, and hear-
ing the organ and voices, it fell in-
to a trance, divided between staring
and listening, which held it motion-
less till the service was over.
Rather late came .a young woman
dressed in an absurd travesty of the

prevailing fashion, with a cheap
soiled skirt trailing behind her, a
hideous tunic pulled in about her
and tied behind in that style that
gives a woman the appearance of
one trying to walk in a sack, and a
bonnet made up of odds and ends
of ribbon and flowers and feathers
pitiable to see. But the poor thing
had donned this miserable finery
with no worse intention than that
any lady has when assuming
Worth's last costume, and, hearing
the voice of prayer as she passed,
had done what the lady of fashion
would not, perhaps, have done
obeyed its summons, and entered
modestly and humbly the presence
of God. Perhaps it was the one
pleasure in a hard life, that occa-
sional promenade in what she con-
ceived to be a fine dress ; perhaps
she had been pleased, and was
thankful for it, as we sometimes are
for pleasures no more harmless ; it
may be she was disappointed and
had come to find comfort. Who
knows ?

Mr. Vane looked intently at this
girl a few minutes in a way he had,
something penetrating in his scru-
tiny, yet nothing offensive ; for it
was as far removed from imperti-
nent curiosity as from a too familiar
sympathy. Then the Litany recall-
ed him. As he listened to it, he
thought that he had never- heard
music at once so good and so bad.
The organ was like a sweet, coura-
geous soul in an infirm body. All
the wheezing and creaking of the
bellows could not prevent the tones
from being melodious. How many
there were in the choir he could
not tell. The absurd little organ-
loft over the door, reached by a
ladder in full view at the side, had
so high a screen that the singers
were quite hidden. They sounded
like a host, however, for their voices

Six Sunny Mont/is.

645

echoed and reverberated from arch
to arch and from end to end of the
chapel, so that, without the aid of
sight, it was hard to know where
the sound had its origin ; and when,
at every fourth verse, the priest and
congregation took up the song, the
air literally trembled with the force
of it. Mr. Vane fancied he felt his
hair stir.

His heart stirred, most certainly ;
for the power and earnestness of
the singing, which made a mere
cultivated vocalism trivial and tame,
and perhaps the sustained high
pitch of it all contained within
four notes touched the chord of
the sublime. They sang the titles
of the Virgin-Mother, calling on her,
by every tender and every glorious
privilege of hers, to pray for them ;
and their prayer was no more the part
of an oft-repeated ceremony, but the
cry of souls that might each or all,
in an instant, be struggling in the
waves of death. Life itself grew
suddenly awful while he listened,
and he remembered that salvation
is to be " worked out in fear and
trembling."

He lifted his eyes to the picture
over the altar, and it was no longer
a picture. The figures floated be-
fore him in the misty golden light
of many candles, as if there were
blood in their veins and meaning
in their faces. The Mother ex-
tended her Child, and the Child
blessed them, and both listened.
She was the Mystical Rose, the
Morning Star ; she was the Help of
the weak, the Mother of divine
Grace. They sang her glories, and
this listener from a far land forgot
the narrow walls that hemmed him
in, and saw only those faces, and
felt, as it were, the universe rock
with acclamations. She was a
queen, and under her feet, and
about her, bearing her up, were

angels, prophets, martyrs, confes-
sors, and patriarchs. Their wings,
wide-spread and waving ; their gar-
ments of light, as varied in hue as
the rainbow ; their radiant faces
were like the crowding clouds of
sunset ; and over them all, buoyant,
glowing with celestial sweetness
and joy, floated the woman crown-
ed with stars, the only human be-
ing whom sin had never dared to
touch. The stars swam about her
head like golden bees about a
flower; and as a flower curls its
petals down, half hiding, half reveal-
ing, the shining heart which is its
source and life, so the Mother bent
above and clasped the Infant. In
the centre of fhis vision was the
Blessed Sacrament exposed, more
marvellous than any vision, more
real than any other tangible thing ;
so that Imagination was bound to
Faith as wings to the shoulders of
an angel.

There was a little stir in one cor-
ner of the chapel ; for the strange
gentleman had nearly fallen from
his chair, and a lay brother, passing
at the moment, supported him, and
asked what he would have and
what ailed him.

The gentleman replied that noth-
ing ailed him, that he needed noth-
ing but fresher air, and he immedi-
ately recovered so far as to go out
without assistance. He had, indeed,
been more self- forgetting and en-
tranced than fainting, and even
when he stood on the sidewalk, with
familiar sights and sounds all about,
could hardly remember where he
was. He walked a little way up the
hill opposite, and stood looking ab-
sently along a cross-street at the
other end of which a new Gothic
church was in progress.

A man who had been standing
near approached him with an insin-
uating smile. " Our church is get-

646

Six Sunny Months.

ting along rapidly," he said in Eng-
lish, appearing to know whom he
addressed. " We shall soon have
divine service in it, I hope."

" Divine service !" repeated Mr.
Vane rather absently, not having
looked at the meeting-house, and
scarcely knowing what was being
said to him. "What divine ser-
vice ?"

" Oh ! the Protestant, of course,"
the stranger answered with great
suavity. " I am a minister of the
Gospel."

"What Gospel?" inquired Mr.
Vane, looking at the speaker with
the air of one who listens patiently
to nonsense.

The man stared. " The Gospel
of Christ. There is no other."
He knew who Mr. Vane was, and had
expected to be himself recognized.
" It is time the Gospel should be
preached in this wicked and idola-
trous city." .

" Is it worse than other cities?"
Mr. Vane asked calmly. " Most
cities are wicked, but few cities
have saints in them, as this has.
We are told that the wheat and the
tares shall grow together till the
final harvest. As for your religion "
he stretched his hand to a load of
straw that was passing, and drew a
handful out " it has no more Gospel
in it than there is wheat in that
straw."

The rattling bells of Sant' Anto-
nino were ringing for the Tantum
Ergo. He turned, without another
word, and went back, kneeling just
within the door till the Benediction
was over.

When he went into the house
the Signora was singing the "He
was despised and rejected of men,"
from the Messiah. Before her on
the piano stood a picture that had
just been sent her her favorite de-
votional picture, which she had

long been trying to get. Outside
a door, overgrown with vines and
weeds, and fastened by a bolt, stood
the Lord, waiting sorrowfully and
patiently, listening if his knock
would be answered. Solitude and
the damp shades of night were all
about him, the stars looked cold
and far away, and the lantern he
held at his side, faintly lighting his
face, showed through what rough,
dark ways he had come to that in-
hospitable heart. Underneath was
written : "Behold, I stand at the
door, and knock."

The Signora was singing, "And
we hid, as it were, our faces from
him : he was despised, and we es-
teemed him not," tears rolling
down her face, her eyes fixed on
the picture. Finishing, scarcely
littering, indeed, the last word, she
started up and kissed the picture
in a passion, then, hurrying across
the room, flung the door wide.

" Open every door in the house !"
she cried out.

Bianca, surprised but sympathiz-
ing, simply obeyed, and pushed
open the door near her; Isabel
exclaimed, "Dear Signora!" and
seemed half frightened. Mr. Vane
stood silent and looked at the
picture.

" Oh ! I know it is figurative
and means the heart !" the Signora
went on, as if some one had reprov-
ed her. " But when we do some-
thing material, we know Jhat we
have done it. When we think we
have done a spiritual good, how
can we know that it is worth any-
thing for us that the motive was
not selfish? If, for example, the
Lord should come here now, poor
and hungry, and knock at my door,
I would serve him on my knees;
but if I should say I love him, who
knows if it would be true ?"

" Signora vita /" It was a thin

Six Sunny Months.

647

and feeble voice, but she heard it
through the passion of her talk, and,
turning, saw on the threshold an
old man, who stood trembling, hat
in hand, and leaning against the
side of the door for support. He
had followed Mr. Vane home from
the chapel to beg for alms, but had
not been able to reach or make
him hear or understand before the
door was shut. He was going
painfully away again, when it was
flung open by the Signora.

She went to him with her hands
outstretched. " Enter, in the name
of the Lord," she said joyfully, and
led him to a chair. Kind as she
was invariably to the poor, this one
she looked on as almost a miracu-
lous guest. He had come at the
very moment when her heart was
breaking to do some active good,
as if her wish had called him, or as
if the Lord she compassionated had
taken his form to prove her.

Never was a beggar more wel-
comed, more tenderly questioned
as to his needs. He was fed as, pro-
bably, he had never been fed before ;
for the Signora gave him of what
had been prepared for her own
table, and served him like an honor-
ed guest.

He was pleased, but did not seem
to be either surprised or embarrass-
ed. He ate and drank rather light-
ly, and, without being bidden, put
in a leathern pocket he wore what
was left of the food. There was no
air of greediness in the act, but
rather an intimation that no one
would think of eating what he had
left, and that what had been offered
him must not be wasted. When
Mr. Vane gave him some decent
clothing in place of his faded rags,
he was grateful, but by no means
elated. How he looked was to him
a matter of the smallest possible
consequence. He could feel hun-

ger, thirst, and cold, but pride 01
vanity he knew not. His body,
ugly, emaciated, and diseased, ob-
tained from him no attention, except
when it could obscure and torment
his mind with its own torments.
He never thought for it, but wait-
ed till it called. When the sisters
gave him money, he looked at them
earnestly, with his dim and watery
eyes, and wished that the Madonna
might ever accompany them. He
did not predict for them riches or
happiness, but only that gracious
company. When the Signora bade
him come to her every day for a
loaf of bread and a glass of wine,
he thanked her in the same way.
Evidently he understood that what
he was receiving was a heavenly
charity, of which God was the mo-
tive and reward, and that he had,
personally, nothing to do with it,
except as he profited by it. But
he had, indeed, more to do with it
than he believed ; for it was impossi-
ble that kind hearts should remain
unmoved by the sight of such forlorn
poverty and suffering.

They questioned him 'about his
life and circumstances. He was
quite alone. One son he had had,
who went to some foreign country
years before, and had never been
heard of since. He supposed that
he must have died on the passage
or immediately on arriving; forFilip-
po had promised to write and send
for him, or send him money, and
nothing but death would have made
him break his promise to his father.
His wife had died more than ten
years before; and he had no one
left to care for him. Where was
his home? they asked. Well, he
slept in the lodgings provided by
the city, because they did not allow
people to sleep in the street. He
used to sleep on one of the steps of
the church of Ara Cceli, and he

648

Six Sunny MontJis.

liked it better, for he could go off
by himself. Still, the government
gave them straw to sleep on, and
that was something. It was rather
cold on the steps, even in summer.

" But where do you go in the day-
lime?" they pursued, finding the
idea of no house or home of any
description a hard one to take in.

He went into churches sometimes;
at others he sat on a house-step,
and stood under the eaves if it rain-
ed. He was indeed able to say,
" The birds of the air have their
nests, and the foxes their holes," but
he had not where to lay his head.

" I cannot listen to any more,"
the Signora said. " Do you know,
my friends, what seems my duty to
do ? Well, I will tell you. At this
moment it seems to me that I should
send you all to a hotel, or to any
place you can find, and fill half my
rooms with little beds for poor men,
and the other half with beds for
poor women, and spend all my time
and money in taking care of them.
Gloves, and a bonnet, and all sorts
of luxuries look to me like sins, in
the light of this man's story; and
as to having more than one room
for myself, it is monstrous. Either
pack your trunks at once, or send
this fascinating wretch off to sleep
on the municipal straw."

" You can't send us off; for you
have promised to keep us as long as
we stay in Rome," Isabel said trium-
phantly. " If you should turn your
house into a refuge, you would be
doing evil that good may come, by
breaking a promise."

When their guest had gone and
they were sitting at supper, the
conversation still turned on the Ro-
man poor and their manner of re-
ceiving charity, and Mr. Vane ex-
pressed his astonishment that so
little of servility should be mingled
with this constant begging.

" You must remember," the Sig-
nora said, " that the mendicant re-
ligious orders have given a sort of
dignity to poverty, and, though
theirs is of a different kind, the
people do not distinguish. Then
among the many voluntary poor
there are two who are particular-
ly cherished in Rome Santa Fran-
cesca Romana and Blessed Labre.
The women sitting at the church-
door could tell you, if you should
try to shame them, that Santa
Francesca once sat at a church-
door and begged from early morn-
ing till Ave Maria ; and the poor
who ask you for a centessimo in the
street know that Labre went about
begging, and in clothes as filthy and
ragged as any of theirs. Of course
they do not distinguish the motives,
and have, many of them, made a
Christian virtue an excuse for a
miserable vice ; but, come si fa ? as
they would say. We cannot spend
our time in arguing with them ;
and, if we should, it would be time
thrown away. They have no com-
prehension of what we call inde-
pendence ; and they think that the
blessings they bestow, and the merit
we acquire in giving to them, are
worth far more than the paltry cop-
per coin they receive from us, and
that we are, in reality, their debt-
ors.

They hurried their supper a lit-
tle ; for they were going out, and it
was already nine o'clock. Before
they had risen from the table Ma-
rion came in to accompany them,
and the carriages were at the door.

This matter of the carriages, and
the division of her party in them,
simple as it seemed, had given the
Signora some thought. She was
afraid that some new complication
might arise between Marion and
Bianca, and wished earnestly that
fhey should come to an understand-

Six Sunny Months.

649

ing immediately. Nothing appear-
ed to be easier, yet every day was a
succession of little obstacles to their
speaking together in that accidental
privacy which they would naturally
prefer. Still, she could not well
put them in a carriage together. It
would look too pointed. There
seemed no other way, then, than to
take him in the cab with her, and
give the caleclie to Mr. Vane and
his daughter. That anyone should
suppose that an attraction was grow-
ing up between her and this new
friend had never occurred to her
mind ; yet both Mr. Vane and Bi-
anca saw in every word and act of
hers a new proof of it. Any one
with eyes could see that Marion
and Bianca liked each other parti-
cularly, the Signora believed. One
had but to watch a few minutes,
and it became evident that in com-
pany each was always so placed as
to see and, if possible, to hear the
other ; and though one might not
detect them looking directly, yet
sometimes a glance, passing from
one part of the room to another,
swooped like a bird, and caught
the one object it wished to seize
within its ken. Yet Bianca pro-
voked her somewhat. The girl was
too serious and gentle, too discour-
agingly friendly. Why, thought the
Signora, with that admirable good
sense which we sometimes have
when we think for others why, when
two persons are admirably fitted
for each other, and everybody is
willing, and neither of them can
quite set about anything till the
matter is decided ; and when the
gentleman, not to be too abrupt in
his proposal, or expose himself to
an unnecessary mortification, gives
the lady that gentle, questioning
glance which says so plainly, " May I
speak?" why, in the name of com-
mon sense, should she not drop her

pretty head in token of assent, and
allow at least a hint of a smile to
encourage him ? Echo answered,
Why?

The upper air was silver with a
late motfhrise when they went out,
while below the lamps burned gold-
enly through a velvety darkness.
Their own street was quiet ; but
there was a crowd on Monte Ca-
vallo. The glimpse they caught of
the piazza of the Trevi fountain in
passing showed it full and bright,
and tile Corso, when they reached
it, was swarming with people and
brilliant with lighted shops.

" What contrasts there are in Ro-
man life, even in its most quiet
times !" Marion said. " I wonder if
any one ever was bored here ? I
doubt it. How well I remember
one day of my last visit, three years
ago now ! It was a bright February
afternoon, and I went out for a walk
in the Campagna, and saw the
ground covered with flowers, and
myriads of birds flying about and
singing. Coming back to town out
of that verdant quiet, I went to
the Corso. It was roaring with the
height of the last day of Carnival.
It looked as if all the world had
gone mad with reckless mirth, and,
by a common consent, were press-
ing to that one spot. It was with
difficulty I got across the street,
shaking a monkey from one arm,
and escaping from the lasso of a
huge devil on the other side. A
few minutes brought me to the
Gesu. There what a scene ! The
church all in darkness, except the
tribune, where the Blessed Sacra-
ment was exposed in the midst of a
blaze of candles that shone on a
crowd of faces all silent and turned
towurd the altar. Now and then
the organ played softly; now and
then a quiet figure stole in and found
room to kneel where it seemed there

650

Six Sunny Months.

was no room for more. It was so
still that every time the heavy cur-
tain lifted there could be heard
through the whole church the rat-
tling of the tin boxes of the beggars
outside. Half an hour later I
reached the Corso again, just in
time to see the horses rush by like
meteors between two solid walls of
men and women. And, lastly, just
as the stars were coming out, burst
the fairy spectacle of the moccoletti,
when the narrow street became like
a strip cut out of the live sky, thick
with dancing stars, and palpitating
with the soft pulses of the Northern
Lights, blue, green, rosy, and white.
I could have said it was not ten
minutes before it was all over and
I was walking home through a si-
lent, star-lit night. The next morn-
ing at six I went to a church and
received the Lenten ashes on my
forehead. I do not wonder, that
Romans are lazy, for their imagina-
tions are so kept on the quivive that
muscular action must necessarily
be distasteful. They cannot help
regarding life as a festa"

They reached their destination, a
palace close to St. Peter's. Two
servants stood bowing in \.\\Q portone,
and a little girl, the daughter of one,
presented each of the ladies with a
bunch of orange-blossoms. They
passed into the court, where a foun-
tain tossed its sparkling arch of
water, sprinkling the greensward,
which here replaced the usual pave-
ment, and went up the grand stairs.
The groined^ arches over their heads
were glowing with color, trees, flow-
ers, vines, birds, and butterflies
not an inch of wall was unpainted.
Pots of flowering plants stood at
the ends of the stairs and at the
landings, and statues showed white-
ly through their fragrant screens.
Here and there a lamp dropped
from a gilt chain, and softly illu-

mined this superb entrance. At the
end of the first entry two servants
held back the crimson velvet cur-
tains of an open door, receiving
the visitors into a chamber furnish-
ed in crimson, the walls of crimson
and gold, the ceiling painted with
sunset clouds, and a crescent of can-
dles burning in front of crystal lus-
tres. Reaching the next door, they
looked down a vista composed of
twelve or fourteen rooms, all softly
lighted except the last, which was
brilliant. The light struck along
on door after door, all gilded, and
set with mirrors at one side and
paintings at the other, the curtains
of silk or velvet drawn back on gilt
spears or arrows. The floors were
mostly uncovered, some of them of
rare marbles or mosaics ; a few were
partially covered with thick Persian
mats or carpets. One room was
furnished in gold-colored satin, and
profusely ornamented with the most
delicate porcelain ; a second was
of a rich sea-green, sparkling all
through with crystal ornaments, the
chandelier of Venetian glass, the
cornice made of large shells, and the
ceiling painted in coral branches,
tangled full of long grasses. An-
other chamber, of deep blue, was
rich in old porcelain ; another, hung
with tapestry, bristled with old ar-
mor, and every sort of sword and
knife arranged in figures, daisies of
radiating daggers, and swords and
shields made into mimic suns.
Everywhere that gold could be it
was lavished on doors and win-
dows and cornices ; and one room
had the whole panelling breast-high,
and the large fireplace, heavily gild-
ed.

In the last room they found the
people they had come to see a young
couple as bright an,d pretty as a
pair of canaries in their gilded cage.

There was no other company ex-

Six Sunny Months

cept a white-haired old canonico,
who had an apartment in the pal-
ace, and who was in some way re-
lated to the family. To this clergy-
man Bianca, at first a little shy
among strangers, took immediately,
and, seated by his side, became at
once on the most friendly terms
with him. His sweet and dignified
manner, and the pleasure he show-
ed in her evident confidence, were
very pleasant to see. She told him
all her story that could be told to
any one, what she had seen and what
she wished to see, and answered his
questions with a childlike frankness ;
and, i'i return, he showed his inter-
est in her by the number of his
questions, and promised her all sorts
of favors.

There was something peculiarly
attractive and beautiful in this man,
in whom were united the sacredness
of a holy vocation, the venerable-
ness of age and of a pure and un-
stained character, and the gracious-
ness of an accomplished gentle-
man.

" I think you will all like to hear
of something which I saw at the
Vatican this morning," he said when
the conversation became more gen-
eral. " I was presenting two French
ladies. The audience was small, and
among the persons present were the
superior of the nuns of the 'frinita
dei Monti, and a younger nun of her
community who had come with her
as companion. This young nun
had for several years been afflicted
with a stiffening of the right hand
and arm which drew them close to
the breast, rendering them of course
perfectly useless as well as painful.
Before starting, the superior had
told her to put a black glove on this
right hand, so that it should not show
so much, as her black habit and
veil would render it less prominent
than if it were bare ; but when they

had gone a part of the way the nun
begged permission to take the glove
off. The superior objected, saying
that it might be unpleasant to the
Holy Father to see her hand in that
position, the fingers stiffened as
they were. The nun said nothing
for a while, but, when they had nearly
reached the Vatican, begged again,
still more earnestly, to be permitted
to remove the glove. This time
the superior consented. Well, they
went in, and the audience was
about over, when, in giving his
benediction, the Pope observed that
the young nun blessed herself with
her left hand.

" ' Filuola rtiia, why do you not
bless yourself with your right
hand? ' he asked.

" ' Beato padre] she replied, '[
cannot move my right hand ; but
if you would do me the grace '
She said no more, but looked at
him with imploring eyes.

" He was silent a moment, then
he said, ' Pray !' and covered his
face with his hands, as if praying
or recollecting himself. Looking
at her again then, he told her to
bless herself with her right hand.

" * But, santo padre, I cannot move
my right hand,' she said.

" He persisted : ' Nevertheless,
do as I bid you.'

" The superior took the nun's
right hand, and, lifting it for her,
made a sort of cross with it.

" * Pray again/ said the Holy Fa-
ther, and hid his face a second time,
and seemed to pray.

"'Now bless yourself with your
right hand, and do it without help,'
he said.

" She immediately lifted her hand
and made the sign of the cross on
her forehead and breast as freely as
if nothing had ever ailed her. She
was cured."

The prelate told his story with

652

Six Sunny Mouths.

simplicity and in a soft and slightly
tremulous voice, affected by the sa-
cred and tender scene he had so
lately witnessed, and his audience
exclaimed with delight. None of
them, except the two American gen-
tlemen and Isabel, were at all sur-
prised. Too many such tales are
known in Rome of Pius IX. to ex-
cite astonishment.

" I have seen the good nun this
afternoon," he continued, " and she
is perfectly happy. She can play on
the piano again, and do everything
just as before."

Finishing, he nodded toward the
door, where a servant was standing,
and presently rose to take leave.
His evening visits never exceeded
an hour, and, since he did not like
to disturb the pleasure of social
intercourse with the thought of
going, a servant was always in-
structed to intimate to him when
the hour was past.

" The only parting which I wish
to foresee and prepare for is the
final one," he said smilingly.

" What a terrible sound that ex-
pression 'final parting' has!" Bi-
anca exclaimed, seeming to be al-
ready pained at the thought of
losing this new friend.

" That is because you interpret it
wrongly," he replied, with a kind
glance at her. u You know it does
not mean everlasting separation, but
that there are to be no more part-
ings, because after the next meet-
ing we need never part again. It
is simply the end of a long pain."

He gave her his hand, which she
kissed as naturally as an Italian
would have done, though it was the
first time she had rendered that
homage to any one.

When he had gone, the company
went up to the loggia, which was
one of the attractions of the house.

" You see we have a private stair-

way," the Contessa M said,

opening a narrow door hidden in
the panelling of the room they had
been sitting in. " But it is so very
narrow, enclosed in the thickness
of the wall, that I will not ask you
to go by it."

" I do wish she would let us go this
way, though," Isabel whispered to
the Signora. " How romantic it is !
Who knows who may have slipped
up or down that stair in the wall,
who may have stood listening be-
hind the panel while people were
talking in the sala, and what may
have been revealed or hidden there ?
It is like a chapter out of a tragical
story one oi' Mrs. Radcliffe's, for
example. Do you think we might
not go up ?"

Their hostess had, however, al-
ready led the way to a more com-
modious stair, and they could but
follow. Besides, it is only in very
romantic stories that ladies in beau-
tiful silk and gauze dresses can go
through secret and narrow stair-
ways, cobwebbed attics, and dusty,
haunted chambers, without detri-
ment to their toilets, and the young
coiitcssa wore that evening a lace
flounce which she might not care
to injure even for the sake of hos-
pitality.

They passed through room after
room, each worthy of a palace,
mounted stair after stair, one ser-
vant preceding them with a lamp,
and another following, walked over
the roof of a part of the palace,
climbed another stair, and came
out on the loggia, or highest house-
top.

The scene was enchanting ; for
the whole city was visible, and, by
one of those kaleidoscopic changes
constantly seen in a town built on
hills, the city looked from here to
be situated in a round basin ris-
ing evenly on all sides to the tree-

Six Sunny Months.

653

fringed horizon. The grand front
of St. Peter's was scarcely a stone's
tli row from them, apparently, and
the two fountains of the moonlight-
ed piazza stood wavering and white.
It was not difficult to imagine them
two angels standing there with gar-
ments softly waving in the night
air.

Mr. Vane paused a moment at
the Signora's side. " I perceive
more clearly every day why you
may well be unwilling to leave
Rome," he said. " I wonder I
could ever have expected it."

" And yet it never appeared to
me easier," she replied very gently.
" I have had all the happiness that
can be had here, and * enough is as
good as a feast/ you know."

She meant to please him, yet she
fancied that he frowned slightly.
He said no more, however, but
stood looking about, and, after a
moment, joined Isabel, with whom
the young couple were having a
lively conversation.

The Signora felt hurt. It seem-
ed that Mr. Vane was losing con-
fidence in her and becoming every
day more distant. For a week or
more she had felt that he was with-
drawing his friendship from her,
and changing in many ways. When
had she heard a jest from him, or
seen in him that quiet and deep
contentment which he had shown
t first ? She had half a mind to
ask him what the matter was. Per-
haps she would some time, if oppor-
tunity favored. Meantime, it would
be wiser not to distress herself. And
just as she came to this conclusion
an interpretation of his remark sug-
gested itself to her that made the
blood rush to her face painfully.
Had he remembered with annoy-
ance that half-proposal of his, and,
either to remove any lingering pity
she miorht feel for him or to save

his own pride, wished her to under-
stand that it had been the impulse
of the moment, and that he no
longer entertained the wish to be
more than a friend to her? In
such a case her reply, with its hint
of a possible change in her, had
been most unfortunate.

There was one moment of cruel
doubt and notification, then she
put the subject resolutely away.
" I have been neither unkind nor
bold nor dishonorable, and I have
therefore nothing to be ashamed of."
she said to herself.

Meantime, Marion had stopped
near Bianca, who stood looking at
her father and the Signora. *' How
beautiful the Signora is !" he said.
" Do you see that the golden tinge
in her hair is visible even in the
moonlight ? And her eyes are the
color of the Borghese violets she
loves so much. I sometimes think
that a rather tall and noble-looking
woman like her should always be
blonde, and that dark eyes belong
to the slight and graceful ones."

"We have always thought her
beautiful," she replied. " But we
are so fond of her that we should
admire her if no one else did. You
must remember how we always
praised her to you."

He had been wondering how she
would like having the Signora for
a step-mother, and if she saw the
likelihood of it. Perceiving a slight
reserve in her speech, he did not
pursue the subject, but stood look-
ing at her a moment. Since he was
silent, she glanced up in his face to
see what it meant if he were dis-
satisfied, perhaps, with her reply, or
if he had taken any notice of it.
He was certainly taking notice of
her, and so close a notice that her
eyes dropped again under it.

A quick glance showed him that
he should have another minute un<

654

Six Sunny MontJis

interrupted with her, and he spoke :
" Dear Bianca, I came to Europe
to seek you. When I found in
Rome that you had gone into the
country for a visit, I could not wait,
but followed you. I went to your
lodgings in Frascati, and learned
that you had all gone up to Tuscu-
lum. I meant to watch, and meet
you as you came down, and know
by your first glance at me if I was
as welcome as I could wish to be.
I had with me the spy-glass that I
always take into the country, and,
as I swept the country with it, I es-
pied a little party standing under
the wall of the Cappucini villa on
the Tusculan hill. One of their
number had climbed the steps of
the shrine there to decorate it, and,
just as I recognized her, she turn-
ed and stepped down toward me.
The glass was so clear and strong
that she seemed stepping within my
reach, and to me. I accepted it as
a good omen, and returned to Rome
content. I think you know me well
enough to be sure that this is no
trifling fancy, and that, if you can
put your hand in mine, with the
help of God, I will never allow you
to regret it. Was my omen false ?"
She listened with her lovely face
lifted and lighted, and, when he end-
ed, uttered a soft little exclamation,
"O Marion!" and gave him her
hand.

" How beautiful St. Peter's is by
this light !" Mr. Vane said, glancing
round at them from the other side
of the loggia, whither he had gone.
His glance became a gaze as he
saw them coming toward him ; for
Marion held openly the hand that
Bianca had given him, and led her
to her father. " Are you willing,
sir?" he asked in a low voice.

The others were about joining
them, and Mr. Vane could only
press therr two hands together.

He glanced sharply at the Signora
as she approached, and saw her
face flash out in a swift smile when
she caught sight of their position.

"I have been a fool," he mutter-
ed.

" Everything is beautiful by this
light," Marion said, with a smile
that gave a double meaning to his
rather tardy answer.

When they started for home, they
found that, by some happy mistake,
the cab had been sent away, and
there was no other in sight, so that
the simplest way was for them all
to return in the caUche, crowding a
little. The crowding was effected
by Bianca sitting on the front seat
between her father and lover.
Leaning back there, she gave her-
self up to a delicious silence, only
half-listening, except when Marion
spoke, then drinking in every word.
What a wonderful thing it was that
here, by her side, sat her future
husband, the man to whom she was
to be united for ever and ever !
Her life, as she thought, swung
round into a harmony unknown to
it for a long time, never known in
its perfection till now. Looking
forward, she had no fear. Nothing
but death could separate them, and
death must come to all. Let it
come sooner or later, when God
should appoint ; she could bear it
for him or for herself. She was full
of courage and thankfulness, and
ready now to live a full life, and
begin to do some good in the world.
Mr. Vane spoke of the young
woman he had seen that afternoon
in the little church of Sant' Anton i-
no. " She made an impression on
me," he said. " She set me think-
ing ; or, rather, the sight of her
condensed some floating impres-
sions in my mind into thoughts.
She was a figure that almost any
well-dressed lady or gentleman

Six Sunny Months.

655

would smile at involuntarily, if they
did not pity her. But looking into
her face, when she was serious and
thought herself unobserved, I found
it an uncommon one. I fancied
there was something enthusiastic
and aspiring in her, and that her
ridiculous dress was an abortive
expression of a fine impulse. She
wanted to do or be something more
and better than she had yet done
or been ; and having, perhaps, no
sympathy from any one, and no edu-
cation to assist her, knew not how
to act, and thought more of getting
out of the position she was in than
of choosing properly what change
she should make. Fancy how easily
a girl of uneducated mind and
tastes, and of an enthusiastic dispo-
sition, might make such an absurd
attempt. She is, perhaps, disgusted
with the sordidness and vulgarity
of her life, and believes that the
ideal life is that which appears beau-
tiful to the eyes. She has heard,
maybe has read, a little of great
deeds and heroic adventures, and
she associates them always with the
well-dressed and the high-living.
She thinks, very likely, that the
noble have always noble thoughts,
and that beautiful sentiments go
with beautiful dresses. And so the
poor thing cuts her dowdy petticoat
into a train, and puts a cheap feath-
er in her hat, and fancies that she
is nearer the sublime. I don't be-
lieve she really sees the trumpery
tilings when she puts them on.
She is looking at them through a
thousand visions, and sees the vel-
vet train of some heroine, and the
jewelled cap and feather she wore.
Poor thing ! These visions of hers
cannot, however, hide the sneering
laugh from her, nor make her deaf
to the scornful word ; and I have
an impression that to-night she took
off her stage-robes with a bitter

heart unless, indeed, the Benedic-
tion consoled her."

Isabel looked at her father with
a steady and serious gaze while he
was speaking, and, the moment he
ended, said to him with an air of
conviction: "Papa, you have the
best heart in the world."

He laughed a little, but seemed
to be touched by this tribute. " I
am glad you think so, my daugh-
ter," he said. " Indeed, I am par-
ticularly glad just now, for a reason
I will tell you, if you come here a
moment."

She leaned forward instantly on
to his knees, and put her cheek
.close to his face.

" Because," he whispered, " my
other daughter thinks that there's
a certain heart worth more than
mine."

"Whose?" she demanded in an
indignant whisper.

" Marion's."

" You don't mean " she exclaim-
ed, and glanced round at her sis-
ter.

"You're the only one of the
family who didn't know it, and I
don't want you slighted," he replied.
" It's a settled affair."

Isabel threw her arms around her
sister's neck and kissed her. " I
never dreamed of such a thing,"
she said; "but I am delighted all
the same. You're a million times
welcome into the family, Marion.
But I want you to understand that
you are not better than papa."

By this they had reached home,
just as the soft bells of their basili-
ca were striking midnight.

When they had said good-night
to Marion and gone up-stairs, all
turned with smiling faces to Biancn,
and gathered about her, waiting
one moment to see who should
speak first, or if the congratulation
was to be silent. By some slight

656

Six Sunny Mont/is.

motion or look she imposed silence,
at the same time that her face ex-
pressed the sweetest happiness and
gratitude.

" That dear canonico has given
me an invitation for us all to go
next week and hear his Mass in
the crypt of St. Peter's," she said.
" Our number is just right ; for only
five can go at a time. We are to
be there at eight o'clock."

" Am I included ?" Mr. Vane
asked.

"O papa!" Bianca turned to
him, and, putting her hand in his
arm, leaned against his shoulder.
No plan of 'hers could be 'perfect
that did not include him ; yet the.
cruel thought flashed through her
mind, in spite of her love for him,
that in the crypt of St. Peter, next
to Calvary the most regally sacred
spot on earth, a Protestant was sin-
gularly out of place, and that no
one should enter there who did not
bow to' St. Peter as the Prince of
the Apostles and the holder of the
awful keys.

The question produced a momen-

tary painful embarrassment in the
others, too, by reminding them
strongly of that difference of faith
which they sometimes were able
to quite forget.

" My little girl must not have a
cloud on her sky to-night," the fa-
ther said tenderly. " What is want-
ing to your happiness, Bianca?"

" That you should be a Catholic,"
she replied, trembling; for, with all
their affection and confidence, she
had never presumed to speak to
him on the subject.

" You have your wish," he an-
swered.

She looked at him doubtfully,
but did not dare to say a word.

"I am in earnest, children," he
said, feeling a hand clinging to his
other arm. "I was baptized this
morning at the American College."

Not a word was said, but on
either side his daughters surround-
ed him with their arms, and pressed
their faces to his breast.

When at length they remember-
ed to look for the Signora, she had
disappeared.

TO BE CONTWVED.

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church.

657

DR. KNOX ON THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.*

THE disjointed state of Christen-
dom, resulting from the divisions
existing among those who profess
the Christian religion, whether we
regard it in the light of reason or
of faith, is both grievous and de-
plorable. Much labor has been ex-
pended on the removal of the causes
which have produced these divi-
sions, at different periods in the his-
tory of the Christian Church. In
recent times not to speak of the
long past, for the evil is of remote
date several efforts have been
made to bring about the return of
those who, three centuries ago,
went out from the sacred fold of
the Catholic Church. Men of
genius, learning, and virtue took a
leading part in some of these move-
ments; nevertheless, they did not
meet with any notable success.
The best known of these, perhaps,
was the one made in the latter part
of the seventeen tli century, in which
the celebrated Leibnitz and the
great Bossuet were the principal
actors engaged. If this- effort was
not otherwise fruitful, it at least
was the occasion of their contribut-
ing two of the most valuable works
on the subject The System of Theo-
logy, by the German philosopher,
and The Exposition of the Catholic
Faith, by the Bishop of Meaux.
In the Established Church of Eng-
land, in our own day, a number of
its members, especially among the
gy, profess to seek and to labor
or what they call " a corporate

* " The Organic Unity of the Church. By \Vm.
E. Knox, D.D., Elmira, N. Y." The Presbyte^
rian Quarterly and Princeton Revieiv, Oct.,
iS;6.

union" with the Catholic Church.
So far as one can see up to this
moment, though no one can tell
what may happen, there has been
in this direction no promise of
great results. In this country the
efforts for unity have taken a more
limited sphere for their activity, and
ever and anon there is a stir made
in public about a union among Pro-
testants, confined, however, to those
who are called "evangelicals."

The unperverted religious senti-
ment naturally yearns after an all-
embracing and real unity. Man's
heart has sympathies which cannot
be confined to himself, or to a
family, or to a nation, or to a race.
Only when man is so devoted to
purposes which embrace the whole
human race as to raise him above
all lower instincts of his nature,
does he become conscious of his
true dignity and of the greatness
of his destiny. Humanity is a
word that has a real meaning, con-
veying a great truth, and it is fraught
with mysterious power. These as-
pirations of the soul are the work-
manship of God, and Christianity,
as a universal religion, must aim at
directing them to their proper ob-
jects. For Christianity is the uni-
versal religion, or it is nothing.

The symptoms of unrest which
manifest themselves among those
Christians who are divided up into
hostile sects are a sign of a noble
life stirring within their souls a
life which cannot contemplate with
joy the wranglingsof hostile creeds.
These aspirations after that unity
which will bind all men, without
distinction of race, nationality, or.

VOL. xxiv. 42

658

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church.

color, into one common brother-
hood of love these cravings of
the heart to act for universal ends,
for the realization of God's king-
dom upon earth are the evidences
of a Christian spirit which seeks for
a clearer vision and a closer com-
munion with the true church of
Christ.

With these views and in this
spirit, which are in harmony with
his own, we purpose to consider
the interesting and important ar-
ticle of Dr. Knox on " The Organic
Unity of the Church."

WHAT IS THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH,
ACCORDING TO DR. KNOX?

Here is his answer to this ques-
tion in his own words :

" First, as to the nature of the ex-
pected church unity and the elements
that compose it. We assert, in the
general, that it is the highest possible
Duality. Christ prayed that his disciples
.might be made perfect in one. The ad-
jective TfX.eio'i is defined by Robinson
;as something 'complete, full, perfect,
deficient in nothing.' The word used by
the Saviour is reA-sicojiteroi, and had an
.adverbial sense, so that Robinson would
have us read : ' That they may be per-
fected so as to be one i.e., that they
may be perfectly united in one.' Tho-
;luck says the idea of unity is expressed
.in a stronger way here than elsewhere
' it is a perfect unity.' Other authorities
might be cited as showing that the unity
in the divine thought, and which ought
to be in our own, is a complete unity, in
distinction from one that is partial, un-
symmetrical, ineffective."

That the unity which makes the
church of Christ one u is the highest
possible unity " there can be no
manner of doubt, since its animat-
ing principle is that unity which
springs from the relation 'subsisting
between Christ and his Father. This
relation which unites Christ to the
Father, and the church to Christ,

and the members of the church to
the Father through Christ in most
perfect unity, is a unity than which
a higher and more perfect cannot be
conceived, for it springs immediate-
ly from the divine Essence. The
language of Christ's prayer for unity
makes this- evident beyond all dis-
pute. "That they," he says, "all
may be one, as thou, Father, in me,
and I in thee." Again : " That they
may be one, as we also are one."
Once more : " I in them, and thou in
me : that they may be made perfect
in one." Finally : "That the love
wherewith thou hast loved me, may
be in them, and I in them." * Once
would have been doubtless sufficient
to have rendered this petition of
Christ effective, yet he repeats the
same in almost every sentence in
this memorable and most solemn
prayer. What else could have been
Christ's purpose, in the reiteration
of his petition for unity, than to ex-
plain clearly his meaning, to make
manifest the earnestness of his de-
sire for it, and to impress upon his
disciples its transcendent import-
ance ?

But this relation subsisting be-
tween Christ and his Father, and
which is the type of the essence of
the church, is a>n essential, indi-
visible, and indestructible relation.
The relation, therefore, existing be-
tween Christ and his church and
her members, from which her unity
springs, is also essential. That is,
aside from this unity, the church
cannot be a subject even of thought
is unthinkable. Were it possible
that it should be lost for a moment,
the church, at the instant her unity
was lost, would no longer exist. For
the unity of the church is not de-
rived from her organism, but, on
the contrary, the organism of the

* St. John xvii.

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the CJnirch.

659

church is derived from her unity,
which has its rise in that essential,
indwelling, and abiding presence of
the invisible relation which exists
between Christ and his Father: " I
in them, and thou in me: that they
may be made perfect in one," Just
as the life of the soul springs from
the presence of the divine Essence,
and this life pervades and sustains
the whole body and its members, so,
in like manner, the unity of the
church, which springs from the pre-
sence of this divine relation, per-
vades and sustains the whole church
and her members. The unity of
the church is also indivisible. Mul-
titudes may leave the church, but
their absence does not break her
unity. Many may lose the unity of
the church, but it never can be
lost from the church. Thousands
may deny the unity of the church,
but it will continue to exist in spite
of their denial. In the nature of
perfect unity, one and indivisible
are correlative ; for each of its parts
contains and acts with the force of
the whole. As God is everywhere
present in the world, and the soul
everywhere present in the body, so
the unity of the church is every-
where present and pervades the
whole body of the church. It is
also an indestructible unity. For
whatsoever may be the action of
the lapse of time or the deeds of
men, they can neither disorganize,
reduce, nor overthrow it. Being di
vine in its nature, the hand of man
may menace, but it is powerless to
destroy the unity of the church.
It will remain, after men have done
their utmost and worst against it, as
it was before.

This unity in which the Divinity
dwells is the primal source of the
life of the church, and, through her,
of each and all of her members ;
is the type and exemplar of the

perfect organism in which each and
all of her acts proceed from one
formal principle and one central
point of active force. The church,
therefore, may be defined, in the
sense of Christ's prayer, as that
visible, organized body, in which
the members are made one with
God and with each other in Christ,
by a participation of the invisible
communion existing between Christ
and his Father in the unity of the
divine Essence.

In all this we have added nothing
to the above passage from our au-
thor explanatory of "the expected
church unity." What we have
done was to render its meaning
more explicit, and this will be
readily acknowledged in reading
his own explanation, as follows :

"The starting-point, of course, is unity
of faith, especially faith in Christ. The
union of believers to one another results
from their union to a common Lord and
Saviour: 'I in them, and thou in me:
that they may be made perfect in one.'
The second element of a true unity is
love. We need not dwell here, for it is
a point conceded. The third element is
oneness of aim and effort. The conver-
sations and prayer of the -fifteenth, six-
teenth, and seventeenth of John show
that faith and love in Christian hearts
are with a view to definite results. In
the fifteenth chapter it is said : ' He
that abideth in me, and I in him, the
same bringeth forth much fruit ; for
without me ye can do nothing.' And in
the seventeenth chapter this fruit and this
doing are declared to be the glorifying
of Christ, and, as contributing to that,
the bringing the world to believe in him.
All highest glory to God and good to
man are contained in believing and lov-
ing the Lord Jesus. All the fruits of the
Spirit enumerated by Paul in Galatians
depend from the branch that abideth in
Christ the vine. No man can be in
Christ by faith without wishing all others
to be without praying the prayer of
Jesus, and working the work of Jesus,
that they may be. And this being the
effect on all real disciples, it is clear that

66o

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church.

a union of faith and love is also a union
of aim and effort.

" We are prepared to say, in the fourth
place, that the one thing remaining to
render this union complete a perfect
unity, such as Christ prayed for is one-
ness of organization. By organization is
meant, as the word imports, everything
pertaining to the outward structure and
furniture of the church its government,
methods of operation, ordinances, wor-
ship, etc."

DR. KNOX ON THE NECESSITY OF
THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.

"We can but observe," he says, "in
the first place, that most of the good we
know in this world is connected with or-
ganization, and is nothing without it. It
is the nature of all life to organize, and
the most perfect of organisms is that
which we have in the human form
Scriptural type, by the way, of the or-
ganization belonging to the spiritual life
that is in Christ's body, the church. No
one thinks it necessary to depreciate the
organic part of man in order to exalt that
v/hich is intellectual and moral. ...
It is not enough to say of human life in
the general : ' What we want is good-will,
right understanding between man and
man no matter about society and go-
vernment. That is merely exterior and
organic ; we wish to do with essentials.'
For all the ends of social welfare it has
ever been found that organized society
is one of the essentials, and without it
the public weal cannot be promoted."

"It is the nature of all life to or-
ganize." Precisely so. Perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that
the nature of all life is organic ; for
life and organism are related to
each other as cause and effect, and
hence are inseparable. Christianity
unorganized would be a pure non-
entity. Christianity is a life spe-
.cific life ; it is therefore by its very
nature specific, visible, organic.

" For all the ends of social wel-
fare it has ever been found that
organized society is one of the es-
sentials, and without it the public
weal cannot be promoted." Or-

ganized society is essential to all
life, and no less essential to its own
defence and preservation ; for what
would have become of Christianity
without organization when the co-
lossal power of the Roman Em-
pire was set to work to exterminate
it? Christianity would have been
strangled in its cradle. What
would have become of Christianity
unorganized when the barbarians
from the North overthrew the Ro-
man Empire? Christianity would
have been swept from the face of
the earth. What would have been
the issue if Christianity had been
left to individual effort when the
Moslems attacked Europe and
threatened to feed their horses
from the altars of Christian
churches? Why, Europe would
be to-day Mohammedan, and, if
ary Christians were left, they
would be at the mercy, as the
Servians were, of the Grand Turk.
Christianity unorganized, facing an
organized, hostile, powerful force,
would have been as chaff before the
wind.

THE SECOND REASON FOR CHURCH
UNITY.

" Especially," says Dr. Knox, " ought
we to note how this fact of exterior or-
ganization has been recognized in the
provision for the general spiritual well-
being. If you say the elements of that
well-being are primarily interior and
spiritual, such as love, faith, fellowship,
yet as positively are they never dispersed
from the exterior and physical that is,
from the organism through which they
obtain their manifestation. The church
is that organism. Hence whenever, un-
der apostolic preaching, there was in
any community the beginning of Chris-
tian knowledge, faith, obedience, there
was the immediate beginning of a Chris-
tian church. ... In all their epistles
and prayers it was the visible as well as
vital thing the church at Rome, Ephe-
sus, Corinth wlvch they have in their
eye as an object of beaaty and blessed-

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church.

66 1

ness : ' Now ye are the body of Chri-st
and members in particular, ye are all
baptized into one body.' . . . Their
virtual unity must become visible ; their
essential unity, organic unity."

In this passage there is laid
down a most important principle :
"The interior and spiritual are
never dispersed from the interior
and physical." That is, an invisi-
ble church is an absurdity, and a
simple interior piety a dream. On
this principle we would change the
last sentence, and make it read
thus : " Their virtual unity is al-
ways visible ; their essential unity,
organic unity."

THE THIRD REASON FOR UNITY IS
EXPRESSED AS FOLLOWS:

" Just in ratio that effort for a
common end becomes earnest and
efficient does it tend to a common
organized method." Grant it, we
say, and it follows that just in ratio
as the common end is important,
so will the effort become earnest
and efficient in producing a com-
mon organized method for its re-
alization. But no greater or more
important end than the one that
Christ came upon earth to realize,
which was the salvation of the
world, can be imagined. Hence
Christ established his church as a
common organized method for the
realization of his divine mission;
and it follows that, so far as his
power extends, he would be with
it, watch over it, and protect it un-
til it accomplished the purpose for
which he had called it into exist-
ence. And those who would sub-
vert the church established by
Christ, judged by this principle,
really attempt, whatever may be
their profession, to overthrow
Christianity.

DR. KNOX S FOURTH REASON FOR
THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.

"Oneness of organization is indispen-
sable to oneness of manifestation. The
union for which Christ prayed is appa-
rent as well as actual ' perfect in one,
that the world may know that thou hast
sent me. 1 Now, it is certain that the
numerous church organizations are in
apparent conflict with unity. They are
regarded by multitudes as diverse, and
even adverse, corporations. Allow that
this, to a great extent, is only in appear-
ance ; yet just to that extent it is an
evil. The impression is not the one
Christ seeks of an impressive unity.
And ecclesiastical history reveals how
often the evil appearance* has been iden-
tical with the actual evil. The setting up
of separate church establishments tends
inevitably to jealousy, strife, ambition,
alienation, as the universal experiment
proves."

Every sentence almost of the
above passage is a death-blow to
the entire movement of Protes-
tantism from its origin as a sys-
tem of religion. As its very name
signifies, it began in denial, and its
fertility is not in the direction of
unity and oneness of organization,
but in that of breeding strifes,
sowing discords, and exciting, en-
mities. New sects are ever on the
increase in its bosom, new church
organizations are set up in the
same sect against each other, and
its main drift is plainly in the di-
rection of mere individualism, end-
ing in entire negation. " O Pro-
testantism !" exclaims one of its
adherents, "has it, then, at last
come to this with thee, that thy
disciples protest against all reli-
gion ? Facts which are before the
eyes of the whole world declare
aloud that this signification of thy
name is no idle play upon words,
though I know that this confession
will excite a flame of indignation
against myself."

* Dr. JeniscXuber, Gottesverehrung und Kirche
210.

662

Dr. Knox on tJie Unity of tJic Church.

There is one point in the above
extract on which we must differ
from the learned doctor, and that
is where lie maintains that " the
conflict with unity " among Pro-
testants is " apparent " and not
"adverse " ; and here are some of
our grounds :

This apparent unity among Pro-
testants has its centre and source
elsewhere. For every one of the
revealed truths of Christianity
which they maintain as funda-
mental, conceding for the moment
that they are even agreed upon
these, will be found in the last an-
alysis to depend upon the authority
of the Catholic Church. For ex-
ample, the Bible is to Protestants
the sole source of all revealed
truth, and the only rule of faith.
Now, that the Protestants receiv-
ed from the Catholic Church the
Bible is a simple historical fact.
Again, how do they know that
the book called the Bible contains
the whole of the inspired written
word of God, and nothing else?
Only from the unimpeachable wit-
ness and guardian of the Bible
the Catholic Church. Take from
under the truths of Christianity,
which Protestants still retain, the
logical support of the Catholic
Church, and Protestantism, as a
system of religion, in ratio as men
begin to feel the necessity of ren-
dering to themselves a rational ac-
count of their religious convic-
tions, will be abandoned and fall
into utter ruin. And whatever
fruits of Christian virtue or flow-
ers of piety grow on the tree of
Protestantism, they are parasitic ;
for the sap which gives life to the
tree is derived from its roots, which
are nourished in the soil of the
garden, to their sight concealed, of
the Catholic Church. In this vir-
tual relation to the Catholic Church

Ires the hope of the salvation of
those Protestants who are really ir.
good faith. The unity among
Protestants, therefore, is only " ap-
parent," while its conflicts with
unity are real and " adverse."

For the moment you enter on an
examination of those doctrines in
detail, regarding which, to use the
language of this author, "there is
throughout evangelical Christendom
a substantial unity," that instant
innumerable and irreconcilable dif-
ferences and contradictions arise.
There exists among what are called
evangelical Protestants a vague and
affective desire for unity, but it is
only strong enough to bring them to-
gether occasionally to display before
the public their complete lack of
real unity. They may even be led
by it to recite the Apostles' Creed, as
though they were of accord in their
belief as to the meaning of its con-
tents; but let no further strain be
put upon their bond of unity, lest it
should snap into a thousand pieces,
revealing, in the words of ourauthor,
" different organic bodies with fea-
tures facing all ways, hands striking
one against another, feet moving
off in independent directions, and
lips uttering the whole alphabet of
shibboleths." Grapes are not gath-
ered of thorns.

DR. KNOX S FIFTH REASON
UNITY.

FOR

" Organic unity," he says, " is a
required element in the moral power
the church is yet to wield. The
Romish Church has borrowed un-
told strength from this source one
in name and form the world over."

Dr. Knox's evidently reluctant
compliment to the Catholic Church
ought not to be passed by without
due recognition. It is a very high
compliment: the highest possible

Dr. Knox on the Unify of the Church.

663

compliment, according to his own
showing. For he has laid down
the principle that "the interior and
spiritual are never dispersed from
the exterior and physical." Now, as
the Catholic Church is " the world
over one in name and form" that
is, in " the exterior and physical "-
it follows she must be one in " the
interior and spiritual," as the for-
mer are never " dispersed from " the
latter. The Catholic Church, there-
fore, is truly the church of Christ,
as she alone is "perfect in one."
She alone possesses the inward and
outward notes of that unity which
Dr. Knox and those who agree with
him are expecting to come as the
ideal Christian Church. They have
only to work out their premise to
its logical conclusion to be land-
ed in the bosom of the Catholic
Church, which is the realization
upon earth, so far as human nature
will allow, of the ideal Christian
Church.

"If her [the Catholic Church's]
actual unity," he proceeds to say,
" had answered to her organic, Pro-
testantism must needs have been still
heavier armed to make head against
her." This is not a reasonable sup-
position. Prior to the sixteenth
century the actual unity of the Ca-
tholic Church did answer to her or-
ganic, and she was in a fair way to
Christianize and civilize the whole
world. But the religious secession
started by Luther and his followers
stopped the church in her course,
and set Christians against Chris-
tians, broke up the fraternity of
Christian nations, and sowed every-
where the seeds of dispute, enmities,
and wars in the bosom of Christen-
dom. Millions of her children,
backed up by political powers,
turned against the church, and con-
centrated their attacks chiefly in
the direction of the overthrow of

the Roman See, and the destruc-
tion of the centre and guardian of
the unity of her organization, the
Roman Pontiff. If her vital ener-
gies and vast resources were turned
towards where the attacks were the
fiercest, in order to meet and repel
their effects, this was, in the nature
of the situation, a necessity, and
furnishes no ground for an accusa-
tion. But God in his providence
turns the enemies of his church
into instruments of her glory ; for,
as in repelling the errors of Arius
and his adherents, the church was
necessitated to define, and for ever
establish beyond all dispute, .her
belief in the divinity of Christ, so
in like manner, in her defence
against the errors of Luther and
his followers, she was compelled to
settle beyond dispute all doubt of
the authority, the rights, and prerog-
atives communicated by Christ to
his Apostle Peter and to the suc-
cessors of his see, the Roman Pon-
tiffs. The bark of Peter has had to
battle through a threatening storm
which has lasted three centuries,
but she has come out of the dan-
ger in perfect safety, with increased
strength and renewed splendor.
For her " organic unity," thanks to
the action of Protestantism, being
greatly perfected, her " actual uni-
ty " now can display itself with
a correspondingly-increased vigor
and vitality. Her interior, spirit-
ual beauty will be brought out more
clearly to the sight of the world,
attracting all souls; for whatever
may be said of the power and ma-
jesty of her " name and form the
world over," the real beauty and
glory of the church, like that of the
king's daughter, "is all within."
The glory of this new phase of the
church, of which it seems Dr. Knox
has had a glimpse, though he does
not appear to recognize her features,,

66}

Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church.

he expresses in the following man-
ner : "But when the day dawns that
shall give us a visible springing
from an interior unity, that will be
a spectacle like the sign of the Son
of Man in the heavens."

After the compliment which we
have already noticed, it would be
unusual if the holy Church did not
receive some bitter words of abuse.
Here they are in the concluding
lines of the paragraph under notice :

" Though Satan, in the person of Rome
and Rationalism, 'dilated stood,' as Mil-
ton describes him in his attitude towards
Gabriel,

" ' Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,'

he would know that sign, as when Ga-
briel showed hirn the golden scales aloft,
and he

" ' Fled

Murciuring, and with him fled the shades of
night.' "

This language belongs to the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries,
when the sectaries of that period
universally held that the pope was
Antichrist, and the Catholic Church
his kingdom. It might be heard
from the mouth of a ranter in Ex-
eter Hall, or, in days gone by, in
the Broadway Tabernacle, or come
from the pen of the vaticinating
Dr. Cummings, and not excite sur-
prise; but we submit that such lan-
guage is unworthy of the cause
whtch Dr. Knox so ably advo-
cates, and is in discord with the
whole tenor of his article, which,
we gladly acknowledge, breathes
throughout a more candid and a
better spirit.

THE SIXTH REASON FOR UNITY.

" This is found," he says, " in that
element of efficiency that lies in
economy." This is an important
element, but we have already en-
croached beyond our limits, and

must hasten to our close. The
article proceeds to show that there-
is a " rapidly-increasing unity o!
faith, affection, and aim " among
evangelical Christians, and delai!>
the grounds for the hope of a " pro-
spective unity of organization," ex-
plaining "the causes at work to
produce it."

ACCORDING TO DR. KNOX, THE UNITY
OF THE CHURCH ONCE EXISTED.

<( Furthermore," he continues, " the
church has once been in the perfect unity
we are advocating. The members ' con-
tinued steadfast in the apostles' doctrine
and fellowship, in breaking ot bread, and
in prayers' (Acts. ii. 42). The unity, ac-
cording to this record, began in theologi-
cal doctrine, but extended to outward or-
ganization (fellowship), to visible sacra-
ments (breaking of bread), and forms
of worship (prayers). This was what
Christ had just before prayed foi -a
making perfect in one; a unity, inteiior
and exterior, spiiitual and organic."

In another passage he describes
the discordant elements of Protest-
antism, and draws, without knowing
it, the portrait of the actual Catho-
lic Church, and contrasts her per-
fect unity with the divisions of
the Protestant sects. Here it is :

" In the primitive church, when Christ
would have the body constituted with
diversity not all head, or hands, or
feet ; not all hearing, seeing, or smell-
ing, but a body with many members, and
each member its own function he yet
did not think it necessary this diversity
should be sectarian in order to be Chris-
tian. He did not give some to be Epis-
copalians high, and low, and ritualistic ;
some to be Congregationalists associ-
ated, and consociated, and independent ;
some to be Methodists Protestant, Pri-
mitive, and Episcopal ; some to be Bap
lists open and close ; some to be Pres-
byterians old and new, Cumberland and
Covenanter, Associate Reformed and
Presbyterian Reformed, and others per-
haps unreformed, to say nothing of
Burgher and anti Burgher, Secession,
and Relief. Here was variety a very

Dr. Knox on tlic Unity of tJie Church.

millennium of it, such as it was. It was
a variety, however, that finds no place in
the New Testament, and no mention in
Christ's catalogue of particulars. This
was his list of bestowmcnts that Paul
enumerates, when he 'gave some to be
apostles, and some prophets, and some
evangelists, and some pastors and teach-
ers, for the perfecting of the saints, for
the work of the ministry, for the edifying
of the body of Christ.' Having these,
the body was thought to be well furnish-
ed without the modern inventions above
specified. Here was variety and here
was efficiency. ' Many members, but
one body.' ' Diversities of gifts, but one
spirit.' ' Differences of administration,
but the same Lord.' ' Diversities of ope-
rations, but the same God, which work-
cth all in all.' Read the whole twelfth
chapter of ist Corinthians, and the fourth
of Ephesians, and see how amply diver-
sified is the church of God : all the more
beautiful and useful for the reason Paul
here declares, that God has so con-
stiucted it that there should be 'no
schism in the body.' The variety and
beauty lie in the varied members and
their varied functions ; not, as our secta-
rian conservatives would have it, in there
being different organic bodies with fea-
tures facing all ways, hands striking one
.tgainst another, feet moving off in inde-
pendent directions, and lips uttering the
whole alphabet of shibboleths."

This description is not very com-
plimentary to that movement which
started with the profession of re-
newing the religion of the Gos-
pel and of primitive Christianity.
Judged by Dr. Knox's standard, it
is clear that Protestantism, what-
ever it may be, is not primitive
Christianity.

THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH IS LOST.

The entire article tinder conside-
ration is based on the supposition
that the visible organic unity of the
church that once existed, no longer
exists, but is lost. "It is also,"
says Dr. Knox, "universally ad-
mitted and expected that this lost
unity will at some time be regained "

(p. 666). Now, that scandals would
come, and tares would grow with
the wheat, heresies, schisms, and
sects would arise all this we are told
in the New Testament; but that the
unity which Christ communicated
to his church should be " lost," and,
therefore, his church fail this we
read nowhere in the pages of the
inspired Word. On the contrary,
we read in the Gospels that Christ
promised to "build his church,"
and that he predicted that " tin-
gates of hell shall not prevail against
it." And we also read : "Behold I
am with you all days, even to the
consummation of the world." How
one who believes in the divinity of
Christ, the inspiration of the Holy
Scriptures, and that Christ built his
church, and can admit, nay, assert,
that she has "lost" her unity, the
very essence of her being that, con-
sequently, the church of Christ has
failed we are at a loss to know, and
look for further explanation and in-
struction on this subject from Dr.
Knox.

But it must be remembered also,
and taken into account, that when
Christ offered up his prayer for
unity, he not only petitioned that
his disciples might be one, but he
also said : "And not for them only
do I pray, but for them also who
through their word shall believe in
me." This covers all time, and
leaves no room for the supposition
that the unity which was the object
of his prayer should ever be " lost."

How to meet this difficulty is the
question of questions among those
who, under one pretext or another,
have separated themselves from the
unity of the Catholic Church. Their
ingenuity has been exercised not a
little on this point, and the world
has listened to the Greek patriarchal
theory, and to the Anglican branch
theory, and the invisible church

666

Dr. Knox on tJic Unity of the Church.

theory of some of the so-called re-
formers, but all these theories are
like clouds without rain and broken
cisterns that can hold no water.
For once admit that the unity of
the church for which Christ prayed
has ever existed, and concede that
it has been lost, no matter what
theory or hypothesis you may de-
vise, at that moment, the conclusion
is inevitable, Christianity is a fail-
ure.

The unity of the church of Christ
was divine, and the human cannot
create or give birth to the divine.
This truth has been recognized and
acted upon even among Protestants.
The Irvingites and Mormons teach
on this point their fellow-Protestants
a lesson in sound logic. " We start,"
they say, " as all Protestants do, in
admitting that the Catholic Church
was in the beginning the church of
Christ, and that at some period of
time afterwards she became cor-
rupt and failed. This is our com-
mon premise. Now, to establish the
church, which is a divine institu-,
tion, requires a special divine mis-
sion and authority ; hence our
claim to this special divine inspi-
ration and authority for the rein-
auguration of the church of Christ
upon earth." This reasoning on
the part of the Irvingites and Mor-
mons, as against other Protestants,
is unanswerable and leaves them
nowhere.

If the Christian Church ever ex-
isted, it exists now in all its vitality
and force; for the divine creative
act which called it into existence
was as real, continuous, and immu-
table as the creative act which
called into existence the universe.
The same Almighty who said, "Fiat
Lux" said, " Edificabo ecdesiam me-
ant " ; and, considering the place she
holds in the hierarchy of creation,
there is less reason to suppose that

the church should fail than that
the whole universe should go to
utter wreck and ruin.

The learned doctor has an ink-
ling of this insurmountable diffi-
culty, and hence he looks forward
to one scarcely knows what kind
of supernatural action which is to
"compose" out of the existing
different evangelical sects a visible
organic unity. The idea of com-
posing the unity of the church is
a contradiction in terms. If lost,
only a new divine creative act can
restore it. To expect this after
the Incarnation and the Day of
Pentecost is a chimera. The only
escape from this, and the only per-
fectly consistent one, is that this
unity is still existing, clothed with
"a divinely-appointed organism
jure divino" and open to all who
really and sincerely believe in
Christ. He does not deny that the
church of Christ does still exist;
he admits its possibility, and says:

" We do not base our argument for
ultimate unity of organization on the as-
sumption that there is a divinely ap-
pointed organism denned in the Ne\v
Testament. We may believe the Scrip-
tures contain nothing explicit on this
point no jure divino model of church
polity. If, however, there is such an ap-
pointed form which is here neither af-
firmed nor denied we insist that it is the
best form, and our point holds good viz.,
in the coming development of an ear-
nest faith and fellowship, that form will
ultimately be apprehended and accepted.
In that mental condition into which the
church is soon to come, it will be recog-
nized that the end is the main thing, and
the agency of no account except as it is
adapted to the end. And as in the arts
of ordinary life, as in politics and public
education, it is at length discovered
what the best way to the desired result
is ; and as the earnest effort for the valued
result lays hold at last of the best method,
which thus becomes the common one,
so must it be in the great earnest reli-
gious movement of these latter days,
looking to the millennial age. Mark

Monsieur GombarcFs Mistake.

667

well the process. The faith and love of
the church, quickening into new life in
these pre-millennial efforts, will emerge
into a spiritual earnestness little short
of a new experience ; this earnestness
will content itself with nothing short of
the most effective method ; the effective
method will be accepted as the best, and
the best method is the one method which
shall complete the spiritual unity of
God's people in an organic unit}'."

Agreeing with Dr. Knox in " the
nature of the unity of the church,"
and that the principle of "life is
organic," and also that the church
with this unity and organic life has
existed, the conclusion is evident :
either he must yield up his premi-
ses, or enter into the fold of the
Catholic Church as the only claim-
ant to this unity and organization

whose title is unimpeachable. May
that day "of earnest faith and fel-
lowship" of which he speaks be
hastened, when will be apprehend-
ed and accepted " that church
polity" "defined -in the New Tes-
tament,"* and which "completes
the spiritual unity of God's people
in an organic unity!" "May the
generation now coming upon the
stage . . . not pass away until
these things are fulfilled!"

* To those of our readers who are desirous of
seeing the argument drawn from the New Testa-
ment on this point, and at the same time the
whole question as between the Catholic Church
and the Presbyterians or evangelicals fully treated
and placed in a clear light and in a masterly man-
ner on the basis of the Holy Scriptures, we recom-
mend the volume entitled f he K. ng s Highway,
by the Rev. Augustine F. Hewit. The Catholic
Publication House, New York.

MONSIEUR GOMBARD'S MISTAKE.

CONCLUDED.

ABOUT a month after this memor-
able expedition of M. Gombard's
the town of Loisel was in a state of
extraordinary commotion ; the elec-
tions were going on, which meant
that all men had gone mad, that
the seven devils were let loose,
and that no man could be sure of
sleeping in his own bed from one
night to another. The decree had
gone forth that General Blagueur
was the government candidate,
which signified that every man
was to vote for him, and that every
man who didn't was a dead man
every man, that is, who had anything
io lose or anything to hope for
from the powers that were. No one
knew who this General Blagueur was,
or where he came from, or anything
about him, except that he was the
right man whom it was their busi-

ness to put into the right place.
This was all it concerned them to
know or to care as dutiful subjects
of Napoleon III. But though there
were many such at Loisel, there
were many of another sort, who set
their backs stiffly against the right
man, and were perversely bent on
having a wrong man of their own.
It does not matter to our story
whether this rebellious outburst
was justifiable or successful. It
may be mentioned, however, for the
comfort of the many who are born
sympathizers with rebels in every
class and country, that the rebellion
of Loisel did succeed, and that Gen-
eral Blagueur was ignominiously
beaten. But what a price Loisel
paid for this wicked victory ! A
detachment of troops was at once
sent down to prey Cipon its vitals

668

Monsieur Gonibard" s Mistake.

and bold a cocked pistol at its head.
The state subsidy promised to the
local municipality for rebuilding the
tumble-down hospital was refused ;
the concession for a railway to con-
nect it with the main line, after
having been distinctly promised to
an enterprising company, was with-
drawn ; the prefect was "promoted"
to a post in a dismal, out-of-the-
way town in an eastern department.
It was said at one moment that the
mayor was going to be dismissed,
or in some way visited by the impe-
rial displeasure. But this was one
of those unreasoning panics that are
common to every period of social
terror; men lose their heads, and
see monstrous and impossible events
impending. The government, pow-
erful as it was, never dreamed of
laying a finger on M. Gombard.

The worthy mayor forbore, with
his usual prudence, from taking any
prominent part in the war that was
raging at Loisel, and ostensibly left
the prefect all the honors and perils
of leadership; but it was perfectly
well known, as he admitted to friends
in confidence, that if M. le Prefet
reigned, M. le Maire governed ; and
M. le Maire's power arose in great
measure from the consummate tact
with which he managed to hide this
fact from everybody, above all from
M. le Prefet. Now, it happened that,
just when the excitement of the con-
test was at its greatest, when tRe
wildest stories were afloat about
the sinister machinations of the gov-
ernment, the base and cruel means
it employed to compass its ends
setting brother against brother,
and wife against husband, carrying
bribery and discord and all manner
of corruption into the very marrow
of the bones of Loisel it happened
that, when things were in this state,
a young man arrived at the princi-
pal inn of the place. He did noth-

ing to provoke the anger or suspi-
cions of the population : he was si-
lent, unobtrusive, speaking to no one
at the table-d'hdte where he took his
meals ; but before he had been two
days at Loisel the entire town was
infuriated against him. He had
been seen standing before a dis-
mantled old round tower that guard-
ed the entrance to the town, and
once had boasted of battlements and
a cannon ; this report had gone
abroad the first day of his arrival,
and the next morning it was posi-
tively stated that he had been seen
by an apple worn an and a milkman
walking round \\\e tower, and scram-
bling upon a broken wall close by
to get a view into it. It was at an early
hour, before anybody was likely to be
abroad. Such facts, resting on such
clear and forcible evidence, admit-
ted only of one interpretation the
stranger was a paid miscreant sent
down to examine the tower with a
view to fortifying it as of yore, and so
terrifying the refractory towns-peo-
ple into surrendering their indepen-
dence to the government. A coun-
cil was called by the outraged citi-
zens, and in ten minutes the fate of
the engineer was decided. A rush
was made on the inn where he lodg-
ed ; he was seized, dragged forth
amidst the yells of the enraged mob,
and would have rendered up his
mercenary soul to judgment there
and then, if the prefect had not
chanced to ride up at the moment
to the scene of popular justice.

"What is this? Call out the sol-
diers ! I will have every man of
you shot, if you don't release your
prisoner !" he cried, charging bold-
ly into the fray.

" He's a spy, a traitor ! We won't
have him here ! He wants to mur-
der us ; to butcher our wives and
children," etc. Fifty people shout-
ed out these and similar cries to-

Monsieur Gombarcfs Mistake.

669

gether ; but they had ceased mal-
treating the unfortunate stranger,
and were now only clutching him
and threatening him with clench-
ed fists.

"If he is guilty of any misde-
meanor or crime, or intent to com-
mit crime, he shall be made to an-
swer for it ; but it is the business
of the law to see justice done, not
yours. Let go your prisoner !" said
the prefect in a tone of high com-
mand.

Courage and the prestige of law-
ful authority seldom fail to impress
and subdue an excited mass of
men. The mob fell back, and two
gendarmes, at a sign from the
prefect, stepped forward ; the crowd
made way for them. " That man
is under arrest. Conduct him to
the mairie and lock him up," said
the prefect.

The gendarmes marched off the
rescued man, a crowd trooping
on with them, hooting and yelling
with an energy that sounded far
from reassuring, though it was so in
reality, being a kind of safety-valve
to the excited mob. It was a great
relief, nevertheless, to the object of
this manifestation to find himself
16cked up and safe out of its reach.
p[e was not a coward, but the brav-
est may be permitted to shrink from
such inglorious danger as this from
which he had just escaped.

He had not been many hours in
captivity when a sound of steps
and voices approaching the door
announced that some one was
about to appear probably the
magistrate. The key turned in the
lock, and M. Gombard entered, ac-
companied by two other persons :
one was a clerk who was to take
down in writing the interrogatory
of the mayor and the prisoner's re-
plies ; the other was a witness who
The moment M.

Gombard beheld the prisoner his
countenance changed; he felt it
did, though no one present noticed
it. In the hatless, muddy, battered-
looking man who rose painfully to
salute him the mayor recognized
the lover of Mile. Bobert. Was
he still only her lover ? In all
probability he was her husband by
this time. When M. Gombard had
mastered his surprise and recovered
from the shock of the discovery, he
proceeded to examine the prisoner.
The latter made no attempt at self-
defence ; he admitted, with a frank-
ness which the reporter set down
as " cynical," that he had visited
the round tower on the two occa-
sions alleged ; that he would gladly
do so again, if the citizens of Loisel
gave him the opportunity. He had
a natural love for old monuments
of every description, and was pro-
fessionally interested in them es-
pecially ancient fortifications and
fortresses of every kind; this old
tower was a curious specimen of
the fifteenth-century style, he was
anxious to take a sketch of it, and
so on, with more in the same tone.
The clerk wrote on with great gusto,
interlarding the prisoner's remarks
with commentaries intended to
complete them, and explain more
fully the depth of malice every word
revealed : " The accused looked
boldly at M. le Maire"; "the ac-
cused here smiled with a fiendish
expression " ; " the accused assum-
ed here a tone of insolent defi-
ance "; " the countenance of the
accused wore an air of cool con-
tempt," and so on. Meantime, the
mayor was wondering at the calm,
dignified manner of the prisoner,
and. admiring his well-bred tone and
perfect self-possession ; he was evi-
dently no common kind of person,
this lover, or husband, of Mile. Bo-
bert. At the close of the interrogate-

6;o

Monsieur Gcmbard's Mistake.

ry, when the clerk had wiped his pen
and was folding up his document,
the mayor, with a vaguely apologet-
ical remark, inquired whether the
prisoner was a married man. The
answer came with the same quiet
distinctness as the preceding ones:
" No, monsieur, I am not." He
bowed to M. Gombard, and M.
Gombard bowed to him. The in-
terview was at an end. " The case
looks bad," observed the reporting
clerk, as the door closed behind
them, M. Gombard himself locking
it, and pocketing the key unnoticed
by the others, who hurried on,
loudly discussing the matter in
hand.

" Do you not think it looks bad-
ly, M. le Maire ?" inquired the re-
porter.

"Very badly. We shall be the
laughing-stock of the whole coun-
try, if the prisoner is brought to
trial ; we shall pass for a communi-
ty of cowardly idiots. We must do
our utmost to prevent the affair
getting into the local paper, at any
rate. You are a friend of the edi-
tor's ; have you influence enough
witli him, think you, to make him
sacrifice his interest for once from
a patriotic motive ? It would be a
fine example, and you will have do?ie
the town a service which I shall
take care they hear of in due time."

The reporter held his head high
and looked important. " I was
thinking of this very thing, M.
la Maire, while I was taking down
the prisoner's answers," he said. " I
did my best to swell the silly busi-
ness into something like a charge,
feeling, as you say, that we should
be disgraced if the case were trum-
peted over the country as it really
stands; but the best way to hinder
the mischief will be to keep it out
of the paper. I think I can prom-
ise vou that this shall be done."

" Then my mind is at rest. The
honor of Loisel will be saved !" said
M. Gombard.

" It shall, it shall, M. le Maire !"
said his companion. He was excit-
ed and big with a sense of patriotic
responsibility.

The next day was the grand cri-
sis in the electioneering fever the
opening of the ballot-box. All Loisel
was abroad and on tiptoe with expec-
tation ; there was no buying or sell-
ing that day. No wonder the unlucky
inmate of the lock-up was forgotten.
M. Gombard, however, had not for-
gotten him.

Late on the previous night, when
the town had gone to bed and the
streets were silent, nobody being
abroad but the night watch and a
few stragglers whose business and
state of life made them avoid public
notice and daylight, M. Gombard
might have been seen stealing out
by the back door to his own stable,
and thence to the corner of a neigh-
boring street, where he fastened his
horse to a lamp-post, and stole back
to the mairie with the quick, furtive
air of a thief. He stepped softly
down the stone passage that led to
the lock-up room, laid his dark-lan-
tern on the floor outside, and then
turned the key slowly and with as
little noise as possible. The dead
silence that reigned in the place
made the slight grating of the key
sound like a shriek. When the
mayor entered the room, the pri-
soner was walking up and down,
trying to keep his blood in circula-
tion ; for the cold was intense, and
he was famished with hunger. 4< I
have come to release you," M.
Gombard said. " There is no time to
lose. I have left a horse ready sad-
dled at the corner of the street that
leads straight to the ruined tower;
you will mount him and ride for
your life."

Monsieur Gowbarcfs Mistake.

6 7 i

The prisoner could hardly be-
lieve his ears.

" What does this mean ?" he said.
" You are a perfect stranger to me,
and whoever you are, you must run
a great risk in rendering me this
service. May I ask why you take
this interest in me?"

41 I am glad to pay back a service
that one whom . . . that was ren-
dered to me not long since when
passing through Cabicol. I will not
say more ; but you will learn all
from the person in question most
likely some day. Meantime, have
no hesitation in accepting this ser-
vice at my hands. It is a debt of
gratitude that I am happy to be
able to pay. Come, every minute
is precious."

The prisoner was not inclined
to shut the door on his deliverer;
whatever his motive might be,
mysterious or romantic, it was a
merciful chance for him. The
two men left the house, step-
ping softly, stealthily like a couple
of thieves. When they reached the
entrance of a street, M. Gombard
stopped, and pointed silently to
where the gaslight fell upon the
horse, giving him the appearance
of a phantom beast amidst the sur-
rounding gloom. The traveller
held out his hand, and grasped the
mayor's in a long, strong pressure.
M. Gombard returned it, and notic-
ed now that his companion was
bareheaded.

" You forgot your hat!" he said
in a low voice.

" I lost it in the fray this morning."

"Then the town of Loisel owes
you another. Take this; it will serve
y r ou on the road as well as a new
one."

M. Gombard pulled off his hat
and handed it to the fugitive,
turned brusquely from him, and
hurried home.

No one remembered the stranger
who had provoked the popular fury,
until two days after his arrest, when
the agitation of the electioneering
crisis had subsided, and the au-
thorities had leisure to attend to or-
dinary business. Then it was discov-
ered that the bird had flown, no one
knew when, no one knew how. There
was great consternation amongst the
subordinate officials at the mairie
whose duty it was to have looked
after him ; but each declared he was
not responsible, that the prisoner
had not been given into his charge,
that the prisoner was only put there
temporarily, and ought to have been
conveyed at once to the jail, etc.
This did not prevent them shaking
in their shoes in mortal dread of
being turned out of their places.
The reporter was one of the first
to hear of the escape. He flew
at once with the intelligence to M.
Gombard. M. Gombard looked
him straight in the face and burst
out into an uncontrollable fit of
laughter; he shook, he held his
sides, he laughed till he cried again.
The reporter did not at first *know
what to make of it ; but at last the
contagion of M. le Maire's mirth
was irresistible. He began to laugh
also, and then M. Gombard roared,
and the two kept it up until they
nearly died of it. At last M. Gom-
bard, who was the first to recover
himself, took out his red cotton
handkerchief and wiped his eyes,
and blew his nose, and, after sundry
gasps and subsiding chuckles, said :
" It is the cleverest joke I ever saw
performed in my life, and you are
the cleverest rogue I ever met \vitli !
It was bad enough to play it off un-
known to me, to keep the fun of the
thing to yourself; but then to walk
in here with such cool impudence,
and never move a muscle of your
face while yon announced it as the

6 7 2

Monsieur Gombard's Mistake.

latest intelligence! Ha! ha! ha!"
And off he went again, falling back
in his chair, and laughing till the
tears rolled down his cheeks.

The reporter was in a terrible
state. He had not the faintest no-
tion what the fun was about, and he
had really joined in it till he could
laugh no more. One thing was
clear : somebody had done some-
thing which M. le Maire thought
extremely clever and was highly
diverted at, and that he the re-
porter had the credit of.

"Tell me, how did you do it?"
.?aid M. Gombard, again recovering
himself and mopping his face, that
was now as red as the handkerchief.

" Really, M. le Maire, I I don't
quite understand," said the report-
er, smiling and trying to look at
once confused and knowing.

" Come, come, no more of this !
Tell it out like a good fellow; let
me have the fag-end of the fun at
any rate. How did you manage to
give them all the slip ?"

" Positively, monsieur, there is
some mistake. I don't see I don't
understand " stammered out the
reporter.

M. Gombard gave a tremendous
gasp, as if the laughter were still
in him and it required a huge ef-
fort to keep it down.

"Well, well," he said, "I won't
press you, but I think you might
have trusted me ; we are old friends
now. However, keepyour secret and
accept my best compliments. You
missed your vocation, though ; you
ought to have been a diplomatist.
I see no reason after this after
this " here he began to shake
again and brought out the cotton
handkerchief " why you should
not be minister some day. Vous irez
loin, mon cher vous irez loin /"

There was a knock at the door.
The two men stood up.

" M. le Maire, I am to under-
stand that you are rather glad than
otherwise of this this mysterious
disappearance?" said the reporter,
with some hesitation.

" Glad ! You deserve the Cross

. for it!" exclaimed the mayor. " It

is the greatest service you could

have rendered to the town. Some

day or other they shall hear of it."

" I really must disabuse you of a
false impression," began the report-
er. " Anxious as I was to be of use,
my share in this matter "

"Tut, tut!" said M. Gombard,
" none of this nonsense with me, my
dear fellow. Keep your own coun-
selquite right; but don't be such
an idiot as to deny your services to
those who can reward them. Mark
my words : Vous irez loin /" He tug-
ged gently at the reporter's ear, and,
shaking hands with him, sent him
away happy and elated, but utterly
mystified.

The affair made some noise ; a
prods verbal was drawn up, there
was an interrogatory of the clerks,
and before a week the escape of the
spy was forgotten.

Just before Easter that is, three
months after this little electioneering
incident M. Gombard had occa-
sion to go to Cabicol again. This
time, however, he was not alone ;
he was accompanied by M. le Pre-
fet, the new one, who was making a
tournce in his kingdom, and took the
mayor with him by way of a moral
support. He was a timid man ;
he knew that his appointment was
unpopular, and that M. Gombard's
influence might help to reconcile
people to it.

They alighted at the Jacques*
Bonhomvie to change horses and
take some refreshment before offi-
cially inspecting the town of Cabi-
col. M. Gombard was anxious to
get some news of Mile. Bobert,

Monsieur Gombard's Mistake.

673

when the marriage bad taken place,
and how it was supposed to pros-
per so far; but there was no op-
portunity of saying a word to the
landlord, for the prefect was there,
and M. Gombard had no plausible
excuse for leaving him. He could
not help remarking the strange ex-
pression of the landlord's counte-
nance on first beholding him ; the
scared, incredulous glance he cast
upon him, and the mysterious man-
ner in which, on assisting him
from the chaise, he pressed his arm
and whispered : '' I congratulate
you, monsieur ; I congratulate you."

What could the fellow mean by
this extraordinary behavior! But
the mayor remembered how oddly
he had behaved on the occasion of
his former visit, and set him down
as an original, a harmless monoma-
niac of some sort.

Just as they were starting, and
tiie prefect was receiving the com-
pliments of M. le Cure at the door
of the Jacques Bonhomtne, M. Gom-
burd seized the opportunity of a
word with the landlord. Pointing
his cane towards the old house op-
posite, he observed in a careless
manner :

" Your pretty heiress is married
by this, of course ? What is her
name now ?"

"Married! Alas! no," replied
the landlord mournfully. " Mon-
sieur has not, then, heard?"

" Good heavens ! she is not
dead ?" cried M. Gombard, drop-
ping his feigned indifference in im
instant.

".She is blind, monsieur stone
blind ! It was a terrible accident ;
she was thrown from a carriage,
and the shock and injuries she sus-
tained destroyed her sight. They
say she may recover it after a
while; but I doubt it, monsieur, 1
doubt it."

VOL. xxiv. 43

" And her fiancd has he given
up

The mayor was here cut short by
the prefect, who called out from the
post-chaise, where he had already
seated himself.

" Gome, M. Gombard, we had
better be starting."

M. Gombard left Cabicol with
a sad heart. He looked wistfully
up at the latticed window under
the grand old escutcheon where
he had last caught a glimpse of the
beautiful young creature, now so
heavily stricken. It made his heart
ache to think of her in that lone-
ly house, her bright eyes sightless,
dwelling in perpetual night. Why
had not his rival insisted on marry-
ing her in spite, nay, because, of this
catastrophe ? He could fancy
how her brave and generous nature
would refuse to accept what she
considered a sacrifice; but what
sort of a love was his that could not
overcome such reluctance ? Poor
child ! How gladly he would have
devoted himself to soothing and
cheering her darkened life ! But
perhaps he was wronging his rival ;
it might be that she had merely
postponed their marriage, that they
both believed in her ultimate recov-
ery, and that she preferred waiting,
until it had taken place, until her
brown eyes had been restored, un-
til the spirit which once animated
them should awake and vivify them
as of old.

M. Gombard did not return to
Cabicol for many a long year after
this. He left T-^isel, and went to live
in Normandy, where an uncle had
died and left him some property a
rambling old house, surrounded by
some wooded fields and a fruit-
garden ; the house was called the
Chateau, and the fields were call-
ed " the Park." M. Gombard had
not been long in possession of

6/4

Monsieur Goinbard 1 s Mistake.

this ancestral estate before he was
'elected mayor of the village. He
was the kind of man to be elected
mayor wherever he resided. Some
men, we hear said, are born actors,
doctors, ambassadors, etc. ; M.
Gombard was born a mayor.

Life went smoothly with him
amongst his fields and fruit-trees
for nearly ten years. Then friends
took it into their heads, and put
it into his, that he ought to become
a deputy; the elections were at
hand, and they put up his name as
opposition candidate for the de-
partment of X , whose chef -lieu

was Loisel. The proposal took M.
Gombard's fancy mightily. To go
back to the place where he had left
such a good name and exercised such
undisputed influence; to go back
as representative of the department
this was a triumph that even in per-
spective made him purr like a strok-
ed cat. He started off one morning
in high spirits for Loisel. His most
direct road lay through Cabicol.
The railroad landed him within a
mile of the quaint old town at
eight o'clock in the morning. He
was in the mood for a walk, so he set
out on foot. It was within a few
days of Christmas ; the weather was
intensely cold, but the sky was as
blue as a field of sapphire, and the sun
shone out as brightly as in spring.
He remembered the first time he
had been to Cabicol ; it wae about
this season of the year, but what
miserable weather it was ! Snow
deep on the ground, and then the
heavy rains coming before it melted,
and turning the roads and streets
into canals of mud and slush. This
bracing cold, with the sun cheering
up the landscape, was delightful.
M. Gombard walked on with a
brisk step, whistling snatches of one
tune or another, till he came within
sight of the church. The first

glimpse of the strong, graceful spire,
pricking the blue sky, so high, so
high it rose, brought a flood of soft
and tender memories to the hard-
headed, embryo legislator; he smil-
ed, and yet he heaved a little sigh as
the recollection of his first and his
last visit to that fine old church came
back upon him. He wondered how
life had gone with the fair enchant-
ress who had spirited away his
heart from him in the brown twi
light of the Gothic temple ; whether
she had ever cast a thought on him
from that day to the present. And
her sight had she recovered it ?
M. Gombard had often thought of
this, and breathed a hearty wish
that it might be so. And was she
married? In all probability, yes.
The chances were that she was now
the happy mother of a blooming
little family, of which the man he
iTad for a moment so vigorously de-
tested was the proud protector. If
so, M. Gombard would call upon
him and pay his respects to ma-
dame. This was the proper thing
for an opposition candidate to do,
and it would be an opportunity for
Mile. Bobert's husband to show his
gratitude for former services.

He entered the town, now a busy,
thriving place, and, crossing the
market-place, made straight for the
Jacques Bonhomme. There it was,
not a whit changed, just as dingy-
looking, with its stunted laurels be-
fore the door, that stood wide open
as in the midst of summer. There,
too, was the picturesque old manor-
house opposite, just as he had first
seen it, only that the roof was not
covered with snow nor fringed with
icicles. The ivy was thicker ; it had
grown quite over the front wall,
but had been roughly clipped away
from a space over the balcony,
leaving the escutcheon visible a
gray patch amidst the glistening

Monsieur GombarcTs Mistake.

67:

green of the ruin-loving parasite.
Two persons were coming out of
the house as M. Gombard drew
near. A group of poor people
stood at the lodge, evidently await-
ing them, with eager, questioning
faces. One of these persons was
the doctor, the other was the cure,
The doctor walked on in silence.
The cure spoke : "Alas ! my friends,
she is gone from us. We must be
resigned ; for the loss is all ours,
the gain all hers."

M. Gombard felt a great pang go
through him. Pie stood near the
group, and heard the tearful cries
that answered the cure's words :
"Ah,/tf bonne demoiselle ! Yes, it is
a happy deliverance for her; but
what a loss for us, for the sick, for
all Cabicol !" And they dispersed,
lamenting, and repeating through
their tears : " Pauvre Mile, Bobert !
Our good friend ! She is gone !
The funeral is to be to-morrow !"

So she had died, as she had liv-
ed, "Mile. Bobert." M. Gom-
bard lingered a moment, looking
up at the deep, latticed window
where the slight figure would never
be seen looking forth again. She
was to be buried to-morrow, they
had said. He resolved to wait and
attend the funeral. He remained
gazing up at the picturesque old
edifice, which had arrested his cu-
riosity and admiration for its own
sake before he had become inter-
ested in its mistress. Whom would
it go to now? he wondered.

A step on the pathway outside
made him turn and look in that
direction. He was startled, but
not much astonished to see the
fiance vi Mile. Bobert approaching.
Poor man ! He looked much older
than M. Gombard had expected to
find him. Evidently he had suffer-
ed during these eleven years; his
life had been blighted as well as

hers. The manly heart of the may-
or went out to him in sympathy.
He was preparing to hold out his
hand, when, to his consternation,
the gentleman raised his hat with
the old courtly bow that M. Gom-
bard so well remembered. How
was this ? The unhappy man was
ignorant of his sorrow ! He was
saluting the dead, and he knew it
not.

" Monsieur, pardon me," said M.
Gombard, meeting him with an
outstretched hand and a face full
of genuine compassion. "You
have evidently not heard the sad
news?"

"Concerning whom?" inquired
the gentleman, giving his hand, but
looking very blank.

"Who? Why . . . Mile. Bo-
bert!"

"What has happened to Mile.
Bobert, monsieur ?" asked the gen-
tleman.

"What has happened? Good
heavens ! Can it be possible . . .
The worst has happened : she is
dead !"

"Ah !" exclaimed the gentleman.
Was this man some near relation of
hers, or did he mistake kirn for one ?

" I tell you she is dead !" repeat-
ed M. Gombard, his surprise rising
rapidly to indignation. " She died
only a few minutes ago, and she is
to be buried to-morrow !"

" Naturally ; that is the law. A
person who dies this morning must
be buried to-morrow, unless," the
speaker continued, fancying he had
here a clue to M. Gombard's ex-
citement " unless good reason can
be shown for obtaining a delay, in
which case, as a resident, I may be
of some use to you ; you seem to
be a stranger here."

M. Gombard could not credit his
senses. Was he dreaming, or was
this man gone mad? He stared at

6;6

Monsieur GombarcTs Mistake.

him for a moment in dumb amaze-
ment. At last he said :

" Perhaps I am under a mistake.
... I may be taking you for a per-
son who resembles you strongly.
Who are you, monsieur ?"

" I am an archaeologist by profes-
sion ; my name is De Valbranchart."
He drew out his pocket-book and
handed a card to M. Gombard.

"Henri, Comte de Valbranchart"
repeated M. Gombard absently.
He had heard the name before ; but
where ? " The name is not un-
known to me," he added.

" It can hardly be unknown to any-
one who has read history," replied
the count, with quiet hauteur.
' The De Valbrancharts played a
stirring part in the history of France
as early as the twelfth century. But
their day is over; they have no ex-
istence in the present. I am the
last of the name."

kli Where have I heard it before ?"
said M. Gombard musingly.

" Perhaps at Cabicol," returned
the count. " This old house was the
home of my family for three hun-

dred years. Those are our arms
carved upon its front; for twenty
years I have saluted them daily as
I pass. It is foolish, perhaps ; but I
feel as if the spirit of my ancestors
haunted the old roof-tree, and that
they are not insensible to the filial
homage."

As he said this he looked up at
the stone shield, where a lion pas-
sant, on gule, was still visible, sur-
mounted by a fleur-de-lis argent,
en chef. Raising his hat deferen-
tially to the worn and partly-oblit-
erated symbols of a glory that lived
only in his faithful memory, the
Comte de Valbranchart bowed to
M. Gombard and passed on.

" And so this was the lady-love
he worshipped," said M. Gombard
to himself, as the tall, pensive man
disappeared down the street. " He
never loved her, perhaps he never
knew her ; and if I had only known,
I might have . . . But. it is no use
regretting the irreparable. I should
have been a more miserable man
at this hour, if I had won her and
loved her all these years."

The Home-Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets.

677

THE HOME-LIFE OF SOME EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY

POETS.

" THE happiest lives," says South-
ey, speaking of his own, " are those
which have the least variety."
There never was a truer saying.
All the knowledge of the world in-
volved in a stormy life, whether of
vice, adventure, poverty, or politi-
cal prominence, is not worth the
half of the quiet happiness of a
home-life and of what people light-
ly and mistakenly call monotony.
And not only in such a life does
the soul grow and .the higher part
of man gradually and calmly ripen,
but his mind grows, his art grows,
his genius widens and deepens.
There are no shocks to arrest the
creations of his mind; no periods
of untrue, feverish, excited joy, fol-
lowed by a ghastly reaction and a
sad blank, to disturb the rest that
alone produces lasting works. Not
all poets and artists understood
this, because very few were perfect
men- not all common men under-
stand it, because if their inborn
propensities do not (and they do
in only exceptional cases) lead
them to this quiet haven, it requires
severe experiences and much re-
pentance before they can enter
such a state. It is true that the
works universally reckoned the
greatest have been accomplished
by men whose lives were spent
among storms; but since the men
who wrote them could so heroically
overcome this inner obstacle, what
magnificent things might they not
have done if their lives had been
differently ordained ! The Divina
Com me dia, Paradise Lost, King Lear
were the offspring of volcanic na-

tures and volcanic circumstances :
Dante and Milton were both lone
men, soured and discontented, un-
fortunate in their domestic, and un-
easy in their political, life ; Shak-
spere was poor and despised, long
a wanderer and an adventurer, and
not too well mated either. And
this brings us to the consideration
of the more accessible and human
side of their nature, one which is
intensely interesting to us; for the
more we read, the more we think,
the more do we see how alike man-
kind is at all stages of its career,
how little difference there is in hu-
man relations between us and our
forefathers nay, our remotest an-
cestors, whether in other climes or
in a totally different civilization.
Modes of thought have grown anti-
quated, systems of philosophy have
crumbled, faiths have disappeared,
customs have changed, but man
and his passions remain the same
as when he was first made. And
the men who are but names to us,
whose record is in forgotten tablets
and antique parchments, even those
whose works and sayings are known
to us in part, all lived the same
common life to the eye of their
contemporaries, shared the same
lowly necessities and the same agi-
tating feelings, and went through
the same kind of outward, prescrib-
ed life as the rind of their inner
and individual one, as our modern
poets, artists, savants, discoverers,
and even our single selves. For
ourselves, we almost invariably care
more for the life of a man than for
his works; and as this century has

6;8

TJie Home-Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets.

developed a peculiar turn for bio-
graphy, even that of ordinary and
obscure persons which is often
none the less interesting it has
been a liking easy to satisfy. If,
however, readers of poets prefer to
see their ideal with their own eyes
and look upon him as a demigod,
biography is not a thing likely to be
pleasant to them. It is often disen-
chanting, and many people shrink
from the true if it be not likewise
in accordance with their preconceiv-
ed notions. The English poets of
the last century were emphatically
men, good specimens of their time
and surroundings, by no means souls
stranded on a foreign world and ac-
cidentally fitted with clogging bod-
ies whose necessities were a vexa-
tion to the spirit.

The earliest of the rising genera-
tion of that time who came promi-
nently before the public, and has
never since lost his place, is Dean
Swift. He was "of the earth,
earthy," yet not a type of very com-
mon humanity. His life was full of
strange incidents and extraordinary
contradictions. He was, like Milton,
by inclination rather a politician
than a writer, and yet his poems have
outlived his pamphlets. Sometimes
he was coarse in language and brutal
in manner a fashion of his age, itself
a contrast to the other extreme af-
fected by society, that of a finical
and artificial delicacy. Yet he won
the almost unsolicited affection of
pure-minded, sensitive, well-educat-
ed women. Now he was a miser,
now a prodigal ; now he entered a
state which so many other poets
conscientiously eschewed, himself
worse fitted for it than they were;
and now he showed a tenderness
of feeling and a nobleness of soul
which seemed inconsistent with this
one life-act of defiant recklessness.
For it was not hypocrisy ; to that

lowest of depths he, at least, did not
sink. His education was desultory
and his early circumstances narrow.
His first situation was a poor one,
though in a refined home and with
a great statesman Sir William Tem-
ple, whose reader and secretary he
was. He got only twenty pounds a
year, but had the chance of a troop
of horse which King William offer-
ed him when he came to visit the
youth's patron at Moor Park. His
mind was inflamed by the stirring-
scenes during which his poor mother
had fled from Ireland the times
following the Revolution and the
Boyne and he vindicated and abus-
ed his native country by turns, like
an indignant lover, always ready
fiercely- to defend her if attacked by
others, yet conscious of the unhap-
py state into which civilization and
literature had fallen, consequent on
the civil troubles since Elizabeth's
Reformation. At Richmond he owed
an illness to his gluttony, as he
boldly if exaggeratedly confesses :
"About two hours before you were
born," he writes to a lady, " I got my
giddiness by eating a hundred gold-
en pippins at a time ; and when you
were four years and a quarter old,
bating two days, having made a fine
seat about twenty miles further in
Surrey, where I used to read, there
I got my deafness ; and these two
friends have visited me, one or
other, every year since, and, being
old acquaintance, have now thought
fit to come together." Dryden did
not recognize the young poet as a
brother, and wrote him his opinion
most bluntly, which Swift never for-
gave or forgot, and for which once or
twice he revenged himself on other
hapless and obscure poets who
better deserved the s.ame criticism.
One of the good deeds of his youth
was his giving up an appointment
in the National Church, wor

The Home-Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets. 679

a year, in favor of a poor struggling
curate with less than half that in-
come and eight children to support ;
but some of his friends thought
that the loss of congenial society
which this small preferment involv-
ed somewhat moved him to this
renunciation. Going back to Moor
Park, he made acquaintance with
"Stella " Esther Johnson a ward
of his patron, a girl of fifteen, who
loved him devotedly, and whose
heart he broke. He became her
tutor, and his genius, his appear-
ance, and his manner captivated
the child-woman. Engaged at the
time to a Miss Waryng, whom he
fancifully styled " Varina," he broke
his promise to her, and in the de-
tails of their quarrel showed him-
self as insolent as dishonorable.
At this time of his life he was, if
not a handsome, at least a very
striking man. He was tall and
well made, with deep-blue eyes and
black hair and eyebrows, the last
very bushy, and his expression stern
and haughty the very hero of a
young girl's dreams. After Sir Wil-
liam's death he removed Stella to
the neighborhood of his own par-
sonage, where she lived in a little
cottage with an elderly companion,
and never saw Swift except in the
presence of a third person. Sir
Walter Scott charitably attributes
his avoidance of marriage with her
to prudential reasons, and in this
anomalous relation to the woman
lie loved he sees an attempt " in the
pride of talent and of wisdom . . .
to frame a new path to happiness ";
and the consequences, he continues,
were such as to render him " a
warning, where the various virtues
with which he was endowed ought
to have made him a pattern." In
one of his visits to London he met
" Vanessa " Esther Vanhomrigh
to whom he offered the same Platon-

ic friendship, with nearly the same
results. The girl died of grief and
" hope deferred." Another version
of his luckless love-affairs asserts
that he ultimately married Stella,
but refused to live with her, and
visited her formally the same as
before.

Swift's fits of avarice were great
sources of amusement to his visi-
tors. It is said that he occasionally
allowed some guests of his, ladies
of high rank, a shilling each to pro-
vide for themselves when asked to
dine with him. Another such droll
tale, but rather illustrating the con-
trary disposition, is told of him by
Pope: "One evening Gay and I
went to see him. On our coming
in, 'Heyday, gentlemen,' says the
doctor, ' what's the meaning of this
visit ? How came you to leave all
the great lords you are so fond of,
to come hither and see a poor dean ?'
'Because we would rather see you
than any of them !' 'Ay, any one
that did not know so well might
believe you. But since you are
come, I must get some supper for
you, I suppose ?' ' No, doctor, we
have supped already.' 'Supped
already ? That's impossible ! Why,
it is not eight o'clock yet. That's
very strange ; but if you had not
supped, I must have got something
for you. Let me see ; what should
I have had ? A couple of lobsters ;
ay, that would have done very well
two shillings; tarts, a shilling.
But you will drink a glass of wine
with me, though you supped so
much before your usual time only
to spare my pocket.' ' No ; we had
rather talk with you than drink
with you.' ' But if you had supped
with me, as, in all reason, you ought
to have done, you must then have
drunk with me. A bottle of wine,
two shillings. Two and two is four,
and one is five just two and six-

68o

The Home- Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets.

pence apiece. There, Pope, there's
half a crown for you, anc# there's
another for you sir; for I won't
save by you, I am determined.' In
spite of everything we could say to
the contrary, he actually obliged
us to take the money."

Among the literary practical jokes
he sometimes played was a book
of prophecies he published in ridi-
cule of a yearly almanac of predic-
tions by one Partridge. The chief
event foretold was the astrologer's
own dea-th on the 291)1 of March,
1708. As soon as the date was
past an elaborate account of Par-
tridge's last moments and sayings
came out in "a letter to a person
of honor." .Partridge found it hard
to persuade people of his continued
existence, and, having once com-
plained to a Doctor Yalden, was re-
paid by the latter by an additional
account of. his sufferings and end
by his supposed attendant physi-
cian. The poor man was driven
frantic; he says the undertaker and
the sexton came to him " on busi-
ness " ; people taunted him in the
streets with not having paid his
funeral expenses ; his wife was dis-
tracted by being persistently ad-
dressed as Widow Partridge, and was
" cited once a term into court to
take out letters of administration " ;
while "the very reader of our par-
ish, a good, sober, discreet person,
has two or three times sent for me
to come and be buried decently,
-or, if I have been interred in any
other parish, to produce my certi-
ficate, as the act requires." Sir
Walter Scott remarks, as an odd
coincidence, that in 1709 the Com-
pany of Stationers obtained an in-
junction against any almanac pub-
lished under the name of John Par-
tridge, as if the poor man had been
dead in sad earnest.

Unsatisfactory as was the home-

life of Dean Swift, Alexander Pope's
is scarcely more pleasant to look
back upon. He was never married,
and his best associations with home
were through his mother, whom he
loved dearly. But his continual
ill-heahh and misshapen body made
him miserable, and he himself calls
his life " one long disease." Fame
he won early, but it did not sweeten
his spirit. His early life was spent
near Windsor Forest, at the village
of Binfield, where his father, a pros-
perous tradesman, retired with his
fortune of ^20,000 when the boy
was twelve years old. Instead of
putting this money in the bank, he
kept it in the house in a strong
chest, and drew upon the sum for
all he wanted for many years, by
which method it was considerably
lessened before his son inherited it.
Many of the despicable traits or
foolish weaknesses of Pope's cha-
racter were due to his sufferings.
He was deformed in person, and so
feeble that he had to be dressed
and tended like a child. He was
laced in stays to keep him erect,
and was so small that at table it
was necessary to place him in a
high chair. Dr. Johnson says that
"his legs were so slender that he
enlarged their bulk with three pair
of stockings, which were drawn on
and off by the maid; for he was not
able to dress or undress himself,
and neither went to bed nor rose
without help." He wanted help
even in the night, and would ofien
call up a servant for coffee or for
pen and paper; but he was lavish
of money to compensate for the
trouble he gave, and a servant in
Lord Oxford's house once declared
that so long as it was her business
to answer the poet's bell she would
not ask for wages. In other re-
spects, however, Pope was absurdly
miserly, and one of his habits that

The Ho me -Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets. 68 1

of writing his verses on the backs
of letters and other loose leaves and
scraps got him the nickname of
"paper-sparing Pope." It was his
friend Swift who originated this
saying. He was hardly thirty when
his Honier had gained him an in-
dependence, and he set up his own
house at Twickenham, though he
still passed half his time at his
parents' home at Binfield. Twick-
enham had the charm of society,
which to Pope was a great solace.
Here he gathered a circle of ad-
miring friends; for the place was a
kind of centre of literature and
fashion. Lady Mary Montagu, with
whom he fell in love and then quar-
relled, was his neighbor; Boling-
broke lived at Dawley, and Lord
Burlington at Chiswick. Fine court
people and " elegant company," as
he writes, flocked to visit him, and,
though he enjoyed it, he seems to
have been partly discontented with
it. It was the weak protest of the
higher nature, dwarfed but not
crushed by the lower. His filial
piety shines out as a redeeming
point in his selfish, narrow, loveless
life, and it never wearied of its pro-
longed task; for his mother died at
ninety-three (in 1733), at his house,
and he mourned her deeply and
tenderly. Another good and inno-
cent trait was his love of gardening,
though it was but the formal, life-
less gardening of his day, when the
taste prevailed for grottoes and ma-
sonry and .clipped trees. He writes
to Swift : " The gardens extend and
flourish. ... I have more fruit-
trees and kitchen-garden than you
have any thought of; nay, I have
melons and pineapples of my own
growth." To another friend lie
writes : " I am now as busy planting
for myself as I was lately in planting
for another [his mother], and I
thank God for every wet day and

for every fog that gives me the
headache, but prospers my works.
They will, indeed, outlive me, but I
am pleased to think my trees will
afford fruit and shade to others
when I shall want them no more."
It is said that Pope introduced the
weeping willow into England. The
story runs that he discovered some
twigs wrapped round an article sent
from abroad, and planted one of
them in his garden. A wrllow
sprang up, from which numberless
slips were taken, some to be plant-
ed in England, others to be sent
abroad. The old tree died in iSoi.
Its life seems to have been but a
short one. Pope's grotto still re-
mains, but the rest of the garden
has been sadly changed and disfi-
gured by partition and building.
He also made a tunnel under the
public road, on each side of which
his property lay. This reminds us
of a peculiar tunnel diving under
the Parade at Ramsgate, on the
Channel, and leading to a grotte or
series of catacomb-like passages in
the chalk cliff overlooking the sea.
This is on the Pugin property, and
there are like galleries, we believe,
a little further, leading from the
gardens of Sir Moses Montefiore.

Richmond, adjoining Twicken-
ham, is as classic ground in its lite-
rary associations. Here Thomson,
the author of The Seasons, lived for
the twelve last years of his iitV,
at a pretty cottage called Rosedalj
House, now much altered and en-
larged. But the summer-house in
the garden remains the same as it
was in the poet's time. " It is,"
says Mr. Howitt, " a simple wooden
construction, with a plain back and
two outward-sloping sides, a bench
running round it within, a roof and
boarded floor, so as to be readily
removable all together. It is kept
well painted of a dark green, and

682 The Home- Life of some Eight cent It- Century Poets.

in it stands an old, small walnut
table, with a drawer, which belong-
ed to Thomson." A tablet let into
the front of the alcove above bears
the following inaccurate inscrip-
tion :

HERE

THOMSON SANG

" THE SEASONS "

AND THEIR CHANGE.

His famous poem was composed
several years before, and begun
when he had scarcely a roof over
his head. The first part, " Winter,"
was written in a lodging over a
bookseller's shop, to whose master
he sold the poem for three guineas.
It was neglected until a clergyman,
" happening to turn his eye upon
it, was so delighted that he ran
from, place to place celebrating its
excellence." Would such simple
means be enough now to herald a
new author, although literature is
supposed nowadays to be so much
more respected and lucrative a call-
ing than in the last century? Be-
fore this stroke of luck Thomson had
been drudging as $. tutor, teaching
his patron's littleboyof five yearsold
his alphabet, and wasting his Scotch
university education in such dreary
pursuits. He had been brought up
tor the Presbyterian ministry, being
himself a Scotch minister's son ; but
he found himself unfit for that call-
ing, and set out from Edinburgh for
London " to seek his fortune," with
a little money and some letters of
recommendation tied up in his
pocket-handkerchief. He had no
sooner reached London than both
were stolen, and this misfortune was
soon followed by a worse the death
of his widowed mother. After the
happy hit of his "Winter," how-
ever, he had no more trouble ; the
patrons of literature took him up,
his poems sold fast, and he com-
pleted his Seasons, while also

throwing off minor works, all equal-
ly admired by his contemporaries,
though not equally deserving. His
writings were always moral and
just; he never natters *or plays
with vice, and it has been said of
him with truth that he never wrote a
line which, dying, he would wish to
blot. We think the same could be
said of Wordsworth. But if private
morality did not surfer through him,
public laxity in the sphere of poli-
tics did ; that is, he was innocently
part and parcel of a corrupt system
of place-giving, irrespective of fit-
ness for the office. It was the vice
of the age, alike in church and
state. He held at different t'mes two
sinecureships in the gift of gov-
ernment one the Secretaryship of
Briefs in the Court of Chancery, the
other the general surveyorship of
the Leeward Islands. In his private
life he was fortunate; he travelled
abroad with Sir Charles Talbot's
eldest son, he visited all the peo-
ple worth knowing, and was flatter-
ingly received by all, his means were
ample, yet he was not altogether
happy. He was crossed in love by
a Miss Young, whom he addresses
in his poems as Amanda, and who
cast him off for an admiral. His
love, to judge by his letters, was
earnest and true; writing to her
during their short engagement, he
says : *' If I am so happy as to have
your heart, I know you have spirit
to maintain your choice ; and it shall
be the most earnest study and pur-
suit of my life not only to justify
butto do you credit by it . . . With-
out you there is a blank in my hap-
piness which nothing can fill up."
His disappointment increased his
melancholy, and, indeed, made his
faults come into worse relief; but
he lived only five years after it.
Like many whose struggles have not
been very hard or lengthened, he be-

The Home- Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets. 683

lieved too much in luck and grew
careless and indolent ; his ambition
was to live in peace, in luxurious
dreams, in easy, social fellowship.
He was kind but apathetic, and as
careless of himself as of others, so
that, though he had money enough
to live more than comfortably, he
was once arrested for a debt of
seventy pounds. The actor Quill,
as was often the case with friends
of those detained in a " sponging-
house " in those rollicking days
when such confinement was not sup-
posed to entail any disgrace, went
to see him and ordered supper from
a tavern close by. When they had
done, Quin said seriously : "It is
time now, Jemmy Thomson, we
should balance our accounts." The
poet, with the instinct of a debtor,
supposed that here was some further
demand he had forgotten ; but
Quin went on to say " that he owed
Thomson at least ,100 the lowest
estimate he could put upon the
pleasure he had derived from
reading his works; and that, in-
stead of leaving it to him in his will,
he insisted on taking this opportuni-
ty of discharging his debt. Then,
putting the money on the table, he
hastily left the room."

A ludicrous anecdote is told of
Thomson, which, if not true, is ty-
pical of his undoubted indolence
namely, that he would wander about
his garden with his hands in his
pockets, biting off the sunny side
of the peaches that grew upon the
wall. He was fond of walking, how-
ever. Laziness often brings dirt
in its train, and Johnson, himself
no Rhadamanthus on this score,
calls Thomson slovenly in his dress,
while other biographers aver that
he took care only of his w r ig. His
barber at Richmond said he was
very extravagant about it, and had
as many as a dozen wigs. One

other fault is hinted at: 'his love
of drink, so that the moral poet
was not so exemplary in his life as
in his works; but he was honest,
truth-telling, a good fri-end and
master, as well as a clever, imagi-
native, and cultivated writer.

It is curious to note how many
poets have been bachelors. Gray,
too, was one. The son of a well-
to-do London citizen, he was sent
to Eton and Cambridge, and at the
latter place spent many years of
his later life. He was emphatical-
ly a student, rather cold and fasti-
dious in manner, but a devoted son
and a true friend. His mother
"cheerfully maintained him [at
college] on the scanty produce of
her separate industry." He tra-
velled with Horace Wai pole, and
learned modern languages in his
wanderings, and was one of the first
English sight-seers at Herculaneum.
On his return to England his father
died, and he and his mother lived
at West Stoke, near Windsor, where
he wrote his famous Elegv. One
of his early friends, Richard West,
son of the Lord Chancellor of Ire-
land, a kindred spirit, learned, young,
and poetical, but indolent, writes af-
fectionately to Gray : " Next to see-
ing you is the pleasure of seeing
your handwriting; next to hearing
you is the pleasure of hearing from
you." Soon after the premature
death of his young friend Gray
went to live at Cambridge, and ten
years later his happy, quiet life was
disturbed by the death of his mo-
ther a blow he never recovered.
Towards the close of his life, thir-
teen years later, he writes to a
friend : " I had written to you to
inform you that I had discovered
a thing very little known, which is
thai: in one's whole life one can
never have more than a single mo-
ther. You may think this obvious,

684

The Home-Life of sonic Eighteenth-Century Poets.

and what you call a trite observa-
tion. You are a green gosling! I
was, at the same age, very near as
wise as you ; and yet I never dis-
covered this with full evidence and
conviction I mean till it was too
late. It is thirteen years ago, and
seems but as yesterday, and every
day I live it sinks deeper into my
heart."

His favorite study at Cambridge
first at Peter-house College, then
at Pembroke Hall, between which
places he spent nearly forty years
of his life was Greek, taking, as he
said, " verse and prose together, like
bread and cheese"; but his only pub-
lic office was the professorship of
modern history, the duties of which
he was, through ill- health, unaBle'to
fulfil. The stiffness of his bear-
ing and fastidiousness of his dress
made him a favorite butt of the
undergraduates, and his real attain-
ments, intellectual as well as moral,
were wholly powerless to restrain
within due bounds that spirit of
mischief which the gravest " dons"
themselves confess to in their own
far-off youth and heyday. One of
these jokes was the reason of his
leaving Peter-house in indignation
and removing to Pembroke Hall.
Gray had a nervous dread of fire,
and always kept a rope-ladder by
him in case of danger. One night
the " boys" u placed exactly under
his bedroom window a large tub
full of water, and some who were
in the plot raised a cry of 'fire' at
his door. Gray, terrified by the
report of the calamity he most
dreaded, rushed from his bed,
threw himself hastily out of the
window with his rope-ladder, and
descended exactly into the tub."
The two bars to which he fastened
his ladder are still to be seen at the
window of the chambers he used.
But in later years, when the fame

of his scholarship was greater, the
men crowded to see him when he
walked out. " Intelligence ran from
college to college, and the tables in
the different halls, if it happened
to be the hour of dinner, were
thinned by the desertion of young
men thronging to behold him."
He is said to have been thorough-
ly versed in almost every branch
of knowledge then cultivated. Be-
sides the classics, European modern
history and languages, painting, ar-
chitecture, and gardening occupied
his thoughts, and the more modern
studies of criticism, political econo-
my, and archaeology were not for-
gotten. Metaphysics also were fa-
miliar to him. His taste in natural
scenery was of a noble kind ; moun-
tains and heaths were his favorites.
When in the Scottish Highlands, he
writes to a friend : " A fig for your
poets, painters, gardeners, and cler-
gymen that have not been among
them ; their imagination can be made
up of nothing but bowling-greens,
flowering shrubs, horse-ponds, Fleet-
ditches, shell grottoes, and Chinese
rails."

In that age of artificiality this was
a great step forward. Men affected
to be appalled by the savageness
of life away from the capital ; they
magnified the fleeting, ignoble
gossip of their taverns and coffee-
houses into affairs of sublime im-
portance. A country-house to them
was a doll's house, a toy near Lon-
don, tricked out with fantastic imi-
tations of foreign curiosities; a full,
healthy, natural life was their hor-
ror. But Gray, though of this age,
was not of this clique ; he lived
outside the world of fashion and
coffee-houses ; his travels, and es-
pecially his studies, gave his mind a
wider range. This cannot be said of
poor, jovial, unlucky Goldsmith, the
jest of Fortune, the Micawber among

TJie Home- Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets. 685

poets. There is a wonderful dis-
parity between his miserable, shift-
less life and the fame of his works,
both. prose and poetry. He is one
of the most popular of poets and
novelists, and his life was one of
the most checkered, though uni-
formly unlucky, that ever were.
Before he was twenty he wrote
street ballads to earn bread, but
was ready to share his pittance with
Liny one poorer than himself. One
winter night he gave the blankets
off his bed to a shivering creature,
and " crept into the ticking to shel-
ter himself from the cold." Never
did avarice come near his heart;
indeed, his indiscriminate charity
often brought him into sore straits.
He was for two or three years a
sizar at Dublin University a sad
position since the old generous
days when the church protected
and encouraged poor students, and
foundations that still remain were
made for their support. They in-
deed remain, but the spirit of char-
ity and Christian brotherhood that
inspired them has gone, and poor
scholars find the universities as
worldly a place as any other, and
have to go through a fiery ordeal
to gain knowledge. At last Gold-
smith, goaded by the contempt and
insults he met with, even from his
tutor, who once knocked him down,
ran away to Cork with one shilling
in his pocket. He once told Sir
Joshua Reynolds " that of all the ex-
quisite meals he had ever tasted,
the most delicious was a handful
of gray peas given him by a girl,
after twenty-four hours' fasting."
Refusing to become a clergyman,
for which career he felt unfitted, he
studied medicine with small success,
though he managed to get a degree
after such a tour through Europe
as reminds one of the mediaeval
students' doings. He started with

a guinea in his pocket, one shirt to
his back, and a flute in his hand.
He led village dances on the green,
and beguiled the evening hours of
the gossips at the village inn, a
barn being often his sleeping- place.
But he had also another resource
the mediaeval one of supporting
theses before the learned faculties
of foreign universities. Having
thus, as it was laughingly said by
his friends, " disputed " his way
through Europe, he came back to
London, still a beggar, and found a
wretched home among beggars in
Axe Lane. How often must that
tragedy of disenchantment have
Deen played out before the eyes of
those human moths who come to
London and other great centres
" to seek their fortune " ! For one
that swims a thousand sink, and
each success is built upon the accu-
mulated failures of others perhaps
no less intellectually endowed.
The weary tramp after situations,
the timid offer of services that no
one wants, the despairing hint that
the lowest wages will be more than
welcome, the cold dissympathy that
need and shabby clothes almost al-
ways involve, and all this repeated
two, three, four times a year, is
enough to break the spirit of any
man not endowed with the eagle's
courage. There is hardly much to
choose between the miserable avo-
cations which poor Goldsmith was
driven to take up to keep himself from
starving. Once he was a chemist's
assistant in Monument Yard; then
a poor doctor on his own account,
in the still poorer neighborhood of
South wark ; then, worse than all, an
usher (or under-master) in a small
school. " I was up early and late ;
I was browbeat by the master, hat-
ed for my ugly face by the mis-
tress, worried by the boys within,
and never permitted to stir out to

686 The Home- Life of some EigJiteenth-Century Poets.

meet civility abroad." Then he
turned to that most uncertain yet
fascinating pursuit letters, his old
love. It barely kept him alive; he
was dunned and worried ; lived in
a wretched attic, and wore clothes
too shabby to go out in, except
after nightfall. In these days of
brilliant gas-lit shops and streets
even that comfort would have
been denied him. He was a book-
seller's hack, and wrote to order,
and was naturally delighted at
the chance of an appointment as
sitrgeon on the coast of Coromandel ;
but this fell through, unluckily for
himself, though not for posterity.
Goldsmith had a dog, to whom he
taught simple tricks, which were as
great a vexation to the poor animal
as his own troubles were to the
master (selfish human beings, how
little we follow the lesson. * Put
yourself in his place ' !), and this
faithful companion was a great so-
lace to him.

The way in which the Vicar of
Wakefield was given to the world
is too well known to be more than
glanced at. Version and counterver-
sion of the scene have been given
by Johnson and others ; it is pitiful
to think that such a book should
have depended upon the chance
of his being able to get out to offer
it to a publisher. While Goldsmith
sat a prisoner in his own room (it
is still shown at Islington., London)
Johnson took the treasure and sold
it for sixty pounds. It is to be
hoped the author changed his land-
lady after her behavior to him in
arresting him for his rent ; but per-
haps she had some provocation, for
when he had money he did not
always put it to the wisest pur-
poses. Others, too, must have been
either foolishly trusting or deliber-
ately kind ; for he owed ^2,000 at
his death, one of the bills being the

famous one at his tailor's for the
plum-colored coat made in elaborate
fashion. "Was ever poet so trust-
ed before ?" exclaimed his friend
Johnson. Among the friends who
mourned his premature death (he
was only forty-five) were some poor
wretches whom out of his own pov-
erty he had helped and befriended.
The year Goldsmith died, 1774,
Robert Southey was born, a man
whose life was in all respects differ-
ent shielded, domestic, happy, and
uneventful. " I have lived in the
sunshine," he says of himself. He
worked hard and was thoroughly
happy, singularly unambitious, but
imaginative and enthusiastic. He
was born at Bristol, and his early
school-life and holidays with an ec-
centric aunt were among his most
cheerful reminiscences. This old
lady, Miss Tyler, was one of those
excruciatingly neat housekeepers
who make every one about them
uncomfortable. " I have seen her,"
writes her nephew, " order the tea-
kettle to be emptied and refilled
because some one had passed across
the hearth while it was on the fire
preparing for her breakfast. She
had a cup once buried for six
weeks to purify it from the lips of
one she accounted unclean. All
who were not her favorites were in-
cluded in that class. A chair in
which an unclean person had sat
was put out in the garden to be
aired ; and I never saw her more
annoyed than on one occasion when
a man who called on business seat-
ed himself in her own chair; how
the cushion was ever again to be ren-
dered fit for her use she knew not."
Dust was of course her pet aver
sion, and she took more precautions
against it " than would have been
needful against the plague in an
infected city." Southey was ador-
ingly fond of his mother, from

The Home- Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets. 687

whom he inherited "that alertness
of mind and quickness of apprehen-
sion without which it would have
been impossible for me to have un-
dertaken half of what I have per-
formed. God never blessed a hu-
man creature with a more cheerful
disposition, a more generous spirit,
a sweeter temper, or a tenderer
heart." In all this the happy poet
was her counterpart. He went to
Westminster School, then to Balliol
College, Oxford, but distinguished
himself rather by feats of physical
prowess than by hard study. He
learned to row and swim, and lived
a healthy out-door life, as he had
done in his childhood when he \
roamed the country round Bristol
with Shad, his aunt's servant-boy.
Vice and dissipation had no attrac-
tions for him, though there were
but too many opportunities for self-
indulgence at the university. At
nineteen he wrote his first epic
poem, "Joan of Arc." He was an
enthusiastic republican, and one of
the most eager supporters of the
Pantisocracy scheme a social Uto-
pia, to be realized by a handful of
you nge migrants, who were to choose
some tract of virgin soil in America,
and support themselves by manual
labor, while their wives would un-
dertake all domestic duties. Their
earnings were to go to a common
fund, and their leisure hours, be spent
in intellectual exercises. Of course
the pleasant dream faded away, and
the group of destined companions
dispersed ; but three of the enthu-
siasts married three sisters at Bath,
and some bond of the old time was
kept up for many years by this con-
nection. Southey's marriage was not
made public till the return of the
bridegroom from Portugal, where he
had promised to accompany his un-
cle, on the very day his marriage took
place. His bride kept .her maiden

name and wore her wedding-ring
hung by a ribbon round her neck un-
til her husband came back, when she
went with him to London, where
they bravely lived and struggled on
a narrow and uncertain income. He
too, like many other poets, had re-
fused, from conscientious motives,
the prospect of a comfortable pro-
vision in the National Church, and
preferred to live by his own exer-
tions. The consequence was that
he too often lived from hand to
mouth ; yet his home circumstances
were so bright that he never seems
to have been in the same gloomy
" circle " of the literary " Inferno "
as most of his brothers. When he
was thirty he settled at Greta Hall,
Keswick, in the Lake country,
among the mountains, and there, in-
cessantly at work with his pen, he
refused many a lucrative offer which
would have drawn him from nature
to the distractions of London life.
He was as fond a father as he had
been a son, romped and played
with his children, wrote nonsense
verses for them, like poor Thack-
eray, and yet never neglected their
more serious education. " Every
house," he used to say, "should
have in it a baby of six months and
a kitten rising six weeks." Once,
when invited to London by some
great man, he writes : " Oh ! dear,
oh ! dear, there's such a comfort in
one's old coat and old shoes, one's
own chair and-own fireside, one's own
writing-desk and own library; with
a little girl climbing up to my neck
and saying, ' Don't go to London,
papa; you must stay with Edith';
and. a little boy whom I have taught
to speak the language of cats, dogs,
cuckoos, jackasses, etc., before he
can articulate a word of his own
there is such a comfort in all these
things that transportation to London
seems a heavier punishment than

688

The Home- Life of some EigJUeentJi-Century Poets.

any sins of mine deserve." During
an absence in Edinburgh he writes
to his wife : " What I have now to
say to you is that, having been eight
days from home, with as little dis-
comfort as a man can reasonably
expect, I have yet felt so little com-
fortable, so great a sense of solitari-
ness, and so many homeward yearn-
ings, that certainly I will not go to
Lisbon without you a resolution
which, if your feelings be at all like
mine, will not displease you." His
happy life was as regular as clock-
work : drudging, money-making
work, reading, siesta, poetry, meals,
long rambles, each had its appoint-
ed time, and his days were as full
as they were happy. The domes-
tic propensities which worldly men
called his ruin and the marrers of
his prospects of rank and wealth,
were in reality what inspired his
poetry, and thus made him immor-
tal. His poetry belongs to our cen-
tury, yet such a stride have we
made we will not say forward in the
sense of greater excellence, but in
that of utter difference since his
time that we venture to include him
in this sketch, reckoning by his
birth and early struggles, which after
all made the man, and thus mould-
ed the poet.

Melancholy, unhappy, restless
Cowper was, with all the love and
care he elicited from good and de-
voted women, a great contrast to
vSouthey. He was terribly sensitive,
clinging, loving, but somewhat weak.
The picture of the boy of six years
old playing with his young mother's
dress, pricking the pattern of her
'gown into paper with a pin, as he
describes himself in the pathetic
poem on the receipt of his mother's
picture, is a touching and sugges-
tive one ; for his mother died when
he was a child, and he never forgot
her for the fifty remaining years of

his lonely life. This portrait was
sent to him by a cousin in his old ag^,
and he writes thus in answer to tne
gift: "Every creature that bears
any affinity to my mother is dear to
me, and you, the daughter of her
brother, are but one remove distant
from her. ... I kissed it [the pic-
ture] and hung it where it is the
last object that I see at night, and
of course the first on which I open
my eyes in the morning. . . . I re-
member a multitude of the maternal
tendernesses which I received from
her, and which have endeared her
memory to me beyond expression."
Cowper's house at Olney was not a
cheerful one, and his frequent fits
of madness, or monomania, lasted
sometimes for months, and even
years. They took the shape of re-
ligious despondency about his soul;
he was "only in despair," he said,
and often attempted to kill him-
self. His second mother, who de-
voted her life to him, the widow of
a clergyman, Mrs. Unwin, saved
his life many times over; he could
not bear any other companion, yet
it was part of his delusion that
she disliked him. Every one has
heard of his fondness for his hares,
the first of which came to him as
a chance gift, to save the creature
from being killed by a negligent lit-
tle boy; so at one time he had
a large Chappy family" gathered
around him, whose hutches, cages,
and boxes he amused himself by
making. Some of these contrivan-
ces were novel and ingenious. Three
hares, five rabbits, two guinea-pigs,
a magpie, a starling, a jay, two gold-
finches, two canaries, two dogs, a
squirrel, and a number of pigeons
gave him plenty to do, besides his
garden, of which he was equally
fond. When he had succeeded in
himself making two glass frames
for his pines, he playfully wrote :

The Home- Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets.

689

" A Chinese of ten times my fortune
would avail himself of such an op-
portunity without scruple ; and why
should not I, who want money as
much as any mandarin in China?"
Cowper's friends all had something
to do with his poetry. His poem
" To Mary," in which he notes the
constant clicking of her knitting-
needles, was a tribute to Mrs.
Unwin, and many of his early
verses were suggested by her ; the
4i Task "and " John Gilpin's Ride "
(written, he says, in the saddest
mood, and as a forced antidote to
that sadness) were subjects given
him by Lady Austen, a warm-heart-
ed, impulsive woman ; and his cou-
sin, Lady Hesketh, and her sister
Theodora, his only love, from
whom he was parted in his first
youth, and who remained single
for his sake, inspired some of his
tenderest and most delicate verses.

Lady Hesketh, writing to Theo-
dora from Olney, gives the following
sketch of their friend's life in its
more tranquil and happy aspect :
"Our friend delights in a large ta-
ble and a large chair. There are
two of the latter comforts in the
parlor. I am sorry to say that he
and I always spread ourselves out
on them, leaving poor Mrs. Unwin
to find all the comfort she can in a
small one, half as high again as ours
and considerably harder than mar-
ble. . . . Her constant employment
is knitting stockings, which she does
VOL. xxiv. 44

with the finest needles I ever saw,
and very nice they are the stock-
ings, I mean. Our cousin has no!
for many years worn any others
than those of her manufacture.
She knits silk, cotton, and worsted.
She sits knitting on one side of the
table, in her spectacles, and he on
the other side reading to her (when
lie is not employed in writing), in his.
In winter his morning studies are al-
ways carried on in a room by him-
self; but as his evenings are spent in
winter in transcribing, he usually, I
find, does it vis-a-vis Mrs. Unwin.
At this time of the year he always
writes in the garden, in what he calls
his boudoir. This is in the garden.
It has a door and a window, just
holds a small table with a desk and
two chairs, but, though there are
two chairs, and two persons might
be contained therein, it would be
with a degree of difficulty. For this
cause, as I make a point of not
disturbing a poet in his retreat, I go
not there."

So the dreamy, strange, yet ofte
too realistic life of Cowper passed
away toward the last decade of the
eighteenth century, and,, like most
poets, he has left behind him the
immortalized memory of the
pure and noble women who loved
him with the love of a guardian
angel. No man ever needed it
more, and in this case indeed God
tempered the wind to the shorn
lamb

690

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER

FROM THE FRENCH.

DECEMBER 12, 1868.
WITH the fall of the leaves of
autumn the cemeteries become
populous. The year 1868, as for-
merly 183-, will have been fatal to
great men. Berryer is dead ! A
great voice silenced. " I shall not,
then, see the happiness of France !"
Jie said a little timebefore his death
this holy death which has worthi-
ly crowned the good and noble life
of a man exceptionally great both
as regards the intellect and the
heart. How all things pass and
fade away! Oh! how sad is this
world, in which so many separa-
tions and farewells are the prelude
to the last great separation at death.
Violeau, the sweet Breton poet, in
writing to his friend Pierre Javou-
hey, said :

.Adieu, toujours adieu ! C'est le cri de la terre.
L'homme n'est que regrets en son cceur solitaire:
Le baton voyageur, le voile et le Jinceul
Dans 1' ennui de scs jours 1'ont bicntot laiss seul !

Adieu, always adieu ! It is the cry of earth.
Man in his lonely heart is all regrets :
The traveller's staff, the veil. and [last] the shroud,
In the weariness of his days, have left him soon alone.

Alone ! It is one of the sadness-
es of earth. On high is the great
meeting again, and the great and
eternal happiness !

It is not only the death of the
great orator lamented by France
which makes me write to you so
sadly, clear ; it is that Isa has taken
the veil, and we are going away.
I cannot be so selfish as to consent
that my mother should spend a' sec-
ond ist of January far away from
her Brittany, which she loves with
the same fondness that I love Ire-

land, and I have myself fixed our
departure for the 2oth only a week
hence ! I should like to hold back
the sun. We all go to-morrow to
Gartan.

Isa is already in heaven ; her
mother reproaches herself for not
having divined her daughter's long-
ing, and resigns herself to this sep-
aration better than I could have be-
lieved possible. It is true that
Lizzy is all that is delightful, and
gives up to her the sweet little Isa
almost entirely.

Sarah, the radiant Sarah, came to
me yesterday in trouble ; her sister
writes to her distressing letters.
Neither the enchantment of Spain,
the brilliant position of her hus-
band, nor the princely state in
which she lives are able to satisfy
this poor heart, to whom the first
condition of human felicity visible,
affection is wanting. Tin's was
Sarah's expression. '' I understood
her at once," she said. Another
disappointed life, unless, indeed, the
dear young wife should courageous-
ly accept her trial. Will this ar-
dent, simple, and perhaps too-con-
fiding nature be altogether down-
cast at finding her hopes deceived,
or will she cast herself on God, and
serve him in his poor? We must
help her to do this, must we not ?
The Pere Charles Perraud, the Lent
preacher of two years ago, is preach-
ing the Advent at Sainte-Croix.
The Annales quote the following
words of Pere Gratry : "It was
this same Charles Perraud, this be-
ing so entirely of the same nature.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister

his equal in goodness, greatness,
and intellect, who during the whole
of his short life was his brother and
companion-in-arms."

Read an article by Alfred Nette-
ment on the three La Rochejacque-
lein. More mourning! Mgr. Pie
has presided over the last obsequies
of the Comte Auguste, and Mgr.
J)upanloup over those of Berryer.
The Comte de Chambord thus sees
those who have remained faithful to
him disappear one by one. This
great family of the Bourbons ap-
pears to have been predestined for
the deepest sorrows. Don Carlos is
at Paris ; he was to have gone to
hunt at Chambord, but the death of
the Comte de la Rochejacquelein
has made him give up his intention.
Spain has had her '93. The despoil-
ed and exiled Jesuits are come into
France. Queen Isabella is at Paris.
How poor are the times we live in !
It seems as if every noble enthu-
siasm were extinct, and the whole
world eaten up with the frightful
leprosy of selfishness. Sursum cor-
da ! Would that I could raise them
all!

Shall I tell you of the immortal
festival of the Immaculate Concep-
tion, this glory of our age and of
Pius IX. become to us an unforget-
able day since the sacrifice of Isa?

What memories ! The Mass, the
hymns, the crowd that filled the
chapel, the betrothed of Christ so
beautiful beneath her veil, the ser-
mon, the last kiss, the last embrace,
the tears all these things cannot be
narrated.

Dear Kate, let us pray for Ire-
land.

DECEMBER 18, 1868.

I want to write to you once more
from this room, where I have so
loved you, dear Kate.

Rorate ca'Ji de super et nubes pluant
Just urn.

Threw a rapid glance over an ar-
ticle in the Union a sort of con-
trast between Berryer and Lamen-
nais. From the first few lines I re-
cognized the lion's paw; it is only
Alfred Nettement who can write
thus. What a grievous difference
between these two grand figures,
and what an abyss of sadness in
these lines: "The grave-digger
asks, 'Is there to be a cross?' M.
Bocher answers, * No ; Lamennais
said, ' Nothing shall be put over my
tomb.'" In the Christian world
nothing is talked of but an admirable
letter of Mgr. Dupanloup upon the
Council. I have read the letter of
thanks of the Holy Father.

Kate dearest, I am going away
full of serenity and hope, since this
departure is the will of God. We
have seen almost everybody; these
two last days are reserved for inti-
mate friends. All our preparations
are made. Most of the drawing-
rooms are already closed, and this
gives me an impression of mourning.
Jack's desire has been granted : he
died peacefully yesterday evening
while Rene was finishing the prayers
for the dying. Thus there is noth-
ing more to keep us. I could not
bear the idea of leaving this good
old man.

Margaret promises me to come
from time to time to give a little
life to this isolated spot and visit
Edith, so sorrowful at our depart-
ure. Nothing would be easier, my
dear, than to take her to Brittany,
or even to Orleans; but the doctor
is utterly averse to this project, and
only undertakes to cure her on
condition that she does not quit
Ireland.

Edward at first manifested a
sombre despair, but we have suc-
ceeded in calming him. The two
Australiennes, whom we have tamed
with so much difficulty, have their

602

Letters of a Young IrisJiwoinan to her Sister.

eyes full of tears when they look at
us.

Aidieu dear Kate.

DECEMBER 31, 1868.

No more of balmy Ireland! but
still the family, kind hearts, pleas-
ant society, walks and drives, con-
certs among ourselves, study, the
poor, and that which is worth all
else prayer. All ! my God, on the
threshold of this new year I ren-
der thee thanks for rhe so many
and great benefits with which thou
hast overwhelmed me. How sweet,
O Lord! is thy love. Bless the
church, France, my country, my
family. " When will eternity come,
in which endless centuries will pass
as one day ?"

Rene wrote to you the morning
of our arrival, and told you of the
Christian calm of our adieux, so full
of hope. Is it not a delightful and
wholly unmerited happiness to have
had this long sojourn in Ireland,
when I had not expected to be able
to remain there more than a month
at the most?

Three happy things to-day. Kate,
Margaret, and Isa are come to me
in three letters, which I have just
read over again to enjoy their
charm. Margaret announces a re-
surrection. Lady R , the recluse,

whom no one remembered ever to
have met anywhere, has been going
out for a month past. I am rejoic-
ed to hear it. I have so much de-
sired it, and so often asked it of
God. But side by side with this
unexpected news is a shade death ;
but death smiling, heaven opened,
and an angel taking flight from
earth to return to God, and to
pray for those who remain in this
vale of tears, where the love of God
has spared her from a lengthened
sojourn : our dear little Victoria
G- ,the interesting orphan, is gone

to heaven. What would she have
done in this world without guide or
parents ?

Quand on est pur comme a son age,
Le dernier jour est le phis beau !*

Emmanuel grows, " and is deter-
mined to live." Margaret is ad-
mirable in her goodness. It is this
which I find so attractive in her;
there is nothing in the world pre-
ferable to goodness. Lizzy has
been in great distress for some days,
her little Isa being threatened with
the croup. Poor mothers ! always
anxious and tormented while on
earth. O the sorrows of mothers!
Nothing touches me more ; all my
sympathy is for them. They have
here below the most immense joys
and the most heartrending anguish.
What happiness must it be to have
a child of one's own, to pray by his
cradle, to consecrate him to God
from the dawn of his existence,
and to see one's self live again in
him !

Kate, Kate, I do not tell you how
greatly your pages touched me.
W T hat wishes shall I offer you this
evening that I have not offered a
hundred times before ? wishes for
holiness, happiness in God, and of
a blessed union in eternity. May
every one of your days add a flow-
er to your crown, my beloved !

JANUARY 3, 1869
The year is begun ; shall we see
it close ? Marcella was most par-
ticularly kind and s\veet on the
ist of January. I sent to the near-
est station an enormous package ad-
dressed to you, for your chapel and
poor; have you received it? The
three graces put into it some bun-
ches of violets. Our Brittany is
charming, notwithstanding the vvin-

* When one is pure as at her age
The last day is the fairest.

Letters of a young Irishwoman to her Sister. 693

ter. Edith has written a long and
kind letter; she is regaining her
strength. Mistress Annah, whom
I asked to send me full details, tells
me of the amiability of the two
children, who are making real pro-
gress, and are scarcely to be recog-
nized since the terrible brother is no
longer there. Adrien takes him to-
morrow to a friend who has some
business at Paris. You cannot im-
agine what this child is. Rene as-
sures me that there is in him the
making of a saint. God grant it !
He frightens me.

Picciola grows and grows not
only in height, but also in virtue.
Therese and Anna follow her; but, in
any case, my darling advances with
wonderful rapidity. I have taken
up Homer again, whom I am trans-
lating from the open book. How
much I prefer reading Bossuet or
Joseph de Maistre !

Lizzy sends me four pages of news
many particulars respecting Isa
the saint and Isa the angel, about the
mothers, friends, etc.; but the flow-
er of the basket is that Mary Wells
lias entered a convent. Again an-
other who chooses the better part !

To-morrow the Saint of the Sea-
coast is coming here ; we shall try to
keep her. What an enjoyable life
it is in this Brittany, the sister of
Ireland ! We have installed with
the keeper a blind old man, to whom
Rene reads every day, and who is a
model of patience. If his eyes are
closed to earth, they are truly open
to heaven, of which he speaks lu-
minously.

I speak to you but seldom of He-
lene. She lives but for sacrifice,
and has entirely broken with the
outer world since the day of which
Rene told you. Every three months
a sign of life to her mother. O
Gertrude ! her life is a martyrdom !

God guard you, dear Kate !

JANUARY 12, 1869.
Visit to M. Ic CurSvfiih Picciola.
This poor presbytery, close to the
church and the resting-place of the
dead, reminds me of Lamartine :

" La jamais ne s'eleve
Bruit qui fasse penser ;
Jusqu'a qti'il s'acheve
On peut mener son reve
Et le recommencer.
Paix et Melancolie
Restent Id pres des morts,
Et I'ame recueillie
Des vagues de la vie
Croit y toucher les bords.' *

We are reading the Chronicles of
Brittany for the instruction of the
children. What quantities of warm
knitted articles are made during out-
evenings ! The good aunt of M. le.
Cure often comes to our manufac-
tory. She is a very amiable vroman,
most charitably indulgent, some-
thing of an artist, and enjoys an
opportunity for conversation ; my
mother is always pleased to see her.
The good cure is scarcely ever in
his presbytery ; he is a Breton : and
what need I say more ?

Rene is unwell. He has a su-
perb indifference about his health,
and this makes me uneasy. Tell
him to suffer himself to be taken
care of, and to forget the outside
world a little. He has a truly
apostolic soul always seeking out
some good to do, and utilizing even
his moments of leisure. How far
I am behind him !

Our life is become an encamp-
ment; and, as Raoul says, we only
want turbans and bournous to be
Arabs altogether. Already there
are sounds of departure, and
yet it is so pleasant here ! The
Saint of the Seashore remained
with us two davs. "Adieu until

* There never stirs a sound which inspires
thought. One can carry on a reverie to its end,
and over again. I here, near the dead, Peace and
Melancholy make their abode, and the meditative
soul, amid the waves oflife, believes itself close up-
on the shore.''

694

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

eternity !" These words made me
start : has she had any warning of
death ? I have made her promise
to write to me on the slightest
symptom of illness. Picciola offered
her some violets. " Thanks, dear
child ; I shall guard them carefully
and lovingly. I am passionately
fond of flowers, because I see in
them an emblem, and because all
the hearts of men are the flowers
of the garden of God."

Letter from Margaret, who is
sighing after our next meeting, and
complains of my silence and, what
is a more serious matter, of that
also of Kate. Marcella writes to
you ; she is perfection.

Dear Kate, here is Isa's photo-
graph. Is it not herself, with her
gentle look, full of deep melancholy,
and her graceful and dignified atti-
tude ? Every one here says that
she is made to look older than she
does; but to my eyes she is always
charming. Her little hands, the
prettiest that an artist could dream
of, can only be guessed at under
the well-represented folds of her
wide sleeves. Lizzy lias just lost
her father-in-law dead from a sud-
den attack. Would that I could
turn aside all the sadness of a soul
so worthy of happiness as hers !
I have read to Picciola the Evening
Prayer on board Ship, and feel a
sort of envy at such emotions. To
behold the ocean, and find one's
self a small and feeble creature
between sea and sky, a mere speck
in immensity; to see other skies,
other shores; to contemplate the
wonders of the New World, the
virgin forests and unknown re-
gions, nature in her primitive and
magnificent beauty all this must
enlarge the soul. Distant voyages
would indeed be enjoyable, were
it not for the departures and fare-
wells.

I salute your good angel, my
very dear Kate.

JANUARY 22, 1869.

Listen to what my brother is read-
ing to me : " Learn to dwell in
the Wound of the Heart of Jesus.
\Vould you develop your desires,
and bring forth good works ? It is
the nest of the dove. Do you love
meditation ? It is the retreat of the
solitary sparrow. Do you love
tears and sighs? It is there that the
turtle-dove makes her moan. Are
you hungry ? You will there find
the heavenly manna which fell in
the desert. Are you athirst ? There
you will find the fountain of living
water which flows out of Paradise,
and sheds itself abundantly in the
heart of the faithful."

Kate dearest, my heart is always
with you. We shall be at Orleans
on the ist of February. It is a
great pity to leave the country,
where everything is green and
flourishing. My brothers wish to
go to Paris, and I wished very
much also to go thither with them ;
but Rene has asked me to employ
the money that this journey would
have cost in clothing a whole fami-
ly from the South, just arrived here
in a pitiable condition. To refuse
would have been to show myself un-
worthy of him or of you. Thus our
meeting again is indefinitely post-
poned. A saint once said : " Not to
do good enough is to do a great
harm."

Anna, the attractive Anna, is
feverish again, and it is partly on
her account that my mother presses
us to go to Orleans, where we shall
consult several physicians. May
not our temperature disagree with
this southern flower? What a poor
thing is life, in which anxiety is al-
ways at the side of happiness !

Would you like to have the fol-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

695

lowing from Gertrude's journal ? It
was written at the time when she
was beginning to divine Helene's
desire: "Grant, O my God! that
this sacrifice may be possible to us ;
place my child at a distance from
her cup of sorrow, take her in the
morning of her life, all white, young,
fair, loving, and beloved, my God
so ardently and piously beloved !"

Read Alix, a beautiful book by
Mile. Fleuriot. It is a book which
gives one repose a story of our
Brittany : Paula, Mme. de Guenha-
ric, two strong-minded women, the
Beatitudes, so attractive, the grave
Raymond, the fiery Tugdual, inter-
ested me intensely. Then this beau-
tiful and poetic Alix, the lily of
Goasgarello, too early plucked ; this
sweet young girl who was too well
loved to die how much her
story touched me ! And this book
is fact. Alix personifies the lily of
St. Brieuc, the beloved pupil of
Mile. Fleuriot, the chosen one of
her heart. Ah ! how death is every-
where snapping the purest affec-
tions.

Picciola spends part of her re-
creation-time wit li The Children
of Captain Grant. She praised the
book so much that it made me wish
to read it, and truly I find it full of
interest from beginning to end.
What a talent for description and
contrasts !

Dear Kate, pray for us and for
Anna, that there may not be an-
other violent separation. My mo-
ther is writing to you. I have news
of Margaret from Lord William,
who is like another brother to us.

I have made Marcella, who did
not know any of Lady Georgian a
Fullerton's works, read Ladybird.
This book has astonished our dear
Italian, because she did not expect
to find in it so much powerful emo-
tion, but she considers it admirably

written and only too painfully pro-
bable. The beautiful Gertrude a
noble intellect, but entirely without
direction who through so many
storms preserves her purity ; the
father devoid of affection ; the Span-
ish mother, consumed by suffering,
but whose mind would have exer-
cised so powerful an influence over
that of her daughter ; M. d'Arberg,
a hero and martyr of Ghristian self-
devotion ; the angelic Mary, whose
gentle character beams throughout
all the narrative like a reflection of
heaven all this is interesting, per-
haps far too much so. Rene, to
whom I mentioned Marcella's im-
pressions, said in answer : " I do not
like these exciting dramas, but ra-
ther such readings as give rest to
the mind, and I can understand
what St. Augustine meant by saying
that he could not enjoy any book
in which there was not to be found
the name of Jesus. * The name of
Jesus is a name of delight,' says St.
Bonaventure ; 'because, meditated
upon, it is nourishment; uttered, it
is sweetness; invoked, it is an unc-
tion; written, a reparation of out-
powers, and in all that we do it is
a guide and support.' St. Philip
Neri also says : ' The name of Jesus
pronounced with reverence and
love has a particular power of soften-
ing the heart.' ' : Dear and beloved
sister, pax vobis et nobis !

JANUARY 29, 1869.
The corridors encumbered with
packages, the windows without cur-
tains everything shows that we are
going away. Anna constantly has,
this fever, and the poor mother a
sword in her heart. The twins pray
earnestly, our poor make novenas.
How impatient I am to be at Or-
leans ! The good doctor from Hy-
eres, the devoted friend of Marcella,
will be there also on the 3d, to give-

696

Letters of a Young. Irishwoman to her Sister.

his opinion respecting the dear
child's state. May God be with
us !

Have been out with Rene. Mar-
cella never leaves her daughter. My
sisters are busy with their children.
Gertrude helps my mother rn her
correspondence. Visits to our dear
neighbors who do not move about.
The Southerns are installed in a
tolerably comfortable cottage, the
father has found some work, the
young daughters will be employed
as needle-women by our kind neigh-
bors and in the village; all is satis-
factory with regard to them. Ed-
ward writes heartrending letters to
his good friend Rene. He declares
that he will run away, and other
things of the same sort. Pray for
this little volcano, dear Kate.

A letter from Karl, whose first
steps in the priesthood are reward-
ed by joys truly celestial. Oh ! what
grandeur is in the sacerdotal life;
but also what sacrifices. I forgot at
the time to tell you of a visit we
paid the old English Homer, whose
daughter was the .involuntary cause
of Margaret's trouble. Oh ! how
beautiful she is. Tall, very tall, with
black eyes full of mental vigor, luxu-
riant hair, remarkable purity of
diction. Another flower for the
cloister. Will not so many excel-
lent souls obtain the redemption of
England?

Kate dearest, with you I ask of
God: Trahe me post te ; or rather
I would say. Trahe nos. A thou-
sand kisses.

FEBRUARY 10, 1869.
" My son, let not thy soul give
way beneath the labors which thou
hast undertaken for me, neither
suffer thyself to be discouraged by
affliction, but at all times let my
promise strengthen and comfort
'thee." Rene has just read me

' these words, by way of consolation
for Marcella's departure. Alas !
yes; she left us yesterday, very
tearfully, with the doctor. She will
again inhabit her chalet. I would
willingly have offered her the one
consecrated by the death of Ellen,
but this association ! Anna is so
pale and weak, apparently under-
mined by the fever which never
quits her. The doctor shook his
head in a manner which did not
augur hopefully. I questioned him
apart. " You have carried away
this pretty little one from us too
soon, madam," he said. " She needs
the sun, the Mediterranean, the
orange-trees, and the perfumes of
the South. I do not conceal from
you that I greatly dread for her the
isolation in which she will shortly
find herself." I was dreading it
also. Rene had an inspiration:
''If Madeleine were to go as well ?"
" The graceful young girl who al-
ways looks at me with tears in her
eyes ?" " The same." " If you will
believe the testimony of my medi-
cal experience, monsieur, this child
is also threatened." I could not re-
strain a cry of pain : " O my God !
my God !" " Pardon me, madam,"
said the good doctor ; " on no ac-
count whatever would I afflict the
family of Mme. de Clissey, but if
you love this pretty creature, do
not keep her here."

I was obliged to make a strong
effort over myself to conceal the
terrible impression these words had
made upon me. I obtained froni
the doctor, who wanted to start im-
mediately, a few days' delay. God
aided me, dear Kate. Lucy, who
is just now very much indisposed,
suggested that Edward should ac-
company Marcella, and, as Anna
was inconsolable at leaving us,
Berthe confided her daughter to the
care of Lucy. The/iwr set out to-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

697

morrow ; see bow our home-party
is lessened. You will perhaps won-
der that we are not all going to
Hyeres. My generous mother had
thought of it ; but, besides the fa-
tigue she feels, notwithstanding her
green old age, from these frequent
changes of place, her sons have im-
portant reasons for passing the win-
ter here, and I cannot leave her,
even for Marcella. Moreover, my
purse is quite exhausted, and I
shall find 4t necessary to be rigor-
ously economical in order to pro-
vide for the needs of my poor. I
have been considering what re-
trenchments I could make in my
own expenses. What do you ad-
vise me, dear Kate ? I am afraid of
mistaking superfluities for necessa-
ries.

You can understand the grief of
my heart. Marcella'and I were as
one single soul, and this morning,
in my meditation, I was considering
whether I had not loved her too
much, and sacrificed more useful
occupations to the pleasure of being
with her. I spoke about it to Rene,
my other conscience. " I do not
think so," was his answer.

Let us pray for the travellers,
dear and excellent Kate.

FEBRUARY 20, 1869.

Comme tin agneau cherchant le nerpolet qu'il

broute

Laisse un peu de sa laine aux buissons de la route,
Sur le chemin des jours est-41 un voyageur
Qui ne laisse en passant un debris de son coeur ?*

Margaret writes to me, regretting
Marcella for my sake, and promis-
ing to spend the summer with us.
Marcella sends me beautifully long
letters every day, so that I am, as
it were, present with her in her
daily life. In order that Anna may

* u Even as a lamb, seekir g the wild-thyme on
which he browses, leaves a little of his wool on the
bushes along his way, so, on the pathway of life, is
there a wayfarer who leaves not as he passes some
fragment of his heart ?" Violeau.

not be fatigued, the party makes
lengthened halts ; the doctor is like
a father to the poor little one.
Lucy is installed, charmed to have
Picciola. You understand that the
dear and devoted Lucy is in our se-
cret, and is going to attend carefully
to this other beloved invalid. But
Lucy is so lively; she has no expe-
rience, none of that sorrowful ex-
perience which gives one the habit
of taking care of others, and there-
fore, in order to be quite at ease, I
am sending Marianne, whom I have
temporarily replaced by a young
Bretonne. Will it not be better
thus ? And, then, I can count upon
the doctor. Pray and get prayers
for us, dear Kate ! Picciola has
been growing too fast. Berthe has
not the shadow of a suspicion ; she
has seen in this an opportunity of
doing good, and also of preparing
the twins for the sacrifice which
circumstances may demand of them
later on. Teresa occupies her
thoughts by study ; the good abbe
is alarmed at her progress. Alix
and Marguerite are charming; but
where are the absent ? I do not
like empty places.

The Annals publish some letters
on the Catechism by Mgr. Dupan-
loup. They are the most delicate
and beautiful revelations, and show
in all its excellence this apostolic
soul. He depicts in his unique
style his emotions as catechist at
Saint-Sulpice, and we find here
that love of souls, and especially of
the souls of children, which has
produced his finest pages upon
education. There is an admirable
passage upon Albert de la Fer-
ronays, speaking of his fervor. And
then the great bishop returns to the
subject of this child grown into a
young man, and assisted by him in
his last moments : " He had been
always faithful. Possessing a mind

698

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

full of vivacity, and the most ten-
der of hearts, he kept them both in
subordination, giving them only to
God and to a creature angelic as
himself whom he met with on his
way and married in Italy. She did
not then belong to the Catholic
Church, but, being led onward and
persuaded by the virtues and ex-
ample of her husband, and perhaps
also by sorrow, she made her first
communion by the death-bed of
Albert, who thus had the ineffable
and supreme consolation of making
his last communion together with
her whom he had loved best upon
earth." He adds that " these t\vo
souls were like two angels, and an
apparition in this world of the
beauty of heaven." The Pere
Meillier, Superior of the Lazarists
of Angers, is preaching the statioa
at Sainte-Croix, and the Pere de
Chazournes, author of the admir-
able life of the Pere Barrelle,
preaches at St. Paterne.

Benoni is charmingly beautiful.
I make him pray for our invalids,
and go myself daily to Notre Dame
des Miracles. Oh ! surely no more
death, dear Kate.

FEBRUARY 27, 1869.
Our Italians have again found
their beautiful sunshine, and for
two days past Anna has had no fe-
ver, and Picciola is less pale. Ma-
rianne has been charged to send me
every three days an exact bulletin
of every hour and every minute.
The devoted attention of the doc-
tor is unequalled ; he regulates
everything, meals, sleep, and the
times of going out. Marcella says,
*"" This man is to me, as it were, an
apparition of Providence." Think
how she must suffer, especially when
she reflects that so long a sojourn
in the North has been injurious to
the delicate chest of her child. Oh !

I cannot believe it, when she has
so much loving care. Alas ! what
can affection do. Just now I was

told about Madame de C , left a

widow a year ago, whose husband
was insane, and who has now lost
her child, the only happiness of her
life. The angels who take flight
are not those who are to be pitied.

MARCH 5, 1869.

Tolerably good news of the exiles.
But I have painful forebodings.
Rene gently scolds me for my sad-
ness. Pray for our sick ones, dear
Kate.

The great poet Lamartine is just
dead. Doubtless at his last hour
his mother's God, the God of his
earliest years, consoled and soften-
ed his dying moments. Oh ! these
great minds misled, these sublime
dreamers who wander out of the
right way, what sorrowful pity they
inspire. How everything passes
away and dies ! I was reading this
evening that M. Guizot, writing to
one of his friends, and telling him
that he is teaching his little chil-
dren to read, adds : " I know of
only three lives here below : fam-
ily life, political life, and Christian
life ; I am leading the first, with
the memories of the second, and
the hopes of the third."

Read Anne Severin, by Mrs. Cra-
ven, author of the Recit d'unc Sasur.
The style is perfect. The angelic
women who appear in it, the Ca-
tholic youth, of Guy, the fragrance
of Christian sentiment which per-
vades the impassioned descriptions
of these pages, combine to make
them present a beautiful whole.
Mme. Bourdon has reproached this
work with having shown us three
generations living by love alone ;
she recalls the answer made by
Alexandrine when reminded of
the happy days she had spent with

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

699

Albert : " I no longer think of those
days." Alexandrine was, as it were,
transfigured by the love of God, and
such sacrifices as hers are not re-
quired of every soul.

Did I tell you of my happiness
at again seeing Sainte-Croix ? I
prefer our cathedrals of stone to
the most beautiful churches of
Italy, always excepting Saint Pe-
ter's at Rome. It is so calm, so
solemn, so Catholic ! I cannot re-
sist the pleasure of transcribing for
you a fine passage by the eloquent
Abbe Bougaud, in one of his dis-
courses, I do not now remember
which : " There is in the grandeur
of Christianity at Orleans, in the
touching beauty of its influence, in
its permanent union with the des-
tinies of the city, a monument
which speaks more than any words.
Whether Orleans was reached, as
formerly, by ascending the Loire
by steamboat, or whether, as now,
by descending upon it on the rail-
way, the first objects which attract
observation are the spires and tow-
ers of Sainte-Croix. They have
changed in form and aspect, and
have been by turns ogival, roman-
esque, perhaps Byzantine splendid
always. In the full Middle Ages
they were called by a historian
'the eighth wonder of the world,'
and still, at the present time, who-
ever has seen them once loves to
see them again, and whitherso-
ever our studies, our reveries, or
business take us, we never fail to
return to them with pleasure or to
salute them with emotion. Place
near to this grand basilica, like two
satellites, St. Euverte on the one
side, with the tombs of its ancient
bishops and its triple cemetery,
Gallo-Roman and Christian, and
on the other St. Aignan, with its
precious relics, borne at times on
the shoulders of kings, and its

crypt, visited by all Christendom,
and you will have some idea of
what Christianity has been at Or-
leans, or, if you like it better, what
would have been wanting to this
city had not Christianity been there
with its mysterious beauty and its
touching influence. Throughout the
whole of this edifice, constructed at
a period when men no longer knew
how to build anything similar, in
this cathedral, which must have cost
efforts so prodigious, and which has
been so justly called ' the last of the
Gothic cathedrals,' appear engraven
in indelible characters the two qua-,
lities which make the glory of Or-
leans, Fidelity and Courage."

I do not talk to you about the
sermons, not having been able to
go and hear any at present. We
have all had severe colds on the-
chest. My life is quite changed
since I no longer have Marcella and
Picciola. Perhaps I have been
wrong to give up my heart in this
manner. Oh ! but then it is because
the heart is so Vast. Happy they
who have asked God alone to fill
it ! This is what I say in my sad-
ness, and it is wrong, since God's
goodness and mercy to me have
indeed been marvellous. O dear
Kate! if separation from a friend is
so painful to me, what, then, would
it be if Heaven were to deprive me
of the sweet and strong support
which it has bestowed? Ho\v much
I hold to this world ! Scold me,
dearest, but love me.

MARCH 10, 1869.

You have wound me up again, dear
sister; a thousand thanks. Oh! how
cowardly I was ; I was afraid of suf-
fering that friend of the Christian,
that visitor from God, that messen-
ger from eternity !

Four letters : first, Marcella, who
blesses Providence for the improve-

700

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to Jicr Sister.

nient of her child the fever has
disappeared ; second, Picciola, my
delicious flower, who says to me
the prettiest things in the world;
third, Margaret, who is counting the
days by the side of Emmanuel's
cradle ; fourth, Edith, who feels
herself stronger. By the way, the
fiery Edward is becoming reasona-
ble ; his professors entertain the
best hopes in his regard. Mari-
anne wrote to me yesterday. She is
not yet reassured respecting our
sick child. You may imagine what
precautions are taken to be careful
about her without her knowledge.
Dear, sw.eet little soul ! she spends
all that her purse contains for the
benefit of the indigent. The amia-
ble colony writes to us en masse.
Nothing can be prettier than these
gazettes. I had thought of sending
them to you, but my mother makes
them her daily reading. Edouard
herborizes, composes music, sings,
occupies himself with history, rocks
the babies that is to say, he amuses
and plays with the children. Mar-
cella organizes parties of poor peo-
ple, gives lessons to two young girls
without fortune who have been re-
commended to her by the doctor.
Lucy is at the head of the house-
hold affairs; arranges and regulates
everything with her graceful vivaci-
ty, and heartily enjoys this pleas-
ant life. Anna and Picciola (ac-
cording to the same chronicle)
study a little and amuse themselves
much. Gaston is becoming a man.
Then we have details, incidents,
stories about birds, flowers, lambs,
children. Edouard, the editor, as-
sures us that our presence alone is
wanting to complete the charms of
the South.

Gertrude has entered the Third
Order of St. Francis. The days
are not long enough for the duties
she has created for herself; there

is not a single pious work with
which she is not in some way con-
nected ; she writes and receives in-
numerable letters, and spends, with-
out reckoning, her gold, her time,
and her heart. With all this, she
is always serene ; never is there a
shadow on her beautiful brow, never
a sorrowful glance towards the past.
Adrien is even more ardent than
she, if that could be possible ; there
is no* kind of sacrifice which they
do not both make for the good of
souls. A few days ago, on entering
Gertrude's room, I observed that
her time-piece, which is a valuable
work of art, had disappeared, and
remarked upon it to her. She
blushed, and turned my attention to
other things. I have since learnt
from Rene that this time-piece has
been sold to a rich Englishman, and
its price sent to the missions. No
more expensive toilets, no more
amusements, no more frivolous ex-
penses. Gertrude does not even
see any more the things of which
she once was fond. I suspect that
Adrien also has joined the Third
Order.

The name of Johanna does not
often occur in my letters, nor yet
that of Paul. This is unjust, for both
of them love my Kate. You will be
so good as to pray especially for
this sister of your sister on the 151)1
and the 2oth. Marguerite, Alix,
and Therese, the tall and serious
Therese, scarcely ever leave me.
And how pretty also is Jeanne when
she sends kisses to Madame Kate !
O youth ! how sweet a thing thou
art, with one's family and country.

I wept with you for the Prince
Royal of Belgium. The thought of
Picciola makes me forgetful of many
subjects when I write to you. "By
as many languages as a person
knows," said Charles V., "so many
times he is a man." " By so many

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

701

times as any one is a father," adds
some one else, " so many times over
does he live." In reading the ac-
count of this death, I thought of
all the hearts who are weeping or
who have wept by a cradle from
whence a life has fled.

The beatification of Madame
Klizabeth is under consideration.
The Cathedral of Orleans possesses
a treasure which may soon become
a precious relic, an alb in guipure
which was formerly a robe-de-fcte
worn by the pious princess. At
Notre Dame des Doms at Avignon
is preserved a chasuble made out
of the last dress worn at the Con-
ciergerie by Marie Antoinette. Paul
and Johanna have seen this chasu-
ble.

Could you have fifty Masses ask-
ed for at Notre Dame des Vic-
toires, dear Kate, on behalf of my
mother? We are getting some
said almost everywhere.

May the blessings of Jesus and
Mary be with you !

MARCH 15, 1869.
Rene is writing to you, and,
quick ! here I am, dearest. Good
news from everywhere. My corre-
spondence is inexhaustible. I at-
tended yesterday upon a worthy
man, somewhat peevish, who de-
clared to me that I was clumsy. I
begged his pardon for it. The fact
is he suffers fearfully from a cancer
in the leg. And he is poor, with a
family ! It was my good angel who
led me thither; no one visits them,
and they are so embittered by mis-
fortune that pity is, to them, insup-
portable. I took Marguerite and
Alix with me this morning, and
they were so sweet and amiable
that I obtained permission from the
peevish man to do whatever I like.
And plenty there is to be done !
The most indispensable things have

been sold. Pray for these unfortu-
nates, dear Kate, and receive my
tenderest affection.

MARCH 19, 1869.

Communion at St. Paterne, where
there was a multitude. Beautiful
singing. The organ, and a little ex-
hortation by the Pere de Cha-
zournes for the closing of the Pas-
chal retreat. On returning, great
joy ; a little child is born to us, and
to us a son is given. Johanna is
doing well. Paul is in transports.
The house is upside down.

Jeanne is asking to see the an-
gel who brought her brother. At
eleven o'clock, to do honor to Saint
Joseph, I took the young ones to
Sainte-Croix, then to the Calvaire
and Recouvrance. There was in
the two latteii churches expositi'bn
of the Blessed Sacrament. A pro-
fusion of flowers and lights, and an
unwonted splendor, which delighted
me, I had so much to ask, so much
to pray for. Pray with us, dear
Kate, for this pretty innocent who
is just arrived, that he too may be-
come a saint !

Gertrude's forgetfulness of self
is admirable. Berthe and Johanna
wonder unceasingly at her disinter-
estedness and detachment from this
world. Little by little she despoils
herself of all worldly superfluities ;
sells her jewels one after another,
her collections also, of which, some
time ago, she was fanatically fond.
Kate, in her place I think I should
be dead. I should never console
myself, if I were a mother without
children. And what a mother she
is ! If you could only see her by
the cradle of the little new-born
babe, or when she is teaching any-
thing to the other children ! What
sweetness of language! What ten-
derness of expression ! Ah ! poor
broken heart which has twice giv

702

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

en up its universe. God is with
her!

. My cross man has consented to
change his lodging ; and no\v they
are installed, eight in number, in a
healthy and airy street, where I
have furnished three small rooms.
The new abode 'is bright in its
cleanliness; the mother wept for
joy on entering it. The poor man,
who still shows some repugnance
to my attentions, was carried thith-
er. His wound is frightful. I have
found work for the young daughters,
and the little ones go to the Chris-
tian Brothers. The mother, worn
down by grief and privations, with
her sight weakened by weeping, is
incapable of any employment. The-
rese helped me to install them, and
we shall go and see them frequently.
That which I am most anxious
about is to draw them nearer to
God.

Picciola is no better; Anna is
very well. Let us continue to pray !
All that I do, thoughts, prayers,
actions, go to one end these two
cures. Shall I be heard ?

Found in the Annals a good arti-
cle on " Eugenie de Guerin." The
flower of it is this : " There is an
interior and private literature ; this
is as superior to the other as the
soul is to the body; it is that of
Eugenie de Guerin. This litera-
ture of the heart has pages which
no other can ever equal. It [the
Journal\ is an attractive book,
and one of the best which could be
offered to the human soul. It bears
a double character of mystery and
of intimacy which centuples its
value. What pleasure the reader
finds in believing himself also re-
garded in the light of a confidant !

To have this intimate secret is to
live alone with the writer ; it is to
have a species of love which is
charmed with what is whispered
into the ear, and with what it con-
fidentially answers itself. The soul
of Eugenie de Guerin truly re-
sembled the first created by God,
a living soul, taking from and giv-
ing to all things around her that
life whose divine fire she possessed
in the highest degree. It was a
soul open to heaven, a winged soul,
which rested a moment upon all
things in succession, but always to
rise again towards heaven, singing
like the lark, or else moaning like
the dove.

" The faith which penetrated all
the faculties of Eugenie de Guerin,"
says M. Nicolas, " had in it nothing
romantic, nothing dreamy, nor even
ideal ; it was a clearly defined and
positive faith, the faith of a good wo-
man in a nature of the highest dis-
tinction ; it was the nature of a child
and of a bird, springing and warb-
ling, gathering all the happiness it
met with, and carrying it home to
be enjoyed in its nest. The sorrow
in which she was plunged by the
death of Maurice was extreme.
This sorrow arose, as it were, from
its bed and beat upon her faith as
the sea beats upon its shores. But
her Journal was eminently secret
she there freely poured out, in the
bosom of God alone, the grief which
she restrained within herself before
men. This Journal was to her a
Garden of Olives, where she went
apart to faint."

Kate dearest, I will no longer
disturb your solitude but with a
joyful Alleluia. All here love you
dearly, beloved sister of my life.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Modern Melodists.

703

MODERN MELODISTS.

SCHUBERT.

IN the present day, when all mu-
sicians, from the purveyor of the
opera bouffe to the composer of
sacred music, rival each other in
attempting the style which has im-
mortalized Schubert, the time ap-
pears opportune for studying the
works of the principal melodists.
In default of other merit, we may
at least lay claim to that of novelty
if, indeed, novelty can have any
value when every one is making it
.his boast. Even Scudo, * the only
writer who has devoted a few pages
to Romance music, has contrived
not to say a word about Schubert
and the German masters, although,
on the other hand, he has thought
well to enumerate productions that
have fallen into permanent oblivion.

Every people has its popular
songs, its religious hymns and can-
ticles, its ballads and romances ; but
of all these, three principal streams
are easily distinguishable three
great melodic currents, from which
flow all the rest. These are, firstly,
the German Lied, to which belong
all the Scandinavian, Hungarian,
and Sclavonic ballads; then the
Italian canzonet, the primitive type
of the music of Southern Europe,
and which has apparently some affi-
nity with the seguidilla, the bolero,
thejvta, and malaguena of Spain
picturesque romances, on which is
perceptible, in some indescribable
manner, an Arabic impress; and,
lastly, as the centre of the interme-
diate current, the French chanson,
which, though less profound than

* Critique et Litt&rature Musicales, vol. i.
p. 322-

the German Lied, is nevertheless
more true and more emotional than
the brilliant vocalizations of Italy
and Spain.

How different have the destinies
of these three currents proved !
Whilst the German stream has flow-
ed on from age to age, enriched in
its course by genius and learning,
in Italy and France the melodic
current, being isolated, has been
gradually dwindling to a mere
thread, at last disappearing alto-
gether. Not that the French chan-
son Avas by any means without its
characteristic merit; a charming
simplicity, a gentle melancholy,
marked its earliest beginnings, and
it preserved these characters from
the old melodies of Thibaut de
Champagne and the noels of the
middle ages to the chansons of the
eighteenth century. But after this
development of a too prolonged
infancy it found an inglorious end
at the hands of the vulgar song-
makers of the nineteenth century.
The simplicity of the past now be-
came insipidity, and the Ame'de'e of
Beauplan and the productions of
Loisa Puget obtained a success at
which future times will stand amazed.

The destiny of the Italian can-
zona was the same. Its palmy days
were those of its infancy, and the
innumerable romances which are
now to be heard, from the Gulf of
Genoa to the Lido, and from the
Alps to the Bay of Naples, weary
the ear of the wondering traveller.
Fertile in its barcarolles of Viva la
Francia, Viva Garibaldi, Santa Lu-
cia, Italy has no need to envy

704

Modern Melodists.

France her Beauplan and Mile. L.
Puget.

But whilst the romance and the
canzonet were thus dwindling away,
the Z/^/was mounting to a marvel-
lous height. " The combined work
of the greatest poets of Klopstock,
Schiller, and Goethe and of the
greatest musicians Haydn, Mo-
zart, Gluck, Beethoven, Weber,
etc."* it followed, step by step,
the progress of the art, and, assimi-
lating to itself each fresh conquest
of musical science, it acquired, as
years went on, increasing richness
of harmony and power of rhythm.

It is this style only which merits
a careful study. Leaving, therefore,
to the learned the care of drawing
from oblivion those rare French
nnd Italian songs which are worthy
to be rescued, we proceed at once
to the consideration of the German
Lied, and, without seeking into it-s
beginnings or following its develop-
ment, we will take it at its apogee
namely, when it attained, with
Schubert, that perfection of beauty
which cannot be surpassed.

Schubert is essentially a lyric
genius. Great developments are
foreign to his nature ; with a few
touches he traces the ideal which
has appeared to him, but these few
strokes suffice to produce a work
of imperishable beauty.

Venturing little into public,
Schubert, whose timidity was equal
to his extreme .sensibility, led a
quiet and uneventful existence ;
but, like the ^Eolian harp, the soul
of the lyric poet vibrates to the
slightest breath. Needing no in-
spiration from outward events, it is
moved from within by every vari-
ety of feeling. It was in the heart
of Schubert that the tempests raged
which make us tremble ; there

* Franz Schubert : sa Vie et les CEnvres. Par
Mme. Audley. Paris : Didier.

breathed the sighs of love, and
thence arose the wailings of de-
spair. There also he found the
sweet sunbeams, the fresh wind,
and all the fragrance of the .spring.
Accustomed to live within himself,
he took pleasure in analyzing his
own impressions, which he confided
to a journal, the greater part of
which is unfortunately lost, but the
few fragments that remain abound
in deep thoughts.

We will quote a few of these con-
fidential lines, which will form the
best introduction to the immortal
songs which he has left us, as well
as the best commentary upon them :

"Sorrow," he writes, "quickens
the understanding and strengthens
the soul ; joy, on the contrary, ren-
ders it frivolous and selfish."

" My works," he says elsewhere,
" are the offspring of my intellect and
my grief. The world appears to
prefer those which my grief alone
has created."

If we would know what were his
thoughts upon faith, we find him writ-
ing as follows : " Man comes into the
world with faith. It precedes by a
longdistance either reason or know-
ledge. To understand, we must first
believe. Faith is the ground into
which we must drive our first stake
the base for every other foun-
dation."

He one day wrote to his fa-
ther : " My * Hymn to the Blessed
Virgin' has moved the hearts of all :
every one seemed to think my
piety something wonderful. This, I
think, is because I never force my
devotion, nor ever write hymns
and prayers unless I feel a real in-
spiration to do so ; for then only is it
true devotion."

On another occasion he comes
home greatly impressed by a mag-
nificent quintette of Mozart's he
had just been hearing, and on a

Modern Melodists.

705

stray piece of paper writes these
words : " The enchanting notes of
Mozart's music are still resounding
in me. Thus do those beautiful
productions, which time cannot ef-
face, remain engraven in the depth
of our souls. They show us, on be-
yond the darkness of this life, the
certainty of a future full of glory
and of love. O immortal Mozart !
what imperishable instincts of a
better life dost thou implant with-
in us. "

O immortal Schubert ! we in our
turn may ask, Who shall express
the emotions evoked by thee in our
hearts ?

That which chiefly characterizes
the melodies of Schubert, taken as
a whole, is their depth of feeling.
He is never at a loss to find accents
which go at once to our hearts.
He makes us weep with Rosemonde
and love with Marguerite ; " The Erl
King" (Le Roi des Aulnes] freezes us
with terror, and hurries us on, in
spite of ourselves, towards the mys-
terious abyss of the legend ; in " The
Young Nun" (La Jeune Religieitse)
we are made in turn to experience
the sufferings of the struggle and
the final transports of the soul's vic-
tory over sense.

To know Schubert well, we must
see how he has expressed the differ-
ent sentiments of the human heart
not love and terror simply, but infin-
ite varieties of intermediate and
moderate feeling; and in these we
shall find, as his common character-
istics, grace and brilliancy.

" Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrera disco."

Who shall sing of love unless he
knows its pains ? Schubert has felt
it all its timid tenderness, its ardent
passion, and it may be its despair.
In his " Pensees d' Amour " are
not these six bars the unfolding, as
it were, of a heart which is opening
VOL. xxiv. 45

for the first time, like a bud in the
sunshine of a spring morning?
when

11 Eden revives in the first kiss of love"

(thus sings Byron). A happy
dream ; a tenderness as shy as it
is deep were these ever rendered
with a more delicate charm ?

After tli is sweet and tranquil
reverie follows impassioned devo-
tion. The " Serenade" is too well
known to require that we should
linger over it. Who does not recall
the appeals of that supplicating
voice, and the plaintive answers of
the accompaniment ?

How immensely inferior for the
most part are the serenades to
which public favor has given a cele-
brity ! All the masters of the mod-
ern Italian school have sung under
a balcony; and without going so far
back as Stradella, whose lovely ro-
mance in D minor has nothing in
common with the modern Lied, we
will s?.yafew words on the serenades
of Le Bar bier and Don Pasquale,
which appear to be the most exten-
sively known.

The one addressed by Almaviva
to Rosina or, to speak more accu-
rately, to the public, seems to us
unworthy of Rossini's reputation.
A phrase, rather wanting in fulness,
some passages for the voice, a few
organ touches this is all; the whole,
however, very well written for giv-
ing relief to the fine notes of a ten-
or. But this is not enough to con-
stitute a chef (Twiivre ; and probably
Rossini was thinking of this kind
of music when he boasted before
Bellini that he wrote from his mind
rather than from his heart, at the
same time assuring the young man's
simplicity that this was "quite suf-
ficient for the worthy public"

The serenade in Don Pasquale is
graceful and coquettish. If Doni-

706

Modern Melodists.

zetti intended this declaration of
love to be taken merely as a jest,
he has perfectly succeeded.

M. Gounod has written several
serenades, without including his
" Aubades." To speak of the former
only, the serenade of Mephistopheles
" Vous qui faites 1'endormie," * in
Faust, is not wanting in charm,
though something more incisive
would be better suited to an infer-
nal singer. The famous serenade,
" Quandtu dors" \ has less originality
than the foregoing, although agree-
ably written for the voice. It is an
excellent vocalization, which, more
than once, Bordogni must have re-
garded with a jealous eye. It is not
until the andante amoroso that it ex-
presses anything like passion. As to
the serenade of the page in Romeo
and Juliet, it is inferior again to its
two elders.

To find a serenade comparable
to those of Schubert, we must ad-
dress ourselves to Mozart. Who
that has heard Don Juan does
not remember the marvellous con-
trast, long since remarked by critics,
between the melodious phrase, full
of character and tenderness, and
the light accompaniment which fal-
sifies every word uttered by Don
Juan? Love is on his lips, while
mocking indifference is in his
heart.

In the expression of suffering,
desolation, and despair we shall
find that Schubert is greater still ;
and mention as examples " Rose-
monde," " Marguerite," and " Les
Plaintes de la Jeune Fille." The
artist, following his inspiration,
renders the same thought under
very different forms ; lie finds in
his soul deep and varying shades
which escape the vulgar and are
the marks of true genius. In all

* Thou who seemest to be sleeping.

* When thou sleepest.

these three works Schubert has to
express the grief of a forsaken
maiden, but with what consummate
art, and yet what truth, he has
known how to vary his accents ! In
reading these melodies in the or-
der already named the emotion
goes on increasing up to the end.

In " Rosemonde " we hear the
complaint of a soul which knows the
sufferings of abandonment, but not
the pangs of despair. After an in-
troduction in F major full of
sweetness and tenderness, the open-
ing of the melody in F minor im-
presses us painfully ; but about the
middle of each of these strophes
the young girl, recovering, with the
A natural, the original key, lets us
plainly see that she still has hope.

Marguerite hopes no more. From
the very opening we feel troubled
by the agitated movement of the
accompaniment : it is like the sor-
rowful murmur of the soul preceding
sobs of anguish, and is prolonged
still for a moment after the unhap-
py girl has said for the last time,
" Ceti estfait ; il moublie ring rat
que faimais!" * What accents of
abandonment have we here On
the words, Mes jours sont fle'tris*\
grief swells almost to madness.
But Marguerite, presently recover-
ing herself, retraces the past, and
seems to see again her lover.
Again she cries :

11 Pour moi tout va finir.

Un seul moment reviens encore,

Un seul moment te revoir et mourir !" ^

Her suffering has become almost
insupportable. She stops, and the

* All is over ; he forgets me tha ungrateful one
whom I have loved.

t My days are withered.

* " All soon will end for me. Return again, re
turn one moment more, that I once more may
see thy face and die. 1 ' In the Faust of M. Gounod
we have Marguerite at the wheel. The French
composer has treated this scene in a very touching
and striking manner, especially on the words, "// ne
rev Lent pas." It is a beautiful page, but not so
deep as Schubert.

Modern Melodists

707

agitation continues only in her
heart. After a few bars she re-
sumes in a low voice : " C'en cst fait,
il moublie" etc., and the melody
ends on the fifth, then a very new
effect, though now frequently em-
ployed.

If, after a short pause, we read
the " Plaintes de la Jeune Fille," we
are soon under the influence of an
entirely different emotion. The
agitation of the preceding melody
is changed for a more self-contain-

ed but even more poignant pain.
The maiden, ripened by long suffer-
ing, confides to the tossing waves
the woe which consumes her. A
solemn and lugubrious phrase es-
capes her; her words are slow, her
sorrow fearfully calm. Ten years
of tears and contemplation were
needed to change Marguerite to
this.

To find repose from violent emo-
tions we need not have recourse to
any other than Schubert, among
whose eminent characteristics are
those of sweetness, gracefulness, and
contrasting brilliancy and splendor.
From among a multitude of admir-
able melodies we will mention only
k ' La Truite," " Le Nautonnier," and
" Le Depart" ("The Trout," " The
Sailor," and " The Departure ").

In " La Truite " Schubert unex-
pectedly finds himself met by a great
difficulty. If it be true that people
are soon tired of descriptive poetry,
it is still more incontestable that the
descriptive style is ill suited to music.
We must make an exception for
certain powerful physical effects,
such as tempest under all its forms;
and yet here again what we are
most sensible of in the storms of
(il uck, Beethoven, and Weber is
the troubled state of the human
mind in presence of the disturbance
of nature.

One day, when the genius of the

great and good Haydn was taking
a nap, it came into his head to at-
tempt to express in his Creation, the
roaring of lions and tigers, the
swiftness of the stag, together with
other equally unmusical ideas ; he
consequently fell into the grotesaue.
Schubert had to describe the joyous
sportings of the trout "in its limped
crystal." He had the good taste to
trouble himself very little about it.
To find a melodic phrase full of
charm and feeling was his first
care; and need we say that he suc-
ceeded ? The light and graceful
design of the accompaniment may
perhaps remind us of the trout
u His graceful dartings and his rapid
course" (" Ses elans gracieux, sa
course volage"} but it is nothing
more than a detail of the descrip-
tion which comes merely as an ad-
dition to the dominant sentiment.

" Le Nautonnier " is the triumphal
song of the mariner who, after
braving the violence of the tempest,
returns safely into port. Rapid as
the wind which fills the sails of his
bark, agitated as the waves which
threaten to engulf him such is the
rhythm of the two first phrases ;
but soon, with the major and the
E flat of the treble, the song of
victory bursts forth : man has con-
quered the force of the elements.
This is undeniably one of the most
vigorous melodies ever written by
Schubert.

" Le Depart " is a no less pov/erful
production. It is not a little sur-
prising to read, as the title of a
song by the melancholy Schubert :
" Le Depart: Chant de Joie." It is,
in fact, the song of one carried away
by a love of change and a thirst for
new pleasures one who can say
with Byron that

" I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away." *

* Childe Harold.

708

Modern Melodists.

This song is remarkable for the
proud loftiness of its melodious
march, and for the ardor which im-
pregnates its rhythm. It is a won-
derful intermingling of carelessness
and eagerness, the more observable
because it was so rarely that Schu-
bert was called upon to express
feelings to'o exterior and noisy for
his timid and concentrated na-
ture.

Beethoven, who had made deep
acquaintance with human suffering,
and in whose wondrous pages it is
expressed with so much power,
would nevertheless at times sing
also his notes of gladness. He
built the immensely grand finale of
the " Symphony and Chorus " upon
Schiller's " Hymn of Joy."

It is a wondrous hymn ! After a
splendid opening by the orchestra
alone follows the phrase in D major,
of antique nobleness and simplicity;
but, alas ! this moment of interior
calm is cruelly expiated. The
grand phrase is made to undergo
successive tortures ; after changing
into a plaint of sorrow, it becomes
a cry of despair, almost of mad-
ness.

Elsewhere again, in the incom-
parable finale of the Symphony in A,
Beethoven has sung of joy joy car-
ried to its utmost limits of enthu-
siasm and ecstasy. To follow Bee-
thoven in his impetuous course pro-
duces an indescribable emotion, less
akin to pleasure than to pain, since
violent feeling, from whatever cause
it may arise, is invariably attended
by suffering;. Excess, whether of
joy or love, is pain, very pure but
very penetrating ; for it is one of
the conditions of our human nature
to be unable to rise on high with-
out suffering^ here below.

Jamais entire allegresse :
L'ame y souffre de ses plaisirs,

Les cris de joic out leur tristesse,
Kt les volupt^s leurs soupirs." *

Besides, after the mysterious nup-
tial march of the Symphony in A
can we be surprised that the joy of
Beethoven is only a delusion of the
heart, and beneath this feverish
ardor must not some great moral
suffering be hidden ?

But we must return from the di-
gression into which we have been
led by the consideration of the
" Chant de Joie," whose great author,
however, would not reproach us for
it, being himself a profound admirer
of Beethoven. We have now to see
how Schubert has rendered the sen-
timent of terror.

Only to name " The Erl King " and
" The Young Nun " is a sufficient
reminder of the greatness of this
composer in the expression of dra-
matic feeling. These t\vo Licder are
known all over the world ; " The Erl
King," more especially, popularized
by Mine. Viardot, is one of those
few melodies of Schubert which
have crossed the Alps and become
favorites in Italy.

Criticism has for so long past
awarded its admirauon to the
strangely fascinating song of the
black spectre and the terrified cries
of the child that it would be su-
perfluous to do more than allude to
them; but it will be well to devote
a few lines to the consideration of
"The Young Nun," which has been
very little studied.

In the first part what an inter-
mingling there is of terror and wild
love ! Listen to this fragment of
two bars, thrice interrupted, more
by the storm within the heart than
the outward fury of the elements,

* REBOUL. Not here is perfect joy :

Suffering attends the soul's delights,
Our notes of gladness have their sad-
ness,
And every pleasure ha* its sighs.

Modern Melodists.

709

and thrice resumed with a chro-
matic scale."" After the triple re-
iteration of ascendants, three ne\v
fragments descend, also chromati-
cally, with a bass accompaniment
of a lugubrious character, and a
harmonic sequence expressive of
acute distress :

" Partout 1' ombre,
Et la nuit sombre ;
Deuil et terreur.' 1 1

From the depths of this abyss, with
the words souvenir de douleiir (re-
membered pain), which evoke a
whole past, there springs up a new
thought of exquisite tenderness ;
and here we have a glimpse of the
key of F major, but only for a mo-
ment, the melody falling back into
F minor.

" L'orage grondait ainsi en won
emir " (Thus rolled the storm within
my heart). Here, for the moment,
passion carries the day; the three
cries of terror, interrupted at the
opening, are uttered again, more
hurriedly, at the remembrance of
this distracting love " which agitat-
ed her by day and night," then a
fresh burst of despair recurs in the
chromatic descent which takes us
back to F minor.

il Ainsi fletrie, ma triste vie se consumait. 1 ' 1

In this line we hear once more, but
for the last time and very softly, the
gloomy burden of the bass, imme-
diately after which reappears the
A natural, which victoriously re-

* M. Gounod, in the duo of the fi st act of Romeo
and Jmiet^ has found a chromatic ascendant which
has some analogy with that of Schubert, but which,
in the hands of the French composer, takes quite a
different coloring. Sombre in La Jeune Rtligieust,
it is in Romeo et Juliette sparkling with light. In
the line '' Vnis ces rayons jaloux dont l~ orient se
<fore " (" Behold these envious beams which gild
the east") the brilliant ground-work added by M.
Gounod contributes not a little to render the effect
of light.

t Gloom over all

And the dark night ;

Terror and woe.
J Thus withered, my sad life consumed away.

stores the key of F major. Light
has banished darkness, and life has
vanquished death.

" La paix est r entree a jama is dans
mon coiiir " (Peace lias returned
to chvell for ever in my heart),
sings the young nun in an inspired
voice. This time the triumph is
complete. At the words, " Descend,
my Saviour, from the eternal home,"
the musical phrase mounts like a
thanksgiving hymn. The effect is
marvellous, and what is not less so is
the fact that Schubert has recourse
only to the most natural means to
produce it. A simple change of
key, the passage in the major a
form so frequently 'insipid is, in
his hands, invested with a surpris-
ing power.

Among the other Licder of the
sombre kind is one deserving
especial attention namely, " The
Young Girl and Death " (La Jcune
Fille ct la Mori). In this we are
attracted not so much by the beauty
of the melody as by the musical
problem which it may help us to
solve. How ought music to speak
of supernatural beings ? How is
it to be made suitable to the utter-
ances of the Divinity, of demons, or
of Death ? We have here a serious
difficulty. Is it fitting that the
musician should put a melody into
the mouths of abstract beings ?
Whatever may be the beauty of the
phrase that is sung, the effect does
not meet the requirements of the
case or answer our expectations.
Is it, then, needful to have recourse
to recitative ? But recitative has
not the depth demanded by the
subject. What, then, must be done ?
Let us refer to Gluck ; this great
master has more than one secret to
reveal to those who thoroughly
study him.

Gluck was the first to discover
the most suitable form in which to

Modern Melodists.

represent spiritual voices, and so
well has he succeeded that no one
has been able to ignore his influ-
ence. At the risk of being other-
wise either cold or ridiculous, it
has been necessary for all to adopt,
in this particular, his manner.

" Tremble, ton supplice sapprete"
(Thy doom is even now prepared),
says a mysterious voice to Thoas
(Jphigenia in Tauris). The phrase,
given slowly and softly by voices and
trombones in unison, on re pene-
trates us with a mysterious fear.

In Alcestis, listen to the lugu-
brious effect of the voice of the
oracle, saying on a sustained note :
" The king to-day must die, if in his
stead none other offers up his life." *
It is full of a sombre beauty, and
the terrible persistency of the
rhythm is very expressive of the
antique fatalism.

Must it be added that Gluck has
proved by h ; s own example the in-
evitable absurdity of a melodic
phrase in the mouth of a divinity
who is made to intervene in human
events ?

Diana appears in order to save
Iphigenia and her brother ; the god-
dess sings her aria, and we see with
pain one of the most admirable
chefs-d'oeuvre of dramatic music fin-
ish as miserably as the utterly for-
gotten Iphigenia of Piccini.

Again, Mozart wishes to evoke
the shade of the Commander;
the statue becomes animated and
speaks :

" Before the dawning thou wilt cease to smile." t

This phrase, by its harmonies and
rhythm, reminds us of the voice of
the oracle:

'" Le roi doit mourir aujourd'hui."

* Le roi doit mouia- aujourd'hui,

Si quelqu'autre au trepas ne se livre pour lai.
+ Tu cesseras de rire avant P aurore.

Here an objection will probably be
made that the statue lays aside
this uniform tone, and that Mozait
ventures to entrust it with a more
melodic phrase. The answer is
simple : the form created by Gluck
is necessary when the supernatural
being preserves its mysterious char-
acter, and issues not from the cloud
that conceals it from our eyes. But
if the statue descends from its ped-
estal and again becomes the Com-
mander, if the oracle or the god
takes a body, if you allow him hu-
man feelings, there can be no rea-
son against his expressing them. It
is no longer the hidden divinity who
dictates an inevitable decree, but
one who, having taken the form of
a man, speaks in man's language.

In the same way Wagner, when
making gods and genii the person-
ages of his dramas, gives them the
accents of the human voice. Ming-
ling among men, they too may well
love and suffer, weep and sing.

After Gluck and Mozart,* Schu-
bert also makes Death speak; he
also accepts as necessary the form
given by Gluck. To the young
girl's supplication Death answers
by a phrase the rhythm and har-
monies of which perhaps too much
recall the voice of the oracle in
Alcestis.

If we may venture to say so,
Schubert seems to have found him-
self in one of those exceptional
cases in which the Gluckist form
was not suitable. Why this sombre
coloring, when Death was doing his
utmost to cJiann the young girl ?

" Give me thy hand, nor tremble thus,
Enfolded in my arms, thou'lt sink
Into a sleep more sweet than life.''t

* Not having space to multiply examples, we say
nothing of the Oracle of ^pontini, which, moreover,
has the form of Gluck.

fr u Donne ta main, Ne tremble />ns.
Tu vas dormir entre wi.'s bras,
D'un sotnmcil plus doux gue la vie."

Modern Melodists.

711

Here a more melodic phrase wuld
appear to us more suitable.

Having no intention of giving a
catalogue of. the works of Schu-
bert,* we will not group together
his Liefer, but merely observe that
all his melodies belong to one of
three divisions, which express either
love, or splendor, joy, and triumph,
or, lastly, terror. Many combine
two of these divisions. In " Mar-
guerite " the principal idea is that of
love, and the secondary one the
drama; on the contrary, in "La
Jeune Religieuse" the drama occu-
pies the first place, and the earthly
love is subordinate.

Our notice would be too incom-
plete without at least a rapid sur-
vey of the other works of Schubert
besides the Lied, in which he is un-
equalled, but he has also tried sym-
phonies, operas, and oratorios. Of
his operas, which are numerous,
two only have obtained some repu-
tation namely, Alfonso and Estrella,
chiefly famous for its reverses, and
La Guerre Dojnestique(^\\e Domestic
War), known in France by the name
of La Croisade des Dames. This
charming opera in one act was play-
ed with success a few years ago at the
Theatre des Fantaisies in Paris, and
in every page could be recognized
with pleasure the author of the Lied-
cr. Its distinguishing qualities are
the touching tenderness of the mel-
ody, the brilliancy and delicacy of
the organ accompaniment, and the
perfection in the manner of writ-
ing for the voices.

Schubert undertook also some
more extensive works, many or
which, unfortunately, were never
completed, while the rest are lost
in consequence of that absence of

* Schubert is known to have composed more than
five hundred melodies, most of which are admira-
ble. Those we mention are merely taken as exam-
ples from among numerous others of equal beauty.

care and order which has probably
cost us the loss of more than one
valuable composition. Ought we
to regret that Schubert has not
left one great opera in which he
might have displayed all his facul-
ties ? We think so, although we do
not say that he would have proved
himself to be a musician like Mozart,
a master of tragedy like Gluck or
gifted with Weber's power of fantas-
tic coloring, capable of the sus-
tained passion of Meyerbeer or the
powerful developments of AVagner.
But tenderness and sweetness would
have flowed in streams from his
heart, and the work would have
been so full of poetry and so rich
in characteristic beauties that his
place would still have been a glori-
ous one. Who can deny that M.
Gounod is a great composer ? And
yet it would be difficult to name a
really powerful page, unless it be
the church scene in Faust, and the
finale in Sappho. Posterity will say
of him that he was deficient in
force, but that Marguerite is very
enchanting, Romeo and Juliet full of
tenderness, and Mireille of poetry ;
and doubtless as much as this
would have been said of Schubert.

In his symphonies and drawing-
room music Schubert, no longer
carried on by feeling, frequently
fails. The subscribers to the pop-
ular concerts of the Cirque d Jiiver
in Paris have not forgotten the
fragments of his symphonies which
were at various times executed un-
der the able direction of M. Pasde-
loup. These selections were taken
from the best, and there was cer-
tainly here and there a page which
breathed inspiration. But praise
like this 'is no small blame, and it
is a severe criticism on a symphony
to detach merely an isolated por-
tion from it, and condemn the re-
mainder to oblivion.

712

Modern Melodists.

What was the reason of this in-
feriority in Schubert's symphonic
music? One of the most serious
appears to be the fact that he had
not made a very deep or advanced
study of music. He was preparing
to study the fugue when carried off
by death. Now, it is precisely sym-
phonic composition that demands
the most extensive and thorough
knowledge of the science of music.
Gretry and Montigny, who were
but ordinary contrapuntists, have
written admirable operas, but we
might seek in vain for a great sym-
phonist who had not at the same
time a deep knowledge of music as
a science.

Besides, Schubert, whose inspira-
* tions, as we have already remark-
ed, were essentially lyric, was not
in the habit of working out his
thoughts, and lacked the capacity
for giving them the powerful de-
velopments required by the sym-
phony. Spoiled also by his extra-
ordinary facility, he wrote too fast.
In a lyric composition like the Lied

the facility of the hand is no hin-
drance to the inspiration, which
should be ardent and rapid, but the
formation and unfolding, as it were,
of a symphony require a powerful
inspiration joined to the patient re-
flection and incessant labor which
twenty times over modifies its
work before giving its definitive
form.

The symphonic music of Schu-
bert will pass away, but he will find
a place in the hearts of posterity as
the inspired singer of the Lieder, the
beautiful completeness of which, as
a whole, is the result of his having
known how to enshrine in these
short poems rapid and living dra-
mas, full by turns of joy and sor-
row, love and triumph, or despair
He was one of those men whose
greatness is rather of the heart
than the intellect; and if to others
great conceptions are due, few like
him have given expression to the
deepest feelings 1 of the heart, and
the most refined and elevated ac-
cents of the soul.

New Publications.

713

NEW PUBLICATIONS

THKOLOGIA MORALIS NOVISSIMI ECCLE-
SI^E DOCTORIS S. ALPHONSI. Auctore
A. Konings, C.SS.R. Editio Altera,
Aucta et Emendata. Benziger Fratres,
1876.

We have already noticed the first edi-
tion of this work, which is certainly a
valuable and excellent one in many re-
spects. It has received the approbation of
his Eminence the Cardinal, and of many
others of the prelates of this country,
has apparently been well received by the
clergy in general, and it will not be at
all surprising if it becomes the standard
text-book of moral theology in the semi-
naries of the United States. This suc-
cess it goes far to deserve. It supplies
a great want in the treatises previously
used, by bringing in many points relating
to the laws and customs existing among
us ; and this alone might seem a suffi-
cient reason for its adoption. It has also
many other advantages, partly due to
the ability of the author, partly to the
works which he has taken (as all writers
on this subject must at the present day)
for his basis. Among these he has prin-
cipally followed Gury, adhering more,
perhaps, to his language than to that of
St. Alphonsus.

But, in spite of the many advantages
and excellences of the book, we must
enter a protest against its use, at least as
the sole authority on which the minds
of theological students are to be formed.
And this protest is on account of the
system of equi probabilism taught in it,
which we should be very sorry to have
prevail, both on the ground of its unrea-
sonableness, and on that of its bad prac-
tical effects.

We should have no space in a notice
of this kind to discuss fully this very
important and much- vexed question.
But the point of our criticism can be suf-
ficiently made by simply referring to the
author's definitions of the grades of pro-
bability in opinions (p. 27).

The obvious objection to these defini-
tions, which are made the basis of his
system, and which must, indeed, be made
the basis of any system of equi-probabil-
ism,is that, according to them, an opin-

ion cannot te notably or decidedly more
probable than its contradictory without
making that contradictory "not solidly
probable," to use the author's words,
which are the usual technical ones.

Now, we venture to think that such a
statement as this with regard to proba-
bility would hardly be made in treating
of any other subject than that at present
in hand. Suppose, for instance, the
question to be one of physical science,
that, for example, of the solar parallax.
Now, we think we are not wrong in
saving that it is decidedly more probable
that this parallax is greater than 8y, r sec-
onds of arc than that it is less than this
amount. Be that as it may, it is certain
tkat there is some value, perfectly ascer-
tainable by methods of computation on
which astronomers would agree, for
which, in the present state of science, we
could say that the probability of the pa-
rallax exceeding this value is once and
a half times as great as that of its falling
short of it. Certainly in this case it
would be decidedly more probable that
it does exceed this value than that it
does not. Yet who would say that the
probability of its not exceeding that value
was destitute of any solidity?

We may take a case in which proba-
bility is susceptible of exact numerical
computation. Suppose two balls, one
white and one black, to be together in a
box, and that we draw twice from this
box, putting back the ball drawn the
first time. The probability that we shall
not draw the white ball twice is three
times as great as that we shall ; yet
would any one say that there was no
solid probability of so drawing it? If it
was a question of drawing it five times,
then the probability of this, being only
: fi of that of the contradictory, might, in-
deed, not be "solid."

The whole case can, as it would seem,
be put in the following form : It is
agreed, by equi-probabilists, as well as by
probabilists, that a solidly probable opin-
ion against the law can be followed. If
the former choose to call an opinion only
slightly less probable than its contradic-
tory, till its probability becomes so small

New Publications.

that it really, in the common judgment
of men, ceases to be solid, they depart
from the common u?e of language, but
the controversy between them and the
latter is merely one of the use of words.
But if the equi-probabilists refuse to
call an opinion solidly probable as soon
as its probability becomes what men
would generally call decidedly less than
that of its contradictory (two-thirds of it,
for instance), they depart, as seems evi-
dent from the above cases, again from the
common use of words, and the statement
the complement of the former one, and
on which also both parties agree that an
opinion against the law not solidly pro-
bable cannot be followed, has, in their
mouths, a new meaning, which the judg-
ment of mankind will, it seems to us,
hardly accept, and which will lead to
perpetual and most embarrassing chang-
es of doctrine and practice. The author
undoubtedly believes that he is follow-
ing St. Alphonsus in his system ; it
seems to us that he has, with other equi-
probffbilists, not rightly apprehended the
meaning of certain passages in the works
of that illustrious Doctor, which seem
certainly at first sight to have such a
sense. But to discuss this matter would
lead us too far

THE FAITH OF OUR FATHERS : Being a
Plain Exposition and Vindication of
the Church founded by Our Lord Jesus
Christ. By Rt. Rev. James Gibbons,
D.D., Bishop of Richmond and Ad-
ministrator-Apostolic of North Caroli-
na. Baltimore : Murphy & Co. ; Lon-
don : Washbourne. 1877.

We have rarely met with a book which
pleased us so thoroughly as this little
volume of the Bishop of Richmond. It
is popular, and is therefore not address-
ed to the few who are interested in the
philosophical and scientific controver-
sies of the age, but to the people, to the
multitude, as were the words of Christ.
It is a thoroughly honest book, written
by a man who loves the church and
his country and who is deeply interest-
ed in whatever concerns the welfare of
mankind. From the start we are con-
vinced of his perfect sincerity. Not to
make a book has he written ; but he be-
lieves, and therefore speaks. It is this
that gives value to literature the hu-
man life, the human experience, which it

contains. Bishop Gibbons has labored fcr
several years with great zeal in North
Carolina andVirginia, where there are few
Catholics, where the opportunities of dis-
pelling Protestant prejudice are rare, but
where the people are generally not unwill-
ing to be enlightened. Learned argu-
ments are less needed than clear and ac-
curate statements of the doctrines, prac-
tices, and aims of the church. Catholic
truth isits own best evidence; ismoreper-
suasive than any logic with which the
human mind is able to reinforce it.

To the right mind and pure heart
it appeals with irresistible force ; and
therefore the great work of those who la-
bor for God is to put away the mental
and moral obstructions -which shut out
the view of the truth as it is in Christ.
In setting forth in clear and simple
style " the faith of ourfathers " Bishop
Gibbons is careful to meet all the ob-
jections which are likely to be made to
the church. He is thoroughly acquaint-
ed with the American people ; is himself
an American ; and his book is another
proof that the purest devotion to the
church is compatible with the deepest
love for the freest and most democratic
of governments. Sympathy gives him
insight, reveals the matter and the man-
ner that suit his purpose best. The skill
with which he has compressed into a
small volume such a variety of topics,
giring to each satisfactory treatment, is
truly admirable. He seems to have for-
gotten nothing, and has consequently
produced a complete popular explanation
and vindication of Catholic doctrine.
We cannot praise too highly the tone
and temper of this book.

The author is not aggressive ; is never
bitter, never sneers nor deals in sarcasm
or ridicule ; docs not treat his reader as
a foe to be beaten, but as a brother to be
persuaded. His sense of religion is too
deep to allow him to make light of any
honest faith. We perceive on every
page the reverend and Christian bishop
who knows that charity and not hate is
the divine power of the church ; the fire
that sets the world ablaze. It is not ne-
cessary that we should say more in com-
mendation of this treatise. It will most
certainly have a wide circulation, and its
merits will be advertised by every reader.
Bishop Gibbons has written chiefly for
Protestants, but we hope his book will
find entrance into every Catholic faiiiiy
in the land.

New Publications.

715

DEIRDRE. Boston : Roberts Brothers.

1876.

The poet who ventures on an epic in
these days deserves well of literature.
To turn from the puling, weak, or nau-
seous themes which form the subjects
of most of the contemporary English
poetry is in itself a sign of a strong and
healthy temperament. Nevertheless, the
venture is a bold one. Pretty and grace-
ful lyric verse may pass easily enough
and win a transient popularity without
challenging any strong comparison, lost
as it is in the crowd of its fellows. But
when an epic is mentioned, Homer towers
up with Virgil in his train ; Dante sweeps
along ; the shade of Milton oppresses us ;
we are in the company of giants and
breathe reverently. The men who grasp
epochs of history and human life, and
string them into numbers that resound
through all the ages, are few indeed. So
we say he is a bold man who would fol-
low in their track ; but, at least, his ambi-
tion is great, whatever be its execution.

The author of Deirdrt is not a Homer
or a Virgil ; he is not even equal to those
fine English echoes of the great masters
Dryden and Pope ; and although we
do not know him, and are not sure as to
who he is, we have little doubt that no
man would be readier to concede what
we here state than the author of Deirdrl
himself. At least, he will consider it no
dishonor that his song should wake the
memory of those great singers in our
mind.

l^cirdre is an Irish story of pre-Chris-
tian times. Like the Iliad, it has its
Helen, who gives her name to the poem,
and around her the story centres. The
beauty of Deirdre, like that of Helen, is
her curse. Wherever slie goes she is a
brand of discoid. Heroes fight for her,
wars are waged for possession of her,
great deeds are done in her name, and
the end is disaster for all. She is unlike
her Greek prototype only in her Irish
chastity, pagan though she was. There
have been Irish Helens, and the disaster
of her race is to be traced to one of them ;
but they are only remembered to be
cursed. Still, the author was at liberty,
if he chose, to follow the prevailing taste
of the day, and add a spurious interest to
his poem by making its heroine unfaith-
ful to her spouse. He has done the con-
trary. It is t<ie very fidelity of Deirdre
that adds its chief interest to the poem.
From the day when first the squirrel

cried to her from the tree in the garden
where she had been enclosed by the

king :

" Come up ! come up ! Come up, and see the
world !"

and she obeyed the promptings of her
nature and went up, and for the first time
looked over the garden wall and saw
"the great world spread out," she Tost
her heart, for here is what she saw :

"Three youthful knights in all their martial

pride,

With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,
And gay gems flashing on their harnesses.
And on the helm that guarded each proud head.
And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.
And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,
With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me ;
For he did mark this yellow head of mine
Amid the green tree's branches glint and shine.
And oh ! the look the fond, bright look he

gave i . . . "

These were the three heroic sons of
Usna. and the eldest of the three is Nai-
si, who finds his way into the charmed
forest where Deirdre is kept by the
king until she should grow to an age
ripe enough to fit her to be made his
queen. The young lady objects as
young ladies will do sometimes to be
disposed of in this manner, and Naisi,
having first stolen her heart, completes
his theft by stealing- herself. They lly
from Eman, and Clan Usna accompa-
nies them. The rest of the poem is made
up of their wanderings and final luring
back to Eman, when the king wreaks
his vengeance upon them. With the
fate of the sons of Usna and Deirdre
the poem closes.

There is much that is admirable in the
whole work. The scenes are wonderful-
ly well localized. One never strays in-
to to-day. The author has completely
mastered the difficult geographical termi-
nology, and makes it sweet and pleasant
to the ear. The men are cast in heroic
mould, and a tinge of chivalry added
to them that beautifies and ennobles
them. Deirdre is a sweet, pure, and lov-
ing woman ; her early youth in the gar-
den of the king is in itself an idyllic gem.
The battle scenes are strong and vigor-
ous, and not too long drawn out ; a sea-
fight in particular is wonderfully well
described. The glimpses of natural
scenery given here and there are varied
and picturesque. Indeed, there is every-
thing that is good in the poem, but no-
thing that can be called great; and great-

716

New Publications

ness is the standard and measure of an
epic.

We think the author, too, has been
careless in the construction of his verse.
It is unequal. Half-rhymes abound :
"bird" and "stirred," "house" and
"carouse," "restored" and "board,"
"hum" and "room," "jollity" and
" company," " heath" and " breath," can-
not be considered good rhymes, yet
they are all found within the first three
pages. They are to too great an extent
characteristic of the whole. Then there
is an abundance of weak and common-
place couplets, such as the following:

" The earth's dark places, felt himself full sad,
He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad."

' From the bright palace straightway to his house,
That they might hold therein a gay carouse.''

''Yet higher rose the joy and jollity

Of the Great King and all that company."

" Till morn's gay star rose o'er the golden sea,
And sent to slumber all that company."

Now, such lines should never have
passed the censorship of one who can
give such other lines as these :

" Whose fierce eye o'er the margin of his shield
Had gazed from war's first ridge on many a
field."

" Many a field " is weak, but the pic-
ture is very good. Strange to say, the
two lines immediately following are
these :

" Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,
And might be ten to one for all he cared."

The epic spirit contained in the last line
needs no comment.
Again, here is a strong picture :

u Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upturew
Tlie -wild isle's stony ribs unto the blue"

And here a sweet one :

". . . Then from her forehead fair
She brushed a silken ripple of bright hair
That from the flood of her rich tresses stole,
A nd looked with wordless love into his soul?'

Sometimes we fall upon lines that we
fancy we have heard before as these, for
instance, which anybody might claim and
not be proud of:

" The merry village with its sheltering trees,
The peaceful cattle browsing o'er the leas,
The hardy shepherd whistling on the plain
With his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,"
etc. etc.

And here are lines which we fancy Mr.
Tennyson might with justice claim :

". . . And velvet catkins on the willow shone
By lowland streams, and on the hills the larch
Scented ivith odorous buds the winds of March"

One more objection we must make, and
that is to the tiresomely frequent use of
the word "full." It occurs everywhere,
sometimes twice or thrice in one page.
Feilimid feels himself "full sad" (p. i).
In p. 46 Caflfa shakes his head "full
dolefully." In p. 49 " The east and
north a strong wind blew///// keen." In
p. 55 Deirdre grows "full pale"; in p.
58 she goes " to and fro" " full secretly " ;
in p. 59 she has thoughts "full sad";
while Naisi (p. 62) laughs to himself
" full low," his heart with love's ardor
grows " full warm " (p. 65). Maini
watches Naisi "full treacherously" (p.
69), and three lines lower on the same
page he is still watching him " full wari-
ly." The loyal wife grasps her babe
"full firm" (p. 164) an expression that,
allowing even for poetic license, is very
doubtful grammar ; " full soon " adorns
p. 165 ; " full stern " shall be the fight (p.
166) ; " full many " a mile (p. 166) ; " full
many " a festal fire (p. 167) ; even the
very babe crows " full lustily " (p. 131).

Of course repetition is allowable and,
if rightly used, a beauty. In Homer Juno
is always "white-armed," Venus "ox-
eyed," Apollo " far-darting,' 1 Agamemnon
a " king of men," Achilles " swift-footed,"
the dawn " rosy-fingered," the sea hoarse-
resounding, and so on. But we need
not dwell on the point that this is a very
different kind of repetition from that in
Deirdre, which is faulty and tiresome in
the extreme.

The defects we have pointed out are
such as might have been easily avoided
by care in the supervision. As it is, they
seriously mar a work of real power,
much promise, and undeniable beauty.

RELIGION AND EDUCATION. By the very
Rev. Thomas S. Preston, V.G. New
York : Robert Coddington. 1876.
There is much matter for thought and
reflection in this pamphlet of forty-six
pages. It treats of what is now an old
subject, yet a subject about which new
issues are constantly being raised, not
only in this country but all the world
over. And as the subject is far from
being settled, and is likely so to remain
for sometime to come, one cannotbut wel-
come the observations and pronounced

[

New Publications.

717

expression of such a mind as that of
the distinguished author regarding a
vital question of this and all countries
and of all time. The question of educa-
tion has been treated time and again in
these pages. Indeed , many of the articles
which have appeared in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD have been collected and publish-
ed in book-form (Cathclics and Educa-
tion], and combined make an excellent
treatise in defence of Catholic educa-
tion as opposed to the popular objections
of non-Catholics. Father Preston neces-
sarily travels over old ground here, but
with a freshness, vigor, and clearness of
statement and exposition that will amply
repay the reader. His lecture for such
it was bears all the marks of a strong and
trained mind, fully alive to the difficulties
that beset the vexed question of which
he treats, yet of one who knows exactly
where strength ends and extravagance
begins. There is, perhaps, no question
to-day more open to extravagant de-
mands and declamation on both sides
than this of education. The tendency
of the times regarding it is in a radical-
ly wrong direction. Hot words will
not mend matters, but calm reason,
such as this pamphlet affords, wiil in
the long run tell. To sincere and
rightly-instructed Catholics there is
no question at all in the matter.
Education is as much a subject of reli-
gious discipline as is the guiding of a
man's life, and to banish God from the
school is no more justifiable than to ban-
ish him from the church or the horse.
No Catholic dare say to God: We will
admit you here, but not there. At the
same time we must take into serious ac-
count the opinions of men who, having
practically lost faith, cannot be expected
to look upon everything in the same
light as ourselves. More especially is this
the case in a country like our own, where
all things are still more or less in a state
of formation. It is very certain that the
Fathers of this Republic, to whom in our
emergencies we often vaguely appeal,
never dreamed that the whole machinery
of a republic which, in its present vast-
ness, power, and future import, could
scarcely have flashed even on their hap-
piest dreams, would be perfectly adjust-
ed in a century. We must make the
best of tl ings as they exist, work earnest-
ly, untiringly, and hopefully to make
them still better, but not slap the whole
world in the face for the poor satisfaction

of the slap. Father Preston is an excel-
lent guide in this matter. There is not
a waste word in all that he says. He has
a reason, and gives it, for every statement,
and he strengthens his position by the
testimony of,honored men among those
opposed to him. It is strange that this
country should be behind every other
civilized nation in the fair adjustment of
the educational question. They do the
best they can for all denominations ; we
seem to have one predominating idea
to wit, that Catholic children, so far as
the States can prevent it without abso-
lute force, shall not have the right of
Catholic education. Education is not
and never can be a purely abstract affair
as regards religion. It must have some
informing moral principle, which will be
right or wrong according to circum-
stances. Catholics refuse, on their con-
science, to have any doubt about the
matter. Others may do as they think fit
under a government which professes to
respect absolute freedom of conscience,
Their freedom of conscience recognizes
and claims education for their children
in the spirit of their faith. To deny this
is coercion. To make them contribute
to a system of education based on its
denial is coercion and extortion. To
see how fully enlightened Protestants
and enlightened governments uphold
this view, we can recommend nothing
better in a brief form than the pages of
this admirable pamphlet.

WIT, HUMOR, AND SHAKSPEARE. Twelve
Essays. By John Weiss. Boston :
Roberts Brothers. 1876.
There could be no better proof of the
large tolerance of literary charlatanism
by the American public than that a
shrewd Boston firm should in such times
as the present consent to publish a book
like this. Mr. Weiss evidently has no-
thing to say which can be of interest to a
sensible man, and his $yle is as bad as his
thought. His chief aim, it would appear,
is to be odd, unnatural, and barbarous.
Like the clown in the circus, he hopes to
amuse us by his antics, if not by his wit.
But fantastic and affected phraseology
cannot hide poverty or barrenness of
thought. If a man has nothing to say,
grimaces only make him ridiculous in the
eyes of the judicious. It would seem, too,
that the author is under the delusion
that he may succeed in making us be-
lieve that he means something by striv-

718

New Pit blica t io ns.

ing to render it as difficult as possible to
find out what he means. Here are speci-
mens of his style: "The life-breaths of
joy and grief tend primitively to the
lungs, and they voice the mother-tongue
of all emotions." "What a wide range
of nature's curious freakery a forest has !"
4< Only those who are capable of annihi-
lating capricious distinctions by feelings
of common humanness are capable of
enjoying the union of heterogeneous
ideas."

It is Mr. Weiss' great misfortune to
believe that he is witty ; and the attempts
which reveal this deep conviction might
indeed make us laugh, if they did not
make us grieve.

"What mutual impression do a dog
and a cluck make? He runs around
with frolic transpiring in his tail, and
barks to announce a wish to fraternize ;
or perhaps it is a short and nervous
bark, a nd indicates unsettled views about
ducks. Meantime, the duck waddles off
with an inane quack, so remote from
a bark that it must convince any well-
informed dog of the hopelessness of pro-
posing either business or pleasure to such
a doting and toothless pate." "But as
yet no cosey couples of clever apes have
been discovered in paroxysms of laughter
over the last sylvan equivoque ; nor have
elephants been seen silently shaking at
a joke too ponderous for their trunks to
carry." "We cannot imagine that a
turtle's head gets tired lying around de-
capitated for a week or more."

We cannot pardon Mr. Emerson for
having made such men as Mr. Weiss
possible. He is a morbid product one
of the sick multitude whose disease he
has himself diagnosed. " Multitudes of
our American brains are badly drained
in consequence of a settling of the wast-
age of house-grubbing and street-work in-
to moral morasses which generate many
a chimera." This is on the twelfth page,
and io this point we followed the author
with a kind of interest ; for it was still
possible to hope that he might not be an
American. The English critics, however,
may find his humor capital, since they
think Walt Whitman our greatest poet ;
and Mr. Weiss finds examples of wit
and humor in this country truly Shak-
sperean :

"There was a man who stood on his
head under a pile-driver to have a pair
of tight boots driven on. He found him-
self shortly after in China, perfectly nak-

ed and without a cent in his pocket."
" There is a man in the West so bow-leg-
ged that his pantaloons have to be cut
out with a circular saw." " Some of the
Texan cows have been lately described
as so thin that it takes two men to sec
one of them. The men stand back to
back, so that one says, ' Here she
comes !' and the other cries, ' There she
goes !' Thus between them both the cow
is seen."

" All these American instances" we
quote the ihoughtful and profound obser-
vation of Mr. Weiss " are conceived in
the pure Shakesperean blending of the
understanding and the imagination."
But one more of them, perhaps the most
artistically perfect of all, must suffice.
"A coachman, driving up some moun-
tains in Vermont, was asked by an outside
passenger if they were as steep on the
other side also. ' Steep ! Chain lightnin'
couldn't go down 'em witheout the
breechin' on !' "

Nothing could be finer than the epi-
grammatic style in which Mr. Weiss
throws some of Shakspere's characters
into a crisp Emersonian sentence : " Pis-
tol is the law article of poltroonery done
in fustian instead ofagayly-slashed doub-
let. Bardolph is the capaciousness for
sherry, without the capacity to make it ap-
prehensive and forgetive ; it goes to his
head, but, finding no brain there, is pro-
voked to the nose, where it lights a cau-
tionary signal. Nym is the brag stripped
of resource, shivering on prosiness/' We
are quite prepared, after all this, to find
that Mr. Weiss belongs to the class of
enlightened men who, in the name of
science, sneer at religion. It is hardly
worth while to attempt his conversion.

POEMS : DEVOTIONAL AND OCCASIONAL.

By Benjamin Dicnysius Hill, C.S.P.

New York : The Catholic Publication

Society. 1877.

In his last sermon on " Subjects of the
Day" ("The Parting of Friends"), Dr,
Newman exclaims: "O my mother
whence is this unto thee, that thou hast
good tilings poured upon thce and carst
not keep them, and bearest children, yet
darest not own them ? Why hast thou not
the SKill to use their services, nor the heart
to rejoice in their love? How is it that
whatever is generous in purpose, and
tender or deep in devotion, thy flower
ar>d thy promise, falls from thy bosom
and finds no home within thine arm??"

New Publications.

719

The author of these poems gives to his
Mother the whole not a part of a deli-
cate poetic talent that would have found
a warm welcome in the world which
knows her not. The art in the posms is
unaffected and genuine ; there is no pre-
tence of artistic ambition, nor any pro-
voking involution of the thought in or-
der to display the tricks and pretty de-
vices of metre which would have come
easily to one whose sense of poetic tune is
so true. The verse, although by no
means monotonous, is uniformly simple ;
the rhymes are never weak and are al-
ways sweet qualities rarely combined
and the infallible poetic instinct fills the
lines with melody, which, at first so sub-
lie and fine that it almost eludes, is soon
discovered to be exquisitely and perma-
nently sweet.

The dominant thought is religious rap-
ture. Father Hill was not always under
the benign intluence which has brought
this guerdon to his gifts. He was out-
side the only church which offers man's
h^art an ideal of absolute perfection.

"A barren creed had starved me."

God called him

" to fill the place of some

Ingrate who had thrown his childhood's faith
away,"

and within the consecrated precincts of
the priesthood he discovered a gracious
light upon his imagination the light of
O-jr Lady. So he has proved her poet ;
and the tributes that he lays at her feet
are rich and warm with the full beating
ardor of manhood's love. The pure sen-
suousness which gives strikingly what
the painters would call " fine flesh-tint"
to the poems will prove a strong attrac-
tion to the fervent hearts of thousands
who, like Father Hill, love the Mother
of our Lord with an uncontrollable in-
tensity of human affection, but who, un-
like him, are unable fittingly to express
that affection to her, or even to define it
to themselves or to others. Father Hill
is literally the knight of Mary, and he
does more than the obligations of
knighthood required ; for, in addition to
loving, fighting for, and seeking his re-
ward from her, he sings her praise. He
sives her at once his sword and his lyre.
The beauty of this chivalry of the soul is
not easily to be understood by the shal-
low or the thoughtless ; yet even the ir-
reverent will acknowledge its holiness,
and the commonest mind will be unable

to resist its singular charms. Who can
be insensible to such loyalty to the reli
gious ideal as this ?

"TO BE FORGIVEN.

" I call thee " I/ove ' l my sweet, my dearesi. Love '

Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.
Yet I forget not that, in realms above,

The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.

" If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less :

And so of mine a poet's, which must needs
Adore to all melodious excess

What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds

" And then thou art my Mother God's, yet mine ,

Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best :
And 1 as tenderly, intimately thine
As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.

'* My Mother ! 'tis enough. If mine the right

To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh
All other honeyed names. A slave I might-
A son, I must. And both of these am I.'

This exquisite piety is entitled " Love's
Prisoner" :

' But is He lonely ? Bend not here

Adoring angels as on high ?
Ah yes : but yet, when we appear,

A softer glory floods H*s eye.
' Tis earth's frail child He longs to see ;]
And thus He is alone for me !

" Then, best of lovers, I'll draw near

Each day to minister relief.
For tho' the thought of year on year

Of sin should make me die of grief,
Yet day by day my God I see
* Sick and in prison ' all for me !"

Those whose imagination is without
devotion, or whose devotion lacks ima-
gination, will look upon the author of
these poems as one indeed " set apart,"
Yet even Dr. Newman, the giant intel-
lect of modern thought, looked upon
Keble, as he tells us himself, with awe,
sirtlply because Keble was a true religi-
ous poet ; and these two came to love
each other with a tenderness that did
not expire, but was rather increased, when
the one passed within the gates of Mother
Rome, and the other, faltering in tears,
sadly loitered, then suffered himself to be
led away. So many a lesser Newman
will learn to love this lesser and more
melodious poet within the sanctuary,
and his glowing soul will distribute
so'ne of its own warmth into the hospi-
table recesses in which this little book
will find nooks the hosts never thought
of.

720

New Publications.

LIFE OF MOTHER MARIA TERESA, FOUND-
RESS OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE

ADORATION OF REPARATION. By the

Abbe Hulst. Translated by Lady Her-
bert. London : Burns & Oates. (For
sale by The Catholic Publication So-
ciety.)

To many people there is no reading so
pleasant as a biography; but when, as
in the life of a great servant of God, solid
instruction and sweet devotion are frmnd
united in the details of personal history,
the work becomes a hand-book in a
Christian's library. Of this kind is the
present work, which, although only a
small volume, contains a great deal of
matter, and is written with nil that ease
and na'ivete which are so often found in
French biographies. It is translated into
English by Lady Herbert, who is tho-
roughly competent for the task.

Theodolind Dubouche was born at
Montauban,in France, on the 2d of May,
1809 ; but her mother was of Italian
origin, and it is a little singular that the
daughter's portrait prefixed to this Life
bears a remarkable resemblance to th:?t
of Dante. Neither of her parents was
more than a nominal Catholic, and Theo-
dolind grew up in a cold and formal at-
mosphere of morality which would have
chilled for ever the heart of one less na-
tr rally generous, pure-minded, and en-
evgetic, and over whom God had not
extended a particular protection. Her
path to perfection was long and beset
with many dangers although not at any
time of the grosser sort but the Lord
was her shepherd, and she was led on,
step by step, to the crowning-point of her
career, which was the establishment of
an Order for women whose special object
should be the perpetual adoration of
Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, and the con-
tinual reparation to his divine Majesty.
Theodolind assumed the name in r%li-
gion of Maria Teresa, and her congre-
gation, which was originally engrafted
on the vigorous and venerable stem of
Carmel, was begun at Paris on the 6th
of August, 1848. In the year 1853 it
received a Laudatine Brief irom the Holy
See, This was the first step towards the

full official approbation of the Sovereign
Pontiff, which was given only three years
after the death of the foundress. Her
death occurred at Paris on Sunday, 301)1
of August, 1863. The congregation or In
stitute of ' L'Adoration Reparatrice" has
already four houses in France, in each
of which adorers in large numbers, conse-
crated by religious profession, succeed
one another day and night before the
Blessed Sacrament exposed, and in a
spirit of deep recollection make the ado-
ration of reparation the principle of a
special vocation and the occupation of a
whole life.

The Order will certainly continue to
spread, and we hope to see it introduced
into this country, where devotion to the
Blessed Sacrament is comparatively cold
and scattered. We recommend the pre-
sent work to all the holy spouses of
Christ and true lovers of Jesus in the
Holy Eucharist.

GlTHA OF THE FOREST ; OR, THE BlJRN-

ING OF CROYLAND. A Romance of
early English History. By the author
of Lord Dacrc of Gils land, Royalists ana
Roundheads, etc., etc. London : D.
Stewart, 1876. (For sale by The
Catholic Publication Society.)

This is just one of those books that are
in every way to be commended. It illus-
trates an early and most interesting
period of English and Catholic history
with remarkable power and vividness.
It is a constant wonder to us that Catho-
lics who have a taste for the writing of
fiction do not more frequently take up
such epochs as this, which are full of
heroic deeds and romantic episodes, in-
stead of vainly attempting to weave a
romantic interest about the common-
place subjects and persons of the da}-.
The history of the world for the last eigh-
teen centuries is theirs to choose from ,
all its interest centres around Christian
ity ; and we are not quite so much in
love with to-day that we cannot thorough-
ly enjoy a trip back into the past when
led by so skilful and true a hand as thr.t
of the author of Githa.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. XXIV., No. 144. MARCH, 1877.

THE RUSSIAN CHANCELLOR.*

THE attention of the world is at
present fixed upon Russia and upon
the a,ged yet still active statesman
who has directed her foreign policy
for twenty years with an ability
certainly very- considerable, though
it yet remains to be seen how far it
will prove itself consummate and
successful. It will help to an un-
derstanding of the career of this
eminent Russian Minister of State,
and of the present attitude of
Russia, if we premise a condensed
sketch of certain of the most promi-
nent events in the civil and ecclesi-
astical history of this great and sin-
gular empire. It is difficult to find
out the certain truth in regard to
some of these important facts, and
we therefore profess to claim for
such statements as we may make,
unless they relate to matters of
known and undisputed history,
only that probability which they

* TISJO Chancellors : Prince Gortchakoff and
Prince Bismarck. By Julian Klaczko. Trans-
lated from the Revue des Deux Mondes by Frank
P. Ward. New York: Hurd & Houghton. 1876.

Various works on Russia by Palmer, Gagarin,
Tondini, De Custine, De Maistre, Pitzipios. Tyr-
rell, Gurowski, Romanoff, Rabbe and Duncan, etc.
The histories of MouraviefF, Leo, Rohrbacher,
Darras, and Alzog.

receive from the authority of some
one or more of the writers whose
names we have mentioned in the
foot-note annexed to the title of
this article. This remark applies
especially to facts relating to the
schism of the Russian Church.
We have never yet met with any
professedly complete and minute
ecclesiastical history of Russia.
Mouravieff's work is a professed
history of the Russian Church, but
it is compendious, and too partial
to deserve entire confidence. It is
much to be desired that some eccle-
siastic of profound erudition in Rus-
sian literature, such as Father Gaga-
rin or Father Tondini, would fur-
nish us with a thorough and trust-
worthy narrative of all the facts
which can be known in this ob-
scure and interesting department
of ecclesiastical history. In fact,
we suspect that very much which
passes current in the civil history
of Russia as written by foreigners
needs a critical sifting, and that a
perfectly impartial and trustworthy
history f that empire is yet to be
written.

The Russian Empire embraces

722

The Russian Chancellor.

one-seventh of the land-surface of
the earth, or more than double the
area of Europe, and European Rus-
sia is thirty times larger than Eng-
land. The aggregate population is
at least 75,000,000, including a hun-
dred distinct tribes, among which
more than forty languages are
spoken. The ancestors of the
dominant race were Scythians and
Sarmatians, among whom the be-
ginnings of civilization were -to be
found during the earliest part of
the Christian epoch. It is a curi-
ous fact that a republic existed at
Novgorod before the arrival of
Rurik. The Russian dominant
race is Sclavonian that is, as eth-
nologists suppose, of Sarmatian
origin. The present name of the
country and people is not, how-
ever, indigenous. The Russian
tribe was a branch of the Varan-
gians, who were Scandinavians, and
migrated into the country to which
they have given their name in the
ninth century. The name Russian
is derived by some from Rurik, and
by others from some one of various
Scandinavian words signifying for-
eigner, wanderer, or scattered, in
which case it would denote the
migration of the Varangian horde
from its former seat and its settle-
ment in a foreign country.*

Rurik was the principal chief of
these Varangians, the founder of a
principality which was the germ of
the future empire, and the father
of the first line of the tsars. Other
chiefs of the same tribe founded
minor principalities, which formed
together a sort of confederation, the
successor of Rurik being recogniz-
ed as Grand Prince. The city of
Moscow was founded in the twelfth
century. It was not until after
centuries had passed that one -unit-

* Still another derivation is from Roxolani, the
name of a Scythian tribe.

ed kingdom was formed and in-
creased by degrees to the vast mag-
nitude of its modern proportions.
The absolute, autocratic authority
of the tsar was likewise a later de-
velopment of the primitive form of
government.

The reign of Rurik continued
from A.D. 861 to 879, and that of
his direct line of successors until
1598, when it became extinct by
the death of Feodor I., who left no
issue, and is said to have had no near,
surviving relatives. After fifteen
years of disputed successions and
bloody civil conflicts, caused by
the usurpation of Boris Godounoff,
which began with the accession of
the imbecile Feodor, the Romanoff
family was placed on the throne,
which it has kept in possession to
the present day.

The first Romanoff tsar was a
son of Feodor Romanoff, a nobleman
who had retired into a monastery
and become metropolitan of Ros-
toff, which dignity lie afterwards
exchanged for the higher office of
patriarch of Moscow. He was first
cousin to the Tsar Feodor through
an intermarriage of the Romanoffs
with the reigning family. The son
of Feodor who was elected tsar was
a youth named Michael Feodoro-
vitch. To him succeeded his son Al-
exis, then Feodor II., then Peter the
Great. To Peter succeeded his wid-
ow, Catharine I., who was by birth a
peasant, followed by Peter II., the
grandson of Peter the Great, who
died in his childhood, and was suc-
ceeded by Anne, Duchess of Cour-
land, a niece of Peter I. After
Anne, her grandnephew, Ivan VII.,
an infant, was proclaimed, but soon
displaced by Elizabeth, a daughter
of Peter I. and Catharine. Peter
III., son of Anne who was a daugh-
ter of Peter and Catharine and
of the Duke of Holstein-Gottorp,

The Russian Chancellor.

723

succeeded Elizabeth, but was de-
throned by his own wife, Catharine
II. Her son, Paul I., was assassi-
nated by nis nobles, and to him suc-
ceeded his son, the justly-celebrat-
ed Alexander I., who reigned from
1801 to 1825. The Emperor Nich-
olas, whose reign terminated in
1856, was the brother of Alexan-
der,* and his son, Alexander II., is
the present reigning emperor.

For more than two centuries,
dating from A.D. 1238, the Russians
were subject or tributary to the
Mongolians, who had overrun and
conquered the country. Ivan the
Great shook off their yoke during
the latter half of the fifteenth cen-
tury. Poland was a frequent and
often victorious antagonist in war
of Russia until internal dissensions
broke her power and left her a prey
to the enemy who had once regard-
ed her with dread. Turkey, Hun-
gary, Persia, Sweden, and other
minor powers were also frequently
engaged with her in conflicts of
varying success before the period
in which she took part in the great
European struggles. Having slow-
ly and gradually grown to a gigantic
stature and attained to solidity and
strength by the long operation of
various internal and external causes,
this empire of the North founded by
Rurik suddenly, under the power-
ful direction of Peter the Great,
took its place among the great
nations of Western Christendom.
What it is yet to become we may
know better than we can now vati-
cinate in the year 1900, when, to
use Prince Bismarck's strong figure,
some more of " the iron dice of
destiny falling from the hands of
God " shall have made the eternal
decrees manifest which are now
hidden in the obscurity of the future.

* The older brother, Constantine, resigned his
right of succession.

It is probable that Christianity
was first preached in Russia by
St. Andrew the Apostle, and had
some partial success during the
period intervening between the
apostolic age and the second mission
sent from Constantinople in the
ninth and tenth centuries. At this
epoch some Christian communities
were founded, and the way was
opened for greater successes at a
later period. The Princess Olga
was baptized at Constantinople in
955, and in 988 her grandson,
Vladimir the Great, who married
the Greek emperor's sister, became
a Christian, with all his subjects.
It is true that the conversion of the
mass of the people was very super-
ficial, and that it was a long time
before they ceased to hanker after
their ancient superstitions. Yet
the foundations were laid for a fu-
ture superstructure, and there is
evidence that even before the Mon-
golian invasion sacred science flour-
ished atKieff. At this period, which
lay between the schism cf Photius
and that of Michael Cerularius
whose revolt occurred in the middle
of the eleventh century Constan-
tinople and the other Eastern patri-
archates were in the communion of
the Roman Church. The Russian
Church was therefore Catholic at its
original foundation. The higher
clergy were all Byzantines, especial-
ly in Muscovy, and were under the
influence of the prevailing ideas of
the clergy of the Greek Empire.
The imperfectly-instructed clergy
and people of Russia were there-
fore naturally left to drift into a
condition of alienation from the
Roman Church and Western Chris-
tendom, when their immediate pa-
triarch revolted from his allegiance
to the Sovereign Pontiff. The irrup-
tion of the Mongols buried them
in a sea of ignorance, misery, and

724

The Russian Chancellor.

barbarism for ages. Nevertheless,
their faith and their liturgical books
were always Catholic. Every now
and then \ve meet with signs of
some intercommunion with the Ro-
man Church, especially on the part
of those who were immediately sub-
ject to the see of Kieff. We can
scarcely, therefore, consider that
an act of overt rebellion and com-
plete schism of the. national church
was committed until the rejection of
the Act of Union of Florence, and
the erection of the independent
patriarchate of Moscow at the close
of the fifteenth century.

At the opening of the Council of
Florence, in 1439, Vasili III. sent
Isidore, Metropolitan of Kieff and
Primate of Russia, a learned Greek,
as the representative of the na-
tional church, to effect a complete re-
conciliation with Rome. Isidore ful-
filled this commission, and returned
with the dignity of cardinal and lega-
tine powers. He was well received
by the tsar, who nevertheless dared
not publicly ratify and proclaim
his action without the consent of
the Muscovite clergy and boyars.
This was violently and obstinately
refused. Cardinal Isidore returned
to Kieff, and within the provinces
immediately subject to his juris-
diction as metropolitan the Act
of Union was accepted. He was
afterwards banished from Russia,
and after the storming of Constan-
tinople, which he witnessed, he, like
the more celebrated Cardinal Bes-
sarion, went to reside at Rome. Va-
sili's motives for seeking to place
his bishops under the supremacy of
the Roman pontiff were chiefly poli-
tical. He wished to free himself
from the ecclesiastical and politi-
cal interference of Constantinople.
Thwarted in his first plan, he tried
another. On the pretext that the
patriarch of Constantinople had

separated himself from the commu-
nion of the other Eastern patriarchs,
he persuaded the Muscovite clergy
to abjure his authority. On the
same pretext he deprived the sec
of Kieff of its pre-eminence, and
made the metropolitan of Moscow
the primate of all Russia. Thus, by
flattering the ambition of the Mus-
covite clergy, he placed them in a
position more favorable for the ex-
ercise and increase of his own au-
thority over the church. His suc-
cessor, Ivan the Great, the same who
freed his dominions from the Mon-
golian supremacy, completed and
more fully carried out these plans,
and made himself the real govern-
ing head of the schismatical Rus-
sian Church. After the fall of the
Greek Empire the tsars ceased to
have any reason to fear the op-
pressed church of Constantinople,
and became friendly to it in an al-
tered relation as its protectors and
as claimants of the rights of the
Greek emperors. Ivan married
Sophia, a Greek princess, adopted
the double-headed eagle as his es-
cutcheon, assumed the state and
splendor of an emperor, and arro-
gated to himself the prerogatives of
the secular head of the so-called
Orthodox Church. Under Feodor I.
the erection of a new patriarchate
at Moscow was effected -by Boris
Goudonoff, who ruled, in fact, dur-
ing the life-time of the last of the
Rurik dynasty, and gained the
throne, left vacant at his death,
by his cunning intrigues. Under
Alexis, the second Romanoff, the
great patriarch Nicon, whose name
is highly venerated in Russia, came
into a collision - with the tsars
which resulted in his own downfall
and in that of all spiritual independ-
ence of the Russian hierarchy. At
last Peter the Great suppressed
the patriarchal office, substituting

TJie Russian Chancellor.

725

for it the Holy Synod, and reduc-
ing the Russian Church to the con-
dition of enslavement in which it
lias ever since languished. Not-
withstanding the rigorous ecclesi-
astical despotism exercised by the
Russian emperors, a large Catholic
communion has continued to exist
in the empire, a separate Episcopal
Church, including several millions
of adherents, has steadily maintain-
ed its independence of the state
church, and great numbers of irre-
gular dissenters are also scattered
through the tsar's dominions.

Within the state church opposite
tendencies towards Rome on the
one side, and Protestant or ration-
alistic liberalism on the other, have
been continually manifesting the
want of a real, internal unity in
what is misnamed the orthodox re-
ligion. Ivan the Terrible appealed
to the pope's mediation in his poli-
tical troubles, and received the
celebrated Jesuit Possevin as the
envoy of the Holy See. During
the reign of Feodor II., and the re-
gency of the Princess Sophia while
Peter I. was kept under her tutelage
as a minor, several prelates and
nobles of the court manifested strong
Roman proclivities. On the acces-
sion of Peter all these adherents
of the Princess Sophia shared in
her disgrace and punishment. Yet
even Peter himself at one time
showed a disposition toward recon-
ciliation with the Pope. Under
Peter II. the same movement was
renewed, but followed by a violent
reaction and persecution of the or-
thodox party, under Anne and her
favorite, Biren. The metropolitan
of Kieff was degraded, the bishop
of Voronege degraded and publicly
knouted. the archbishop of Rostoff
and the bishop of Kolomna were
expelled from the Holy Synod, the
archbishop of Kazan was degraded,

the bishop of Tchernigoff was con-
fined in a monastery, and the arch-
bishop of Tver, after being beaten
with rods, tortured, and kept three
years in solitary confinement, was
stripped of his episcopal dignity
and monastic habit, and imprisoned
in a fortress, where he languished
until the reign of Elizabeth. Prince
Vasili Dolgoroucky was executed,
with several members of his fo.mily.
Catharine IJ. and Alexander I. both
gave a temporary shelter and pro-
tection to the Jesuits. This last
prince, although lie dallied for a
time with evangelical Protestan-
tism, sent his submission to the
pope, asking for a prelate to visit,
instruct, and reconcile him 'to the
Holy See, and died a Catholic
in faith and intention, although the
sudden termination of his mortal
career took place before there was
time for the arrival of the prelate
to whom the Holy Father had con-
fided this mission. The numerous
conversions of illustrious Russians
to the Catholic Church are well-
known facts. That heresy and in-
fidelity are rife among many nomi-
nal members of the Russian Church
is also equally indisputable and
notorious.

The whole history of the empire
of Rurik has a close association
with Constantinople. While the
Russians were still pagans the pro-
ject of subduing the Greek Empire
seems to have been constantly in
view. Oleg, Rurik's immediate
successor; Igor, Rurik's son, who
succeeded Oleg, and was the hus-
band of Olga; and their son Svia-
toslaf, the father of Vladimir the
Great, made invasions into the
Greek Empire at the head of armies
ranging from eighty to four hun-
dred thousand in number. They
were either bought off from con-
quest by vast ransoms or defeated

726

T/ie Russian Chancellor.

by Greek craft and their o\vn dis-
orderly conduct. After the conver-
sion of Vladimir, Constantinople
was to Russia what Rome has al-
ways been to Occidental Christen-
dom ; and when the Greek Em-
pire fell, the Turk became in their
eves what the Moslem was to the
.Catholic Spaniards. The queen
city of the Euxine and Mediter-
ranean Seas, the New Rome of
Constantine, with the rich pro-
vincesof Turkeyin Europe depend-
ing upon it, has ever been present
to the view of the emperors and
the people of Russia as the objec-
tive point of perpetual crusades, as
a prize to be won by their warlike
valor, as the natural and destined
capital whose possession is neces-
sary to bring their empire to its
acme of power and glory.* Al-
ways mysteriously baffled and
thrown back, the colossal power of
the northern empire has been in-
cessantly pressing against this re-
sistance, even since the power of
combined Europe has backed the
weakening Ottoman Empire. The
Emperor Nicholas was more com-
pletely possessed by this hereditary
idea than any of his predecessors
since Peter the Great ; he under-
took and sacrificed more for it
than any one of them, and seems
really to have caused Russia to
make a great stride towards the
ulterior object. By the war of 1828
and '29 Turkey was extremely hu-
miliated and weakened, and im-
mense advantages were gained by
Russia. Her arms were complete-
ly and brilliantly successful from
beginning to end of the campaign,
and surprise has often been express-
ed that the Russian army did not
march directly on Constantinople
after Adrianople had been captured.

* Alexander I. said to Caulaincourt : " I must
have the key which opens the gate of my house."

It may be that the military strength
of the empire was exhausted by its
costly victories, and that Nicholas
was afraid of exciting a league of
the great powers against him. What-
ever his reasons may have been,
he concluded a peace at Adrianople,
and postponed further action to a
future time.

When the treaty of Adrianople
was concluded (1829), the present
chancellor of Russia was thirty-
one years of age and employed in
a subordinate position under the
ministry. Prince Alexander Mik-
hailovitch Gortchakoff was born in
1 798, and claims descent from Rurik.
He first gained the favor of the
Emperor Nicholas by negotiating
the marriage of his daughter, the
Princess Olga, with the crown-prince
of Wtirtemberg. He had already
passed four years at the little court
of Stuttgart as resident minister,
and he earned the gratitude of the
imperial family by remaining will-
ingly eight years longer, in order to
aid the Princess Olga as her guide
and counsellor. His residence at
Stuttgart fell between the years
1842 and 1854, and he was therefore
fifty-six years of age before attain-
ing anything above a minor posi-
tion in the diplomatic service.
After the re-establishment of the
Diet at Frankfort, in 1850, he was
appointed to represent Russia at
its sessions, and henceforth divid-
ed his time between Stuttgart and
Frankfort, and employed his abun-
dant leisure in studying the poli-
tics of Europe. It was at this time
that he first met with M. Bismarck,
then a lieutenant in the Prussian
Landwehr, a novice in diplomacy
and his colleague at the Diet. Here
also he became intimate with two
remarkable and singular characters
whose history and ideas illustrate
the peculiar national spirit by

The Russian Chancellor.

727

which the genuine Russian people,
which remains true to its ancient
traditions without any foreign mix-
ture, is animated.

The first of these singular per-
sonages was Vassili Joukofski, who
had been in early life a poet of
considerable renown, not remarka-
bly original, but possessed of a great
talent for facile versification and
ingenious translation, and sufficient-
ly cultivated as a scholar to have
been, selected as the private tutor
of the Grand Dukes Alexander and
Constantine, the present emperor
and his brother. Although he had
voluntarily selected a German lady
as his wife and a German town as
his permanent abode, he remained,
nevertheless, confirmed in his be-
lief of the hopeless corruption of
Western Europe, and the destiny
reserved for Russia to complete the
work of the Crusades, drive " the im-
pure beast " from Byzantium, liber-
ate the Holy Land, and regenerate
the world by " a new eruption of
Christianity." The other individ-
ual of this remarkable pair was
Nicholas Gogol, a man of original
and powerful genius, full of a
sombre and extravagant religious
enthusiasm, who haunted the draw-
ing-rooms of Joukofski, and startled
the elegant, cultivated guests of his
more worldly friend like a fantastic
apparition from the spiritual world.
Gogol was a terrible satirist of the
vices of Russian society, a prophet
of wrath and judgment, in despair
of civilization and of his own sal-
vation, wandering the earth in a
restless search after some relief for
his disturbed soul, and reappear-
ing at intervals among his friends
at Frankfort to deliver impassioned
exhortations to prayer and penance.
The only remedy for modern evils,
in his view, was a return to the
primitive state of barbarian Mus-

covy, and a crusade of despot-
ism joined with the undefiled faith
of old Russia against " the heathens
of the Occident." It is an old
saying in Russia that " heaven can
only be reduced by famine." Gogol
acted on this maxim to such an
extent by his long fasts and prayers
that he was one day found dead of
inanition in an attitude of prayer,
prostrate before his holy images.

Prince Gortchakoff is a cultivat-
ed sceptic, intent on the aggrandize-
ment of Russia from motives which,
are earthly and confined within the
sphere of that materialistic philoso-
phy which dominates in diplomatic
circles. Nevertheless, mystic en-
thusiasm, the most enlightened and
noble aspirations of religion and
patriotism, great designs for a lofty
end, and the lower qualities of
cleverness in worldly wisdom, talent
for managing the affairs of admin-
istration, and ambition to fulfil a
great personal career by serving as
an instrument of some grand social
or political power, are often found
combined together to pursue the
same object from different motives.
The Emperor Nicholas was un-
doubtedly thoroughly sincere in his
adherence to the religious and
political doctrines which he pro-
fessed, really influenced by the
mystical ideas of the "crusaders/'
and convinced of the justice of his
cause. His chief minister, Nessel-
rode, certainly did not share these
ideas, yet he served his master with
all the resources and ability which
he possessed. So also did Gortcha-
koff, although personally he is of
the same stamp with his predeces-
sor. The emperor, as the whole
world knows, and a great part of
it well remembers, reopened the
Turkish question and engaged in
the memorable, for the time being
to Russia unsuccessful, even disas-

728

The Russian Chancellor.

trous, war of the Crimea. In 1855
Prince Gortchakoff was sent as
resident ambassador to Vienna;
there he labored strenuously, both
before and after the death of Nicho-
las, first to detach Austria from the
cause of the allies and win her co-
operation with Russia, and then to
gain terms which would permit his
government to conclude an honor-
able peace on the least disadvan-
tageous terms. Russia has been
profoundly irritated against Austria
ever since the latter power refused
to take her part against the protec-
tors of the Ottoman Porte ; accusing
v her of ingratitude for the great ser-
-vice which Nicholas rendered to
Francis Joseph in suppressing by
military force and gratuitously the
'Hungarian rebellion. Prince Gort-
<chakoff shared this feeling; it has
always affected his diplomatic policy,
'and it may have yet most important
results, if hostilities are renewed on
a large scale. At the Congress of
Paris, which settled the conditions
of peace, Prince Gortchakoff was
the Russian plenipotentiary. Im-
mediately afterwards Count Nessel-
rode retired from the position of
Minister of Foreign Affairs, and in
April, 1856, the successor upon
whom the eyes of the court and the
empire had been long turned with
favor and hope was elevated to the
office, which he has filled for twenty
years, and which has become essen-
'tially more important in his person
than it ever was during preceding
administrations. Prince Gortcha-
koff is the first who has filled at
the Russian court the office of Min-
ister of Foreign Affairs in the West-
ern acceptation of the powers and
responsibilities of that position.
Heretofore the emperor had person-
ally directed the state policy, using
his minister a-s a mere counsellor
and chief secretary. Alexander II.

has devolved the actual direction
upon his chief minister. The most
marked feature of his administration
has been the close- personal and offi-
cial amity and concord which has
subsisted since their first meeting
at Frankfort between himself and
Bismarck. The delineation of the
common policy of the two chancel-
lors would require that we should
take up M. Klaczko's exposition of
the career of the Prussian chancel-
lor a task which we cannot fulfil at
present. Of course each one has
had in view the aggrandizement of
his own state, and given his concur-
rence to the designs of the other in
the expectation of forwarding there-
by his own plans. Bismarck cares
nothing for Russia, and, after his
residence at St. Petersburg as Prus-
sian ambassador, he expressed his
opinion of her by the motto which
he pasted inside his watch-case :
"Russia is nothingness."* Gort-
chakoff undoubtedly cares as little
for Prussia and the German Empire.
Each one looks out for his own ship ;
for those men whose ideas are cath-
olic are of a different class from
mere clever diplomatists, and, un-
happily, are rarely to be found
among either kings or ministers of
state.

Bismarck has always made his
special accomplices in ruining the
antagonist of the moment the next
victims of his undermining schemes.
What he has in prospect for Russia
is as yet undisclosed. Nor is it
certain that he will succeed in play-
ing out his game, making Gortcha-
koff a mere card in his hand. The
Russian is doubtless too astute and
farseeing to rely on the. disinterest-
ed friendship of the Prussian, or on
his fidelity to any secret engage-
ments, except so far as self-interest

* La Russie e'est le rien.

The Russian Chancellor.

729

or fear may hold him to his. word.
Thus far, however, the contract of
facio ut facias has been well kept
between the two, to their mutual
advantage. Prussia has gained a
great deal by it, and Russia some-
thing, although the decisive crisis is
just now coming on, and still unde-
cided, which will solve the problem
how much she has gained or will
gain. Nicholas died, baffled and
disappointed. Alexander came to
the throne sad and disheartened.
Russia was crippled and exhausted
by the terrible disasters of the Crim-
ean war, her prestige and influence
in Europe were diminished, and
she was placed under humiliating
and hampering restrictions by the
treaty of Paris. Under Prince
GortchakofFs administration she
has recuperated and increased her
strength by the mere force of her
immense vitality. By skilful man-
agement she has regained a place
in European politics almost equal to
that of Germany. She has thrown
off the trammels of the treaty of
Paris. France, England, and Tur-
key have lost all they had gained
by their costly victories. The al-
lies of Turkey have been overcome
by superior diplomacy together with
adverse fortune, and made to play
into the hands of their old antago-
nist ; and Turkey has been driven
into worse straits than any which
have beset her in the most danger-
ous epochs of her former history.
The initiative in the extraordinary
political movements of this epoch
has been taken by Bismarck, whom
Gortchakoff has merely connived at
or seconded. This secondary and
mostly negative support has been,
nevertheless, most important, prob-
ably even necessary, to the success
of Bismarck's schemes. It has in-
volved, moreover, great changes in
Russia's traditional policy and con-

siderable sacrifices. This is espe-
cially the case in regard to the minor
states of Germany and Denmark, so
closely allied by intermarriages with
Russia, formerly so decidedly sup-
ported and aided by her influence,
yet of late abandoned without re-
monstrance to Prussian spoliation.
Russia has been avenged on France
on Austria, and to a certain ex-
tent on England, and she has had
the opportunity of reviving the
question of the East with a view
toward ulterior results. Thus far
Bismarck has seemed to act toward *
Gortchakoff in the same way that
the latter acted towards him in re-
ference to the war on the French
Empire. Certainly, much more
must be expected from him, and it
does not yet appear that he can
dupe and outwit his copartner in
politics as he did the weak, dreamy
Louis Napoleon, or make use of
him as a mere subservient agent, to
be discarded when his services be-
come unnecessary. Prince Gort-
chakoff appears to have managed
matters thus far for the advantage
of Russia with consummate adroit-
ness. Moreover, whatever may
have been the influences at work
within the imperial family compel-
ling the chancellor to yield his per-
sonal opinions or wishes, it is evi-
dent that in point of fact Russian
policy has not been of late subservi-
ent to Bismarck's designs, but, on
the contrary, has forced him to
modify them considerably in re-
spect to France.

In the event of war between
Russia and Turkey alone it is
plain that Russia will not find it an
easy task to effect the conquest of
Turkey and to expel the Turks from
Europe. It seems probable, how-
ever, that the Ottoman power must
succumb after one desperate strug-
gle, if left unaided by all the Euro-

730

The Russian Chancellor.

pean powers. It does not seem like-
ly, however, that Europe will stand
idly aloof; on the contrary, there
is reason to apprehend that when
the conflict threatens to become de-
cisive of the fate of Turkey, all the
great powers will become involved
in a general war, which will make
an epoch in history and determine
the destinies of the world for the
next ensuing age. We may con-
jecture, on grounds which are at
least plausible, that if Russia is ac-
tively supported by any other pow-
ers, it will be Germany and Italy
which will ally themselves with
her, against Austria, England, and
France. We can scarcely expect
that a war of this kind would ter-
minate in complete success to eith-
er of the belligerent parties. In
the end all the great nations must
come to some mutual agreement
in a congress which shall settle
the balance of power on a new ba-
sis, guarding against an absolute
and dangerous preponderance of
any one of the chief powers. What
is to become of Constantinople we
will not venture to predict. But
let us suppose that Russia obtains
this object of her long, patient, and
persevering efforts and ardent as-
pirations. Must we suppose that
this will necessarily be an event
disastrous to the interests of the
Catholic Church and civilization and
to the religious, political, and social
welfare of Europe and the world?
The language of many most intelli-
gent and religious men, particularly
of Englishmen, and of many others,
not particularly religious, who look
at the matter purely in view of the
temporal interests of nations, proves
that a very strong and general con-
viction exists in the sense of the
affirmative answer to this question.
We think, however, that there is
something to be said on the other

side. As the Catholic aspect of the
question is the one most important
in itself, and really involving all the
others, we consider this aspect alone.
It is the schismatical position of the
Russian Church, and its complete
subjection to the autocratic power
of the ruler of the state, which fur-
nishes the only reason for regarding
the Turkish dominion in the Levant
as a lesser and more tolerable evil
than the transfer of the capital of
Russia from St. Petersburg to Con-
stantinople. All reasons, therefore,
which encourage the hope and ex-
pectation of the reconciliation of
Russia with the Holy See diminish,
in proportion to their weight, the
dread which the prospect of such
an event may awaken.

We will here quote a remarkable
passage from Dr. Mivart's late essay
on Contemporary Evolution having a
bearing on this subject. Those
who have read this work, or the re-
view of it in our number of last De-
cember, will understand the value
of the quotation we are about to
make, -as coming from a man who
anticipates such a very different
course of events from that whose
possibility he here sets forth. It
proves his cautious, scientific me-
thod of reasoning. He does not
advance his own theory with abso-
lute assertion as certain, and his
acuteness, combined with candor,
causes him to discern and bring in-
to notice a contingency in the di-
rection of Russia which, if it should
turn out to be a future actuality,
would alter most essentially the
" evolution 1 ' whose probable course
causes so much curious and anxious
questioning of the signs of the
times.

''Nevertheless, there are many who
believe that a reversal will at length en-
sue, and some modification of the old
theocracy be again generally established.

The Russian CJiancellor.

731

At present the only power which seems
to contain enough of the old material is
Russia. It may be that, instead of po-
litically assimilating itself to Western
Europe (like the manners of its highest
class), it may come to exercise a power-
fully reactionary tendency. It does not
seem impossible that, availing itself of the
mutually enfeebling wars and revolution-
ary disintegration of Western powers, it
may hereafter come to play that part in
Europe which was played of old by Mace-
don in Greece. Such a Western expan-
sion might be greatly aided if, carrying
out the idea of a former sovereign, it
united itself to the Roman Church, and
made itself the agent of the most power-
ful religious feelings and of all the theo-
cratic reactionary tendencies latent in
Western Europe. It does not even seem
impossible that a Roman pontiff effect-
ively restored to his civil princedom by
such Russian agency might inaugurate,
by a papal consecration in the Eternal
City, yet afresh dynasty of ' Holy Roman
emperors,' a Sclavonic series succeeding
to the suppressed German line, as the
Germans succeeded in the person of
Charlemagne to the first line of Cse-

What seems to the distinguished
writer just quoted barely possible
appears to us quite probable. It
does not follow, however, that his
hypothesis, proposed as possible, ex-
presses precisely the necessary al-
ternative to the opposite term of a
complete revolution in Russia by
pagan liberalism. The medium be-
tween Nicholas Gogol's fanatical
ideas of a reformation by Musco-
vite barbarism and despotism and
their absolute contrary the utter-
most development and sway through
the whole extent of the civilized
world of Western heathenism- need
not be placed exactly at the point
marked out by Dr. Mivart. We
can suppose that the Russian Em-
pire may reach its ultimatum by
attaining a degree of power and
grandeur beyond that which it now

* Contemporary Evolution, by St. George Mi-
vart, pp. 66, 67.

possesses, without acquiring domi-
nation over the rest of Europe.
We can suppose that its influence
may be exerted successfully to ar-
rest and turn back the tide of pa-
gan revolution, in co-operation with
the other powers acting on a more
Christian policy, without being ab-
solutely reactionary. Russia may
receive as well as impart influence,
undergo in herself modification as
well as cause modification to be
undergone by Western Europe,
through mutual contact at Con-
stantinople. It would seem that
such must be the result of her
coming down to the Mediterranean
and emerging from her old ice-
bound and land-locked isolation.
She will come in contact with
America as well as Europe ; and, in
fact, the visits of her naval squad-
rons and of three of her grand
dukes to our shores show that the
imperial court of St. Petersburg
does not fear communication with
the great republic of the West.

The method of administering
government in Russia has actually
been undergoing a great modifica-
tion, in the sense of substituting
regular procedures of law and de-
finite codes for personal and arbi-
trary authority under the initia-
tive and direction of the emperors
themselves and their immediate min-
isters. The locat communal gov-
ernment, by the system of free
assemblies and elections of the
people in districts and villages,
exists throughout Russia. The
Emperor Nicholas prosecuted ac-
tively the work of ameliorating
and improving the condition of
the common people, which Alex-
ander has carried still further by
the abolition of serfdom. The
mitigation and attempering to the
demands of an improved civiliza-
tion of the autocratic principle in

732

TJte Russian Chancellor.

the empire seems to be an inevita-
ble and certain process which must
go on, and which finds its greatest
impediment in the nefarious plots
and insurrections of secret soci-
eties and revolutionists. It is to
be hoped that when a stable equili-
brium is once restored in Europe,
when a solid peace succeeds to the
impending storm of war, and Rus-
sia is in harmony with other Chris-
tian nations, her power, combined
with theirs, will be seriously and
successfully applied to the sup-
pression of these secret societies,
thus giving the hydra- head of
revolution a stunning, disabling
blow ; though we cannot expect
that any human power will be
able to kill and bury the monster.
Russia cannot fulfil the mis-
sion her religious and patriotic chil-
dren ascribe to her, cannot take a
principal part in the redintegration
of Christendom, or even attain her
complete political growth and
strength either in Europe or Asia,
without abandoning her schismatical
position, reuniting herself to the
Pope, and liberating the church
from its constricting thraldom to
obsolete Byzantine prejudices and
secular tyranny. The question of
the conversion of Russia has already
been treated of in our pages by the
learned and zealous Father Ton-
dini, and a number of works bear-
ing on the whole subject are acces-
sible to English readers. We have
not space to go into this matter as
it deserves. We are merely indicat-
ing what a Catholic Russian Em-
pire, in possession of Constantino-
ple, might accomplish for the tri-
umph of Christianity. The long
catalogue of crimes, cruelties, perse-
cutions, internal abuses, disorders,
heresies, fanatical extravagances,
ravages of infidel and revolutionary
opinions in which too much that

is true, we are induced by the argu-
ment from analogy, as well as in
part by counter-statements worthy
of credit, to believe, is mixed with
some falsehood and much exag-
geration on which a wholesale de-
nunciation of Russia is founded,
proves nothing at all or too much.
All great nations of Christendom can
be subjected to the same oriminat-
ing process. What can an advo-
cate say in the cause of England,
France, Germany, or mediaeval Eu-
rope ? The same can be applied
to Russia. If it is a legitimate plea,
the facts cited in the indictment on
sufficient evidence are true, but irre-
levant! To attempt a white-wash-
ing process is in all cases foolish as
well as immoral. The crimes record-
ed in the pages of Russian history,
whether personal or political, are
not to be denied or excused. Ex-
isting evils in church and state are
not to be disguised. All mankind
are born in original sin, and the
great majority have committed ac-
tual sins. What then ? Has Christ
not redeemed the world ? will he not
triumph over sin and death, and
crowd the kingdom of heaven with
his elect ? In none of the king-
doms of this world, in no age of hu-
man history, can we find the ideal
kingdom of God and Christ, of jus-
tice, peace, and happiness, otherwise
than imperfectly brought into actual
existence. Does not the heavenly
kingdom gradually form itself out
of this confused mass of material,
growing up through the ages of
time to that perfection which it will
attain in eternity ? Let us look at
Russia in a general view, as we look
on the past ages of Christendom,
neglecting those small particular
objects which disappear or become
insignificant in an extended and
philosophical survey. Let us drop
our petty national prejudices, and

The Russian Chancellor.

733

clear our minds of everything in-
consistent with impartial justice to
nil mankind and Catholic charity.
We shall find much that is admira-
ble and hopeful in the great Rus-
sian Empire and her people, and
be convinced that Russians, even
after they have become Catholics
and suffered expatriation, are justi-
fied in their ardent love for,' and
pride in, their unique and wonderful
country.

The Russian people resembles a
belated army, like that of Bliicher
at Waterloo, coming on the field to
decide a doubtful battle. They are
of the past, and have but just
emerged from their childhood.
The old patriarchal spirit lives in
them; they are simple, hardy, tra-
ditional, loyal, full of reverence for
parental, sacerdotal, and imperial
authority, industrious and easily
contented. The Russian peasantry
are warmly clothed and housed;
they have enough of the simple
food which suffices for their wants ;
and pauperism scarcely exists.
They are a most religious people,
and religion is recognized as the
basis and foundation of the entire
political and social fabric of the na-
tion, as well by the government as
by the mass of the people. They
only need to be vivified by the
current of life from the heart, and
energized by the vital force from
the head, of Catholic unity, to be-
come what the Western nations
were in the times of their pristine
Christian vigor. The schism in
which they are involved is an un-
happy legacy inherited from the
corrupt Lower Empire of Byzantium
and its ambitious, perfidious clergy.
Christianity lacked the full amount
of power necessary to accomplish
a perfect work in Russia, because
the source whence it was derived
could not give it. The Russian

Church has never had its golden
age. There are many reasons why
it seems fitting and probable that
the gifts and graces of the Holy
Spirit should be imparted to it at
this late day in much greater ful-
ness than they were in the begin-
ning, making it nourish suddenly
and beautifully, like its own artificial
gardens, out of the long, bleak win-
ter. The body of the Russian na-
tion cannot be regarded as apostate,
or compared with those who fol-
lowed Photius, Luther, Jansenius,
or Dollinger into wilful rebellion
and secession. The authors of the
schism were the prelates and higher
clergy from Constantinople, and
the boyars of Moscow, who were
completely under their influence.
Most of these, even, were probably,
to a great extent, misled by igno-
rance and prejudice. We have al-
ready shown how the schism has
become intertwined with state poli-
cy, so as to transform the great,
severed limb of the Catholic Church
into a national institution with an
outward form of hierarchical or-
ganization, yet really only a depart-
ment of the imperial autocracy.
Nevertheless, this national Russian
Church is in a condition essentially
different from that of the Anglican
establishment or any other Protes-
tant communion. It retains all
that is necessary to the constitution
of a catholic church, and needs only
to submit to the supremacy of the
Pope in order to be redintegrated in
unity. The body of the priests and
people of Russia are undoubtedly
not in formal, but merely in materi-
al, schism. They are therefore tru-
ly in their own persons members
of the Catholic Church. They
have the faith and the sacraments,
and there is no obstacle to the
grace of God in the inculpable
state of external separation from

734

The Russian Chancellor.

the Holy See in which they have
been unfortunately placed by their
ecclesiastical and civil rulers. The
misfortune of such a vast number
of the true and pious children of
the Holy Mother Church must cry
to God for deliverance and restora-
tion to the true fold. Their nu-
merous oblations of the unbloody
Sacrifice, their communions, their
perpetual prayers to the Blessed
Virgin and the saints, some of
whom belonged in this world to
their nation, the sacrifices and
prayers of the noble converts from
the Russian schism to Catholicity,
the mercy of God, which is extended
over all men, especially the baptized,
must surely effect their reconcilia-
tion to their Catholic brethren and
the Holy Father of all Christen-
dom. The sufferings and the blood
of the victims of Russian persecu-
tion will conduce more powerful-
ly to this result than any other hu-
man cause. The pagan Russians
slaughtered the priests and faith-
ful of the Byzantine Empire but a
short time before they fell down
before the cross and submitted to
the spiritual authority of the Chris -
tian patriarch. Vladimir dragged
ignominiously to the river the idol
he had formerly worshipped. It
cannot, therefore, be impossible that
God should bring his successor to
the feet of the Pope in humble sub-
mission, to place himself and his
empire under the gentle sway of
the Vicar of Christ. Russia once
reconciled with Catholic Christen-

dom, the conversion of all the Scla-
vonians would undoubtedly follow.
The Eastern schism would become
extinct or reduced to insignificance ;
and to Russia would naturally fall
the great work of Christianizing
Asia, when the paralysis of schism
was removed. Who can tell if the
kingdom of Poland may not be re-
stored to its autonomy, renovated
by the severe chastisements which
it has not only suffered but deserv-
ed, and purified from the foul mix-
ture of infidel revolutionism which
has been more fatal to it than any
of its external disasters? The de-
signs of God defy all human scru-
tiny, and the changes awaiting
Europe, whose complicated, mys-
terious evolutions have always baf-
fled the most sagacious foresight or
previous planning of rulers or
statesmen, are as much beyond
philosophical calculation as the
movements of three bodies are be-
yond the computation of mathema-
tics. Some indications, hoAvever,
precede the full disclosures of
events. An eminent Catholic of
Germany has recently said : " I see
the finger of God, which pushes
the Russians forwards and Rome-
wards."* We do not think there
can be any object more worthy of
the united prayers of all Catholics,
next after the deliverance and tri-
umph of the Hoy See, than the
reconciliation of Russia to the
Catholic Church.

* Reinhold Baurastarck \y the Hist. Folit. BIdt-
ier for Dec. i, 1876.

Up the Nile.

735

UP THE NILE.

IT.

LIKE giant walls the Libyan and
Arabian mountains bound the val-
ley on either side, at one point close
to the river bank, at another reced-
ing inland five or six miles. From
Cairo to Wady Haifa, eight hundred
miles, they stretch in an unbroken
line. Beautiful groves of palm-
trees line the banks, among which
we wander for hours as the boat is
tracked up the stream. This mode
of progression is slow indeed, and
is used when the wind fails us. A
stout rope is made fast to the bow,
and eight or ten men, taking hold of
the other end, walk along the bank,
dragging the boat after them, scarce-
ly ever making more than five or
six miles a day. We go ashore at
this time. There 'are numbers of
fine birds to shoot over two
hundred and fifty different kinds :
vultures, rosy pelicans, golden ori-
oles, pink flamingos, many geese
and ducks, and innumerable flocks
of aboulgerdans, the ardetta rus-
satd) or buff-back heron, the con-
stant friend and companion of the
buffalo. For hours we wander
through palm-groves, cotton and
sugar fields, and occasionally pass
through a small village, to the intense
amusement of the elders and the
terror of the juveniles. Near mid-
night of the 24th of December we
reached Ekhmeem, a small town on
the east bank. We had been anx-
ious to spend Christmas morning
here ; for there is a reunited Coptic
church, and we all wished to at-
tend Mass. The church was not
very handsome nor elaborately fin-

ished. The floor was composed of
bricks, with a few straw mats scat-
tered here and there. The roof
was made of rough, unfinished
boards, two openings in which serv-
ed to admit light and air, thus
dispensing with the necessity for
windows. There were a few pews.
On the walls were painted pictures
of saints and holy men and women.
They were executed by native ar-
tists, and to the untutored eye of
these simple natives seemed beau-
tiful no doubt. They reminded us
of those pictures we were wont to
draw on our slates when school-
boys. After they were finished,
painful doubts would arise as to
whether any one would be able to
tell for what they were intended ; so
to remove all apprehension we wrote
underneath : " This is a man," " This
is a cow." If many Western Chris-
tians are to visit this church, it
would be well for them to do the
same, so that we may not mistake
a picture of the Blessed Virgin for
a shadoof, or St. Joseph for a por-
tion of an obelisk. There were
about forty Arabs, men and boys, in
the body of the church, and some
women behind the lattice-work
screens at the rear which separated
them from the men. This separa-
tion of sex is carried on even in
the Christian churches of Egypt.

Father H officiated, and we had

the honor to be the first Latins who
had ever heard Mass in the Coptic
church of Ekhmeem. Afterwards
we were hospitably entertained by
the Coptic priest. He invited us

736

Up the Nile.

to his reception-room on the second
story; the congregation crowded in,
and each one in turn shook hands
with us, and then kissed their own
hands in token of respect. Innu-
merable cups of coffee and cigarettes
were forced upon us. I like coffee,
and am particularly fond of a cigar-
ette, but both in moderation. One
soon tires, however, of converting
himself into a movable coffee-pot
and perambulating smoke-stack to
afford these natives a means of
showing that they are pleased with
his visit. I have never seen smoking
carried on to such an extent as in
this country. While dressing in
the morning and undressing at
night they puff their cigarettes.
During the day the smoke is con-
stantly issuing from their lips.

Pococke speaks of some convents
near here, one of which is called
'* Of the Martyrs," and is mentioned
by the Arab historian Macrizi, and
another about two miles further in
a wild valley, which is composed of
grottoes in the rock and a brick
chapel covered with Coptic inscrip-
tions. Near this is a rude beaten
path leading to what appears to
have been the abode of a hermit.
Ekhmeem, down to the advent of
the Moslems, was considered the
oldest city of all Egypt. It was
supposed to have been founded by
Ekhmeem, the great-grandson of
Ham. This was after the Deluge ;
and if the generally-received date
of that event be correct, then the
supposition was false. Modern
Egyptologists, unless wrong in their
chronology, show that many cities
existed at least three thousand
years before Christ.

A few hours' sail brought us to
Girgeh, a small town on the left
bank. Here is the oldest Roman
Catholic establishment in Egypt.
Girgis, or Gtorge, is the patron

saint of all the Egyptian Christians,
and after him the town was named.
Leo African.us says that Girgeh
was formerly the largest and most
opulent monastery of Christians in
Egypt, called after St. George, and
inhabited by upwards of two hun-
dred monks, who possessed much
land in the neighborhood. They
supplied food to all travellers, and
sent annually a large sum to the pa-
triarch at Cairo to be distributed
among the Christian poor. About
one hundied years ago a dreadful
plague afflicted Egypt and carried
off all the monks of the convent.
There is a small congregation now
of some four hundred reunited
Copts, with a few Coptic priests,
presided over by a Franciscan mis-
sionary. We called on him and
paid a very pleasant visit. He ac-
cepted our invitation to dinner. As
it was Christmas day, and this our
first dinner-party, Ahmud spared no
trouble to have everything as nice
as possible. The table was laid
with very pretty pink and white
china. Ibrahim appeared in a full
suit of the purest white. The prin-
cipal dish was a turkey ; and such
turkeys as they have in this upper
country are to be found nowhere
else in the world. Unfortunately,
the priest could only speak Arabic
and Italian ; and as our knowledge
of those languages was very limited,
the conversation was not animated.
One of our party spoke Spanish
fluently ; with this assistance, and
what remained of the Latin of our
college days, we made some pro-
gress, and were able to exchange a
little information and a few ideas.
The Father was an Italian of good
family, and had been at Girgeh for
eight years. His congregation were
very much attached to him, but, be-
ing very poor, he found it difficult
to get along. The only outside

Up the Nile.

737

aid he received was from the mis-
sionary society of Lyons, who send
to each mission along the Nile one
napoleon (about four dollars) per
month.

Further up, at Negadeh, we paid
a very interesting visit to an old
priest, Pere Samuel, who had been
thirty-seven years in Egypt, thirty-
four of which he had spent at Ne-
gadeh. At first he did not seem
to understand the purport of our
visit. We were probably the first
Catholics who had ever called on
him. In the course of thirty-four
years he had made but twenty con-
verts from Moslemism. This is
owing to the severe penalties pre-
scribed by the Koran for apostasy,
which but few dare brave. There
are about four thousand schismati-
cal Copts and two hundred reunited
ones, mostly his own converts. It
is an edifying sight to see these
small but devoted bands of Chris-
tians practising their religion in the
midst of fanatical enemies who ridi-
cule and annoy them in every pos-
sible way.

. On we sail, and soon the white
minarets of Girgeh fade away in
the distance. On the tops of the
houses in almost every town pigeon-
towers have been built for the shel-
ter and accommodation of the
myriads of semi-domesticated pi-
geons that abound here. I am in-
formed that this care is taken of
them for the sake of obtaining their
manure. One would think that the
owners would resist any attempts to
destroy them. On the contrary,
they would call to us from a dis-
tance, and, after we had trodden
down their standing grain to reach
them, they would point out a flock
of pigeons, tell us to shoot them, and
then, seemingly in great glee, run,
pick them up, and bring them to
us. On the 2yth of December the
VOL. xxiv. 47

wind was so strong that we furled
the sails and were blown up-stream
under bare poles at the rate of three
miles an hour. The raised cabin,
presenting such a broad surface to
the wind, acted as a sail and en-
abled them to steer the boat. As
we were seated at dinner that even-
ing, Ahmud entered, appearing very
nervous, and told us the sailors
were about to stop to make their
peace-offering to Sheik Selim.
"And pray who is Sheik Selim?"
we asked. " He is a very holy
man," said Ahmud " the guardian
spirit of the Nile. He is one hun-
dred and twenty years of age, and
for the last eighteen years he has
not changed his position, but. seat-
ed on the bank, he rules the ele-
ments. If we passed without mak-
ing an offering to him, he would
send adverse winds ; may be he-
would set fire to the boat or cause
other dire calamities to befall us'."'
" Does he not tire of sitting there
so long?" I venture to inquire.
" Oh ! no ; when no one is Ayith him
he calls to the crocodiles, and they
come out of the water and play
with him. At the approach of any
human being he orders them to re-
tire, and is instantly obeyed." " And
do the sailors really believe this ?"'
"Yes, and I do also," replied Ah-
mud indignantly. " I tell you again
that any one who passes without
making an offering to this holy man.
is sure to meet with some misfor-
tune. Some years ago, Said Pasha,
the then Viceroy of Egypt, was
passing here in his steamer. The
sailors asked permission to stop,
but the Viceroy would not permit it, .
and sneered at their credulity. Im-
mediately the wheels revolved with-
out moving the steamer, and it was
not until peace-offerings had been
given and accepted that the saint
would allow the boat to proceed."

733

Up the Nile.

After such conclusive proof of
this holy man's power we did not
dare to interfere, but some suggest-
ed that we would call upon the
saintly Moslem with the delegation
appointed by the crew. AH was
very nervous and seemed almost
afraid to go; but his childlike cu-
riosity got the better of him, and he
accompanied us. We walked up
the bank in solemn procession, not
.a word being spoken. We found
"the saint seated on the top, in the
"centre of a circle made of the stalks
ef the sugar-cane. A low fire was
tburning before him. He must al-
ways be approached on his right
.hand. Reis Mohammed was the
first of our party, and, saluting him
aiiost respectfully, laid at his feet
a small basket filled with bread,
oranges, tobacco, and money. Sheik
Selim was a very old man, entirely
:nude, and seated on his haunches,
long, matted hair flowing to his
shoulders. Around him a group
of his retainers watched us with
eager curiosity. Our sailors, with
.awe-stricken countenances, gazed
upon the holy monk with expres-
sions betokening those feelings
which would fill our breasts at look-
ing upon some phantom from the
spirit-world. Above us the moon
was riding high in the clear blue of
.an Egyptian sky, lighting up the
scene with an almost weird effect.
It was a picture never to be forgot-
ten. The fruitful soil of this land
gives back to the industrious far-
mer three and four crops a year.
Had Sheik Selim's body, as it then
was, been properly planted and
cared for, no less than six crops
could easily be realized. If clean-
liness be next to godliness, infinite
distance must have separated him
from the Deity. Each one in turn
shook hands with him. He thanked
them for the presents and asked for

some meat. " I will bring you
some from the howadji's table,'
said Ahmud. "No, I will touch
nothing which has been handled by
the Christian dogs. Reis Moham-
med, in return for your offering you
will find a pigeon on the boat when
you return. I have ordered it to
go there and wait until you come
to take it; I present it to you."
" He must get a number of good
things from the many different boats
passing," I remarked in a side tone
to Ahmud. " Yes, but he never
eats anything at all; he gives all he
receives to his retainers. He is
not like other men : he has not eaten
anything for eighteen years past."
" He must be on very bad terms
with his stomach," thought I; but,
being somewhat incredulous, I con-
cealed myself for a few moments
behind a palm-tree. As soon as
the party had retired he seized an
orange, and, from the avidity with
which he devoured it, I concluded
that perhaps Ahmud 's story was
partly true. When we returned to
the boat, Ali told us that Reis Mo-
hammed found a live pigeon on.
the deck, which suffered itself to be
captured, being the one presented
by the saint. Not only Ali but all
the crew insisted upon the truth of
this fact. Something must have
displeased the old gentleman, pos-
sibly our incredulity, for immediate-
ly afterwards we ran aground and
remained so for some hours.

On the 29th of December we reach-
ed Keneh, on the east bank, and the
next morning crossed the river,
mounted our little donkeys, and
rode to the great temple of Den-
dera. This temple was dedicated
to the goddess Athor, or Aphrodite,
the name Dendera or Tentyra being
taken from Tei-n-Athor,the abode of
Athor. To my mind none of the tem-
ples of Egypt can be called beauti-

Up the Nile.

739

ful, or even graceful. Compared with
the architectural gems of Greece, or
the more recent fairy-like structures
of the Moguls, they are heavy,
coarse, and ungainly. But their
interest is derived from their soli-
dity, their antiquity, and the re-
cords of events sculptured on them,
making each temple wall* a page of
that immortal, book which tells of
the manners and customs of the
mighty people who ruled the known
world six thousand years ago. On
the ceiling of this temple was the Zo-
diac, so long the subject of such
earnest controversy, by some as-
signed to an antediluvian age, but
more probably belonging to the
Ptolemaic or Roman epochs. The
most interesting sculpture on the
walls of Dendera is the contempo-
rary representation of the great
Cleopatra. It is generally believed
to resemble her somewhat, allow-
ance being made for the conven-
tional mode of drawing then in
vogue. It is not what would now
be thought a very handsome face
full, thick lips, a nose somewhat
Roman in shape, large eyes, and
rather a sharp profile. But many
think that Cleopatra was not so
very beautiful, her charm lying
more in her abilities and her power
to please. She spoke to ambassa-
dors from six or seven different
nations, each in his own tongue.
She sang charmingly, and was said
to be the only sovereign of Egypt
who understood the language of
all her subjects Greek, Ethiopia,
Egyptian, Troglodytic, Hebrew,
Arabic, and Syriac.

We shot a trochilus, or spur-
winged plover. We had been very
anxious to obtain a specimen of
tins bird, called by the Arabs tic-
tac, but so far had been unsuccessful.
True that almost every bird we
brought on board was determined

to be a tic-tac by some of the sail-
ors, but, on comparing each with
the description given in Smith's ad-
mirable work on the Nile voyage,
we found it was not the veritable
trochilus. Why were we so anx-
ious to obtain this bird? Because
Herodotus tells about its strange
doings, its acting as a self-propel-
ling tooth-pick for the crocodile.
Says that ancient traveller : When
the crocodile gets out of the water
on land, and then opens its jaws,
which it most commonly does to-
wards the west, the trochilus enters
its mouth and swallows the leeches.
The crocodile is so well pleased with
this service that it never hurts the
trochilus. It is called spur-wing-
ed plover on account of the large
spur which it has on the carpal
joint of each wing, rendering it a
formidable adversary to the crow,
three times its size. These Tenty-
rites were professed enemies of the
crocodile. They hunted them with
great energy and feasted off them
when captured. This persecution
of a being considered god-like by
the Kom-Ombites people, living fur-
ther up the river, was resented by
them with all the fanatical rage and
hatred of the most bitter sectarian
feud. " Those who considered the
crocodiles as sacred trained them
up and taught them to be quite
tame. They put crystal and gold
earrings into their ears, and brace-
lets on their forepaws, and they
gave them appointed and sacred
food, and treated them as well as
possible while alive, and when dead
they embalmed them and buried
them in sacred vaults " (Herodotus,
Euterpe). The latter part of this
strange narrative I can vouch lor,
as I have now in my possession
three young mummied crocodiles
taken from the crocodile mummy-
pits of Moabdeh, near the southern

740

Up the Nile.

extremity of the rocks of Gebel
Aboo Faydah. One afternoon,
while reclining on our luxurious
divan, not a cloud obscuring the
sky, as the light winds bore us
slowly onward, I dreamed in pleas-
ant reveries of the lands we were
about to visit. Suddenly loud
cries of "Folk! folk!" are heard,
and AH rushes up on deck. " War-
ren e ! warrene ! Shoot him ! kill
him !" My gun hung above me,
loaded with light bird-shot. In a
moment I was on the forecastle, gun
in hand, but without the faintest
idea as to what or where a warrene
was. Still, all the sailors cried
"Folk! folk!" and, running along
the bank, I saw what appeared to
be a crocodile, about four feet long.
The. frightened reptile ran rapidly
along, at times about to plunge into
the water, but immediately the cry
of " Folk! " was raised, and it ran up
on the bank again. The whole
charge of bird-shot entering its
head cut short its career, and it was
soon a captive on the deck. " Why
did you cry folk ?" we asked the sail-
ors. " Why, it means ' Go up/ and
it prevents the warrene from enter-
ing the water." " So, then, it under-
stands what you say, and obeys ?"
" Yes; and besides, if you call out
' Folk !' to a crocodile, it will raise its
forepaw, and thus expose the only
part through which a bullet can
penetrate its body." No more said,
but considerable doubt raised in
the minds of the howadjii, and reso-
lutions formed to experiment upon
the first crocodile met with. The
warrene is a species of crocodile,
brought forth, according to the
sailors' story, in this way : The
crocodile lays a number of eggs
on land. When these are hatched,
from some come forth crocodiles,
from others warrenes ; but what
law of nature operates to pro-

duce this change they do not un-
derstand.

Here is how we pass our time on
board : We rise between -six and
seven, and each one, as soon as
ready, takes what the Hindoos call
the Chotee Hazrce, or little break-
fast coffee, eggs, bread, and butter :
canned butter brought from Eng-
land, very sweet ; bread baked on
board which would do credit to the
best caf in Europe ; coffee far bet-
ter than all Paris could make ; and
eggs of a correspondingly excellent

quality. After this Mr. S and I

generally go ashore and shoot. If the
wind be not strong, and the men
track or pole, we can easily walk
ahead of the boat. Madam reads,
sews, and sometimes walks with us.

Father H spends several hours

writing in his room, and about ten
o'clock shows his bright, cheerful
face on deck, ready for a walk, talk,
or almost anything else. At noon
we breakfast together, and the af-
ternoons are generally spent in
practising taxidermy. Many trav-
ellers complain that the long Nile
voyage is somewhat tiresome. As-
suredly it is to one who has no other
resources than looking upon the
scenes around. The scenery is mo-
notonous, the general features of
river, plain, and mountain being
almost precisely alike from Cairo
to Wady Haifa. To us time was
short; day glided into day, week
into week no marked transition,
no jarring, scarce anything to note
the change, to show that to-day is
not yesterday. Nor, in sooth, do we
care what day, what week, what
month it is. We have left the
world and its regulations of time
behind us, and we will have naught
of the world until we return to civ-
ilization. Pleasant occupation of
the mind is one of the highest
worldly happinesses one can hope

Up the Nile.

741

to attain . We were constantly em-
ployed in pleasing occupations.
Add to this the cloudless sky, the
sweet, delicious atmosphere, the
soft calm and stillness, unknown in
our own harsher clime, and one
seems lifted above the dull realities
of this hard world, and to live in
the brightest dream-land. Truly,
this is the very acme of pleasure-
travelling.

We learned in an empiric man-
ner the art of taxidermy. At first
we knew nothing about it had no
books upon the subject. The first
birds we prepared were sorry speci-
mens. Each day we made new
discoveries, and finally we preserv-
ed over one hundred birds in per-
fect order and condition. In this
interesting occupation the after-
noon hours glided swiftly by. At
six we dined. 'Then one would
read aloud for an hour or more.
After that we played dominos or
engaged in conversation until ten
o'clock, when we retired.

At half-past six of the afternoon
of December 30, amid the waving
of flags and the firing of pistol-
shots, we cast anchor off the town of
Luxor. Ali Murad, our worthy
consul, appeared on his house-top,
and saluted us with a battery in
the shape of a pair of antiquated
horse-pistols, the firing of which
seemed to afford him much amuse-
ment. Ali is a fine fellow, it is said.
He called and spent half an hour
with us. He did not talk in fact,
he could not talk much intelligi-
bly ; in short, he could not talk at
all so that we could understand
him. He represents the majesty
and power of the great republic
of the western ocean, and is not
able to speak the first word of En-
glish. But he can shake hands,
and tell us through Ahmud that
he is glad to see us ; so we stop his

mouth with a nargileh, and supply
him with coffee, and he squats on
the divan and is happy.

That night we visited majestic
Karnak. The soft light of the
moon playing here and there among
its ruined halls and fallen obelisks
made the picture so rich and beau-
tiful that we lingered on till late in
the night. Luxor, Karriak, and
the temples on the western shore
mark the site of hundred-gated
Thebes. The western division of
the city was, in ages long since
passed away, under the particular
protection of Athor. For, taught
the learned priests, beneath yon
western mountain our holy goddess
receives each evening the setting
sun in her outstretched arms. W T e
sailed on the next day, dipping our
flag as we passed the Nubia and
Clara, occupied by a very pleasant
party from Boston, whom we were
destined to meet again at the ex-
tremity of our voyage. Passing
Erment on the west bank, where
there is a sugar-factory, we saw a
long line of camels carrying sugar-
cane. There must have been at
least five hundred of these patient
animals ; but the load that each one
carried could not have weighed fifty
pounds. Soon we reach Esne. We
are to stop here seventy-four hours,
according to contract, for the men
to bake their bread. They paid three
pounds for the doora, or grain, from
which the bread is made ; this in-
cluded the grinding. Having knead-
ed and prepared the dough, it was
baked in a public oven at the cost
of seventeen shillings. This bread
is the staple food of the crew. The
quantity baked on January 3 last-
ed the men until we returned to
Sioot, the 2ist of March following.
The bread was then brought aboard,
and for two days the little old cook
was busy cutting it up into small

742

Up t/ie Nile.

pieces, which were strewn over the
deck and exposed to the sun for a
few days, until they became hard
as stones. The preparation of their
meals is very simple. A number
of these slices of bread are put into
a pot fil-led with water; to this is
added some salt and lentils, and
the whole is then boiled and stirred
over a fire. This meal they have
twice a day. Many a time have I
joined them in their humble repast ;
and it was palatable indeed, this
time-honored mess of red porridge
for which the hungry Esau sold his
birthright to his ambitious brother.
These fellows, strong and hardy as
they were, eat meat but four times
in as many months, on which occa-
sions we presented them with a
sheep. The animal served them for
two meals. It was butchered and
skinned by the captain, and the
only parts not used were the en-
trails. The body was divided into
fifteen equal parts, one for each
man. These parts were weighed
to ensure a fair distribution, and the
hoofs and head were boiled with
the porridge to impart flavor to it.

Some years ago the authorities at
Cairo became suddenly imbued with
high ideas of morality. In a fit of
virtuous indignation they banished
thence the ghawazee, or dancing
girls of not very reputable charac-
ter. Numbers of them ascended
the Nile to Esne and settled there.
Many Eastern travellers, filled with
those romantic feelings touching
everything Oriental, have raved in
wild rhapsodies about the beauty
and grace of these ghawazee. Those
that I saw were coarse, corpulent,
and homely. They were attired in
bright robes and tawdry finery, their
actions were disgusting, and their
movements in dancing a little more
graceful than the frantic struggles
of a half-boiled lobster.

What numbers of shadoofs we
now see on either bank ! Before
the voice of God called his servant
Abraham to enter the kingdom of
the mighty Pharaos, these sha-
doofs or more properly in the plu-
ral, shawadeef were the common
means employed to supply artificial
irrigation to the parched but fruit-
ful soil. As the Nile recedes it
leaves a rich and heavy alluvial
deposit; in this the first crop is
sown and brought forth, but it soon
becomes dry, parched, and cracked,
as rain scarcely ever foils in Upper
Egypt. The shadoof is then used.
From the top of an upright frame
placed on the river bank is swung
a long pole. To one end a rope
is attached, from which swings a
bucket made of skin. On the other
end of the pole is fastened suffi-
cient clay, hardened as a rock by
the sun, to keep the pole in a hori-
zontal position when the bucket is
filled with water. The operator
pulls downward on the rope until
the bucket is immersed and filled.
By a very slight effort it is then
raised to the top of the bank, some-
times eight or ten feet high, and
emptied into a trough, from which
the water is conducted through
numberless little canals to a dis-
tance often of five or six miles.
These canals run in every direc-
tion, and by breaking the banks
any part of the soil may be cover-
ed with water.

January 5, at six in .the eve-
ning, we reached Assouan, and
moored alongside the island of
Elephantine. Here we are at Sy-
ene ; for Assouan is but the Coptic
Souan or Syene with the Arabic
initial Alef added, together Assou-
an to the Romans the frontier of
the world, as all beyond was savage
barbarism and unproductive soil.
Domitian could think of no more

Up the Nile.

743

horrible place to which he might
banish the great satirist, and while
here Juvenal amused himself by
satirizing equally the Roman and
Egyptian soldiers. Under the
Ptolemies Syene was thought to
lie immediately beneath the tropic
of Cancer ; but, as is now well
known, this was a mistake, as it is
situated in latitude 24 Q 5' 25",
seven hundred and thirty miles
from the Mediterranean. In the
early ages of Christianity Syene
was the seat of a bishopric, and
at one time more than twenty thou-
sand of the inhabitants were de-
stroyed by a fearful pest. The
present town is large and well
built. Merchandise from the Soo-
dan and Central Africa is here ta-
ken from the camel's back and
shipped by water to Cairo. Here
for the first time we see those
different speciinens of the African
race Nubians, Ababdeh, Bisharee,
Bedoween, and many others from
the still far-off interior. We are
pestered and besieged by itinerant
venders with every description of
wares to be sold. They squat on
the bank, waiting for some of the
howadjii to come out. As soon as
any of us appear we are surround-
ed by this motley crew, spears bran-
dished in our faces spears that have
seen actual usage in the barbarous
wars of the natives of the interior-
ostrich eggs are poked under our
noses, and the beautiful ostrich
feathers waved above our heads.
Strings of beads, elephants' tusks
are offered to us. I wish to buy a
chibouk. I select one a fine bowl
of red clay beautifully polished,
and a stem six feet long and
straight as an arrow. " Well, you
miserable, sordid, grovelling, lucre-
loving, half-naked wretch*" (this in
English), "How much?" (this in
Arabic).

A shrug of the shoulders, and
eyes cast upon the ground.

"Well, how much?"

In a low, moaning voice : " Ten
piastres " only five times the pro-
per value.

" I will give you one piastre."

" Oh ! no, by no means." This is
not spoken with the mouth, but by a
more expressive movement of the
head and shoulders. In the course
of time the bargain is concluded
for two piastres. I give him a piece
of ten and hold out the hand for
change. A bag is produced, filled
with copper coins, of which it takes
an indefinite quantity to equal a
silver piece of any given value.
Slowly and deliberately he counts
into my hand a score or two of
them, stops, and looks up into my
face. More ! Again they are reluc-
tantly doled out one by one. An-
other stoppage, another demand for
more ; and so it goes, until one party
cries enough, or the other knows
that he has given the proper
change. This is carried so far that
on one occasion, where silver change
was to be given for a napoleon, I
observed the seller count out from
his money-bag the proper amount
of change, conceal it in his hand,
and then go through the operation
above described. But the regular
shop-keeper does not bother you to
buy only the outside board, as it
were. The merchant is a most dig-
nified man ; if it pleases Allah for
you to buy, you will do it, other-
wise not Oriental predestination
so he is perfectly indifferent.

We wanted to go shopping, and
looked around for the rich merchant
of the town, who had fine ostrich
eggs and feathers, elephants' tusks,
and spears. We found him seated
on the ground reading a letter,
brought out, no doubt, to impress us
with his importance. I half think'

744 Longings.

the letter was upside down, and letter again. When we complained
doubt very much whether he could of the price, he did not deign a re-
read at all ; but it gave him the air ply, and finally, when we rose to
of a man engaged in extensive for- leave, he did not even lift his eyes,
eigu correspondence. Ali made but seemed to be still trying to de-
known what we wanted. Without cipher his correspondence. I am
raising his head, he sent a boy to sure it was partly done for effect,
open his store, and told Ali he for lie could have read a dozen let-
would follow when he finished his ters while we were in his shop. But
letter. Shortly after he came up, then he wanted to show his indiffer-
sat down on a divan, and got at the ence.

LONGINGS.

FKOM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.J

I SAID : O heart ! what is thy goal thy end ?
As the lambs follow where the mothers lead,
Shall I so tread their footprints who precede,

And life's brief, death-doomed hour in folly spend ?

One chases wealth across the restless wave

Whelmed in the deep, his bark, his hopes go down ;
Another loves the acclaim of vain renown,

And finds in glory's bosom but a grave.

One makes men's passions serve as steps to rise,
And mounts a throne anon behold him fall ;
Another dallies where soft accents call,

And reads his destiny in woman's eyes.

In hunger's arms I see the idler faint,

The laborer drive his ploughshare through the soil,
The wise man's books, the warrior's deadly toil,

The beggar by the wayside making plaint.

All pass ; but whither ? Whither flits the leaf

Chased by the rough blast, torn by winter rime ?
So fade they from their various ways as time

Harvests and sows the generations brief.

Longings. 745

They strove 'gainst time time conquers all ai last.

As the light sand-bank wastes down in the stream,

I see them vanish. Was their life a dream?
So quickly are they come, so quickly passed !

For me, I sing the Lord whom I adore,
In crowded cities or in deserts dun,
At rise of day or at the set of sun,

Tossed on the sea or couching on the shore.

Earth cries out : Who is God ? That soul divine
Whose presence fills the illimitable place;
Who with one step doth span the realms of space ;

Who lends his splendor in the sun to shine ;

Who bade from nothing rise creation's morn ;

Who made on nothingness the world to stand;

Who held the sea in check ere yet was land;
Who gazed, and light ineffable was bom ;

For whom no morrow and no yesterday ;

Who through eternity doth self sustain;

To whom revealed the future lieth plain ;
Who can recall the past and bid it stay

God ! Let his hundred names of glory wake
For ever in my song ! Oh ! be my tongue
A golden harp before his altar hung,

Until his hand shall touch me and I break.

746 Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

SIMILARITIES OF PHYSICAL AND RELIGIOUS KNOW-

LEDGE.*

WHEN Macaulay remarked that
the Catholic Church owed its suc-
cess in a great measure to the far-
reaching policy of its organization,
he uttered a truth of vast pregnancy;
for the evidences of this far-sight-
edness abound on every side, and
we find its latest attestation in the
attitude the church holds to the
questions which agitate the scienti-
fic world to-day. Had she, at any
period of her existence, so far de-
parted from a well-defined and con-
sistent policy as to formulate theo-
ries touching the nature and course
of physical phenomena, she might
stand to-day condemned and brand-
ed in the light of recent scientific
discoveries ; but apart from the
opinions of individual writers, lay
and ecclesiastical, to whom she ac-
corded full license to hold what they
pleased in such matters, provided
they did not contradict revealed
truth, and who accordingly often
touched on the border-land of the
ridiculous and extravagant, not one
authoritative expression of hers can
be found at variance with a single
scientific truth even of yesterday's
discovery. Of course she con-
demns materialism, because it runs
counter to the belief in the immor-
tality of the soul, which is a truth
as readily demonstrable as the most
undoubted fact in science ; and she
disbelieves in the eternity of matter,
because such a monstrosity involves
a violation of reason ; but neither
materialism nor the belief that

* Similarities of Physical and Religious Knoiv-
le ig>>. By James Thompson Bixby. New York :
D Apple ton & Co. 1876.

matter is eternal is science, nor do
any but the blatant fuglemen of
scientism hold to them. What we
insist upon is that no expression re-
corded in any council or authorita-
tively uttered by the Holy See can
be adduced which is in conflict
with any truth of physical science
now established. This may sound
strange to those whose prejudices
against the church have been fan-
ned and fostered by the terrible
things told concerning Copernicus,
Galileo, and Giordano Bruno ; but
it is as true as it stands printed,
and it is a disgrace to the intelli-
gence of the day that writers are
tolerated who still retail trash in
opposition to overwhelming histori-
cal evidence.

As in the past, the church to-day
benignantly encourages all who de-
vote themselves to the prosecution
of the natural sciences, and wel-
comes their discoveries with de-
light. She wishes merely that sci-
entific investigators confine them-
selves to their legitimate labors, and
do not wildly rush to impious con-
clusions from insufficient data. She
is ever willing to accept whatever
conclusions premises really justify,
and no more. Surely this attitude
of the church towards science is
eminently rational, and no right-
thinking man can condemn it. Yet
it is not alone such men as Spencer,
Huxley, Tyndall, St. Hilaire, and
Figuier who charge the church with
being steadily reactionary and ac-
tively antagonistic to science, but
the whole sectarian world has taken
up the cry. We are scrry to num-

Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge. 747

ber among these the author of the
volume which affords subject-mat-
ter for this article, and which con-
tains much that is novel, ingenious,
and true, as we hope to be able to
show when considering the chapter
on the " Faiths of Science."

But we will first learn from Mr.
Bixby what manner of religion it is
to which science is not opposed, so
that we may ascertain the scope
and purpose of his work. " In its
most general significance," he says,
"it is the expression of mans spirit-
ual nature awakening to spiritual
things' (italics by the author). Af-
ter developing this definition at
some length, he considers it more
restrictedly as 'embracing the fol-
lowing elements :
" i. Belief in a soul within man.
" 2. Belief in a sovereign soul with-
out.

" 3. Belief in actual or possible rela-
tions between them."
This, then, is religion according to
Mr. Bixby, and it is to the rather
easy task of reconciling a few mod-
ern scientific theories to this atten-
uated abstraction of religious senti-
ment, this evanescent aroma of an
emotion, that he addresses himself.
The statement of those three ful-
ly sufficient conditions of religion
clearly involves pantheism; and not
one of the wildest scientific conjec-
tures of the day is there which may
not be made to harmonize with
pantheism. The task, therefore, of
reducing science and religion to a
harmonious plane is quite superero-
gatory, since on a bare statement
of religion it is reconcilable with
anything. Pantheism, as taught by
its most eminent exponents in Ger-
many Hegel, Schelling, and Fich-
te consists in a sovereign soul with-
out the to non eyoo, from which the
soul of man, the to eycj, is an emana-
tion />., a fragmentary expression

of its consciousness. Beyond this
these distinguished philosophers
admit and recognize nothing. Do
we not clearly find th * same thing
in the religion of Mr. Bixby ? viz.,
i, soul within -man; 2, sovereign
soul without man ; 3, actual or pos-
sible relations between the two.
Now, taking the term soul as uni vo-
cal in the first and second statements,
is it not evident that the latter con-
tains the former, and are we not
landed high and dry on the absolute
pantheism of Schelling ? Or rather,
going back to the parent source
of pantheism, does not Mr. Bix-
by's definition of religion strongly
recall these words of the Vedas :
" Thus the man who in his own soul
recognizes the soul supreme present
throughout all creation obtains the
happiest lot of all to be absorbed
into Brahma" ?

If this be. Mr. Bixby 's meaning
or rather, whether meant or not, if
this be the legitimate resultant of
his views on religion we see no way
of escaping from the conclusion that
matter is eternal, since his religion
by no means includes the dogma
of creation indeed, it is his cus-
tom to scout dogmas but is strict-
ly limited to the recognition of an
inner and an outer soul. It is true
Mr. Bixby admits no such conse-
quence, but he cannot help himself;
he speaks most devoutly of God,
condemns a " bald materialism that
would make matter the sum .and sub-
stance of all things, self-existent,
and alone immortal, etc.," all which
is true enough, but by no means
bound up in Mr. Bixby's concept
of religion. Our author conse-
quently deprecates a conflict with
a shadow, points out to scientific
men the possibility of a complete
reconciliation between their theories
and a Bixbian fugitive tenuity, and
devoutly implores them not to use

748 Similarities of Physical and Religions Knowledge.

language which might delay "the
awakening of our spiritual nature."
Mr. Bixby says that metaphysics
must not obtrude themselves on the
realm of physical science ; that the
missions of both constantly diverge-.
We would, however, remind him that
without metaphysics and we mean
the metaphysics" he so much abhors,
viz., those of the scholastics we
could find no argument as supplied
by reason against the eternity of
matter. It is wonderful that a man
of Mr. Bixby 's respectable attain-
ments should not perceive into
what a complete petitio principii he
has fallen when he postulates the
non-eternity of matter. He does not
admit the correctness of the Mosaic
cosmic genesis, and as he employs
no reasoning to substantiate his pos-
tulate, we must regard it as a peti-
tio principii and nothing more.

How differently do the theologi-r
ans and philosophers of the Catho-
lic Church comport themselves in
presence of this old philosophical
heresy, revived to-day in full force
by Draper, Tyndall, and Huxley,
and which may be regarded as the
arch sin of modern scientific theo-
ries ! They do not beg the question
as Mr. Bixby does, but, grappling
it with an iron logic, dispose of it
as effectually as when St. Thomas
overthrew the crude systems of
Leucippus and Averroes by the
aid of a few well-established me-
taphysical principles. Mr. Bix-
by says : " Mediaeval scholasti-
cism especially grievously sinned
in these respects. It delighted
in hair-splitting disputations over
frivolous puzzles, and in endless
speculations about things not only
transcending the possibility of hu-
man knowledge, but destitute of
any practical moment. Its only
criterion was the deliverances of
the church on the almost equally

venerated Aristotle." Alas ! we
fear that the Summa of St. Thomas
is a sealed book for Mr. Bixby,
that he has not tempted the page
of Suarez with well-trimmed lamp,
and that his stock of mediaeval
lore is borrowed from Hal lam or
the latest edition of the encyclo-
paedia. To prove how immeasur-
ably superior the " hair-splitters "
are to beggars of the question we
will show in what way the former
hold their own against the modern
eternists. Prof. Draper says that
as there will be an unending suc-
cession in the future, so there has
been an unbeginning series in the
past; species succeed species, and
genera succeed genera, in a ne-
ver-beginning and a never-to-end
chain ; Tyndall repeats the words
of Draper, whom he so much ad-
mires ; and Mr. Bixby says, " Gen-
tlemen, it may not be so "; while the
scholastic clearly proves that it
cannot be so. At the outset a little
" hair-splitting " is necessary. We
distinguish what is called an actual
series, each link of which has had
an actual existence, from a poten-
tial series, in which the links have
not as yet been projected into ex-
istence, but will be. Now, an actual
series has an end viz., the link
marking the point of transition
from the 'actual to the potential
and is susceptible of increase, since,
indeed, it constantly receives fresh
accessions from the potential. If,
however, it can thus acquire in-
crease, that increase is representa-
ble by numbers, so many fresh
links added to the series. But a
number cannot be added except to
another number ; consequently, the
series to which fresh increase is
added must be numerical i.e., rep-
resentable by figures. Now, what-
ever can be represented by figures
must have had a beginning; for

Similarities of Physical and Religions Knoivlcdge. 749

there can be no number without
a first unit, which is the first ele-
ment ot number. Moreover, the
supposition that there stretches
back into eternity a non-beginning
succession of events contradicts
the principle of causality; for it
would give us one more effect than
cause. Viewed in its descending
aspect, every link in the chain is
cause of the event which follows,
till the last link is reached, the
which is not cause, since it has as
yet preceded no other event. But
it is effect, since it depends on the
previous event. Viewed now in its
ascending aspect, the chain consists
of a series of links which are all
effects effects more numerous than
the causes by the addition of the
latest link, which is effect but not
cause. We must have, then, one ef-
fect without a cause, which is ab-
surd. The same maybe said about
consequent and antecedent terms
in such a series ; for the last term
in the series being merely conse-
quent, the chain or series which, by
hypothesis, has no beginning con-
tains more consequent than an-
tecedent terms, which is equal-
ly absurd. We have here given
but an outline of the argument.
The scholastics have summed
it up more fully, though far more
tersely and concisely, in these
words : There can be no infinite
series a parte ante, but there can
be a parte post. This reasoning not
only conclusively disproves, but
renders ridiculous, the arguments
of Draper, Tyndall, and the rest.
Yet from this philosophical armo-
ry Mr. Bixby would disdain to
draw a single weapon in defence
of his thesis, but prefers rather that
the church be considered essen-
tially inimical to the progress of
true science, and constantly jealous
of its encroachments.

" Mutato nomine de te
Kabula narratur."

Mr. Bixby entertains a special
dislike to theology as being apt to
interfere with his pet scheme of re-
conciling science with shall we call
it Bixbyism ? Certainly we cannot
consistently call it religion. He
says :

" Again, theological dogmas and
science have been, and still are, opposed.
Theologians have formulated their dim
guesses about God's character and ways
into creeds, and imagined them finali-
ties. They hare speculated upon mat-
ters of purely physical knowledge such
as the antiquity of the earth and the age
of man, the condition of the primitive
globe and its inhabitants, the manner
and method of their appearing and
have made -these speculations into dogmas
held as essential to religion."

Here we must take sharp issue
with Mr. Bixby. In the first place,
have not the theologians as good
right to speculate on such matters as
Messrs. Spencer, Huxley, and Tyn-
dall ? And if they have fallen into
error, it is no more than the latter
gentlemen ' have frequently done.
Surely Mr. Bixby must allow the
fact that St. George Mivart is no
less a sound savant because he is
read in theology; or would he
maintain that Father Secchi is liable
to additional chromatic aberration
because he believes in the decrees of
the Vatican Council ? In the next
place, no theologian deserving the
name deems himself competent to
erect into a religious dogma de-
manding the reverence and belief
of his fellows his individual scien-
tific opinions. The absurdity of
such an idea is apparent to any one
who has read a Catholic theological
treatise, which breathes a spirit of
submissiveness in every line where
the author's own views are expound-
ed a spirit strikingly in contrast
with the arrogant dogmatism of our

750 Similarities of Physical and Religions Knowledge.

scientific philosophers. Moreover,
the church, the only competent
authority to promulgate dogmas of
faith, has never yet attempted to
impose on the minds of her chil-
dren a purely scientific truth as an
article of belief. From this it is
evident that Mr. Bixby occasionally
palters, and merely wishes to pave
the way for an easier adaptation of
his religious views to the so-called
advanced scientific tendencies of
the day.

He says that all theologies stand
in the way of science, but that two
dogmas especially exhibit this per-
versity viz., i, the assumed in-
fallibility of the Bible ; 2, the as-
sumed intervention of God. " In
consequence of the first of these
dogmas," he says, "there has been
a struggle by theologians to limit
modern science to the contracted
circle of the ancient Hebrew know-
ledge of the universe, and any va-
riation of statement from the letter
of Moses or Job, David or Paul, is
regarded as a dangerous loosening
of another screw in the bonds of
righteousness and the evidences of
immortality." Mr. Bixby is not
himself a believer in the divine in-
spiration of the Scriptures, and evi-
dently thinks that whoever does
not agree with him stands on the
extreme opposite line and believes
the very shaping of the letters to
have been divinely commanded.
This is wrong. The Scriptures
were never intended as a manual
of science. They merely state the
great facts of human and cosmic
genesis in a general way, so far as
those two momentous facts affect
the interests of the race. It has.
been proved time and again that
the Mosaic books, fairly interpreted,
contain nothing adverse to scien-
tific truth. Why, then, will writers
be ever harping on this well-worn

theme? It is not honest to ad-
vance a statement without proof,
and try to clinch it with a sneer.

" In consequence of the second
dogma," he writes, " theologians have
been jealous of any attempt at a natural
explanation of the mysteries of the world ,
and have looked upon every extension
of the realm of unbroken order and se-
cond causes as an invasion by science of
the religious kingdom. They imagine
that one must lose what the other gains ;
that, step by step, as the arcana of the
Kosmos are penetrated, and the same
laws and substances are found ruling
and constituting these as" rule and con-
stitute the more familiar parts and opera-
tions of nature, the action and presence
of the Deity must be denied, and the
human mind landed more and more in
the slough of materialism."

These words bear their refuta-
tion with them. The accusation is
serious, and yet not a word of
proof to substantiate it. Too
often is Mr. Bixby guilty of this
illogical procedure of substituting
statements for proven facts and
captious deliverances for argument.
When Dr. Draper denies the possi-
bility of miracles, he does so at
least logically ; for he believes in the
eternity, immutability, and necessity
of law. With him there is no law-
giver, but with Mr. Bixby it is dif-
ferent. He speaks of God " pouring
his will through the channels of un-
varied law." Now, it is an axiom in
law that the framers thereof m<iy
derogate from it from time to time,
if so it should seem good to them.
Why not, therefore, God ? Mr. Bix-
by cannot, then, deny the utter im-
possibility of a miracle, and yet lie
argues against it just as strenuously
and in the same spirit as Mr. Dra-
per or Mr. Tyndall. Should he
charge that such exceptional de-
viations from apparently established
laws would argue caprice or short-
sightedness on the part of God, we
beg to reply that they occur in con-

Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

sequence of a higher law, represent-
ing the divine will, by which those
secondary laws were established,
and which, with far-reaching and
clear-eyed gaze, made provision for
those exceptional occurrences, so
that they may be said virtually to
come within the scope of the law
itself. Should, then, the testimony
in support of a miracle be of an un-
impeachable nature, we see no rea-
son why the possibility of a mi-racii-*
lous event is to be denied. When
Voltaire said he would more readily
believe that a whole citiful of peo-
ple, separated by prejudices, social
position, tastes, habits of life, and
mutual distrust, might conspire to
deceive him than he would that a
dead man had arisen from the grave,
he confounded physical with me-
taphysical impossibility; and this
is precisely what every unbeliever
since his time has done. To this
charge Mr. Bixby is more grievous-
ly amenable, since he admits the
reason for the validity of the dis-
tinction between the two impossi-
bilities mentioned, by admitting
God to be the author of law, and
yet he virtually ignores it by the
position he assumes.

But this chapter on the "Causes
of Actual Antagonism " is so re-
plete with reckless assertion and in-
consequent reasoning that we have
only to take up a passage at hazard
to be confronted by an error. On
page 41 he says :

"Neither is religionbased on, nor bound
up with, any one book. Had Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob no religion, because
Moses had not yet written ? Was there
no Christianity in the lifetime of Jesus, or
. the first forty years of the apostolic gen-
eration before Matthew put his pen on
to parchment ? As well say that chem-
ical affinity is based on Lavoisier's or
Dalton's treatises, or that gravitation is
ruined if Newton's Principla is shown
false in a single theorem."

We assure our readers that we
have selected this passage at ran-
dom, lest we may be suspected of
malice in having singled* it out be-
cause of its surpassing fatuity. Who
ever dreamt of saying that religion is
bound up in a book ? As well say
that an author's thoughts are no-
where to be found but between the
covers of the book which bears his
name. But mark the transparent
fallacy of the underlying thought.
Mr. Bixby evidently supposes that
because religion had an existence-
prior to the books mentioned, we
might therefore dispense with these,
and still possess religion just as our
predecessors had it before those
books were yet written. But sup-
pose those books happen to contain
the previous body of religious doc-
trine, together with developments
or disclosures inseparably connect-
ed with it ; might we then careless-
ly reject them, as Mr. Bixby implies
we might ? Or does it follow that,
because a "spiritual awakening " is
defined to be of a special sort in
one instance, it can never be so in
another? Yet such is the irresisti-
ble inference to be drawn from the
introductory portion of the passage
just quoted. The same may be
said of the reference to the prior-
ity of Christianity over the Gospel
of St. Matthew. No one contends
that Christianity did not exist in
the lifetime of Jesus, or that it
would not now exist had not St.
Matthew written his Gospel ; but it
by no means follows that we arc
free to reject that evangelist's his-
tory, since it is a compendium of
Christian doctrine such as our Lord
had preached it in his lifetime, and
in rejecting it we would thereby re-
ject the latter. The allusion to La-
voisier and Dalton is just as un-
happy ; for though it is true the
science of chemistry might exist

752 Similarities of Physical and Religious Kno^cV ledge.

without them, still we cannot reject
their treatises, since these contain
the essential principles of that
science.

Mr. Bixby is sometimes quite hap-
py in stating the objections which
scientists urge against religion, but
we regret that he also sometimes
fails to make good his refutation
of their views. Thus, on page 149,
he presents the argument of sci-
ence in these words : " Theologians
may talk glibly of soul and over-soul,
Creator and creation, absolute and
Infinite ; they may fancy that they
understand them ; but they are
deceiving themselves, mistaking a
familiarity with words for a genuine
understanding of things. Their
high-sounding terms are but covers
to their real ignorance." Indeed,
this is a common objection made
by those whose habits of mind have
been formed in the laboratory, and
who have never troubled themselves
much about metaphysics. Still, the
objection should be met in a pa-
tient and painstaking mood, and
answer given according to our
lights. Mr. Bixby makes his re-
joinder a retorqueo argumentum by
showing that science, too, bristles
with difficulties and is beset with
mysteries ; that it borrows from
conjecture more even than religion
does ; and that it can never hope to
level all the hills and fill up all the
valleys which lie along its course.
This is very true and very apposite,
but it may be asked : Does it con-
tain an answer to the objection
as stated ? We rather think not.
Cannot it be proved that we do
really possess some knowledge of
the Infinite and the Absolute,
and that the apparent unintelligi-
bility of these terms is to be
sought for and found rather in the
ignorance of those who object to
them ? The Infinite differs for us

subjectively from no other object
of thought on the score of adequa-
cy, since we can have an adequate
idea of nothing. Not even of the
simplest material objects that sur-
round us can we have at the best
more than an inchoate and imper-
fect knowledge. How, then, can
we be expected to conceive the In-
finite, except in a very shadowy way,
"as in a glass darkly"? Still, the
fact that we speak of the Infinite
and assert its attributes, that we
distinguish Infinite Being from fin-
ite, and that our hearts fly towards
it in unappeasable longing, is open
guarantee that we have some know-
ledge of it, which is all that the
most exacting can demand. There-
fore those who confound infinite
knowledge of the Infinite, which ap-
pertains to the Infinite Being alone,
with that subjectively finite know-
ledge of it which we all possess,
display an unpardonable ignorance.
This is our answer to those who ob-
ject that Infinite, as one term, is un-
intelligible, and we see no necessi-
ty for classifying it with the impe-
netrable Secrets with which science
is confronted at every step. The
same may be said of the term abso-
lute ; and though we do not agree
with the views of the absolute taken
by Mansel, Hamilton, Kant, and
Spencer, we know at least that the
term has a meaning, that it implies
total independence, and is based
on that divine attribute which
the scholastics denominate Aseity.
Mr. Bixby is too timorous in his
utterances. He seems to write
under a Damocles' sword, fearing to
offend those great men who tread
in the stately van of science. But
if he hesitates to be dogmatic in
one direction, he does not hesitate
to be aggressive in another ; and
when his' mood inclines that way,
he sets up as the target of his

Similarities of PJiysical and Religious Knowledge.

753

shafts the doctrines and definitions
of the Catholic Church.

In order to prove that Bixbyism
is the only religion which is at all
reconcilable with science, and to
brush aside any pretensions Catho-
licity might entertain in the same
direction, he quotes the following:

" Let him be anathema

" Who shall say that human sci-
ences ought to be pursued in such
a spirit of freedom that one may be
allowed to hold as true their asser-
tions even when opposed to re-
vealed doctrines."

This proposition does not meet
the approbation of Mr. Bixby. If
it does not, then its contradictory
must be true, which implies that a
scientific utterance may be true in
the face of an opposing revealed
truth. It is to be borne in mind that
the revealed doctrines in question
are supposed to be revealed, and re-
vealed by God, and the whole state-
ment is resolvable into this : Not-
withstanding that God (in whom
Mr. Bixby is a believer) has posi-
tively affirmed that a given state-
ment is true, Mr. Tyndall or Prof.
Huxley may affirm the contrary
with impunity nay, rather with a
better title to our acceptance of
their views

u At nos virtutes ipsas Invertiraus."

or, as Caramuel says, " We thus
sweeten poison with sugar, and color
guilt with the appearance of virtue."
But in order to place himself
still more en rapport with his adver-
saries, Mr. Bixby, seemingly forget-
ful that he either surrenders the
gage or else resolves the conflict
into a tilt with a windmill, expresses
himself to the following effect : " Re-
ligion has no exclusive source of
information, but such sources only
as%re common to all branches of
human knowledge." If this be true,

VOL. XXIV. 48

there is no necessity of even the
shadow of an attempt to reconcile
any differences which, by a stretch
of fancy, might be conceived to ex-
ist between two sciences that travel
along the same plane. All along,
since this controversy was begun,
it has been understood that the sole
possible cause of conflict between
science and religion arose out of
the fact that they claimed each for
itself more solid ground on which
to stand. Reason and revelation
were always supposed to be the
party words of both, and every col-
lision between them so far has re-
sulted from the apparent irrecon-
cilableness of these two. Mr. Bix-
by, in endeavoring to shift the
ground of argument, should have
confined himself to just that effort,
and omitted those portions of his
work tending to disprove all an-
tagonism between science and reli-
gion, since, in the estimation of
most men, a religion which asserts
no claim to the supernatural is no
religion at all. His attempted abate-
ment of the claims of science, though
well presented and sustained, works
not an iota for Mr. Bixby's point ;
for in all he says he is arguing for
supernatural religion, which he vir-
tually rejects, against the untenable
assumptions of science.

As if in more strenuous advo-
cacy of this idea, he elsewhere
adds : " It [religion] is not all false-
hood and masquerade ; neverther
less, there is much popularly set
down as religion which is no more
religion than it is science. Now it
has been bound up with one sys-
tem, now with another. When
Christianity first raised its head, it
was told that polytheism alone was
religion." Continuing in this strain,
he condemns every system of reli-
gion which stands opposed to an-
other, and infers from the fact of

754 Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

such opposition the necessary fal-
sity of them all. He even goes to
the extent of affirming that the
doctrines of the Catholic Church
changed age by age, according to
the tone of the prevailing philoso-
phy. Pie says :

" In Augustine's day Christianity was
made inseparable from the doctrines of
predestination and fatalism. In Abe-
lard's time it was bound up with the
metaphysics of realism ; in Roger Ba-
ton's time, with the philosophy of Aris-
totle ; in the days of Vesalius, with the
medical treatises of Galen ; in the life-
time of Galileo, with the astronomy of
Ptolemy. To-day it is the orthodoxy of
the Council of Trent or the Westminster
Catechism that is cemented to religion,
and any attack on the one is assumed to
be undermining the very foundations of
.faith and morals."

This passage is recklessly false.
Any one acquainted with church
history, with the rise and progress
>of Pelagianism and semi-Pelagian-
ism, understands perfectly that in
.St. Augustine's time no more strin-
gent or rigorous views concerning
original sin and predestination were
held than tradition and the Scrip-
tures sanctioned and ratified. And
the patient reader of the history of
philosophy will also condemn the
assertion that the church proper
had anything to do with the long-
drawn disputes between the Nomi-
nalists and the Realists. The church
left those wordy disputants severely
alone, though the controversy was
revivedby the school of the Neo-Pla-
tonists for the very purpose of em-
'broiling the church in the quarrel.
We say the controversy was reviv-
ed; for in reality the dispute is as
old as Plato and Aristotle.

Still more absurd is what Mr.
Bixby says with reference to Vesa-
lius and Galen. Not a single au-
thoritative passage from father,
councilor historian can be adduc-

ed to prove that the church ever
committed herself to the adoption
of any views concerning the struc-
ture, functions, and disorders of the
human body Indeed, Vesalius, who
led the way in the great revolution
which medical science underwent
from the errors of Galen, was a
pious Catholic, and the popular
painting of the first dissection of
modern times represents him with
eyes piously upturned to the crucifix
before entering on one of the most
important steps of modern scientific
inquiry in the teeth of wide-spread
and violent prejudice viz., the first
dissection of the human cadaver that
has led to any valuable results.

But in order to be thoroughly
careful that he should allow no ele-
ment of what is entitled positive
religion to enter into the conception
of his emotional nonentity, he dis-
cards all the known and accepted
grounds of religious evidence. He
says there can be no infallible au-
thority in religious matters, since
the only one which fostered the pre-
tence has been repeatedly detected
in error. His words are :

" In its unflattering mirror the oracle
of Rome is exhibited as convicted of er-
ror in scientific matters again and again ;
compelled to retreat from position to
position ; forced to correct and recorrect
its interpretations. It is shown vacil-
lating to and fro in regard to the most
important ecclesiastical questions, pos-
sessed of no clear or well-defined princi-
ples concerning many essential theolo-
gical issues, etc., etc."

All this rodomontade is in the
nature of a negative assertion, inas-
much as it would require a full re-
view of the history of the church to
refute it. It is the author's favorite
style of logic, however, arid may go
for what it is worth. He next re-
jects the authority of the Bibl^on
the most frivolous grounds, and com-

Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

ing to the value of our divine Sa-
viour's evidence- in favor of revela-
tion, he uses the following extraor-
dinary language :

" I desire not to deny the existence of
a divine element in Jesus. I gladly re-
cognize him as the loftiest spiritual seer
and teacher the world has seen ; the best
historic embodiment of spiritual perfec-
tion that we have. But we must own, if
we are clear-sighted and frank, that in
Christ himself we do not obtain an ora-
cle exempt from the limitations of hu-
manity and the conditions of earthly
knowledge."

This is a clear negation of the di-
vinity of Christ, and an implied
avowal that Mr. Bixby ranges him-
self with Renan and Strauss. As
before stated, Mr. Bixby's chief
aim in the first chapters of his book
is to simplify the conditions of the
problem which he has set before
him, and we see that he has striven
to do this by stripping religion of
all its positive attributes, and put-
ting in its stead a bloodless and
emasculated spectre. " It is a force,"
he says, " anterior to all churches
and hierarchies, the grand spiritual
stream flowing from above through
the souls of men, of which ecclesi-
astical organizations are but the
earthly banks, the clayey reservoirs
and wooden dams, by which men
have thought they could better util-
ize the heavenly forces." This is
fine and figurative, we confess, but
more marked by sound than sense.
Mr. Bixby here brands all churches
as purely human institutions, and
yet allows that they possess reli-
gion, that they are its conduits and
distributors to men, and that dog-
mas and codes and ethical enact-
ments are mere accretions, the work
of human minds. These must con-
sequently be false, and, being siich,
should retard rather and operate
against the influences of religion

755

pure and undefiled, the embodiment
of truth. How, then, can they be
said to be utilizers of heavenly
force and reservoirs of religion,
they being false, and it true ?

u Pergis pugnantia secum
Frontibus adversis componere ?"

The definition of religion which
has passed current for centuries, mak-
ing it to consist of a determinate and
specified allegiance of man to his
Maker, is contradicted by the views
advanced in Mr. Bixby's book, and
therefore the few only, whose opin-
ions are equally unsettled, can ac-
cept his conclusions. There is
something so unreal and shadowy
in his estimate of religion that
one is at a loss to see thoroughly
into what he means by it, and con-
sequently incapable of appreciating
all that his conclusions are intend-
ed to embody. " Religious truth," he
says, " (theologians and preachers
defending the old beliefs have
maintained) belongs to another
realm from ordinary kinds of truth.
It is not to be tried by the under-
standing. It is not to be brought
to the bar of common sense, but
it is to be discerned by the inner
soul, and its evidence found in the
soul's satisfaction in it." If this
be Mr. Bixby's estimate of the
value of the evidence on which
religious truth reposes, he must
have had in view, as the ideal of
all dogmatic religion, the utterances
of some strong-lunged preacher at
a camp-meeting. No theologian of
the Catholic nor of the approximat-
ing sects ever thought for a moment
that religion is not to be tried by
the understanding nor brought to
the bar of common sense. The
evidences of revealed religion are
based upon reason, which, closely
scrutinizing these, is compelled to
admit the claims of the Scriptures

7 5 6 : Sim ilarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

and the church, just as it is obliged
to admit the truths of geometry. It
is true that individual dogmas are
not the subject-matter of purely ra-
tional investigation, but they appeal
to our reason just as strongly through
the evident infallibility of the au-
thority which submits them to our
belief. Mr. Bixby, we fear, either
misapprehends plain things or is
given to misrepresenting. Objec-
tively, all truths resemble each other
in that they are true i.e., eternal,
immutable, and necessary ; subjec-
tively, for us, those truths which we
can discern with the eye of reason
pertain to the natural order, and
to the supernatural order those
whose guarantee depends on the
revealed word of God. It is evi-
dent that in the logical order, the
natural precedes and underlies the
supernatural, and that, with respect
to the evidence on which both re-
pose, it must be tried by the under-
standing, and that searchingly, and
cannot escape the bar of common
sense. " Truth," says the author of
An Essay on a Philosophy of Litera-
ture, "is independent of man. The
power is his to discover, develop,
and apply it ; but he cannot create
it. That belongs to the Infinite
Intelligence alone. He it is who
creates it and who creates the light
of our reason by which to perceive
it." Truth, therefore, must be con-
sistent with itself; and it is the pro-
vince of every individual truth to
borrow lustre from, and shed radi-
ance on, each sister truth, and not
to detract from and obstruct it.
This is the logic of the schools
nay, it is the logic of Hamilton,
Hansel, Baden Powell, and Fara-
day, whom Bixby charges with di-
viding the field of truth into two
separate portions : one the province
of knowledge, where science holds
sway ; the other the province of

belief, where religion has her throne.
Then truth may be divided against
itself, and to this effect must we in-
terpret the writings of the distin-
guished philosophers mentioned.
We doubt not that, for logic's sake,
these scholars would all indignant-
ly repudiate this charge which places
them in an absurd and uncourted
position. Pity 'tis Mr. Bixby did
not attempt by a citation to sub-
stantiate his charge. He does not
fail, however, to draw his accustom-
ed inference. " Now," he says, " by
taking this mode of defending it-
self against the incursions of mod-
ern science, the church has aided
much in spreading suspicion of the
certainty of its cherished doctrines."
Then modern science does make in-
cursions against the church, which
is perfectly right, but the church is
deb'arred the right of repelling
them. A burglar may break into
our house, and we are not at liber-
ty to resist his ingress by means of
the nearest weapon at hand, but we
should preach him a homily on the
impropriety of his conduct.

But he is brave enough in this :
that not an inkling or a wrinkle of
his too transparent sophistry, dis-
turbs him. Immediately after he
says (p. 72): "Bishops like he
\sic\ of London may exhort the
modern inquirer as eloquently as
they please to throw away doubt
as they would a bombshell; but it
serves only to make the investiga-
tor more suspicious of the validity
of religion." Then is it not pro-
per, Mr. Bixby, to throw away
doubt? If not so, it must by all
means be better to entertain doubt,
so that a state of doubt ought to
be our normal intellectual condi-
tion. Just in proportion as we en-
tertain doubt may we be less suspi-
cious of the validity of religion ;
but the moment we think of dis-

Similarities of Physical and Religions Knowledge.

737

carding it suspicions grow up in
our minds ! Verily, this kind of
logic is perplexing. We admire
the devout spirit which Mr. Bixby
everywhere exhibits, but when it is
paraded at the expense of true re-
ligion, and in a spirit calculated to
lead astray the unwary, we must
enter our protest against it. On
page 22 2 he says :

" And religion needs not only to ac-
cept the corrections and recognize the
coadjutorship of science in disclosing
the ways of God, but it should engraft
into itself, I believe, more of the scientific
spirit. Instead of aiming to defend sys-
tems already established [!], and to bol-
ster up foregone conclusions, it should go
simply with inquiring mind to the eter-
nal facts."

And this passes current for rea-
soning ! We write without bitter-
ness of heart, but in the spirit
which prompted Juvenal to say :

u Si natura negat, fecit indignatio vcrsum."

Religion must borrow all from sci-
ence, accept her criterion from sci-
ence, see that she admit nothing
but what the scientific plummet is
capable of sounding, and reject all
that does not conform to the square
and compass of this arbitrary mis-
tress. " Established systems " and
"foregone conclusions" must be
sacrificed at the beck of a scientific
clique, and meek religion must sit
awaiting crumbs from their table.
Surely, had the great author of the
apology for the Christian religion
anticipated that an apology with
such intent would be subsequently
offered, he would have bestowed a
different title on his famous work.
But Mr. Bixby goes farther when
he actually breaks down the bar-
riers which have ever been suppos-
ed to divide science from religion.
On page 223 he says :

"Thus religion is capable of being
made a genuine science, and it will never,
I believe, maintain the purity, attain the
stability and accuracy, reach unto the
depth and breadth of truth which is
within the demands of its grand mission
unto mankind, until it thus weds science
to itself."

This might not give offence if
viewed as from the pen of a sopho-
more ; but from a teacher a phi-
losopher ! The passage jumbles
science and religion inextricably
together; it virtually identifies them,
and yet pretends to hold them
apart. The idea that religion is
capable of being made a genuine
science must sound oddly in the
ears of those who have been taught
to regard religion as the science of
sciences, their queen, mistress, and
guide. But, according to Mr. Bix-
by, religion is in the lowly position
still of being a handmaiden to her
proud sisters, with the possible pros-
pect at some time of being elevated
to their queenly plane.

In his chapters on the " Faiths
of Science " and " The Claim of
Science " Mr. Bixby very adroitly
brings into contrast the arrogant
aggressiveness of scientism with its
own haltings, weaknesses, and vacil-
lations, and we deem these two
chapters to be really valuable con-
tributions to the fast-swelling lite-
rature concerning the dispute be-
tween religion and scientism. They
are inoperative of effect, so far as
Mr. Bixby 's notion of religion is
concerned, but they clearly prove
that science is fully amenable to
the charge of taking much for
granted, of postulating much, of
believing in the mysterious and in-
explicable the very charges it flip-
pantly prefers against Christianity.
Experience and observation have
been the watchwords of science
since the days of Locke, and the
whole system of Scotch philosophy

75 8 Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge.

as taught by Reid, Stewart, Brown,
and Hamilton in the past, and Bain
to-day, rests on the results of those
two procedures. The supersensible
finds no roo-m in this system, and is
relegated to the domain of the un-
knowable, the unthinkable. Says
Biichner: "Those who talk of a
creative power which is said to
have produced the world out of
nothing are ignorant of the first
and most simple principle founded
upon experience and the contem-
plation of nature. How could a
power have existed not manifested
in material substance, but govern-
ing it arbitrarily according to in-
dividual views ?" Herbert Spen-
cer calls supersensible conceptions
*' pseudo-ideas," " symbolic concep-
tions of the illegitimate order." Vir-
chow says he " knows only bodies
and their qualities ; what is beyond
he terms transcendental, and he
considers transcendentalism an ab-
erration of the human mind." And
so with the majority of the modern
school of scientism. They deem
nothing demonstrable but what re-
sponds to their tests of truth, to
chemical or physico-chemical modes
of investigation. For this reason
physiologists reject the notion of
soul as a distinct substance in
man, for it cannot be investigated
according to the methods known
to physiology ; and yet, with glar-
ing inconsistency, these men admit
as the very basis of experience
and observation what outlies the
range and limit of the senses.

The advocates of the germ theory
of disease have neither felt, seen, nor
heard one of those minute spores.
" We have," says Prof. Tyndall,
" particles that defy both the mi-
croscope and the balance, which
do not darken the air, and which,
nevertheless, exist in multitudes suf-
cient to reduce to insignificance

the Israelitish hyperbole, the sands
upon the sea-shore." So, also, Mr.
Lewes, in his Philosophy of Aris-
totle, writes : " The fundamental
ideas of modern science are as
transcendental as any of the axioms
in ancient philosophy." With such
admissions from the leading men
of the modern school, how can sci-
entists contend that they limit their
acceptance of truth to those facts
which experience proves, and that,
using a strict induction, they build
their laws and systems on these
alone ? It is evident that they make
freer use of hypotheses than did
the scholastics. Nor does it avail
them to attempt the distinction
suggested by Mr. Lewes between
metaphysical and metempirical
knowledge. The aim of this dis-
tinction is to relieve scientism from
the charges brought against meta-
physical doctrines on the ground
that, as they transcend the senses,
they necessarily elude the grasp of
the human mind. Now, the met-
empirical knowledge of Mr. Lewes
is just as elusive of our grasp, since
it does not come within the scope of
the senses; and all the objections,
however unfounded, which these
scholars have alleged against meta-
physics and the science of the im-
material, hold good against any
knowledge which is not the direct
outcome of the senses. Surely the
new doctrine of the correlation and
conservation of force pertains to
the supersensible order fully as
much as the doctrine of a spiritual
soul. Nay, it deals in the obscure
and transcendental more, a great
deal, than the scholastic doctrine
of first matter and substantial form.
The advocates of this theory have
adopted a nomenclature which re-
peats the very errors on account of
which modern scholastics have re-
jected the peripatetic doctrine of

Similarities of Physical and Religious KMoivledge. 759

matter and form. They identify
all things under the title of force,
and deem motion, light, heat, and
electricity as so many modes of
force constantly interchanging.
They thus confound identity with
distinction, and ignore the nature
of change. Every change supposes
a term from which, a term into
which, and the subject of both;
now, those who identify all force
deny the subject of change, for
that from which becomes into
which in all its essentials, so that
heat becomes light, and yet does
not, according to the neo-termino-
logists, lose its identity. We have
therefore the anomaly" of a thing
remaining the same and 'becoming
something else at the same time.
All this confusion arises -from the
ignorance of metaphysics in which
modern men of science glory. They
declare light to be a force, and no
two of them are agreed as to the
meaning of the word. They de-
clare that all forces are correlated,
and nowhere do we find given by
them the meaning of the term re-
lation. Now, the scholastics give
no fewer than six different modes
of relation, and the modern school
has not given us even a definition
of one. And yet these are the con-
temners of metaphysics and scho-
lasticism, the men who aspire to
be leaders of thought. They raise
their structure on a basis of suppo-
sition, and declaim against the cre-
dulity of those who admit aught but
facts of the sensible order. Their
science is confused because of the
vagueness of their speech, and its
great lack of fixity. Herbert Spen-

cer discourses with more learning
than lucidity concerning those
great problems which the church
solved centuries ago, and which she
has so formulated by the aid of a
fixed and coherent vocabulary that
mere children can see her meaning.
Mr. Spencer defines evolution to
be " a change from an indefinite in-
coherent homogeneity to a definite
coherent heterogeneity through
continuous differentiations and in-
tegrations." This certainly per-
tains to the supersensible order,
and in more senses than one. No
wonder that such utterances are
made the butt of witticisms.
Thus, the Rev. Mr. Kirkman, in
his Philosophy without Assumption,
amusingly parodies the above defi-
nition of Herbert Spencer : " Evo-
lution is a change from a nohow-
ish untalkaboutable all-alikeness to
a somehovvish and in-general-talk-
aboutable not-all-alikeness by con-
tinuous somethingelseifications and
sticktogetherations."

And as for mistakes, commend
us to science. Every new edition
of Darwin contains corrections of
previous errors, and Huxley has
quite recently modified his views on
evolution. But this is freedom of
thought, just as a consistent and
abiding belief which precludes the
possibility of change or error is de-
nominated by these same neoterists
superstition and reaction. Mr. Bix-
by has well exhibited the fluctua-
tions and errors of modern science
which is about all he has satisfac-
torily accomplished in his Simi-
larities of Physical and Religious
Knowledge.

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

MARCH 21, 1869.
WHAT a day, dearest ! At High
Mass the Passion was sung as in
the Sistine Chapel What memo-
ries it awoke within me ! It was
wonderfully beautiful, and every
word found an echo in my heart.
O flowery Easter ! the children's
festival, how I loved formerly to
see its return. It was spring, bright
days, verdure and flowers; but this
year we have a sort of recommence-
ment of winter instead of spring ;
for some days we have had snow
and stormy gales, which have made
it sometimes impossible to go out.

Rene has been reading us a beau-
tiful fragment of the Monks of the
West on religious vocations ; Ger-
trude had suggested this reading.
My mother wept, and I envied the
heavenly calm of the happy Ger-
trude.

The beautiful new-born has
quite the air of a seraph ; he is so
fair, rosy, and silent. Adrien will
be his godfather, and the honor of
godmother, dear Kate, will devolve
upon your Georgina. " This little
last one," Johanna said to me, " shall
be quite your own, dear sister!"
How good they all are ! Brothers
and sisters so united and happy to-
gether! The baptism is deferred,
that it may take place in Brittany,
and we shall have Margaret. How
I love this beautiful little soul over
which I shall have sacred rights !

Berthe regrets her Mad, whom
The'rese misses sadly.

22d. The Pere Meillier preaches
the retreat two sermons a day.

This morning upon the retreat it-
self: "I will lead her into the
wilderness, and there will I speak
to her heart. Perfection, according
to St. Bernard, is an ardent zeal al-
ways to be advancing. During this
retreat God desires to soften, detach,
and fix our heart. We must be
converted. Conversion is turning
again to God. The means of con-
version are time, grace, and will.
The time God gives us ; he himself
says this : ' Behold, now is the ac-
ceptable time, 'now is the day of
salvation.' Grace this is given to
us in superabundance. The will
must come from ourselves; St.
Bernard says that this will must be
constant, courageous, and sometimes
heroic." He ended by exhorting us
"not to resist God, who is standing
at the door of our heart, who knocks
and waits "; and faithfully to follow
this retreat. " I know neither the
day nor the hour, but there will be
a moment in which God will speak
to you ; and beware, Christian souls,
lest Jesus pass by and return no
more !" At three o'clock on tepidity,
its causes and its remedy, the whole
very practical and very holy.

The same agreement as last year
between Rene and me. Little
Alix accompanied me on a visit to
the worthy Mr. Grossman, as the
children call him. Finding him
more calm than usual while I was
dressing his leg, I was inwardly
congratulating myself, when an en-
ergetic oath, and a sudden move-
ment more energetic still, repulsed
and overthrew me : and a scene of

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

761

anger followed, which made Alix
tremble like a rose-leaf in a storm,
and I tried in vain to appease the
sick man.' What is to be done to-
morrow ? God will help me.

23d. Letters. Marianne is anx-
ious. Picciola eats nothing and
scarcely sleeps. " It is my belief
that she is home-sick." Anna is
constantly improving in health, and
the doctor forbids them to go away.
Oh ! how I fear the future. Marcella
is radiant : " Dear Georgina, how
grateful I am to this warm sun, and
the vivifying breeze which Anna
breathes in with delight ! No more
fever, no more pallor; not that her
cheeks are rosy my darling would
need rouge for that but her white-
ness is living, and I like her thus.
But what should we have done here
without Lucy and Picciola and
this kind Edouard ? What gratitude
my heart cherishes towards yours
for this arrangement !"

Mistress Annah says that Edith
will be completely cured when we
see her again. Mary and Ellen are
much beloved in the village.

Margaret shudders at the slightest
indisposition of her baby. O these
cradles, these dear cradles !

This evening at the piano I
thought of Picciola, whom my love
has made mine, and was singing
this plaintive entreaty, which Edou-
ard last year repeated with so much
feeling :

" Keploie, enfant, tes ailes de colombe,
Sous ma carcsse, ange, ouvre tes beaux yeux ;
Si tu savais comme est froide la tombe !
Va, le bonheur n'habite pas qu'aux Cieux !
Pourquoi sitot vouloir quitter la terre ?
Dans le Ciel meme est-il rien d'aussi doux
QUe les baisers dont te couvre ta mere
Eh te benjant, le soir, sur ses genoux ?"*

* " Fold, fold again, my child, thy dove-like wings,
Open thy fair eyes, sweet, 'neath my caress.
Ah ! knewest thou the coldness of the tomb !
Nay, happiness dwells only in the skies !
Yet why so soon from earth wouldst thou depart ?
Can there, in heav'h itself, be aught more sweet
Than kisses lavished by thy mother's lips
While rocking thce at eve upon hef knees ?"

Adrien joined me, and, in a voice
more thrilling, harmonious, and
touching than ever, he sang the suc-
qeeding strophes. I accompanied
without seeing; strange lights pass-
ed before my eyes, and when he
sang :

" Mais Dieii fut sourd : la fleur e"tait eclose.
. . . Un ange aux rayons d'or
Un soir, dit on, cueillit la frcle rose,
Puis avec elle au Ciel reprit 1'essor ! ; '*

I burst into tears with such an ex-
plosion of despair that Adrien was
alarmed. Kate, could it be possi-
ble that God would not leave us
this child, almost worshipped as
she is ? " How susceptible you are,
dear little sister !" " Oh ! it is noth-
ing"; and I went to my room. I
opened a book, just at these words
of M. Landriot : " You suffer ; the
hand of Christ alone is sufficiently
light and yet powerful to heal the
wounds of your soul."

Instruction this morning on the
besetting sin, which must be extir-
pated, and against which we must
fight with a firm and determined
will ; at three o'clock, first on sus-
ceptibility, and then on piety.
" Christian piety is a religious sen-
timent and a devoted zeal for every-
thing which regards the glory of
God, our own interests, and the
good of our brethren."

I had prayed so much to ask for
some relief to my sick man that my
visit passed off very well. I was
alone, for fear of any misadventure.
Mr. Grossman consented to some
reading, and his daughters answer-
ed to the recitation of the Rosary.
This man is an enigma to me. I
have sent him the doctor.

24th. Instruction on discourage-
ment, for which the remedies are
mistrust of self and confidence in

* u But God a deaf ear turned ; the flower unclosed.
. . . An angel, clad in golden rays,
One eve, they say, gathered the fragile rose,
And with her took his upward flight to heaven."

762

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

God. "Do you fear a creature?"
said a saint. " Flee from him. Do
you fear God ? Throw yourself into
his arms." This evening, on the
Sacrament of Penance the dis-
positions that one ought to bring
to it; the conduct requisite with
regard to it : first, a great faith, a
sincere humility, a spirit of repara-
tion ; secondly, to know how to
pray and reflect, to speak, to listen,
to be silent, to thank, and to re-
member. These sermons are es-
sentially practical and such as* one
is glad to hear at least once in one's
life. The Pere Meillier is truly a
discerner of souls ; he speaks of
them with wonderful insight.

"Your sick man is half mad, ma-
dame ! " At this agreeable an-
nouncement I hurried away to the
poor man, who appeared to be
touched by the constancy of my
visits. I have been so happy as to
get him to make his confession
whilst he is still in possession of
some gleams of intelligence. The
mother is no longer able to leave
her bed. The eldest child is six-
teen years old ; everything depends
on her, and the dear soul loves
God. My Kate will follow with
pleasure the account of my week ;
besides, I talk confidentially to none
but her. My mother never leaves
Johanna, Gertrude is given to si-
lence, Berthe is gone out ; no news
to-day of the exiles.

25th. Therese, Marguerite, and
Alix have given themselves up to
me for the day. We have seen fif-
teen chapels ; at dawn we accom-
panied the Blessed Sacrament to
the poor family, where the two sick
people received the Bread of the
valiant and strong, the Bread of
angels, the Bread of wayfarers, the
Bread of the children of God. At
three o'clock, sermon on the visit
jo the Blessed Sacrament. " To

make this visit is a proof of faith,
of understanding, and of affection."
This evening heard the magnificent
singing of the Stabat Mater and a
sermon on the holy sacrifice of the
Mass.

Letters from Brittany the Saint
of the coast : " I believe that my de-
parture is near, and that you must
not delay, dear friends, if you
would give me the consolation of
hearing those whom I love pray by
my bedside !" My mother is much
impressed. What is to be done ?
Rene says it is for Adrien to de-
cide. "I think it is especially
Georgina whom our saint asks for."
" It is so," replied my mother.
" Rene and Georgina shall go on
Monday." As every one approves
of this, it will be so, I suppose.
Death again !

Marcella writes kind and pleas-
ing details. And Picciola ? O my
God ! thou who on this day didst
give to us the greatest pledge of
love, thou who hast loved us even
to the end, hear my prayer ! What
a night is this, and fraught with what
memories ! At this hour was that
discourse uttered at the Last Sup-
per, and the Eucharistic Passover
instituted, which will be our strength
and consolation even to our last
day !

26th. "Very strange are often the
destinies of men and the decrees of
God. With some the thread of life
snaps, even though it be woven of
pure gold and shining silk ; with
others suffering and sorrow can-
not succeed in breaking the dark
thread which they pass through
their cruel hands." I read this after
having heard the unfortunate wife
of my sick man complain that she
had been " forgotten by death."

Twice made the Way of the Cross,
was present at the Offices, heard
three sermons : this morning on our

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

763

Lord's sufferings ; at three o'clock on
the Seven Words of Jesus on the
Cross ; this evening the Passion, our
Saviour's sufferings in his mind, his
heart, and his body.

27th. Meditation on contrition
and satisfaction; conference on the
love of God. O love ! This is
the subject above all others which
dilates the soul, illuminates and fills
it. Who will grant that I may love
perfectly ?

Marianne mentions a slight im-
provement in the general state of
Picciola, who does not complain,
allows herself to be taken care of,
and is as much as ever like an an-
gel. I am alone in the preparation
of surprises, or, at least, in their pur-
chase. Berthe and Gertrude have
worked with me. I am impatient
for Monday. Supposing the saint
should fly away without waiting for
us!

28th. Alleluia, dear sister \ Oh !
what a delicious awaking. The
singing of the Alleluia by Rene
long before the dawn, then all the
greetings after the Mass of Commu-
nion, and the joy of the little girls,
and the delight of the good abbe,
upon whom were showered surprises,
and Johanna's joy at seeing me do
honor to the first Alleluia of my
godson ! O the beautiful, beautiful
day ! And our poor, and Benoni, and
High Mass followed by the Papal
Benediction, Vespers, sermon : " He
is risen!" "We find proofs of our
Saviour's resurrection in our faith
and in our works." Benediction
ended about six o'clock.

Long and charming gazette from
Edouard. The doctor has fixed
the return for the 3d of May.
Thus they will be on their way
home in a month. May God bring
them back to us ! Dearest, I am
sending to the post ; pray, pray,
pray ! Send us your good angel,

and have a Mass said at Notre
Dame des Victoires for our saint.
It seems to me that I am going to
be present at the death of a sister.
How I should like you to have
known her. Rene joins me in every
line lam writing; my mother sends
you her blessing. All, together and
individually, send you their greet-
ings. Christ is risen. Alleluia !

APRIL 3, 1869.

Dear Kate, she is here still, living,
smiling, always amiable, always holy,
notwithstanding her weakness. " I
think that at your prayer God has
renewed the miracle wrought by
Elias for the widow of Sarepta ; for
the oil of my lamp must have been
exhausted long ago." We speak of
God and of the poor, her two last
affections. SJie has not left to the
last moment the disposal of her
goods. Her old castle goes to a
distant relation who bears her name,
her whole fortune goes to relieve
the distressed, and she leaves to us
her works of art a curious and re-
markable collection made by her
father, and which it was not her
wish should pass into the hands of
the indifferent. O Kate ! souls
like hers should live always upon
earth for its edification.

Rene is writing to you ; I enclose
also a letter from Marcella.

God guard you, dearest sister !

APRIL 5, 1869.

It was true, the oil of the lamp
was exhausted. What a good life
and what a holy death ! " Open the
windows, if you please. Oh ! what
harmonies. What a beautiful pro-
cession ! What a splendid crown !
Adieu, and thank you ! Jesus !
Heaven !" And this was all. It
was yesterday.

The day before I entreated our
saint to ask of God that he would

7 6 4

Letters of a Young Irishivoman to her Sister.

leave us Picciola. " Will he do so ?
There was heaven in the look of
that child on the day of her First
Communion ! Dear Georgina, love
above all the good pleasure of
God!" - I write to you from the
side of this bed converted into a
chapel. The earthly covering is
there. I have shed no tears ; my
soul is in a state of joy such as I
never before experienced. The saint
had said to me : " If I am happy, I
will cause you to feel it!" We
have written to the relative and to
the other friends. I shall not
send this letter until the day after
to-morrow.

April 7. All is over. The burial
vault has received the coffin, the
friends are gone away again, the
relation, an eccentric personage, is
preparing to do the same, and so
also must we. I could have almost
wished to remain again to meditate,
in this chapel where our saint has
so often prayed, on the latest teach-
ings which escaped her dying lips.
The relative authorizes us to take
away the "gallery" whenever we
like to do so ; even adding, with a
certain politeness, that we might
look upon this dwelling as our own.

They are waiting for us at home,
and I am wishing for news from
Hyeres. Quick ! we are going to
retraverse our Brittany and return
to our Penates.

Adieu for a little time, dear
sister !

APRIL 12, 1869.

What haste we have had to make
in order to be here at Orleans in
time for the golden wedding of Pius
IX. ! Magnificent Mass at St.
Pierre du Martroi. The interior
of the ancient church disappeared
beneath hangings of velvet ; above
the altar shone the triple-crowned
tiara. The Abbe* La Grange said
the Mass and made a beautiful ad-

dress : " Believe in the church, in her
divine constitution, in her divine
mission, in her splendid and incon-
testable immortality." Admirable
and elevating singing the Tu es Pe-
trus and some fine strophes for the
occasion; then High Mass at the
cathedral, also richly adorned and
resplendent, with a multitude of peo-
ple. There again was heavenly sin g-
ing a remarkable Sanctus, and, after
the Mass, the Te Deum, that immor-
tal hymn of thanksgiving. Sermon,
procession, benediction. At six
o'clock we came out of Sainte-
Croix. What a day ! How I love
these splendors of the divine wor-
ship, this harmony of souls, these
hymns, the fragrant incense, all this
grand and admirable ensemble which
Christianity alone can offer !

You may imagine the reception
we met with on reaching home,
and with what interest oar account
was listened to. The news is en-
couraging from all directions, I
hope, I hope ! When I think of
the sadnesses of this world and all
the bitternesses of life, I say with
St. Stanislaus Kostka : " I am not
born for present things, but future."
How much there is that is consol-
ing in this thought !

My poor old Grossman is suf-
fering greatly, and his wife is at the
point of death. Tell me, dear Kate,
how is it that I see so many dead ?
Let us rather speak of life and its
expansion ; let us speak of Karl,
whose kind and fraternal pages
reached me this morning. How
he longs for the priesthood ! What
a thirst he has for souls ! Already
in desire he springs on unknown
shores, and even goes so far as to
dream of martyrdom. O holy ec-
stasies of love ! What joy it must
be to conquer the infidel, and to
receive these -disinherited ones to
the table of the Lord ! " The love

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

765

of one alone sheds itself upon all
the beings who dwell by his side,
ennobles them, and gives them un-
derstanding and strength unrivall-
ed and precious gifts which no
other power in the world would
have been able to bestow."

The Abbe Baunard has written
the Life of the Apostle St. John. A
large heart, a lively faith, and great
talents are needed in order to write
the life of a saint ; and as the author
of whom I speak has all these, his
work must be admirable. The in-
troduction appeared in the Annals :
" It is a book of piety. I address it
to Christians and to priests the
priesthood has no higher personifi-
cationthan this apostle; to virgins
John was a virgin ; to mothers
he merited to be given as a son to
the Mother of God ; to the young
he was the youngest of the disci-
ples ; to the aged this is the ap-
pellation he gives himself in his
Epistles ; to contemplative souls
he was on Thabor ; to those in afflic-
tion he was on Calvary ; to all who
desire to love their brethren in
God charity can have no fairer
ideal than the friend of Jesus."

Good-night, dearest ; my eyes are
closing

APRIL 18, 1869.

Dear Kate, a requiem ! I have
just been to pray by those two
death-beds for both are dead, pious-
ly and tranquilly ; he asking my par-
don for his fits of anger, and she
praying for her children. I have
promised to take charge of the
latter ; so behold me the mother of
six children ! Rene always ap-
proves. But we cannot abandon
these dear young creatures to take

y'heir chance in this great town,
,nd my mother advises that they
hould be sent into Brittany, where
Jie Sisters will find them useful
employment. I want your opinion,

dear Kate ; they belong in some
measure to you also, since it is to
your pious lessons that I owe my
love for the blessing of the poor.

Gertrude yesterday showed me
a letter from a friend asking prayers :
" My Uncle Amedee is dead from
an attack of apoplexy. It is
fearful to say and to think of.
Was his soul ready ? O these unfore-
seen strokes of death ! how terrible
they are. Extreme Unction was all
that could be given him. My aunt
was in a pitiable state, throwing
herself upon the corpse, speaking
to it, ... finding it impossible to
realize that death had come be-
tween her and her happiness, and
that he whom she so loved will
answer her no more ! Ihaveafeeling
of trust that at the last moment a ray
of mercy and love may have illumin-
ated his soul. No, it is not possible
that our God, always good, always
a Father, will not open his heaven
to these poor fathers of earth who
have given up to him the best part
of themselves, the soul of their soul
the child who should close their
eyes !"

This departed father gave to
God his only daughter entered, like
Helene, into Carmel. How neces-
sary is faith under trials such as
these ! The young wife who wrote
these lines is the intimate friend of
Helene, and it was her marriage
that I mentioned to you two years
ago. Can it be ? Two years ago
already !

Long drive with Rene into the
country.

Dear sister, let us love God !

APRIL 26, 1869.

Adrian has lent me Rusbrock the
admirable. Thanks for pointing it
out to me, clear Kate. How beau-
tiful is this loftiness ! It is like a
Sinai. I read a few lines, and

766

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

then close my eyes and let my
mind ruminate upon this teaching.
Oh! how favored is France to possess
writers so great. Alas ! that so
many of these should be on the side
of evil, and that the readers should be
so numerous of the myriads of im-
pious works which fear not to dis-
play themselves in the light of day !
What do you say of the enthusi-
asm of Catholics for the Jubilee of
the incomparable Pius IX.? Is it
not of good augury for the Council ?
I am thirsting for Rome, but we
shall not pass the winter there, as
you hoped we should ; my mother
could not return thither without in-
describable suffering. It was in
the Catholic fatherland that Rene's
father felt the first approach of the
illness which was prematurely to
carry him off, and he died at Pisa.
The violence of my mother's grief
was such as to make her friends
despair of consoling her, or even of
preserving her life. God calmed
the anguish of this broken heart,
but it would be imprudent to expose
her to fresh emotion. She loves
Italy, and listens when I speak of
it, but she never speaks of it herself.
This dear mother, so affectionate
and so loved, yesterday made me a
present of a delightful volume : La
Maison ("The House"), by M.
de Segur. It is poetry charming,
Christian poetry which makes the
tears come into one's eyes. The
House a title full of promise !

u Quel ciel valut jamai-s le ciel qui nous vit naitre ?
Ce toil, ce nid cheri, ce paternel foyer,
Qu'on aima, tout petit, avant de rien connaitre,
Et que jamais, au loin, rien ne fait oublier ?" *

There are pages in this book
which you would not be able to
read without a certain emotion.
It is the history of Sabine, a Nun

* u What sky was ever worth the sky of our
birthplace? the roof, the cherished nest, the
home, dear to us when quite little, before we knew
anything, and which nothing afar off can ever make
us forget ? "

of the Visitation. Adrien read us
this exquisite little poem ; my moth-
er and I wept, Gertrude looked at
the crucifix, and Rene at the por-
trait of Helene. A poignant sorrow
seemed to sigh in the voice of
Adrien.

My godson is charming. The
choice of his name is left to me.
As he was bom on the ipth of
March, he has a right to the name
of Joseph. I should very much
like to call him Guy a pretty Bre-
ton name. Say, Kate, if this would
not be nice : Marie-Joseph-Anne-
Adrien-Yves-Guy ?

Adieu, beloved sister !

APRIL 30, 1869.

The exiles return to-morrow, dear
Kate. What overpowering joy, and
yet what dread ! If this winter's
absence should not have cured our
invalids! O my God ! I give up
my will to thee. I am just come
in from Notre Dame des Miracles :
I shall melt away in prayers.
Therese smiles like the angels.
Alix and Marguerite have bought
flowers for their friends. A hun-
dred times a day I enter Marcella's
room to see that nothing is want-
ing there. How worldly I am with
my agitations !

Since you approve, my godson
will be Guy. How beautiful the
little angel is, and how I shall en-
joy showing him to-morrow ! My
mother continues to spoil me. I
have just discovered a mysterious
parcel on my dressing-table ; it con-
tains the history of St. John and
the life of Madame Elizabeth, by
M. de Beauchesne. What a plea-
sant surprise !

Do you know Mgr. Dupanloup
will make the panegyric ? He is
going to Domre"my, there to inspire
himself with the memories of Joan
of Arc. Several bishops will be

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

767

present at the festival of the 8th of
May. Nothing is said at present
about our departure, but I am
burning to see you, dear Kate.

My six children will go with us
into Brittany. I make them long
and frequent visits.

Ed Guard's latest gazette quoted
the following fragment from Al-
phonse Karr, which is easily to be
explained by the frivolity of the
times : " If a very beautiful dress
were invented a dress of fairy-
like splendor, but which might only
be worn in going to execution
there are women to be found who
would quarrel with each other to
wear this dress." Do you believe
this, dearest ? Raoul declares it to
be certain. Adrien and Rene have
a better opinion of us.

Margaret wishes she were far-
sighted enough to see as far as here
the dear, inquisitive one ! She
has been spending three days with
Edith, and speaks to me warmly
of my home " Georgina's house."
Ah ! yes, home, home the terres-
trial Paradise, and, as a poet has
said, "The urn into which the
heart pours itself."

May i. It cost me something to
end my letter before the arrival :
they are here, dear Kate, all cured,
as far as I can perceive. O the
pleasure of expecting them ! Then
the cries of joy; the questions,
crossing each other; the petulant
Lucy bounding up the stairs to em-
brace my mother first of all ; the
emotion of Marcella on showing me
her child well and, the doctor says,
"out of danger," and my tears on
the brow of Picciola ! How we had
missed them !

The day has passed away like a
dream. I hasten to send this to the
post, that you may thank God with
us. Laus Deo always and for ever !

Love from all to my Kate.

MAY 4, 1869.

Have returned to my former plea-
sant way of Jife with Marcella, my
true sister; but the shadow is still
there. The doctor said to Marianne :
"Be very careful of this beautiful
child ; I do not answer for her
chest !" It is as if I had heard a
funeral knell. She is so smiling
and pretty, this " little saint of the
good God," as she was called in
the south. Yesterday, as I watched
her playing with Guy, Berthe said
to me : " Don't you perceive some-
thing extraordinary about Made-
leine something that is not of this
world?" I turned pale; had she
also a presentiment ? Picciola ad-
vanced towards us, and we said no
more ; but this morning the dear
innocent said : " Would you be-
lieve, mamma, that I have still gone
on growing?" "In wisdom, I will
answer for it," declared Adrien.
" O uncle ! you are jesting. I
mean in height." "You are grow-
ing too much, darling," answered
Berthe ; " you must let yourself be
taken care of, and kiss me." The
poor mother, I fear, is aware. . . .
Oh ! pray with me, Kate. Just listen
to this revelation made to me by
Marianne : " For certain, madame,
there is something extraordinary in
this ; never a complaint, and yet
she must suffer, the dear darling,
the doctor assured me. When I
questioned her one day when she
was paler than usual, she answered :
'O Marianne! on the contrary, it
is well, very well !' and she looked
up to heaven."

What do you think about it, dear
Kate ? The words of the Saint of
the sea-shore are always sounding
in my ears. Oh! that God may spare
her to us, this flower of innocence
and purity. She has resumed her
studies. Her memory is marvellous ;
she is first in every branch of in-

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

struction. I love her more dearly
than ever; it is settled that her
hour of manual occupation shall be
passed in my room. I have not
yet confided my fears to Marcella ;
I leave her to her happiness.

" Un malheur partagd ne peut nous secourir,
Car on souffr'e surtout dans ceux qu'on voit souf-
frir."

Helene has written to her mo-
ther. One might be reading St.
Teresa. Gertrude is worthy of
such a daughter. I have spoken
to you of the way in which she de-
spoils herself; this self-spoliation is
now as complete as it can be. Her
room has the aspect of a cell. I
must appear very worldly to her,
with my fondness for beautiful
things. I have felt tempted to ask
her this, but have resisted the temp-
tation. Would you believe that she
has made a vow not to see again
either her sons or her daughter ?
"There is too much for nature in
these meetings !" What energy,
and this with a so great tenderness
of heart !

Let us love each other, dear
Kate!

MAY 10, 1869.

What rejoicings, dearest ! On
the yth the magnificent torchlight
procession, the illumination with
Bengal lights, which never succeed-
ed so well ; the interior of the city
resplendent with lights ; the assem-
bled bishops blessing the multi-
tudes what a fine spectacle ! Mgr.
de Bonnechose, Mgr. de la Tour-
d'Auvergne, Mgr. Guibert, Mgr.
Meignan, Mgr. Gignoux, Mgr. Fou-
lon, Mgr. de Las Cases, Mgr. La
Carriere, Mgr. Pie, etc., etc. it was
splendid ! On the 8th, the pane-
gyric, which I send you, in order
that you may judge of it better
than from my account. For two
hours, Mon seigneur held his audi-
tory under the charm of his words ;

he showed us the saint in the young
girl, in the warrior-maiden, and in
the. victim. Then the procession.
On the pth, grand festival .at
Sainte-Croix anniversary of the de-
dication of this cathedral. On that
memorable day, when the bishop
raised his hand to give the bless-
ing, a mysterious hand appeared,
blessing also, since which time the
arms of the chapter have been a
cross surmounted by a hand sur-
rounded by rays. This celestial
hand is also painted on the vaulted
roof above the altar, and I had
often wondered what it meant. I
am no longer surprised at the at-
traction I feel towards Sainte-Croix.
God loves to be worshipped there.
Mgr. de Bourges officiated at
High Mass, and also at Veapers.
He is singularly majestic. People
were crushing each other to see
him. The ceremonies were 1 too
magnificent ever to be forgotten ; it
is impossible to imagine anything
like them. Oh! what joy to be there,
all together, mingled in this assem-
bly of brethren.

What month can be more pleas-
ing to our hearts than this month
of May, gathering into itself, as it
does, the most delightful festivals ?
It seems to *ne that with the pass-
ing breeze a thousand memories re-
vive within my soul : my childhood,
which devotion to the Blessed Vir-
gin clothed in so -much poetry ; this
beloved month, when my mother
used to assemble us every evening,
with the village girls, to pray and
sing; the flowers which we had
valiantly conquered or begged,* and
whose fragrance filled the oratory ;
the symbolic tapers ; we ourselves
quiet and recollected, but so light-
hearted that an unknown word in
what we were singing would make
us laugh to ourselves ; the sun
shedding floods of gold on this

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sistet

769

charming scene, playing over the
white Madonna, on the lilacs and
roses, on the golden locks and the
brown, on the rosaries and blue
ribbons. How far off is that
time !

Read with the children the jour-
neys of Captain Hatteras. Truly,
there is something to be gleaned
everywhere, if only one knows how
to see it. Only imagine ! in the
midst of these adventurous men
there is a worthy doctor, Clawbon-
ny, always doing the things which
are most disagreeable to himself.
Why was he not a Catholic ? No-
thing would then have been want-
ing to him ; while this book is cold
cold as the North Pole.

Picciola is always pale. I pro-
posed to Berthe to take her to
Paris. " Do you think there may
be danger?" and her voice trem-
bled. What was I to answer ? I
have a conviction that she is mor-
tally affected, and nothing can do
away with this conviction. My an-
swer was, " I think it would be as
well to consult some one there."
I am to take her with me, there-
fore, and you will see this angel
before she departs to heaven. All
about her is heavenly. She is a
sunbeam, a luminous flower, a liv-
ing soul; and this blessing has been
lent us for a day !

Margaret will be in Brittany about
the 24th of June. My mother
speaks of leaving towards the end
of the month. I want to give you
a fortnight ; I need a large provi-
sion of courage. Anna is charm-
ing, wonderfully stronger : it is
like a miracle.

Let us pray, dear Kate I do so
long for her to live !

MAY 19, 1869.

One word only, after nine days,
my dear ! Get for me fifty Masses
VOL. xxiv. 49

said at Notre Dame des Victoires.
The poor have been occupying me
during all this time. Rene has
asked me to be his secretary, in or-
der that some important business
may be the more promptly despatch-
ed ; and it is so great a happiness
to me to oblige him.

We go to Clery to-morrow, weath-
er permitting.

Tell me still to hope, dear Kate !

MAY 26, 1869.

Mistress Annah is truly the
most devoted soul I know. Mary
and Ellen have had the measles,
and she alone has nursed them.
Edith has an attack on the chest
not very serious, happily caught in
the exercise of charity ; and it is
again our dear old friend who is at
her bedside. Lizzy writes me word
of all this. Little Isa is pretty and
good ; the saint Isa is always singing
her Te Deum.

.Rene gave me a new book yes-
terday : Elizabeth Seton, and the
Beginnings of the Catholic Church
in the United States, by Mme. de
Barberey. I have glanced through
it, and find it admirable. I shall
speak of it to you again.

We shall be in Paris on the
ist of June Rene, Marcella, Picci-
ola, Anna, and I. Rejoice, dear
Kate ! Moreover, there is some
thought of our staying in Paris for
the winter, and it is possibly an al-
most eternal adieu that we are
about to bid Orleans. Johanna
wishes to be nearer Arthur. You
may well suppose that I make every
effort to incline the balance in this
direction ; but my mother says sad-
ly : " Sufficient to the day is the
evil thereof: it is useless to plan so
much beforehand." It is an affec-
tion of youth projects reaching out
of sight, illusions, dreams, as if life
were to last for ever !

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

Picciola is always calm. I often
surprise her looking up to heaven,
and lately I heard her say : " How
happy it must be on high !" Oh!
the. Saint of the sea-coast was right :
there is something of heaven in
this child ! Hope hope ever !

Raoul, Berthe, and Therese start
o-morrow with arms and baggage.
Johanna and her household will
follow shortly after. Long live
Brittany ! Mme. Swetchine used
to say : " What evil can happen to
him who knows that God does
everything, and who loves before-
hand all that God does ?" When,
Kate, shall I attain to this ? That
;-.noble woman said again :" Our tears
.are the beverage which, with the
.bread of the Word, suffices to our dai-
ily necessities : our tears shed into the
ibosom of God. What should we
,be without them? It is, at the
^same time, the baptismal water of
sorrow and the regenerating stream.
.Happy they who weep ; happy
when the Lord looks upon them
through their streaming eyes ; hap-
;,py when his hand dries their tears !"
Kate dearest, my soul unites it-
self to yours, seeking strength to
support this trial, if it is to be im-
posed upon me. And I shall not
.be the only one who suffers. I
?.read yesterday these words, which
seem made for me : " Do not loosen
itoo much the reins from this strong
.and yet impassioned little heart ;
affections are sweet, but you know
what Pascal says : ' We shall die
.alone.'" When men^ fail us, as
sooner or later they surely will,
what matter? God remains to us.
"There is truly within us a source
of mysterious sadness which makes
us realize, perhaps better than any
other reason, our condition as ex-
iles. When life is sad and oppres-
sive* repose uncertain when hap-
piness appears impossible we weep,

were it even over the happiness of
others, and love to prostrate our-
selves before the cross with this
admirable prayer of Mme. Swetch-
ine on our lips : " My God, I throw
myself, body and soul, blindly at
thy feet!"

Dear Kate, may God and the
holy angels guide us to you ! My
mother would like to see you, but
she grows weaker in health ; walk-
ing fatigues her. How I love you,
my beloved sister ! When, then,
will heaven come for us all ? How
sweet it would be to go thither to-
gether ! Death would lose its hor-
ror, if there were in it no more sepa-
ration.

Good-by for the present, soon
to embrace you, my Kate !

JUNE 18, 1869.

I am, dear Kate, in' all the joy
of expectation ; only two days, and
Margaret will arrive. O human life,
full of separations and of meetings
again ! Dearest, I feel you present
with me, and you know whether I
have not need of this. The sight
of Picciola tortures me. These
words of the medical celebrity are
ever resounding in my ears : " ATI
inexplicable malady, strange, name-
less, without remedy !" Oh ! let us
supplicate Heaven so young, so
fair, so beloved !

Her increasing weakness has be-
come evident to all, and everybody
attributes it to a too rapid growth.
No more study, no more any excit-
ing occupation. She lets it be so,
always smiling, giving herself to all,
but reserving for her mother and
for me the depth of her heart a
treasure which we are never weary
of contemplating. Kate, I have
the conviction that in asking the
health of this child I am asking a
miracle ; but will not the love of
Mary grant it me ?

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

771

The baptism is for the 24th.
Unite yourself with us, dearest.

JUNE 21, 1869.

Margaret sends you a most affec-
tionate greeting. What a delight
to possess her! The baby is of
dazzling freshness ; Lord William
is crazy about him. What a happy
household ! We shall keep them, I
hope, all the summer. Marcella
makes the delight, the joy, and
the union of our interior. " Are
you not afraid that she may leave
you?" This question of Marga-
ret's greatly surprised me. " But
why?" I asked. "Well, I do not
kno\v ; she might marry, for in-
stance." What an idea ! What do
you say to it, dear Kate ? Is this
another dark speck on my horizon ?

We shall make a pilgrimage to
the tomb of the Saint of the sea-coast.
Margaret almost worships Brittany.
Why does she not settle here en-
tirely ? Our poor received her with
rejoicings. Her generous hand is
always open. She has given me
freslx.news of the chalet. Edith is
well; Mistress Ann ah is in her
element, lavish of her time and
strength. Lizzy is expecting a
second treasure. The saintly Isa
overflows with happiness, and her
pretty little namesake has truly
been given by God as the angel of
consolation.

Bossuet has called friendship
" A covenant of two souls who
unite together to love God." What
a name, dear Kate, to give to this
sentiment, which binds together all
our souls here, and yours with
them, in one and the same affec-
tion f Nothing, alas ! is more rare
than terrestrial happiness, and thus
at each stroke of death I bow my
head ; it is an expiatio-n ! Nothing
could be more pure and sweet and
full of enchantment than our ex-

istence, were it not that the mourn-
ing of the heart too frequently came
to obscure it.

Picciola is weaving a garland of
corn-flowers near my writing-table.
Her waxen whiteness renders her
almost transparent. How often I
ask her, "Do you suffer at all?"
and her answer is, " Oh ! so little,
so little !" We must not speak of
it, for fear of alarming my mother.
She does not cough, she has no
fever. What has she? Gertrude
shares my fears, and agrees with
me that there is some mystery in
this. What ? Who will tell it us ?
Raoul and Berthe take every care
of her, caress her.

Adieu, dear Kate !

JUNE 25, 1869.

A brilliant baptism something
quite fairy-like, and which our Bre-
tons will long remember. The old
r/shed tears when he poured the
holy water on the brow of the new
Christian. Ah ! my God, may he
be thine for ever.

Margaret was beaming with plea-
sure at our all being together again.
Her beauty exceeds all description,
and eclipses that of all other wo-
men. Happily, our Bretonnes do
not know what it is to be jealous.
There was a ball, dearest a grand
ball and the pretty feet of Therese
and Anna still dance at the remem-
brance of it. Picciola was also
there, whiter than her dress, with
her loving gaze upon her mother.
Oh ! I do not deceive myself, Kate
death advances ! I felt it yes-
terday. It was after the dinner ;
the guests were talking, and Mad
quietly disappeared. I hastened
to her room and found her kneel-
ing on her prie-Dieu. "What ails
you, dearest?" "Nothing, aunt;
the noise wearies me ; I want God."
These words moved the very depths

772

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

of my soul. Why, at this tender
age, such aspirations towards the
infinite, so many tears at the holy
altar, such love of suffering ? Blind
and cowardly creature that I am,
I do not wish this child to be an
angel ! Pray, dear Kate, ask strength
for me ! I have finished reading
Elizabeth Seton. She is the Saint
Chantal of America. This work
is at the same time, in my opinion,
very superior to that of the Abbe
Bougaud because of the incompara-
ble charm of the heroine. With
that, it is another Alexandrine de
la Ferronays. It seems as if I
had had a vision : so much youth,
innocence, love, and misfortune ;
Providence wonderfully directing
this holy soul; these astonishing
conversions and vocations taking
place in America ; the apostolic
and eminent men ; the events, so
varied, from the Lazaretto of Leg-
horn to the valley of Emmittsburg.
Oh ! how wonderful is God in his
elect. Fancy, dear Kate: a Pro-
testant lady goes to Leghorn with
her husband, who is in a decline.
They are detained for a long time
at the Lazaretto Oh ! you should
read these pages. Elizabeth saw
her William die in sight of that
land which he had trusted would
cure him ! And she blessed God
for all ! A widow with five chil-
dren, she quitted Italy after having
had a perception of the truth ;
arrived at New York, she became
a Catholic. Her family abandoned
her. She opened a school, and,
after many trials heroically borne,
she founded a convent of Daugh-
ters of Charity. Become a reli-
gious, two of her children died in
her arms. O these deaths ! tk'e
sweet little Rebecca saying : " In
heaven I shall offend God no
more ! I shall sin no more, mam-
ma I shall sin no more !" It is

beautiful, all of it beautiful ! Thus
will Picciola die, alas !

JULY 2, 1869.

Anniversary of the First Com-
munion of the Three Graces. We
have observed it as a solemn festi-
val : general Communion, Benedic-
tion, largesses to the poor.

Write to me often thus, dear
Kate. Your letter set me afloat
again. I was nearly stranded.
Oh ! yes, God is good, a thousand
times good, even in those things
which we unjustly call his severi-
ties. Well, and what matters life ?
I say this, but an hour hence what
shall I say ? Human misery ! It
is the weight of the body which
holds us back; we are too material,
we live too much by the senses.
Sursum cor da ! Would, Kate, that
my life were a sursum corda con-
tinually !

Besides, can our angelic invalid
make us think of anything but
heaven? Her state is really inex-
plicable. The doctor at Hyeres
thought that the chest was affected,
but we are assured that this is not
the case. To all her mother's ques-
tions Mad invariably answers : " I
am not quite well that is all ; don't
be uneasy, dearest mother." But day
after day she grows more transpar-
ent, more delicate ; and in watching
her the same idea struck Gertrude
and myself : she resembles the An-
gel spreading his Wings painted by
Marcella. To console myself, I
read the most beautiful of books,
the Gospel and the admirable
Imitation. Dear Kate, tell me again
to look up to heaven !

Madame Bourdon has written
some noble pages upon Lamartine.
Would you like to have the flower
of them ? " Never, perhaps, did any
name of man or any human destiny,
pass through more varied phases

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

773

than the name of Lamartine, or
than the destiny of this poet, who
lived long only to see the better how
inconstant is earthly glory, and how
quickly fade the palms awarded by
men. Forty years ago the name of
Lamartine expressed an ideal of
poetry, purity, and sublime aspira-
tions ; eighteen years later the name
of Lamartine personified the Revolu-
tion moderate, perhaps noble, but
always alarming to thoughtful minds
and believing hearts. From the
date of this epoch a shadow fell on
the brightness of this name ; pov-
erty with its humiliations, old age
with its feebleness, isolation engen-
dered by political enmities, over-
whelmed the poet and the tribune.
He drank long draughts from the
cup of bitterness. Now the cloud
rises, and over the tomb of Saint-
Point burst forth praises and ap-
plause, the regrets so long denied
to the unfortunate man, the genius
broken down beneath the troubles
of life. But before man had re-
turned God was there. He had
purified, pardoned, comforted, and
lulled to sleep on his divine
bosom that poet's brow which
never should have known affronts."
" From the past of him who was
a traveller, tribune, and statesman,
the poet will remain after all the rest ;
and when our time shall have become
history, Alphonse de Lamartine
will take his place among sad and
noble figures, beneath Homer and
Dante, side by side with Tasso and
Camoens."

Do you remember the beautiful
verses by Elise Moreau on the death
of Julia ?

41 Moi. je sais la douleur, inconsolable pfcre,
Je suis jeune, et pourtant j'ai dejk bien pleurf

* I myself am accquainted with sorrow, inconsol-
able father. I am young, and yet I have already
wept much.

How we shall miss this exquisite
creature, too perfect for this world !
O Kate ! how I love her. She goes
to God with so much candor, sim-
plicity, and boldness with the ef-
frontery of love, as Father Faber
expresses it. O powerlessness of
affection ! O weakness of that which
ought to be most strong ! O noth-
ingness of all that is ourselves
to be able to do nothing, nothing,
but offer barren desires and long-
ings for those we love !

How right you are to remind me
of the old proverb : Lock the door of
your heart. I ought to open it to
God alone; but this is perfection,
and I am far from that.

Love me, dear Kate !

JULY 12, 1869.

The Prince de Valori has just
published the Letters of a Believer
(Lett res (fun Croyant). It is ad-
mirable. The last is on St. Pe-
ter's at Rome : u This is the sole
temple worthy of the Eternal ;
this is the marvel of all the marvels
of art ; this the monumental miracle
of the faith, the miracle of Chris-
tian genius, the apotheosis of the
transformation of stone into a
chef-tFxuvre, into grandeur, eleva-
tion, and harmony, at the breathing
of Bramante, of Raphael, of Mi-
chael Angelo, of Carlo Maderno,
and of the Bernini. This, this is
St. Peter's of Rome, Paradise in min-
iature, the concentration of all that
one can dream of grand and sublime;
the incomparable mosaic in which is
found all that is worthy of admi-
ration in the temples and museums
of the universe ; the New Jeru-
salem, made of lapis-lazulf* jasper,
porphyry, gold, silver, and precious
stones; a city of altars and sanctu-
aries, of domes and canopies ; a
blessed city, whose streets arc of
precious marbles, where streams of

774

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

holy water flow, where the air one
breathes is myrrh and incense,
where is the King enthroned on
the altars, and for his footstool the
tomb of the apostles.

" St. Peter's at Rome ! the
greatest work of human architec-
ture, before which Solomon's Tem-
ple, Saint Sophia, Versailles, the
Alhambra, Westminster, are mere
nothings ; monument of glory and
immensity, in which there is neither
fault nor defect ; where Providence
lias willed that each of the great
artists who wrought there should
correct his predecessor, down to
Carlo Maderno, who had the sig-
nal honor of rectifying Michael An-
gelo."

Picciola is fading away, gently,
gently, without one complaint.
Who would have imagined that
this healthy blossom would have
faded away so soon ? Her voice
is feeble feeble as a distant harp ;
but what eloquence there is in
her look ! Yesterday I had left
her alone for a few moments with
my beautiful godson; on coming
back I stopped at the partly-open
door. She was rocking the little
darling on her knees, and saying :
"Look at me well, little Cousin
Guy, because soon I shall go away
to the land from which you came.
Before the leaves fall Madeleine
will go away, but you at least, my
little Guy you will not weep for
my departure. And I shall be the
happiest !"

This morning I wanted to curl
her beautiful hair. "You love me
too much, dear aunt ; but I also
love you very much. When I am
no longer here, you will love Alix in-
stead, who is so pretty and sweet
when she raises herself on tip-toe
lo try and kiss you." She said this
simply and seriously, and, as a tear
fell from my eyes, she added :

" Then you do not wish me to speak
to you of my death, that I may
console you for my going away ?
But remember that the good God
will let me see you from Paradise,
and that I shall pray to him for
you and for my kind Uncle Rene !"

Oh ! how weak \ am, dear Kate.
Pray for me !

JULY 18, 1869.

Adrien read to us yesterday an
appreciation of the works of Ros-
sini by a poet Mery. Picciola
had laid her head on my knee and
seemed to sleep. 1 have mention-
ed to you Adrien's talent as a rea-
der. He was reading the following
passage : " In this Stabat Rossini
has sung the graces of the Redemp-
tion, the joys of hope, the beams
from the gate of heaven, opened by
the Blood shed on Golgotha ; he has
scattered over this page of desola-
tion all the flowers of the celestial
garden, all the garlands of Sharon,
all the vistas of the Promised Land ;
he has been mindful of that great
Christian expression of St. Au-
gustine, * Death is life'; he has
written his divine elegy in the Cam-
po Santo of Pisa, where the tombs
are bathed in azure, crowned with
lilies, and smiling in the sun. And
now, after so many works accom-
plished, posterity will not ask
whether Rossini could have done
more; it will' regard that which he
has done as the most marvellous
work of human genius." Here the
sweet little Mad raised herself up,
her eyes beaming with a deep joy.
Since then she has been frequently
repeating, " Death is life!" Kate,
Fenelon was right when he said
that " nothing is more sweet than
God, when we are worthy to feel
it."

Margaret is charming in amiabil-
ity. But what a difference between
last summer and this ! We still

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

775

make parties to go on expeditions,
but always with some pious end
pilgrimages, when we pray for our
beloved sick one. Gertrude com-
forts me in the same way that you
do, dear Kate. I see, I know, I un-
derstand that God wills it thus.
But the time passes away. Mme.
Swetchine wrote : " Time is the
riches of the Christian ; time is his
misery, time is earth ; time is hea-
ven, since it can gain heaven.
Time is the fleeting moment ; time
is eternity, since it can merit eter-
nity ; and it is time which endan-
gers eternity. At once an obsta-
cle and a means, it is in an es-
pecial manner a two-edged sword,
powerless in itself, and yet the most
powerful of auxiliaries, nothing is
done either by it or without it."

Picciola is like the Angel of Chari-
ty among us , it is to her that the
good cure addresses his requests.
And how well she knows how to
ask ! Oh ! what are not children
the treasure of the house ! Our
casket was so rich, so resplendent,
so precious, and now the fairest
pearl, the purest diamond, is about
to be taken from us !

I am writing in haste, my riding-
habit over my arm; the horses are
snorting in the court. It is at Mad's
entreaty that we are all going to a
miraculous fountain near a chapel
of the Blessed Virgin, at some little
distance off. This child must have
extraordinary courage to struggle
as she does against her suffering,
and to try to make us believe that
it is nothing. Dear Kate, I re-
peat with you the Fiat of Gethse-
mani, and lovingly embrace you.

JULY 23, 1869.

Margaret appears to have been
a prophetess, Kate. I have -learnt
from Edouard that the doctor of
Hy&res was not entirely disinterest-

ed in his devoted attention : lie
would fain become Anna's father.
Although the thought of a separa-
tion had never occurred to me, I
now perceive from this information
the possibility of another future for
Marcella. It seems that she has
refused him ; but the doctor does
not consider himself beaten, and he
has just installed himself in a little
manor in ruins in our neighbor-
hood. He has himself announced
this to Edouard, who finds him very
intelligent and likes him much.
Marcella turned pale when Lucy
communicated this piece of news to
us all this morning : Anna appear-
ed overjoyed. I do not know what
to think.

Our excursion of the i8th led to
an unexpected result : we found
near the chapel two little girls
in rags, their feet bare and bleeding.
Their story is touching. Being left
orphans, they set out on foot from
the furthest part of Cantal to seek
hospitality in Brittany from an
uncle, whom on arriving they found
was also dead. They have thus
been wandering among the fields of
broom, sleeping under trees, and
have not ventured to ask for alms.
Picciola embraced them as if they
were sisters, placed them with a
farmer's wife, and has obtained
leave from grandmother to bring
them to the chateau. Adrien wrote
the same evening to the priest of
their parish. The answer is most
satisfactory : the orphans belong to
a great family now decayed, and
are worthy of interest; their pastor
was at Rome when the poor chil-
dren lost their father and, with the
inconsiderateness of youth, under-
took so long a journey. The elder
is thirteen, a graceful little fairy,
with piercing eyes ; the youngsr^
nine, as tall as her sister, which
however, is not saying much

776

Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister.

'* God sends you them to replace
me," said Picciola to her mother.
Sweet angel ! The nest is large
enough to shelter two more doves ;
stay with us too ! Berthe has had
the poor little girls clothed, and
has also adopted them. Therese
and Picciola undertake to accli-
matize them. "This is truly the
house of the good God," said
Marianne.

Margaret loves France. With
her, ennui is impossible. And how
quickly she has become attached to
Marcella ! How well these two
natures suit each other in spite of
their contrasts ! Dear Kate, this
meeting again is a real blessing ; I
would fain live always thus. It is
singular that our days are so full
of charm, notwithstanding the un-
easiness we are in on Picciola's ac-
count. She also *she is too dear to
die! Why cannot we accompany
her all together, and pass without
transition from meetings on earth
to the meeting again in heaven ?

Margaret receives intensely in-
teresting letters from Rome ; I
should like to copy them for you.
Have I told you how much Ger-

trude's saintliness excites the ad-
miration of our fair lady ? Ger-
trude is become the guide and ad-
viser of all ; even my mother likes to
be directed by her judgment. Her
magnificent wardrobe is no longer
hers ; robes of silk and velvet all
are made into church vestments :
impossible to imagine a more com-
plete spoliation. She is uniformly
dressed in black woollen; what a
contrast to our worldly vanities !
Her rooms, formerly so tasteful
and rich, have undergone a radical
transformation. She belongs to a
princely family. Her tastes and
habits were in accordance with her
rank ; her room was hung *with
crimson velvet, which is now re-
placed by a dark-colored paper,
whilst the elegant furniture and
superfluities have been banished to
make way for the plainest articles
she has been able to find. Adrien
has sold his equipages to found a
hospital. " Do you know, nothing
would be easier than to transform
this chateau into a monastery,"
Margaret said to me. "Yes, in
proceeding as Gertrude has done."
Adieu, dear Kate !

TO BB CONTINUED.

De Veres "Mary Tudor"

777

DE VERB'S "MARY TUDOR."*

THERE is nothing more unjust
than the neglect sometimes shown
to literary performances of the
highest merit. But it is not always
difficult to account for this. We
have before us a case in point.
Here is a drama on a subject of
peculiar interest a model of classic
elegance, and exhibiting at once
a dramatic power and a o^gnity of
language which have not been sur-
passed, if equalled, since Shak-
spere. Yet this work has been suf-
fered to sink into obscurity. Why ?
For the excellent reason, surely,
that the Protestant author presents
Catholic claims and personages
with a very unusual fairness a
fairness, moreover r which was spe-
cially unacceptable at the date of
the book's publication, when the ex-
citement over what is called the Ox-
ford movement was at its height.

After the lapse of nearly thirty
years, Sir Aubrey De Vere's drama
has a new field opened to it, and
will not, we trust, be again ignored,
but receive from critics and literary
circles its full meed of praise. The
occasion of its fresh appeal to pub-
lic attention is Tennyson's effort on
the same subject. We read Queen
Mary with our wonted relish of
the melodious English and faultless
diction for which Tennyson stands
alone, and with full appreciation
of the peculiar originality, which
some call affectation, but to which,
as we consider, he has more than
proved his right ; but were con-
scious throughout of a very undra-

* Mary Tudor : An Historical Drama. By Sir
Aubrey De Vere, Bart. London : William Picker-
ing. 1875.

made vagueness, and painfully sen-
sible that a great poet had prosti-
tuted his genius to a most unwor-
thy cause. When we came to Mary
Tudor, how different our experi-
ence ! We seemed to be reading
the product of some erudite pen of
the Elizabethan era, and even to be
witnessing the play's performance
\\~\QpersoncB speaking in the man-
ner of their time, and standing be-
fore us as if actually on the stage.
We found, too, the author's intent
very clear namely, to draw the
characters, both Catholic and Prot-
estant, with perfect impartiality and
in accordance with his information ;
and this not merely with a view to
show that the right was not all on one
side and the wrong all on the other
(which, of course, is perfectly true),
but rather, as it seems to us, to
represent both parties as very much
the sport of circumstances, and
struggling for what each thought
the truth. There is a mistake here,
but an amiable mistake ; and what-
ever prejudices lie at the bottom of
it, they are the prejudices of the
author's informants, not his own.

He wisely divides his drama into
two distinct plays of five acts each ;
and we purpose to make each
''Part" the subject of a separate
article. Indeed, we feel that, to do
the work full justice, we ought to
take a single Act at a time; for
every scene will bear minute analy-
sis. As it is, we must resist the
temptation of quoting largely a
necessity the more to be regretted
because the merit of dramatic poet-
ry speaks for itself far better than
the critic can speak for it.

De Veres "Mary Tudor?

Part I. opens with the death of
Edward VI., and ends with the
execution of Jane Grey. The plot
is simple as historical plots have
to be.

In the first Act John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland, con-
trives, with the help of Cranmer,
Archbishop of Canterbury, to work
upon the conscience of the school-
boy king, till he signs away the
throne to the Lady Jane Grey, wife
of Guilford Dudley, Northumber-
land's son. Jane has been nursing
Edward, who has come to regard
her as a sister. The Princess Mary,
the rightful heir, has been kept
from her dying brother's side by a
device of Dudley's, who sends for
her, indeed, at the last, but so that
she arrives too late to prevent the
signing. Edward attributes her
absence, as also Elizabeth's, to
indifference. Jane Grey protests
against the succession being forced
upon herself, but yields sufficient
consent to be implicated in the
treason. Northumberland defies
Mary's claim, and the princess has
to fly with her three faithful adher-
ents, Sir Henry Bedingfield, Sir
Henry Jerningham, and Fakenham,
her confessor a character depicted
throughout as not only inoffensive
but saintly ; indeed, as Mary's good
genius, though, unhappily, too sel-
dom successful in his influence.

Dudley goes, in the third scene,
to visit Courtenaye, Marquis of
Exeter, who is a prisoner in the
Tower. The visit is solely for the
purpose of making this man his
friend and tool, to what end will
appear later.

ACT II. Queen Mary, after
reaching Framlingham by a perilous
nocturnal ride, receives Elizabeth
with truest affection, and then, to-
gether with her, goes to meet Sir
Thomas Wyatt, Captain Brett, and

their insurrectionary followers. A
parley ensues, in which Brett and
Wyatt declare that their party has
decided for Mary, but insist on her
respecting their consciences about
Church matters although (of
course) they refuse to respect her
conscience. However, she shows
so much spirit and majesty that
half Brett's men march with her
to London, while Brett himself
and Wyatt close the scene with a
dialogue, in which they not only ren-
der homage to the royal lady, but
acknowledge to each other the con-
viction that she "goes forth to con-
quer." Meanwhile, Northumberland
causes Jane Grey to be proclaimed
queen in the Tower Chapel, where
lies in state the deceased king's cof-
fin. To the omens which attend
this proclamation, and end in break-
ing it up suddenly, is added the en-
trance of three couriers, one after
another, to inform Dudley of disas-
ters which necessitate his taking the
field.

ACT III. We have Northumber-
land giving up the game and resolv-
ing to kneel for pardon : but all
in a spirit of hypocrisy. Accord-
ingly, he comes with his men to
the queen on Wanstead Heath, and
throws up his cap, crying : " God
save Queen Mary!" But the
queen is not deceived, and orders
him under arrest. Jane and Guil-
ford are next seen in the Tower,
where Jane's nobleness of soul
shines out more attractively than
ever. Mary, on the contrary, yields
to a vindictive spirit in refusing
the pardon her cousin so meekly
implores. Faken ham's benevolent
attempt is fruitless. Jane is com-
mitted to the custody of her parents
(who themselves have been pardon-
ed), but separated from her husband
and confined within the Tower.
Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester

De Veres "Mary Tudor:'

779

one of the prisoners released by
Mary's triumph begins his fatal
influence on the queen. His char-
acter is drawn from the usual Pro-
testant stand-point. He is Mary's
evil genius as much as Fakenham
is her good one.

With the fourth Act comes the
trial of Northumberland, Jane, and
Guilford. Gardiner, as chancellor,
conducts the prosecution. After
splendid speeches on either side
the prisoners are found guilty, and
Mary passes sentence of death.
But the queen, as she breaks up the
court, betraying her fondness for
Exeter, Northumberland, who has
long been aware of the attachment,
craves a private conversation with
that favorite, and puts him up to mak-
ing love to Mary and then obtain-
ing his (Dudley's) pardon. Accord-
ingly, in the next scene Courtenaye
proffers his suit, wins the royal hand
and, with it, the traitor's reprieve.
But when, presently, Gardiner
brings the death-warrant for Mary's
signature, and she bids him pre-
pare a pardon instead, he tells her
of Courtenaye's private talk with
Dudley after the trial, and how " a
quick ear caught words" to the ef-
fect that it was the Princess Eliza-
beth he loved. So that the last
scene of the Act is a very strong
one : Mary coming unobserved up-
on Exeter as he woos the disdainful
Elizabeth, and hearing him declare
that he loathes her whom he needs
must wed. The queen's despair at
finding how she has been deceived
gives way to a burst of fury, in
which she tears up Dudley's pardon
and signs his death-warrant, with
the order that it be executed before
sunset. The false Courtenaye, and
Elizabeth with him, is sent at once
to the Tower.

ACT V. The curtain rises on a
prison chamber in the Tower,

where Northumberland, jubilant
over his certain liberation, calls
upon Jane and Guilford to rejoice
at their renascent fortunes. The
pure-souled Jane refuses the crown
once for all, and endeavors to lead
her husband and his father to pro-
per gratitude for the reprieve. But
in the midst of Dudley's " merry
mood" Fakenham enters with a
warrant and not the document so
confidently looked for. It is now
Northumberland's turn to despair;
and the struggles of his soul, at the
prospect of speedy death, are de-
picted with great force. Hitherto,
during his imprisonment, he has
been pretending to let Fakenham
convert him. Now he sees the ne-
cessity of conversion indeed, yet
clings to the hope of respite as the
gain of professing the true Faith.

At the scaffold Pembroke mean-
ly stings him into rage; but this
obnoxious person being removed,
the arch-rebel seems to turn his
attention in earnest to the salvation
of his soul, and after a prayer,
which sounds perfectly sincere,
kneels to Fakenham for absolution,
then hurriedly ascends the scaffold.
The scene closes, and a cannon is
heard the appointed signal that
the head has fallen.

The fate of Lady Jane Grey is next
determined. Mary is strongly inclin-
ed to spare her. Gardiner is toblame
for the adverse decision. Faken-
ham, however, obtains a promise
that she shall be spared if she ab-
jure her heresy. But Mary, in the
fifth scene, shows a sudden tender-
ness for her doomed cousin, and, af-
ter a fit of raving melancholy, sends
Fakenham in all haste to bring her.
It is too late. Guilford has just
been executed, and his widow is
being led forth even while the
queen demands her presence. The
sixth scene gives us the parting

/8o

De Veres "Mary Tudor"

of Jane and her mother, and closes
as the victim of another's ambition
heroically ascends the scaffold. In
the last scene Mary reaches Jane's
prison to find her gone, and rushes
to the window in the hope of signall-
ing the executioner, but only in time
to see him hold up the severed
head.

We shall now introduce our read-
ers to some of the best passages
from this play. Our only difficulty
will be to restrict their number
within necessary limits, for there
is not a page but invites quotation.
Here is a fine bit of description to
begin with. It is from the open-
ing scene. Sir Thomas Wyatt is
amazed to learn that the king is
"sick to death."

u WYATT. How can it be ? But one short month

it seems

Since I beheld him on his jennet's back,
With hawk on wrist, his bounding hounds beside,
Charge up the hillside through the golden gorse,
Swallowing the west wind, till his cheeks glowed out
Like ripened pears. The whirring pheasant sprang
From the hedged bank ; and, with a shout, in air
The bright boy tossed his falcon ; then, with spur
Pressed to his jennet's flank, and head thrown back,
And all the spirit of life within his eye
And voice, he drew not rein, till the spent quarry
.Lay cowering 'neath the hawk's expanded wings."

To us, this dash into description,
at the very beginning of the play,
shows how thoroughly our au-
thor feels himself at home. Had
he not been a conscious master of
his art, he would scarcely have
made such a venture, for fear of ex-.
citing the suspicion that his talent
lay in the direction of descriptive
rather than of dramatic poetry. As
it is, Wyatt's burst of eloquence
lends much to the easy strength of
this first scene.

We are little prepared, however,
for the daring feat of two heroines :
each heroine enough to have the
play to herself, yet neither over-
shadowing the other. So lovely is
the character of Lady Jane Grey,

and so keenly are our sympathies
enlisted on her side, that we are
astonished to find any room left in
our hearts for Mary Tudor ; where-
as, in fact, so royal the latter's bear-
ing, so truly is she "every inch a "
queen, so indisputable are her
rights, so outrageous her wrongs,
that we end by seeing only her no-
ble qualities, and even forgive her
Jane Grey's death.

The poet introduces Lady Jane
at that post where woman is always
" a ministering angel " by the
death-bed of her cousin, King Ed-
ward. She has been reading him
to sleep, and he has just awaked.

" JANE. How fares your Highness now ?

EDWARD. Thy sweet voice, Jane,
Soothes every pain. A film grew o'er mine eyes :
A murmur, as of breezes on the shore,
Or waters lappipg in some gelid cave.
Coiled round my temples, and I slept."

This gives our author an oppor-
tunity of bringing out Jane's mo-
desty and humility the very un-
Protestant virtues with which he
has chosen to adorn his favorite
heroine conspicuously.

11 JANE. Ah. cousin !

Not in my voice the charm. Within this volume
A sanatory virtue lives enshrined,
As in Bethesda's pool.

EUWARD. By an angel stirred."

An answer no less just than felici-
tous.

Again, in the same scene, the
guilelessness of her soul shines out
in her protest against being made
heir to the crown. The pretext
put forth by Northumberland and
Cranmer for persuading Edward to
sign away the throne from his sisters
is the safety of the Protestant cause
what Anglicans impudently call
"the true church." Jane, though
an earnest adherent of the new
religion, will have nothing to do
with evil measures in its bebalf.

" JANE. O no ! not me ! This remediless wrong
I have no part in. Edward, you have sisters,
Great Harry's daughters, England's manifest heirs.
Leave right its way, and God will guard his own."

De Veres "Mary Tudor."

781

But now it is Mary's turn to win
our admiration. She comes upon
the scene the moment after the weak
Edward has signed awajj the king-
dom to Jane. Unaware of the in-
jury that has been done her, she
greets her " dear lost brother " with
true sisterly affection, but, in an-
other minute, shows the Tudor in
her veins by the courage witli
which she confronts Dudley and
tells the traitor she knows him at
his worth. Then, discovering the
plot against her, she rises sudden-
ly but with calmest dignity to the
attitude of queen, as though the
crown had just been placed upon
her head instead of stolen for an-
other's.

" EDWARD. It is now too late too late !
I have done what it were well had ne'er been done.

JANE. O would to God that act might be re-
called !

MARY. What act ?

JANK. That makes me queen.

MARY. Thou queen ! O never

Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow !
Thou queen ? Go, girl betake thee to thy mappets !
Call Ascham back- -philosophize but never
Presume to parley with gray counsellors,
Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights !
Leave that to me, the daughter of a king."

Equally worthy is her reply to the
insolent Dudley when he dares to
offer her the crown on condition of
her " renouncing her errors ":

" MARY. Sir, have you done ? Simply I thus re-

ply-

Not to drag England from this slough of treason
Nor save this lady's head nor yours, archbishop 1
Not even my brother's life would I abjure
My faith, and forfeit heaven !"

But sublimer even than this
avowal of her faith is the act of
charity she presently makes after
her brother's spirit has departed ;
and in nothing has the poet done
her so much justice :

" MARY. And thou art gone ! haet left me un-

forgiven !

O brother ! was this righteous? Gloomier now
This dreary world frowns on me, and its cares.
Womanly dreams, farewell ! Stern truths of life
Stamp on my heart all that becomes a queen.
Dudley, you have dared much : yet, standing here
By my poor brother's clay, I can forgive.
Will you kneel, Dudley?"

After this, let the poet depict
Jane in the most attractive colors
he can find, he has shown his Ca-
tholic heroine the greater woman.
But, in fact, we are convinced this
is his aim. For although, as a Pro-
testant, he makes Jane become a
saint (according to his idea of saint-
ship), her " path a shining light that
goeth forward and increaseth to
perfect day " while Mary's way
is over-clouded to the end, and
cruel wrongs goad her into rage
which rouses all the Tudor and all
the Spaniard in her nature, and
deepens her melancholy into mad-
ness still, even in her most painful
moments, the daughter of Catherine
is great. Her enemies do homage
to her greatness. Northumberland
himself is forced to say of her, in
the scene we have quoted from
above :

"The eighth Harry's soul lives in her voice and
eye."

But the spell of her majestic
bearing is best portrayed in the
scene where she meets the rebel
leaders Wyatt and Brett with their
followers. Sir Thomas Wyatt, true
to his character as indicated in
the first scene, indulges again in
fine rhetoric, declaring that he and
his men have decided to stand for
Mary, but putting in the condition
that " all things which touch the
Church " shall " rest as King Ed-
ward left them." The queen
answers this appeal by another to
the consciences of " English gentle-
men," demanding for her own the
liberty she willingly extends to
theirs ; but when, presently, Wyatt
insults her by raving, like a modern
fanatic, about " the dogs of persecu-
tion, insatiate brood of Rome," and
Brett sullenly refuses to march with
her to London, she passes on,
leaving the two insurrectionists to

De Vere's "Mary Tudor."

pay her tribute each in his own
fashion.

" BRETT. Now, by all saints and martyrs calen-
dared !

I could half worship such a tameless woman.
All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,
Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,
And keen words flared ! Ugly and old ? I o that
1 shall say nay hereafter. A utumn moons
Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting
Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree !
But hey ! look yonder, Wyatt: half j'our men
Are scampering after her.

V\ YATT. I marked, and blame not.

I mar no fortune, and coerce no conscience.
There is a fascination all have felt it
IV lien Royalty and Woman join in one :
A ustere allegiance softening into love ;
And neiv-born fealty clinging to the heart ',
Like a young babe that from its mother's bosom
Looks up and smiles?'

(Here let us ask, if these lines
we have italicized were quoted
anonymously, who would not take
them for Shakspere's ?)

"BRETT. Trust me, I am much minded
To join her even yet.

WYATT. It cannot be.

I feel as you do : but I look beyond
The tempting present. She goes forth to conquer :
So strong a heart must conquer"

Mary's affection for her sister
Elizabeth is sincere and tender ;
while Elizabeth's for her, on the
other hand, has a dubious quality.
It is strange that Sir Aubrey shows
no enthusiasm over Elizabeth. He
appears to have learnt too much
truth about her. Mary's first in-
quiry, after reaching Framlingham
in her flight from Dudley's machin-
ations, is for her sister :

*' Why is Elizabeth not here to greet me ?
Command her to the presence."

And when the princess enters,
and, kneeling, says, " Queen, sister ! "
Mary's joy at seeing her is very
touching.

" To my arms ! Pardie, sweet Bess,
You daily grow more stately. Your great brows
Like our cathedral porches, double-arched,
Seem made for passage of high thought '."

A part of this scene is particular-
ly fine.

"MARY. Never was kind counsel needed more
By aching heart. Little you know my trials.
The fleetness of my horse scarce saved, my life ;
And I am queen in nothing but the name !

O sister, canst thou love me ? Thou her child
Beautiful Boleyn's daughter who destroyed
My mother hapless queen, dishonored wife \
Thou too, my brother spurned from thy throne,

thy death-bed !

O no ! I shaM go down into my earth
Desolate, unbeloved ! I wound thee, sister !
Pardon ! I rave I rave

ELIZABETH. Abate this passion !

In very truth I love you fondly pity

MARY. Pity ! not pity give me love or nothing.
/ hope not h appiness : I kneel for peace.
But no : this crown traitors would rive from me
Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed
Undimmed to us a righteous heritage
This crown which we, my sister, must maintain
Or die : this crown, true safeguard of our people,
Their charter's seal crushes our peace for ever.
All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined
with thorns.''' 1

And again, as the melancholy
gains upon her :

"MARY. Am I mad?

Think you I'm mad ? I have been used to

scorn,

Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye
My mother's scorching heritage cf woe I
Ha! as I speak, behold, she visits me,
With that fair choir of angels trooping round her.
And cherub faces, with expanded wings
Upbearing her ! O blessed J-aint, depart not!
Breathe on my cold lips those still cherished

kisses
Which thtne in death impressed ! Sigh in mii.e

ear

Those half -articulate blessings, unforgotten.
Which made my childhood leis than martyrdom!
I'll clasp thee mother!

[ Totters forward and falls.]

Surely this, too, is worthy of
Shakspere. And so is Northumber-
land's soliloquy with which the third
Act opens; so much so, indeed,
that we can with difficulty persuade
ourselves we are not reading Shak-
spere.

" I have plunged too deep. The current of the

times

Hath been ill-sounded. Frosty discontent
Breathes chilly in the f. ice of oil" attempt :
And, like the dry leaves in November winds,
These summer-suited friends fly my nipfrcd

branches.

What's to be done ? Time like a ruthless hunter,
Tramples my flying footsteps ! Banned and bait-
ed

By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand
Gnash fangs and snarl on me."

What is peculiarly Shaksperian
here is the profusion of metaphors.
It is a sign of a great poet to deal
freely with metaphors. We know
how Byron heaps them up in Childe
Harold, and Tennyson in /// Memo-
riam.

DC Vere's "Mary Tudor."

783

Another proof of high genius
especially dramatic is the ready
use of wit and sarcasm. We have
a passage of arms between Dudley
and Courtenaye which is very mas-
terly.

Dudley, having lost his way in
the Tower, gets the headsman to
show him to Courtenaye's cell.

" EXETER. Ha! I should know that face ; and

lackeyed thus

By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.
NORTHUMBERLAND. I greet you well. Marquis of

Exeter,
Noble Plantagenet !

EXETER. Hey, what means this?

The half-forgotten name, and fatal heritage !
Sir John of Dudley bear and ragged staff
Or memory fails me.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Now Northumberland.
EXETER. Indeed? Excuse me. Prisoners limp

behind
The vaulting world. You are welcome.

NORTHUMBERLAND. I would greet you

With tidings of content.

EXETER. Long strangers here.

NORTHUMBERLAND. I take your hand: nor cold-
ly, thus, hsreafter

Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power
(In Edward's time I only had the will)
To serve you.

EXETER. Ha ! how well I guessed the truth !
One king the more is dead. Who now rules Eng-
land ?

Chaste Boleyns bale, or ths Arragontan whelp ?
No beauty, I'll be sworn, unless time makes one.
NORTHUMBERLAND. The house of Grey is of

the royal lineage.

To that King Edward's will bequeathes the crown.
EXETER. My lady duchess queen ? Now, God

forbid !
NORTHUMBERLAND. All cry amen to that. Her

Grace of Suffolk

Yields to her wiser daughter Lady Jane
My son, Lord Guilford's wife : now Queen of Eng-
land.

EXETER. O, now I do begin to read the stars,
And note what constellation climbs. My lord,
Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.
The obsolete posterity of kings
Lowly should bend to kings' progenitors.
Sir Headsman, art thou married ?
HEADSMAN. Nay, my lord.

EXETER. Get thee a wife, then, in good haste : get

sons!

Full-bosoined honor , like a plant in the sun,
Plays Jiarlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon
Even through the Red Rose' cradle !

NORTHUMBERLAND. My good lord,

Unseasonable -wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlocked for scars.
Good-night. May fancy tick'le you in dreams
In which nor Boleyn's babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of A rragon kind heaven forefend !
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil c.:;o,
Dare mingle- Good-night, Courtenaye."

To pass to the trial scene, in the
fourth Act, a speech is put into the

mouth of Gardiner who, as chan-
cellor conducts the prosecution
which reminds us of the unanswer-
ed arguments from Pole and other
Catholic characters in Queen Mary :

" GARDINER. My lords, religion was the plea for

this.

Religion, a wide cloak for godless knaves.
What ! knew they not the Apostolic rule
That men are bound to obey even sinful princes ?
Who dares insinuate that our queen's right rule
Shall be a snare for conscience ? Hypocrites !
Why claim ye toleration, yet refuse it ?
Faith your perpetual cry, yet would ye stifle
That faith which is the trust of other hearts.
Your Bible is your idol : all must bow
Before your exposition of its sense,
Or forfeit all the very throne !"

Had our author been a Catholic,
he could not have stated the case
better.

Jane Grey pleads guilty so nobly,
and prays so generously that her
own life may be taken and her
husband's spared, that Fakenham
truly says of her :

" She rises from the sea of her great trouble
Like a pure infant glowing from the bath."

Here are some of her words :

" I wake from the vain dream of a blind sleep :

Nothing to hide, nothing extenuate.

My lords, reverse to me this good hath brought ;

That I who dimly saw now plainly see,

And seeing loathe my fault, and loathing leave it.

The bolts of heaven have split the aspiring

tower

Of my false grandeur ; and throzigh every rent
The light of heaven streams in.

In time to come it shall be known, ambition
Was not my nature, though it makes my crime."

Dudley's defence would be man-
ly and admirable were it not for
his hypocrisy. But the hour comes
when hypocrisy can serve him no
longer. It is a powerful scene
the first of the fifth Act where his
confident hopes are dashed to the
ground for ever. And then he
finds Fakenham whom he has call-
ed " worm " and " dog " before,
and for whom his hatred never
could contain itself his best friend
and only succor. He seems, in-
deed (so well is his character sus-
tained throughout), to cling to the

784

De Veres "Mary Tudor."

hope of saving his bodily life by ac-
cepting the Catholic faith, till he
stands on the very scaffold ; but
there he drops simulation.

u The terrible ' to be ' is come ! Time's past !
Yet all's to do an age crammed to a span !
Time, never garnered till thy last sands ebb,
ffow skall my sharp need eke thy wasted glass,
Or wit reverse it ?"

Lady Jane meets death like a mar-
tyr. Her resignation is shown as
early as the third scene of the third
Act, while she is in the Tower with
her husband awaiting further tid-
ings after learning that their cause
is lost.

" JANE. Midnoon, yet silent as midnight ! My

heart

Flutters and stops flutters and stops again
As in the pauses of a thunder-storm,
Or a bird cowering during an eclipse.
Alone through these deserted halls we wander,
Bereft of friends and hope. Speak to. me, Guilford.

GUILFORD. Thy heart-strings, Jane, strengthen-
ed by discipline,
Endure the strain.

JANE. Say rather, my religion

Has taught this good. Nor lacks our female na-
ture

Courage to meet inevitable woe
With a beloved one shared"

And again her generosity comes out :

u We have obscured a dawn. If spared, God grant
We may make bright the queen's triumphant way
Like clouds that glorify the wake of noon."

She, too, sees the "true minister
of Christ" in Fakenham :

" Fearless of danger in discharge of duty,
And to the mourner prodigally kind."

Such Protestants as she are never
formal heretics : they have too
much humility. When Fakenham
is pleading her cause with the Tu-
dor, who displays for a season the
vindictiveness of woman against
woman, Jane disallows his attesta-
tion of her innocence :

" Ah, sir, too gently have you judged me !
Usurper of the consecrated crown,
The sacred sceptre, how can I be pure ?
Welcome Adversity, lifter up of veils!
Before me, naked as a soul for judgment,
Stands up my sin. 'Tis well ! the worst is o'er.
Suffer I must ; but I will sin no longer."

When, in the fifth Act, she ap-
proaches the scaffold, she alone is

firm, she alone makes no com-
plaint against the justice of her sen-
tence, but, on the contrary, defends
it.

" BEDINGFIELD. Madam,

We fain would linger on the way. Our eyes,
Blind thdugh they be with tears, strain round to

catch
Some signal of reprieve.

JANE. O, seek it not !

It cannot be. My life may not consist
With the realm'' s safety. Innocent am I
In purpose ; but the object of great crimes.
Good blood must still flow on till Jane's be shed.'"

So again, in her final address to
the spectators :

u My sentence hath been just : not for aspiring
Unto the crown, but that, with guilty weakness,
When proffered I refused it not. From me
Let future times be warned that good intent
Excuseth not misdeeds : all instruments
Of evil must partake its punishment"

In the meantime Mary softens
somewhat after Dudley's execution,
and is inclined to spare Guilford,
as well as Jane. Gardiner argues
against the husband's reprieve, on
the ground of certain peril to
throne, church, and commonweal ;
and here he carries his point easily.
He is not successful in securing
Jane's doom, even though he tells
the queen :

" She is proclaimed

From street to street. The very walls are ciphered
With traitorous scrolls that hail her ' Jane the

Queen.'
Shall such wrong go unchecked?

MARY. That is their folly ;

Not hers. The culpable shall smart for this."

ButhereBedingfield enters hastily
to announce the escape of Suffolk
and his having "joined with Wyatt."

u MARY. Suffolk fled ? Jane's father ?
Henceforth let justice rule. Farewell, weak pity !
We cannot, Jane, both live : why, then, die
thou! '

Yet, even after this, her good gen-
ius, Fakenham, obtains from Mary
a promise that Jane shall live "if
she abjure her heresy." It does
not appear, however, that Faken-
ham had any further interview with
Jane. It would have been useless,
if he had ; for when, just before
her execution, Bedingfield says :

De Veres "Mary Tudor"

785

" At least, we may delay till the dean comes
To whisper spiritual comfort, "

jano replies:

" Infinite

Is the Almighty's goodness. In that only
1 put ny trust. My time, sir is too short
For controversy : and that good man's duty
( ompels him to dispute my creed. I thank him :
Pray you, sir, say I thank him, from my heart,
For all his chanties. In privacy
My prayers not unacceptable, I trust,
To God my Saviour have been offered up.
So must they to the end."

But in the scene before the exe-
cution one of singular power the
unhappy queen evinces a yearning
for sympathy which triumphs over
rigor, and, in spite of Gardiner's
presence, makes her relent, though
too late.

First we see her alone. She is
vindicating herself to her con-
science :

u I have no thirst for blood ; nor yet would shrink
From shortening earthly life : for what is life
That we should court its stay ? A pearl of price
In festal days, but mockery to mourners.
What's life to thee, thy loved one dead, poor Jane?
What's life to me, by him I loved betrayed ?
I take from thee what is no loss to thee
And much infects the realm. Gladly would I
My life on such conditions sacrifice.
The time for thy short widowhood is come :
But ye shall reunite abcve. For me
The hearfs blank widowhood must be for ever,
Jane ! on thy block the throned queen envies
thee I "

She is full of her own betrayal by
Courtenaye a wrong which has
left a more cruel wound than all
the plots of treason have effected.

Here Gardiner and Fakenham
enter to announce that Brett and
Wyatt are taken. Presently, after
a burst of fevered excitement, she
says :

" I want
To see Jane Grey after her widowhood.

FAKENHAM \as!de\. After ? She then shall live.

GARDINER \_asidc"\. Observe, she raves.

MARY. We'll sit together in some forest nook,
Or sunless cavern by the moaning sea ,
And talk of sorrow and vicissitudes
Of hapless love, and luckless constancy ;
And hearts that death or treachery divides."

She then goes off into a fit of rav-
ing, and declares that " the spirit
of the fatal Sisterhood riots in
her veins," and " the snakes of the
VOL. xxiv. 50

Eumenides brandish their horrent
tresses round her head." Faken-
ham suggests music as the remedy
for her " sick mind" ; and Gardiner
bids him throw aside the gallery
doors that open on the chapel. It
being the hour for service, the choir
is heard.

[As the music proceeds, the queen's stupor relax-
es, and her sensibility gradually revives. '1 he
music ceases ]

MARY. Airs fresh from heaven breathe round
me !

Sing on, bright angels ! tears relieve my heart

My brain is calmed. Sing on and let me weep.

[A pause.

Would they were saved ! Alas, poor widowed one !

Can it not still be done ? No, no too late !"

Then she describes the " dark pro-
cession" of Guilford to the scaffold,
as seen in a vision. The signal
eun is heard. The head has fallen.

" MARY. He is no more ! Great God,

Have mercy upon both !

GARDINER. Her thoughts are changed :

Her brain relieved.

FAKENHAM. Now plead for Jane !

GARDINER. Too late !

Hear yonder bell.

MARY. What's that ? Again the death-bell ?
Hark you ! I would have speech with Jane. Fly,

Fakenham !

My foot is weak and slow. Gardiner, attend me.
Fly, Fakenham, fly !

FAKENHAM. Too late! too late! too late 1"

The scene of Jane's execution in-
tervenes; and then comes the last
scene, brief and terrible.

*' Jane Grey's prison in the Tower. A n open -win-
dow in the rear.

Enter hurriedly ~bH.KB.-y followed by GARDINER.
MARY. She s gone I come too late forgive me,

God!

Myself I never, never shall forgive.
Ha ! from yon casement they may mark a signal !

\She leans from the window.

Hold! Hold! \_Shedrawsbackwithashriek.
Great God ! it is it is her head
That demon lifts and brandishes before me !
\Sherushes froi the window, rztbbing her eyes

wildly.
Pah! I am choked my mouth is choked with)

blood !

My eyes, my nostrils, swim in blood my hair
Stiffens with blood the floor is slippery
With blood all blood ! Mother and unborn bab^
Hoth slain ! Mother and child ! The cry of blood
Rises to heaven the curse of Cain is launched
Upon me ! Innocent victims ! At God's throne
Already ye bear witness. Mercy, mercy !
Spare one who knew not how to spare.

\She kneels.

;86

A Birds-Eye View of Toledo.

Enter FAKENHAM.

Ay, kneel

To heaven and pray ! Lift up your hands to God !

Lift up your voice your heart ! Pray, sinner, pray !

[The curtain falls"

So ends the first part of this mas-
terly drama, and, we think, the far
finer of the two plays certainly the
less painful to a Catholic reader.
We have given it unqualified praise,
because we have dealt with it pure-
ly as a drama. We are afraid that
the real Jane Grey was a much less
lovely character than the poet's,
.and are thankful to know that the

real Mary Tudor was a very differ-
ent compound indeed. But we give
the poet credit for perfect sincerity
in his delineation of either charac-
ter. We believe that if he was
consciously partial at all, it was
rather to the Catholic side from
a wish to do Catholics all the
justice in his power. And this
but makes us regret the more that,
together with the genius he mani-
fests, he had not the faith of the
gifted son to whom he has left his
mantle.

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF TOLEDO.

" BEHOLD," said the owl to Prince
.Ahmed, " the ancient and renown-
ed city of Toledo a city famous
for its antiquities. Behold those
venerable domes and towers, hoary
with time, and clothed with legen-
dary grandeur, in which so many
of my ancestors have meditated."

We had arrived at the foot of the

rocky promontory on which stands

imperial Toledo. The first sight of

it is exceedingly impressive. Its

.aspect is grave and majestic, and

the thousand grand memories that

hover over it add to the fascination.

It is the royal city, the capital of

the Gothic kings. For four hun-

-dred years it was in possession of

.the Moors, and in the middle ages

it was so renowned for its learn-

;ing as to attract numerous students

from foreign parts. It is, too, par

.excellence, the ecclesiastical city of

.Spain, afcd stands proudly on its

seven hills like Rome. The long

line of its bishops comprises many

.saints, as well as mighty prelates

who not only held spiritual primacy

over the land, but took a promi-

ment part in the political affairs of

the nation. It looks just as a city
of the middle ages, with a due sense
of the fitness of things, ought to
look antique, picturesque, and ro-
mantic surrounded by its ancient
walls, from which rise, as if hewn
out of the rock, the massive gray
towers that still bear the impress
of the Goth and the Moor. Around
its base winds the golden Tagus
over its rocky bed, foaming and
wildly raving, in a grand, solemn
kind of a way, as if sensible of its
high functions and knowing the se-
crets of the magic caves that ex-
tend beneath its very bed caves
wrought out of the live rock by the
cunning hand of Tubal, the grand-
son of Noe, and where Hercules
the Mighty taught the dark myste-
ries of Egyptian art, handed down
to posterity, and long after known
as the Arte Toledana. For this an-
cient city claims as its founder
Tubal, the son of Japhet, who, as
the Spanish chroniclers say, with
the memory of the Deluge still fresh
in his mind, naturally built it on an
eminence, and hewed out caverns
as places of refuge from the watery

A Direr s-Eye View of Toledo.

787

element. So remote an origin might
reasonably be supposed enough to
satisfy the most owlish of antiqua-
rians ; but some hoary old birds
have gone so far as to whisper that
Adam himself was the first king of
Toledo ; that the sun, at its crea-
tion, first shone over this the true
centre of the world ; and that its
very name is derived from two Ori-
ental words signifying the Mother
of Cities. However this may be, it
was Hercules, the Libyan, who,
versed in the supernatural arts,
achieved labors no mere human
arm could have accomplished, who
gave the finishing touches to the
city, and set up the necromantic tow-
er of legendary fame, in after-years
so rashly entered by Roderick, the
last of the Goths, letting out a flood
of evils that spread over all the land.
This was " one of those Egyptian
or Chaldaic piles, storied with hid-
den wisdom and mystic prophecy,
which were devised in past ages
when man yet enjoyed intercourse
with high and spiritual natures, and
when human foresight partook of
divination," and its mysterious fate
was worthy of its origin.

But Toledo did not fully awake
to its importance till the fifth cen-
tury after Christ, when it fell into
the hands of the Goths, who made
it their capital and enlarged and
embellished it, especially in the
good old times of King Wamba,
whose name is still popular in
Castile, and corresponds to that of
King Dagobert in France. It now
became renowned for its splendor
and wealth, and, when taken by the
Moors at the end of the seventh
century, they found here an im-
mense booty, including the spoils of
Alaric from Rome and Jerusalem,
among which was the famous table
of talismanic powers, wrought for
King Solomon out of a single

emerald by the genii of the East,
which had the power of revealing,
as in a mirror, all future events,
and from which that monarch ac-
quired so much of his wisdom.

All these and many other things
were flitting through our minds as
we crossed the bridge of Alcantara,
with its tower of defence and tute-
lary saint, and wound up the steep
hillside into the city. We alighted
in the court of the Fonda de Lino,
where we learned once more that
an old bird sometimes gets caught
with mere chaff. It soon became
alarmingly evident that, between
the Goth and the Moor, but little
had been left behind at least, at
the Fonda. But " Affliction is a di-
vine diet," says Izaak Walton, and
we took to it as kindly as possible.
In this state of affairs, we gave our-
selves unresistingly up tQ &vaiet-dc-
place, who lay in wait for his prey,
and, for once in the world, did not
regret it ; for he proved quite indis-
pensable in the maze of narrow, tor-
tuous streets, and was tolerably
versed in the archaeology of the
place. Few cities are more rich in
historic, religious, and poetic me-
mories, or have as many interesting
monuments of the past. At every
step we were surprised by some-
thing novel and curious. The
streets themselves run zigzag, so
that we were always dodging around
a comer, like our old friend Mr.
Chevy Slyme, and soon began to
feel very mean and pitiful indeed.
This must have been convenient in
days when arrows were weapons,
but to honest, straightforward
folk in these pacific times they
are peculiarly trying. One side of
you always seems getting in a,J-
vance of the other, and you soon
begin to feel as if blind of one eye.
It is to be hoped obliquity of the
moral sense does not follow from

;8S

A Bird's-Eye View of Toledo.

this necessity of going zigzag. The
streets are extremely clean, but
so narrow as to afford passage only
to men and donkeys, or mn on
donkeys, sometimes looking, in
their queer accoutrements, " like two
beasts under one skin," as Dante
says. These sombre, winding streets
are lined with lofty houses that are
gloomy and solid as citadels, with
few windows, and these defended
by strong iron grates. The portals
are flanked with granite columns and
surmounted by worn escutcheons
carven in stone. They are fre-
quently edged with the cannon-ball
ornaments peculiar to Castile, like
rows of great stone beads. The
doors themselves are so thick and
massive that they have withstood
all ancient means of assault, and
'the resinous wood of which they are
made seems to defy the very tooth
of time itself. They are studded
with enormous nails of forged iron,
with diamond-shaped or convex
heads, sometimes as large as half a
cocoanut, and curiously wrought.
Frequently they are not content
with their primitive forms, but go
straying off into long, artistic rami-
fications that cover the door like
some ancient embroidery. The ga-
bled ends of the houses often project
over the streets with huge beams,
carved and stained, that add to the
gloom. These streets do not seem
to have changed for ages. Every in-
stant we saw some trace of the Goths
or an Arabic inscription, or Moor-
ish galleries and balconies. Once
we entered an old archway, and
found ourselves in a court with
sculptured granite pillars that sup-
ported Oriental-like galleries, to
Avhich we ascended by stairs faced
with colored azulejos, old and glit-
tering, as the Moors alone knew how
to make them. Once the city con-
tained two hundred thousand in-

habitants; now there are not more
than twenty thousand. The
streets are deserted and silent, the
houses empty. Everywhere are
ruins and traces of past grandeur
over which nothing of modern life
is diffused. You seem to be wan-
dering in a museum of antiquities.
Above all, you (eel it was once, and
perhaps still is, a city of deep reli-
gious convictions, from the numer-
ous' monasteries and magnificent
churches. Pious emblems are on
the houses. Among others, we re-
member the cord of St. Francis, car-
ven in stone, with its symbolic knots
of the Passion. At the Ayuntamien-
to, built after the designs of El Gre-
co, who, like several other eminent
artists, was at once painter, architect,
and sculptor, is an inscription on
the side of the staircase by the poet
Jorje Manrique worthy of a place
over the entrance of every city-hall :
" Ye noble, judicious lords who gov-
ern Toledo, on these steps leave all
your passions avarice, weakness,
fear. For the public good forget
your own private interests; and
since God has made you the pillars
of this august house, continue al-
ways to be firm and upright."

We were now near the cathedral
one of the grandest, and certainly
the richest, in Spain. Its first foun-
dation is lost in the obscurity of
legendary times. The people, how-
ever, are not so indefinite in their
opinions. With a true Oriental love
of the marvellous, they not only
attribute the foundation of Toledo
to patriarchal times, but declare
this church was built by the apos-
tles, and that even the Blessed Vir-
gin herself took a personal interest
in its erection. It is at least cer-
tain that a church was consecrated
here in the time of King Ricared
the Goth, after the condemnation
of the Arians by the Council of To-

A Bird's- Eye View of Toledo.

789

ledo, and it was probably built on
the site of a previous one. Jt was
placed under the invocation of the
Virgin, and her ancient statue,
which has been preserved to this
day, was regarded then, as now,
with special veneration. The old
Gothic kings were noted for their
devotion to Mary, and hung up at
her altar the beautiful crowns of
pure beaten gold and precious
stones discovered a few years ago
near Toledo, and now at the Hotel
Cluny at Paris.*

The Moors, when they took To-
ledo, seized this church, so sacred
to the Christians, razed it to the
ground, and erected a mosque in
its place ; and when Alfonso VI.
triumphantly entered the old capi-
tal of the Visigoths, May 25, 1085
the very day the great Hildebrand
died at Salerno, exclaiming : " I have
loved justice and hated iniquity,
and therefore I die an exile "
having left the Moors in possession
of the building, he was forced to
hear Mass in a little mosque of the
tenth century, afterwards given to
the Knights Templars and called
the Christo de la Luz, where may
still be seen the wooden shield
hung up by King Alfonso, with its
silver cross on a red ground.

The people, of course, were dissat-
isfied to see the infidel left to delile
a spot where the Gospel had first
been announced to their forefathers
and the Christian mysteries first
celebrated, and, as soon as the king
left the city, determined to regain
possession of it. Queen Constanza

* It was M. Herouard, a French refugee, em-
ployed at the military academy at Toledo as pro-
fessor of French, who, hunting one day, in 1858,
among the hills of G uarrazar, found a fragment of
a gold chain that was glittering in the sun, and,
digging, discovered the crown;, that have been so
much admired at Paris, and which are even more
valuable for their historic interest than for the gold
and precious stones. Later researches have brought
others to light, but smaller in size, that are now in
the Armeria at Madrid.

herself, though a native of France,
favored the movement, and hud
the doors of the mosque forced
open in the night. The archbi-
shop purified it with incense, asper-
sions, and prayer; an altar was
hastily set up, and a bell hung in
the tower, which, after a silence of
four centuries, rang out as soon as
daylight appeared, to call the peo-
ple to a solemn service of thanks-
giving.

Bernard de Sedirac was now
Archbishop of Toledo. He be-
longed to a noble family of Aqui-
taine, and became early in life a
Benedictine monk at St. Oren's
Priory, Auch, of which he was soon
made prior. This house was affili-
ated to the Abbey of Cluny, to
which he was transferred by St.
Hugo on account of his talents
and eminent virtues, and when Al-
fonso VI. sent there for a monk
capable of re-establishing monastic
discipline in the convents of Cas-
tile, Dom Bernard had the honor
of being appointed to the mission.
He found not in the Spanish mon-
asteries the austerity and silence
of Cluny. The neighing of steeds,
the baying of hounds, and the
whistle of the falcon prevailed over
the choral chants, and soft raiment
had taken the place of haircloth
and the scourge. The monks, how-
ever, were by no means depraved,
and Bernard soon acquired such an
ascendency over them as to effect
a radical change in their habits, es-
pecially at the great Abbey of San
Facundo, of which he had been
made abbot.

When Alfonso VI. took Toledo,
desirous of restoring the see to its
ancient grandeur and importance,
he endowed it magnificently, and
appointed Dom Bernard archbishop.
The part this prelate took in the
seizure of the mosque has been al-

790

A Bird's- Eye Vieiu of Toledo.

luded to. Mariana, the Jesuit his-
torian, considers his zeal on this
occasion as too lively and impetu-
ous. The Moors were naturally
enraged at losing their chief place
of worship, and for a time it was
feared they would break out into
open revolt. But they finally con-
cluded to send a deputation to the
king to make known the violation
of the treaty and demand redress.

Alfonso was then in the kingdom
of Leon, and, when he learned what
had occurred, he was not only
alarmed for the safety of his capi-
tal, but angry with those who had
endangered it. He at once set out
for Toledo, resolved to punish the
queen and archbishop. When the
Christians of Toledo learned that
he was approaching the city in such
a disposition the principal citi-
zens clothed themselves in black,
and the clergy put on their sacred
robes, and went forth to meet him.
In the midst was the fair Princess
Urraca, pale and trembling, clothed
in sackcloth, with ashes on her
head, sent by the queen to appease
the king's anger, knowing, if any-
thing could turn him from his pur-
pose, it would be the sight of his
favorite daughter. But Alfonso
hardened his heart when he saw
them approach, and silently regis-
tered a vow not to be moved by
the princess* entreaties. Urraca
had the true tact of a woman, and,
divining her father's thoughts, fell
at his feet, conjuring him to grant
her but one favor to show no
mercy on those who had set at
naught his authority out of obedi-
ence to a higher will !

The king was taken aback by
this pious stratagem, and, before he
recovered from his embarrassment,
a second embassy from the Moors
appeared. The king, in anticipa-
tion of their renewed complaints,

exclaimed: <k It is not to you the
injury has been done, but to me;
and my own interest and glory for-
bid me to allow my promises to be
violated with impunity."

The messengers fell on their
knees and replied: "The archbi-
shop is the doctor of your law, and
if we, however innocent, be the
cause of his death, his followers
will some day take vengeance on
us. And should the queen perish,
we shall become an object of hatred
to her posterity, of which we shall
feel the effects when you have ceas-
ed to reign. Therefore, O king ! we
release you from your promise, and
beg you to pardon them. If you
refuse our petition, allow us to seek
in another country an asylum from
the dangers that threaten us here."

The king, who had been weigh-
ed down with sadness, broke into
transports of joy : " You have not
only saved the archbishop, but the
queen and princess. Never shall I
forget so happy a day. Henceforth
you may be assured of my special
protection."

When the' king entered the city
a few hours after, he proceeded di-
rectly towards the mosque taken
from the Moors. On the threshold
stood Queen Constanza in garments
of mourning, and Dom Bernard in
pontifical vestments. The king
kissed the archbishop's hand, em-
braced the queen, and entered the
church to give thanks unto God for
the happy ending of so threatening
a drama. And so, adds Mariana,
this day of tears and lamentations
was changed into a day of joy.
This was in the year of our Lord
1087.

The Alfaqui, or Moorish doctor,
whose sagacious advice the Moors
had followed on this occasion, was
regarded with so much gratitude by
the Christians that they set up his

A Birds-Eye View of Toledo.

791

statue in the Holy of Holies, where
it is to be seen to this day among
the kings of Spain and the dignita-
ries of the church.

The present cathedral was begun
by St. Ferdinand in 1227. Eight
portals give entrance to the edifice.
The principal one is called the great
Door of Pardon. Seven steps lead
up to it, which the people often as-
cend on their knees. And to kneel
is the attitude one instinctively
takes on entering this magnificent
church, which is like a great jewel-
led cross of marvellous workman-
ship. It is, in fact, a museum of
sculpture and painting. The eye is
absolutely dazzled by its richness,
as it looks up the long aisles with
their clustered columns, lit up by
the finest stained-glass windows in
Spain. The choir alone it would
take hours to examine, so profuse
are the beautiful carvings. On the
lower stalls those of the choris-
ters are carved jousts, tourneys,
battles, and sieges, as if to figure the
constant warfare of man here below.
Even the very animals in the acces-
sory carvings are represented con-
tending. Forty-five of these stalls
represent the siege of some city or
fortress in the war with the Moors,
and are curious for the costumes and
arms of the time. The most inter-
esting relate to the conquest of
Granada, just after which they were
executed. Nor is it surprising to
find such things commemorated in
so holy a place. The war with
the Saracens was not merely a na-
tional enterprise, but a holy crusade
on which depended, not only the
safety of Spain, but of all Christen-
dom, and Europe has never been
sufficiently grateful to the Spaniards
for saving it from the yoke of Islam.
These carvings seem like a psalm
of triumph for ever echoed in this
choir : " The Lord hath triumphed

gloriously : the horse and his rider
hath he thrown into the sea." Each
panel, labelled with its victory,
seems chanting, one after the
other:

" To him which smote great kings :

For his mercy endureth for ever !
Sihon, the King of the Amorites :

For his mercy endureth for ever !
And Og, the King of rJashan :

For his mercy endureth for ever !

And hath redeemed us from our enemies :

For his mercy endureth for ever !"

On the upper stalls, where sit the
canons of the church between red
marble columns, are the holy mys-
teries of the faith, carved by Berru-
guete and Felipe de Borgona, and
above in alabaster is the genealogy
of Christ. At the head of the choir
is the archbishop's throne, like the
stalls of carved walnut, but support-
ed by bronze pillars. Among other
carvings on it is the legend of St.
Ildefonso and the sacred Casulla, so
popular at Toledo, and which has
inspired the pencil of Murillo, Ru-
bens, and other eminent artists.
St. Ildefonso was Archbishop of To-
ledo in the seventh century, and
the author of a famous work enti-
led De Virginitate Maricz. It is
said that one night, entering the
church at the head of his clergy to
sing the midnight office, he found
the altar illuminated, and the Bless-
ed Virgin seated on his ivory
throne surrounded by a throng of
angels, holding in her hand the
book he had written in defence of
her virginity. She beckoned him to-
wards her, and said, as she bestow-
ed on him a beautiful white chasu-
ble of celestial woof: " Inasmuch
as with a firm faith and a clean
heart, having thy loins girt about
with purity, them hast, by means of
the divine grace shed on thy lips,
diffused the glory of my virginity in
the hearts of the faithful, I give thee
this vestment, taken from the treas-

792

A BircFs-Eye View of Toledo.

ury of my Son, that even in this life
thou mayest be clothed with the
garment of light." And the atten-
dant angels came forward to fasten
the sacred Casulla around him.

After the time of St. Ildefonso
no one ever ventured to use this
chasuble till the presumptuous Sis-
berto was made archbishop; but he
experienced the fatal effects of his
rashness and died a miserable death
in exile. This precious garment
was carefully preserved fifty-seven
years at Toledo, and then carried
to the Asturias to save it from the
Moors perhaps by Pelayus when
he floated down the Tagus two hun-
dred and fifty miles in a wooden
chest, a second Moses destined to
save his nation :

" The relics and the written works of saints.
Toledo's treasure, prized beyond all wealth,
Their living and their dead remains,
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore."

When the church of San Salva-
dor at Oviedo was completed, Al-
fonso el Casto had the Santa Ca-
sulla solemnly conveyed thither,
and there it remains to this day.

St. Ildefonso and the holy Ca-
sulla are to be seen at every hand's
turn at Toledo. Countless houses
have a majolica medallion depicting
them inserted in their front walls.
They are sculptured over one of the
doors of the cathedral, and several
times within. And among the numer-
ous paintings that adorn the edifice
are two in which the Blessed Virgin
is clothing St. Ildefonso with some-
thing of the grace and majesty of
heaven.

But the vision of St. Ildefonso
is specially commemorated on the
spot where it occurred by a beau-
tiful little temple of open Gothic
work on one side of the nave. Here
the whole legend is admirably told
by Vigarny in a series of bas-reliefs
in marble. In the outer wall is in-

serted the slab on which the Vir-
gin's feet rested, protected by an
iron grating. Both the grate and
slab are worn by the fingers of the
devout. No one passes without
thrusting his hands through the
grating to touch the stone, after
which he kisses the tips of his fin-
gers and makes the sign of the
cross.

The Capilla mayor is of excessive
richness. Jasper steps lead up to
the high altar. The retable, cover-
ed with countless sculptures, rises
almost to the arches, alive with
scenes from the life of our Saviour
amid innumerable pinnacles, and
niches, and statues of most elabo-
rate workmanship. Around are
the tombs of the ancient kings of
Spain, and among them that of the
celebrated Cardinal Mendoza, the
tertins rex, who took so prominent a
part in the government in the time
of Ferdinand and Isabella a tomb
in the Plateresco style, and worthy,
not only of that great prelate, but
of the marvellous chapel in which
it stands. Near by is the effigy of
the Alfaqui, who interposed in fa-
vor of Queen Constanza and Arch-
bishop Bernard, and opposite is a
statue of San Isidro, who led Al-
fonso VIII. to victory at Navas de
Tolosa, as well as one of that king
himself in a niche. There is cer-
tainly nothing grander in all Chris-
tendom than this chapel nothing
more in harmony with the imposing
rites of the church, which are here
celebrated with a majesty that is
infinitely impressive.

The chapel of the Sagrario con-
tains the celebrated statue of the
Virgin so honored by the Goths,
said to have been saved from the
Moors by an Englisl^rnan. It is of
wood, black with age, but entirely
plated with silver, excepting the
face and hands. This Madonna

A Bircfs-Eye Vieiv of Toledo.

793

stands in a blaze of light from the
numerous lamps, and is absolutely
sparkling with jewels. One of her
mantles is of silver tissue embroid-
ered with gold thread (that requir-
ed three hundred ounces of gold
to make) and thousands of pearls
weighing nearly as much. There
is scarcely room for the rubies, em-
eralds, and diamonds suspended on
this mantle. That of the Child is
similar in style, and took nine per-
sons over a year to embroider.

Near by, in the chapel of Santa
Marina, is a tombstone over the re i
mains of Cardinal de Carrero, the
king-maker of Philip the Fifth's
time, with* its Hie jacet pulvis, ci-nis,
et nihil ! sublime cry of Christian
humility.

Every chapel in this cathedral is
worthy of interest. One bears the
curious name of the Christo de las
Cucliaras, or of Spoons, from the
armes parlantes of Diego Lopez de
Padilla emblazoned here three pa-
dillas, or little paddles in the form
of a spoon. It was a lady of this
family who, in some civil contest,'
stripped the statues in the cathe-
dral of their valuable ornaments as
a means of defraying the expenses
of the war, but first kneeling before
them to beg the saints' pardon for
the liberty she was about to take.

Then there is the beautiful cha-
pel of Los Reyes Nuevos, lined with
rich tombs in sculptured recesses,
each with its recumbent effigy,
among which is that of a daughter
of John of Gaunt, " time-honored
Lancaster," who married a Spanish
prince.

The chapel of Santiago, in the
flamboyant style, was built before
the discovery of America, by Alva-
ro de Luna, grand-master of the
Knights of Santiago. On every
side are scallop-shells, emblem of
the tutelar, and the crescent, cog-

nizance of the Luna family. The
tomb of the founder is in the cen-
tre, with knights, cut in alabaster,
keeping eternal watch and ward
around their chief, who is lying
on his tomb ; while monks and
nuns that have turned to stone
seem to pray for ever around that
of his wife.

The Mozarabic chapel, with its
memories of Cardinal Ximenes,
is very interesting. One side of it
is entirely covered with a fresco of
the battle of Oran, in which the
cardinal took a leading part, full
of animation and vigor. Here the
Mozarabic rite which he re-estab-
lished is still kept up.

What the primitive form of the
Spanish liturgy was we have no
certain knowledge, for it was super-
seded, or greatly modified, by the
Goths. After the fourth Council
of Toledo, presided over by St.
Isidore of Seville, a uniform lit-
urgy was established throughout
the kingdom, to which was given
the name of Mozarabic from that
of the Christians who lived under
the Moorish rule, and only had
permission to maintain their own
rites by the payment of an annual
tribute. The Gregorian liturgy was
introduced in the time of Alfonso
VI. by the wish of the pope. The
clergy and people were at first in
consternation at the proposed
change, but the archbishop, Ber-
nard de Sedirac, was in favor of
it, and he was sustained by the
government. Six churches at To-
ledo were assigned to the Mozara-
bic rite, but by degrees the Gre-
gorian acquired ascendency. Mo-
zarabic books became more and
more rare, and the rite was nearly
abandoned when Cardinal Ximenes,
in order to preserve a vestige of it,
founded this chapel in the year
1500, and had the ancient service

794

A BircPs-Eye View of Toledo.

printed at Alcala de Henares. One
peculiarity of this rite is, the Host
is divided into nine parts, which
are placed on the paten in the form
of a cross, in memory of the Incar-
nation, Nativity, Circumcision, Ado-
ration of the Magi, Passion, Death,
Resurrection, Ascension, and Eter-
nal Reign.

The chapter-room of the cathe-
dral is the richest in Spain. It is
Moorish in style, and has a mag-
nificent artesonado ceiling of gold
and azure, rare carvings in oak,
and a profusion of paintings, most-
ly portraits of the archbishops of
Toledo, ninety-four in number,
among which is that of Carranza,
the confessor of Mary Tudor, and
such a favorite of Charles V. that
he summoned him to his death-bed
at Yuste.

But the best paintings are in the
sacristy. Here is the Santa Casulla
on the ceiling, by Luca Giordano,
the most productive painter that ever
existed, and on the wall is El Gre-
co's chef d? autvre the casting of lots
for Christ's garment in which the
artist introduced his own portrait
as one of the soldiers. There is
also a beautiful Santa Leocadia
rising from her tomb, by Orrente.
St. Ildefonso is cutting off a por-
tion of her veil, according to the
legend, which says that while he
was celebrating Mass at the tomb
of this saint on her festival, Dec.
9, in presence of the king and a
great crowd, the stone that cover-
ed the tomb, which it took thirty
strong men to remove, was sudden-
ly raised, to the amazement of the
assembly, and St. Leocadia came
forth shrouded in her veil. Going
to St. Ildefonso, she took him by
the hand and said : " Ildefonso, it
is by thee the Queen we serve in
heaven hath obtained victory over
her enemies ; by thee her memory

is kept alive in the hearts of the
faithful." She then returned to
her tomb, but before it closed on
her for ever the archbishop had
presence of mind enough to com-
mend the king and nation to her
prayers, and, taking a knife from
the king, cut off a corner of her
veil, which is still preserved in the
Ochavo and solemnly exhibited on
her festival.

The Ochavo is a fine octagonal
room entirely lined with precious
marbles. Here are the silver
shrines of St. Eugenius and St.
Leocadia, with silver statues and
reliquaries, and countless articles
of great value. The riches of this
church ^re still extraordinary,
though the French carried off more
than a ton of silver objects in their
day. A dignitary who officiated in
a procession while we were there
wore a magnificent collar, which we
afterwards examined. It was ab-
solutely covered with pearls, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, etc. A man
followed him with a mace, as if to
guard it. The silver custodia for
the Host, the largest in the world,
weighs four hundred pounds, and is
composed of eighty thousand pieces.
It is of the florid Gothic style, and
contains two hundred and sixty-six
statuettes. Cardinal Ximenes or-
dered it to be made in 1515, but
it took nine years to complete it.
There is another of pure gold,
weighing thirty-two pounds, which
Isabella the Catholic had made of
the first ingots from the New World,
as a tribute to the divine Host.
After her death Cardinal Ximenes
bought it and presented it to his
cathedral.

The vestments in the sacristy are
perhaps unrivalled. Many of them
are hundreds of years old, of rare
embroidery that looks like painting,
done on cloth of gold. We remem-

A Birds-Eye Vieiv of Toledo.

795

ber one cope in particular, on
which is the coronation of Mary,
done by hands of fairy-like skill.
All the crowns of the divine person-
ages, as well as their garments, are
edged with real pearls, and "the
whole scene, though wrought with
silk, seemed to have caught some-
thing of the celestial beauty and
calm rapture of Fra Angelico.

We have given only a faint idea
of this magnificent cathedral, which
must be seen to be fully appreciat-
ed. No wonder the proverb says :
Dives Toledana. Leaving the church
by the first door at hand, we salut-
ed the huge San Christobalon,
forty feet high, on* the wall saint
of propitious omen, whom we al-
ways like to meet.

The cathedral cloister is charm-
ing with its laurels, orange-trees,
and myrtles. The frescoed arcades
are brilliant with the poetic legends
of the church of Toledo, among
which are St. Leocadia refusing to
sacrifice to Jupiter, and Santa Ca-
silda, a Moorish princess converted
to the faith, visiting the Christians
in her father's dungeons. Around
the gate of the Nino Perdido is
painted the legend from which it
derives its name, similar to that of
St. Hugh of Lincoln. This "lost
child " was of Christian parentage,
and kidnapped in 1490 by the Jews,
who carried him to La Guardia.
On Good Friday they took him to
a neighboring cave and made him
undergo all the tortures of the Pas-
sion, finally crucifying him at the
ninth hour, at which time his blind
mother, who was at a distance, is
said to have suddenly recovered her
sight. His heart was torn out and
wrapped up with a consecrated
Host, as if from some dim sense of
the connection between the Sacred
Heart and the Holy Eucharist, and
sent by a renegade to the Jews of

Zamora. In passing through Avila
he entered the cathedral, and, while
pretending to pray, the people were
surprised to see rays of light issue
from his person. They thought he
was a saintly pilgrim, and reported
the occurrence to the holy office.
He was questioned, and, his replies
being unsatisfactory, was arrested
and convicted of being accessory to
the crime.

On the Plaza Zocodover once
took place the bull-fights and other
public spectacles of Toledo. It
has always been a market-place,
and, above the arcades, is the cha-
pel of the Christo de la Sangre,
where Mass used to be said for the
benefit of the market-men, who
could thus attend to their devotions
without leaving their stalls.

It is on the Plaza Zocodover you
may make the pleasant acquaintance
of " a most sweet Spaniard, the
comfit-maker of Toledo, who can
teach sugar to slip down your throat
a million of ways," and by none
easier than what is called the eel of
Toledo, which could not have been
surpassed in Shakspere's time a
most delicious compound of sweet-
meats, fashioned like a huge eel,
which is sold coiled up in a box.
If the famous eels of Bolsena are to
be compared with those of Toledo,
it is not surprising that, as Dante
implies, they even tempted Pope
Martin the Fourth, particularly if
he had been recently subjected, like
us, to the "divine diet " of the Fon-
da de Lino !

There are numerous charitable
institutions at Toledo, due to the
munificence of its great prelates,
who, if they had immense revenues,
knew how to spend them like princes
of the church. Cardinal Mendoza
spent enormous sums on the mag-
nificent hospital of Santa Cruz,
which is now converted into a mili-

79<5

A Birds-Eye View of Toledo.

tary academy. Here the cross,
which the cardinal triumphantly
placed on the captured Alhambra
in 1492, and which forms the de-
vice on his arms, is everywhere
glorified. This hospital is noted
for its unrivalled sculptures of the
Renaissance, particularly those of
the grand portal, which is really a
jewel of art. The discovery of the
True Cross by St. Helena is ap-
propriately the chief subject. The
beautiful patio is surrounded by
Moorish galleries which, as well as
the staircases, are sculptured. On
all sides are the Mendoza arms, with
its motto composed by an angel :
Ave Maria, gratia plena. The rooms
have fine Moorish ceilings. The
church is peculiar in shape, being
in the form of a Mendoza cross,
with four long arms of equal length.
The right transept is now used for
gymnastic exercises, and the left
one as a school-room. On the wall
still hangs the portrait of its great
founder, expressive of lofty pur-
pose. He was familiar with the
din of camps, as well as with the
peaceful duties of charity, and does
not look out of his element in this
military school. The building is a
grand monument to his memory,
and one of the wonders of Toledo.
The hospital of St. John the Bap-
tist was built by Cardinal de Ta-
vera in the sixteenth century, and
in so magnificent a style as to make
people reverse the murmuring of
Judas and say : " To what purpose
is tli is waste ? And why hath all
this money been given to the poor?"
The tomb of the beneficent prelate,
sculptured by Berruguete, is in the
centre of the nave. It is in the
cinque-cento style. At the corners
stand some of the virtues that
adorned his life : Prudence, with a
mirror and mask ; Justice, with
scales ; Fortitude, with her tower ;

and Temperance, pouring water from
a vase. Over the tomb still hangs
the cardinal's hat, after three hun-
dred years.

In front of this hospital is a
small promenade, ornamented with
rude statues of the old Gothic
kings. Keeping on, outside the
city walls, we passed tower after
tower of defence at the left, while
at the right lay the Vega, where
are still some remains of an old
Roman amphitheatre. At length
we came to the ruined palace of
Roderick, the last of the Goths,
built by good King Wamba of more
pleasant memory. In a niche is a
rough statue, purporting to be Don
Roderick himself, looking where
he has no business to look down
on the baths of Florinda. An im-
mense convent beyond towers up
over the walls, like a prison with
its grated windows, that are dismal
from without, but which command
an admirable view over the valley
of the Tagus, along whose banks,
rise steep cliffs like palisades, with
here and there an old Moorish mill.
Just below, the river is spanned by
St. Martin's bridge with its ancient
fortifications. On the rough hills
beyond are numerous cigarrales, or
country-seats. There is something
wild and melancholy about the
whole scene. The river itself rushes
on in a fierce, ungovernable manner,
as if it had never come under the
influences of civilization. It comes
from the palasontologic mountains
of Albarracin, and flows on hun-
dreds of miles, disdaining all com-
mercial appliances, in lonely, lordly
grandeur, till lost in the Atlantic.
Its current is clear, green, and rap-
id, though poets sing it as the river
of the golden waves. Don Quixote
tells of four nymphs who come forth
from its waters and seat themselves
in the green meadow to broider

A Bird* s-Eye Viciv of Toledo.

797

their rich silken tissues with gold
and pearls, referring to Garcilasso
de la Vega, the poet-warrior of
Toledo, who says :

" De cuatro ninfas,que del Tajo amado
Salieron juntas, acan tar me ofresco. . . . ''

Farther up the river are a few Arab
arches of the palace of Galiana, a
heroine of ancient romance. She
was the daughter of King Alfahri,
who gave her this rural retreat, and
embellished it in every possible
way. The young princess was of
marvellous beauty, and generally
lived here to escape from her nu-
merous suitors, among whom was
Bradamante, a gigantic Moorish
prince from Guadalajara. This re-
doubtable wooer endeavored, but
in vain, to soften her heart. He
only served to keep his rivals in
check. At length a foreign prince,
none other than the mighty Char-
lemagne himself, came to aid her
father in the war against the King
of Cordova. He was at once cap-
tivated by the beauty of Galiana,
and, as she showed herself by no
means insensible to his advances,
he soon ventured to ask her hand
in marriage. To dispose of Prince
Bradamante, he challenged him to
a private combat, and struck off his
head, which he offered to the bride-
elect. This obstacle removed, the
wedding soon took place, and Ga-
liana was triumphantly carried
to France. Some pretend Charle-
magne never crossed the Ebro, but
we have unlimited faith in the le-
gend, on which numberless songs
and romances are based, and sold
to this day by blind men on the
public squares of Toledo.

One of the attractions of Toledo
is Santa Maria la Blanca, an an-
cient Jewish synagogue in the style
of the mosque of Cordova, which,
after many vicissitudes, has become

a Catholic church. The name is
derived from the ancient legend of
Our Lady ad nives of the snow
which led to the foundation of San-
ta Maria Maggiore at Rome, and is
evidently popular in Spain fromgtfu'
number of churches bearing the
name. That at Toledo is very
striking from the horse-shoe arches,
one above the other, supported
by octagon pillars with curiously-
wrought capitals. There are lace-
like wheels along the frieze of the
nave, and the roof is of cedar a
tree sacred to the Jews, and which
they say only came to perfection in
the Garden of Eden. In their epi-
taphs we often read : " He is gone
down to the Garden of Eden, to
those who are amongst the cedars."
The Transito is another old syna-
gogue, which was erected in the
days of Don Pedro the Cruel by
Samuel Levi, his wealthy treasurer.
The architects were probably Moors,
for it is decorated in the style of
the Alhambra. It consists only of
one nave, but this is richly orna-
mented. Along the walls are He-
brew inscriptions, said to be in part
from the Psalms, and partly in
praise of Samuel Levi. His praises
were not on the lips of the people,
however. On the contrary, he was
very obnoxious to them on account
of his exorbitant taxes, and when
put to the torture by Don Pedro,
he was by no means regretted. The
Jews were specially detested at To-
ledo. It is said they opened the
city to the Moors, and subsequent-
ly to the Christians, and were faith-
ful to neither party. When expelled
in 1492, this building was given to
the Knights of Calatrava.

The church of San Juan de los
Reyes was built in 1476 by Ferdi-
nand and Isabella in gratitude for
a victory over the Portuguese. It
is now a parish church, but was

798

A Birs-Eye View of Toledo.

first given to the Franciscans, whose
long knotted cord is carved along
the fiieze. It is magnificently sit-
uated on a height overlooking the
Tagus. An immense number of
cfeyns are suspended on the outer
Walls, taken from Christian captives
in the dungeons of the Alhambra.
These glorious trophies were brought
from Granada in 1492, and cannot
be regarded without emotion. It
is said but who can believe it ?
that some of them were recently
used by the authorities to enclose
a public promenade, to save the ex-
pense of buying new ones a most
odious piece of economy, of which
Samuel Levi himself would not
have been guilty. The portal of
this church is a beautiful example
of the Plateresco style, exquisite as
goldsmith's work, with its fretted
niches and sculptured shields. The
building, though only intended for
a conventual church, is of grand
proportions and richly ornamented.
The emblems of Ferdinand and Isa-
bella, with other heraldic devices,
are sculptured amid delicate foli-
age around the royal gallery, and
over the high altar Cardinal Men-
doza is painted at the foot of the
cross.

The cloisters adjoining, of the
florid Gothic style, are exquisitely*
beautiful. They are built around
a pleasant court, which has a foun-
tain in the centre, and a profusion
of orange-trees and myrtles. The
niches of the arcades are peopled
with saints, and the columns and
arches covered with an endless va-
riety of acanthus leaves, lilies, bell-
flowers, ivy, holly, and even the
humbler vegetables, carved with a
skill that reminded us of Scott's
well-known lines :

" Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand
Had framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone."

The convent has been sequester-
ed, and the Gothic refectory of the
friars is now the public museum.
Near by was the palace of Cardinal
Ximenes, who was a member of the
Franciscan Order.

To say nothing about the swords
of Toledo would be almost like
leaving the hero out of the play.
Spanish weapons have been re-
nowned from ancient times. Titus
Livius and Martial mention them.
Cicero alludes to the pugiunculus
Hispanicnsis. Gratius Faliscus, a
friend of Ovid's, speaks, in particu-
lar, of the Cult rum Toledanum which
hunters wore at their belts :

" Ima Toledano praecingunt ilia cultro."

Swords continued to be fabricated
at Toledo in the time of the Gothic
kings. Their broad, two-edged
swords were probably the type of
the alfanjes of the Moors, which
we see in the paintings in the Al-
hambra. The kings of Castile ac-
corded special privileges to the
corporations of espaderos, such as
exemption from taxes on the steel
they used. This was brought from,
the Basque provinces, about a mile
from Mon dragon.

" Vencedora espada,
De Mondragon tu acero,
Y en Toledo templada "

" Sword victorious, thy steel is
from Mondragon, but tempered at
Toledo."

The most ancient Toledan sword-
maker known is a Moor called Del
Rey, because Ferdinand the Catho-
lic stood as godfather at his con-
version. His mark was a perrillo^
or little dog, which was so famous
that Don Quixote speaks of. it.
But the swords of Spain were in
general renowned all over Europe
in the middle ages. Froissart
speaks of the short Spanish dagger
with a wide blade. We know by

English Rule in Ireland.

799

Shakspere how much this weapon
was prized in England. It was a
trusty Toledo blade Othello kept in
his chamber.

The great blow to the sword
manufactory of Toledo was the in-
troduction of French costumes in
the seventeenth century, in which
swords were dispensed with. Car-
los III. resolved to revive this in-
dustry, and erected the present
fabric on the right shore of the
Tagus, more than a mile from the
city. The swords are inferior in
quality and lack their former ele-
gance of form. They participate

in the degeneracy of those who
wield them. Spain, once noble,
chivalrous, and of deep convictions,
has lost its fine temper and keen-
ness of thrust. The raw material
out of which such wonders were
wrought in the old days remains
still, however, in the people as in
the country. It only needs a re-
turn to old principles of faith and
honor on the part of the ruling
classes to prepare the way for a
new Spanish history, more glorious
and more advantageous to the
world at large than even Spain has
ever known.

ENGLISH RULE IN IRELAND.

No one can pass from England
into Ireland without being struck
by the contrast in the condition of
the two countries a contrast so
marked and absolute that it is re-
vealed at the first jglance, and in
lines so bold and rigid that it seems
to have been produced by nature
itself. In England there is wealth,
thrift, prosperity; in Ireland, pov-
erty, helplessness, decay. Into the
great heart of London, through ar-
teries tii at stretch round the globe,
the riches of the whole earth are
poured. Dublin is a city of the
past, and, in spite of its imposing
structures, impresses us sadly. The
English cities are busy marts of
commerce or homes of comfort,
luxury, and learning. The Irish
towns are empty, silent, decayed.
Into England's ports come the ships
of all the nations; but in Ireland's
hardly a sail is unfurled. There
the chimneys of innumerable facto-
ries shut out with their black smoke
the light of heaven ; here the Round

Tower or the crumbling ruin stands
as a monument of death. England
is over-crowded ; in Ireland we
travel for miles without meeting a
human being; pass through whole
counties from which the people
have disappeared to make room for
cattle. Freedom is in the very air
of England : the people go about
their business or pleasure in a stur-
dy, downright way, and in a con-
scious security under the protection
of wise laws; in Ireland we cannot
take a step without being offended
by evidences of oppression and
misrule. The people are disarmed
and unprotected, guarded by a for-
eign soldiery, the servants of an
alien aristocracy.

To what causes must we ascribe
this wide difference in the condition
of two islands, separated by a nar-
row strip of sea, with but slight dis-
similarity of climate, and governed
ostensibly for now nearly seven
hundred years by the same laws ?

The explanation given univer-

8oo

English Rule in Ireland.

sally by English writers, with the
tone with which one is accustomed
to affirm axiomatic truths, is based
upon the dissimilarity of the two
peoples in naturaf character and in
religious faith. The Irish, they say,
are by nature discontented, idle,
and thriftless, and their religion
is in fatal opposition to liberty and
progress. The subject is worthy
of our attention. Ireland is an an-
omaly in European history. Just
at the time when the other Chris-
tian nations, after overcoming the
divisions and feuds of a barbarous
age, were settling down into the
unity which renders harmonious
development possible, the seed of
perpetual discord and never-ending
strife was planted ineradicably in
her soil. Three hundred years of
almost incessant warfare with the
Dane had left her exhausted and
divided, an easy prey to the Nor-
man barons, who introduced into
her national life a foreign blood and
an alien civilization.

From that day to the present
time Ireland's fate has been the
saddest of which history has pre-
served the record. There has
been no peace, no liberty, no pro-
gress. Opposing races, contrary
civilizations, and opposite religions
have clashed in such fierce and
bloody battles that we could almost
fancy the furies of the abyss had
been let loose to smite and scourge
the doomed land. Mercy, justice,
all human feelings have been ban-
ished from this struggle, which has
been one of brute force and fiendish
cunning. Whatever the stronger
has been able to do has been done ;
and there is no good reason for
believing that England, in her deal-
ings with Ireland, has ever passed
one just law or redressed one
wrong from a humane or honorable
motive. From the conquest to the

schism of Henry VIII., a period r
nearly four centuries, the,.. En;
colonists, entrenched within the '
and receiving continually reinforce-
ments from the mother country,
formed a nation within a nation, al-
ways armed and watching every op-
portunity to make inroads upon the
possessions of the native princes,
who were not slow to return blow for
blow. There was no security for
life or property ; the people were
left to the mercy of barons and
kings, to be robbed and pillaged or
butchered in their broils. Nothing
could be more inhuman than Eng-
lish legislation in Ireland during
these four centuries, unless it be
English legislation in Ireland dur-
ing the three centuries which fol-
lowed. Henry II. confiscated the
whole island, dividing the land
among ten of his chief followers;
though they were able to hold pos-
session of but a small part of the
country. In the legal enactments
and official documents of this pe-
riod the term habitually used to
designate the native population is
"the Irish enemy." They were
never spoken of except as " the
wild Irish," until, as an English
writer affirms, the term " wild Ir-
ish " became as familiar in the Eng-
lish language as the term wild
beast. They were denied the title
of English subjects and the pro-
tection of English law. An act,
passed in the reign of Edward II.,
gave to the English landlords the
right to dispose of the property
of their Irish dependents as they
might see fit. All social and com-
mercial intercourse with the " Irish
enemy " was interdicted. An Irish-
man if found talking with an Eng-
lishman was to be apprehended as
a spy and punished as an enemy
of the king; and the violation of
an Irishwoman was not a crime

English Rule in Ireland.

80 1

before the law. Even exile was
Mcrmitted as a mitigation of
misery ; for a law of Henry

. iorbade the " Irish enemy M to
emigrate. There is no exaggera-
tion in the address which the peo-
ple of Ireland sent to Pope John
XXII. :

" Most Holy Father," they say,
" we send you some precise and
truthful information concerning the
state of our nation, and the wrongs
which we are suffering, and which
our ancestors have suffered from the
kings of England, their agents, and
the English barons born in Ireland.
After having driven us by violence
from our dwellings, from our fields
and our ancestral possessions after
having forced us to flee to the
mountains, the bogs, the woods, and
caves to save our lives they cease
not to harass us here even, but
strive to expel us altogether from
the country, that they may gain
possession of it in its entire extent.
They have destroyed all the writ-
ten laws by which we were former-
ly governed. The 'better to com-
pass our ruin, they have left us
without laws. ... It is the
opinion of all their laymen, and of
many of their ecclesiastics, that
there is no more sin in killing an
Irishman than in killing a dog.
They all maintain that they have
the right to take from us our lands
and our goods."

In the second period of English
rule in Ireland, to the war of races
was added a war of religion, in
which the " Irish enemy " became
the " Popish idolater." To kill an
Irishman was no sin, and to exter-
minate idolatrous superstition was
a mission imposed by Heaven upon
the chosen people to whom the pure
faith of Christ had been revealed.

Then began the series of butch-
eries, devastations, famines, exter-
VOL. xxiv. 51

minations, and exiles which have
not yet come to an end. The hor-
rors of these three centuries have
not been written ; they can never
be rightly told, or even imagined.
Ireland was not only conquered,
but confiscated.

Elizabeth confiscated 600,000
acres of land in Minister after the
revolt of the Earl of Desmond ; her
successor, James I., confiscated a
million acres in Ulster. Charles I.
confiscated 240,000 acres in Con-
naught, and would have confiscat-
ed the whole province had he been
able to obtain possession of it.
Under the Commonwealth 7,708,-
237 acres were confiscated. Wil-
liam of Orange confiscated i, 060,-
ooo acres. And in these confisca-
tions we have not included the
lands of the church, which were all
turned over to the Establishment.
The atrocity of England's Irish
wars is without a parallel in the
history of Christian nations. Wo-
men and children were murdered in
cold blood ; priests were burned to
death ; churches were pillaged and
set on fire ; towns were sacked and
the inhabitants put to the sword ;
men and youths were put on ship-
board, carried into mid-ocean, and
deliberately thrown into the sea.
Others were sold as slaves in the
Barbadoes. Whatever could serve
as food for man was destroyed,
that famine might make way with
all who escaped the sword.
Spenser, the poet, who visited Ire-
land after the revolt of the Earl of
Desmond, in the reign of Elizabeth,
has left us a description of the con-
dition of that province as he saw it :
" Out of every corner of the woods
and glens they came, creeping
forth upon their hands, for their
legs could not bear them ; they
looked like anatomies of death ;
they spake like ghosts crying out of

802

English Rule in Ireland.

their graves ; they did eat the dead
carrions, happy where they could
find them ; yea, and one another
soon after, inasmuch as the very
carcasses they spared not to scrape
-out of their graves ; and if they
found a plot of water-cresses or
-shamrocks, there they flocked as to
a feast for the time, yet not able
long to continue therewithal ; that
in short space there were none al-
most left ; and a most populous
and plentiful country suddenly left
woid of man and beast." *

Lord Gray, one of Elizabeth's
"'lieutenants, declared towards the
'end of her life that "little was left
-in Ireland for her Majesty to reign

over but carcasses and ashes."

Cromwell's wars were even more
cruel, and left Ireland in a condi-
tion, if possible, more wretched still.
Half the people had perished ; and
the survivors were dying of hunger
-in the bogs and glens in which they
had sought refuge from the fury
of the troopers. Wolves prowled
.around the gates of Dublin, and
wolf-hunting and priest-hunting be-
-came important and lucrative occu-
pations. But it is needless to dwell
longer upon this painful subject.
Let us remark, however, that it
would be unjust to hold Elizabeth
-or Cromwell responsible for these

cruelties. They but executed the
will of the English people, who still
cherish their memories and justify

; these outrages. No English ruler

ever feared being called to account
for harshness or tyranny in dealing

-with Ireland. The public opinion
of the nation considered the extir-
pation of the Irish as a work to

v be done, and applauded whoever
helped forward its consummation.
This much we may affirm on the
authority of Protestant witnesses.

* " A View of the State of Ireland," by Edmund
Spenser.

"The favorite object of the Irish
governors," says Leland, "and of
the English Parliament was the ut-
ter extirpation of all the Catholic
inhabitants of Ireland."

" It is evident," says Warner,
"from the Lords-Justices' last letter
to the Lieutenant, that they hoped
for an extirpation, not of the mere
Irish only, but of all the English
families that were Roman Catho-
lics."

The feeling against the Irish was
even stronger than against the
church, so that the English seemed
to feel a kind of pleasure in the ad-
herence of the Celtic population to
the old faith, since it widened the
chasm between the two races. They
really made no serious efforts to
convert the Irish to Protestantism.
They neglected 'to provide them
with instructors capable of making
themselves understood. They put
forth no Protestant translation of
the Bible in the Irish language, but
contented themselves with setting
up a hierarchy of archbishops, bish-
ops, and rectors whose lives were
often scandalous, and who, as Ma-
caulay says, did nothing, and for
doing nothing were paid out of the
spoils of a church loved and rever-
ed by the people. Some justifica-
tion for the extermination of the
Irish race would be found in the
fact that those who perished were
only papists. War, famine, confis-
cation, and exile had, by the close
of the seventeenth century, either
destroyed or impoverished the na-
tive and Catholic population of Ire-
land. The land was almost exclu-
sively in -the hands of Protestants,
who had also taken possession of
all the cathedrals, churches, and
monasteries which had escaped de-
struction. The Catholics, reduced
to beggary, were driven from the
towns and, as far as possible, from

English Rule in Ireland.

803

the English settlements into the
bleak and barren hills of Gonnaught.
In many instances the confiscated
lands had been given to English-
men or Scotchmen, with the express
stipulation that no Irish Catholic
should be employed by them, even
as a common laborer. In this ex-
tremity the Irish people were help-
less. Every line along which it
was possible to advance to a better
state of things was cut off. Their
natural leaders had been driven into
exile or reduced to abject poverty;
their spiritual guides had been mur-
dered or banished ; or if any had
escaped their pitiless persecutors, a
price was set upon their heads, and
they led the lives of outlaws, unable
to administer the sacraments even
to the dying, except by stealth.

All their institutions of learning
had been destroyed ; and England
permitted no instruction except in
the English tongue which the Irish
neither spoke nor were willing to
speak and in Protestant schools,
from which she knew the Catholics
were necessarily shut out. They
not only had nothing, but were in
a condition in which it was impos-
sible that they should acquire any-
thing. Indeed, the little security
which was still left them to drag
out a miserable existence was found
precisely in their utter helplessness
and wretchedness. They could no
longer be plundered, for they had
nothing ; they could not be butch-
ered in battle, for they were power-
less and without weapons; and so
their persecutors paused, not, as
the poet says, to listen to their sad
lament, but from sheer contempt
and indifference, thinking it no
longer worth while to take notice
of their hapless victims.

Three-fourths of the population
of the island were nevertheless still
Irish Catholics ; and in spite of

the persistent efforts to drive them
all beyond the Shannon, the mo-
ment the violence of persecution
abated large numbers showed
themselves in other parts of the
country, especially in the province
of Minister. It was at this time,
and to meet any danger that might
arise from the mingling of the
Irish Catholics with the Protestant
colonists, that the Penal Code was
enacted, by which the entire popu-
lation that still held to the ancient
faith was deprived of all rights and
reduced to tfie condition of helots
and pariahs. This Code, the most
inhuman ever contrived by the per-
verted ingenuity of man, was the
work of the Irish Parliament, which,
it is almost needless to say, repre-
sented only the Protestants of Ire-
land. Violence had done its work ;
the Catholic Irish had been reduce
ed to a condition as wretched as it
is possible for man to suffer and live ;
and now the form of justice and
the semblance of law are invoked
to make this condition perpetual.
Suddenly, and for the first time, the
Protestants of Ireland seem animat-
ed with religious zeal for the con-
version of the Catholics. The ex-
termination of the Irish race was
abandoned as hopeless ; and, indeed,
there seemed to be no good ground
for believing that a people who had
survived the wars, famines, and ex-
iles by which Ireland had been drain-
ed of its population during the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries
could be extirpated. Nothing re-
mained, therefore, but to convert
them. This was the pretext with
which men sought to hide the mon-
strous iniquity of the penal laws. All
bishops and monks were ordered to
quit Ireland before the ist of May,
1698, under pain of imprisonment
and transportation ; and, in case
they should return, they were to

804

English Ride in Ireland.

suffer death. Heavy fines were
imposed upon all who harbored or
concealed the proscribed ecclesias-
tics ; and rewards were offered for
their discovery or apprehension.
Care was taken at the same time
to exclude all foreign priests. By
thus cutting off from Ireland the
fountain-source of orders and ec-
clesiastical jurisdiction, it was con-
fidently expected that in a few
years the Catholic priesthood would
cease to exist there, and that the
people, left without priests or sacra-
ments, would have no alternative
but to become Protestants. Every
exterior sign of Catholic worship was
suppressed, and it was tolerated only
as a hidden cult, whose ceremonies
were performed with bated breath,
clandestinely in cabins and unfre-
quented places. Whatever appeal-
ed to the heart or the imagination
was condemned. The steeple that
pointed to heaven ; the bell whose
religious tones thrilled with accents
of a world of peace ; the cross that
told of the divinity that is in
suffering and sorrow; the pilgrim-
ages in which the people gathered
to cherish sacred memories and to
do homage to worthy deeds and no-
ble lives, were all proscribed. And
even the poor huts in which it was
possible to offer the Holy Sacrifice
were carefully watched by the of-
ficers of the law, as to-day, in the
great cities, places of infamy are
put under the surveillance of the
police.

Having suppressed the hierarchy
and shorn the Catholic religion of
its splendor, the rulers of Ireland
next proceeded to adopt measures
by which every imaginable induce-
ment to apostasy was held out both
to the clergy and the laity. An
annual pension, first of twenty, then
of thirty, and finally of forty pounds
sterling was offered to all priests

who should abandon their religion.
Whether or not they accepted this
bribe was held to be of small impor-
tance, as their ranks were rapidly
thinned by death, and precautions
had been taken that the vacancies
should not be refilled.

The Catholic people were placed
in a position like that of the Forty
Martyrs, who were exposed naked
on the frozen lake, surrounded by
warm baths and comfortable houses,
which they could enter by renounc-
ing their faith. The deepest and
holiest instincts of human nature
were appealed to against the most
sacred convictions which man is
capable of holding. If the father
wished to educate his child, schools
abounded, but he could enter them
only by abandoning his religion.
He was not, indeed, forced to send
his children to these Protestant
schools, but it was made impossible
for him to send them to any other.
His tyrants went farther. They
spared no pains to make it impossi-
ble that an Irish Catholic should
learn anything even by stealth.
All Catholic schoolmasters were
banished from Ireland, and, in case
of return, were to suffer death.

The law made express provision
for the money necessary to defray
the expenses of transporting these
obnoxious persons. Nay, it went
yet farther. There were schools on
the continent of Europe to which a
few Irish children might possibly
find their way. This danger was
foreseen and met. An act was
passed prohibiting Catholics from
sending their children across the
Channel without special permission,
and the magistrates were authoriz-
ed to demand at any time that pa-
rents should produce their children
before them. Beyond this it was
not possible to go. All that human
enactments can do to degrade the

English Rule in Ireland.

805

mind of a whole people to a state
of brutish ignorance was done.
And let us remark that this applied
not to the Irish only, but to all
Catholics who spoke the English
language. The English govern-
ment took from them every oppor-
tunity of knowledge, made it crimi-
nal for them to know anything ; and
then they were denounced by Eng-
lish writers almost universally as
the foes of learning and as lovers
of ignorance. We know of no hard-
er or more cruel fate in all history,
nor of a more striking example of
the injustice of the world towards
the church. Even here in the
United States we Catholics are
still suffering the consequences of
this unparalleled infamy. But we
have hardly entered on the subject
of the Penal Laws : we are as yet
on the threshold.

'The enforced ignorance of the
Irish Catholics was but a prepara-
tion for innumerable other legal
outrages. From all the honorable
careers of life they were mercilessly
shut out from the army; the navy,
the magistracy, and the civil service.
That a Catholic was not permitted
to become an educator we have
already seen. As little was he al-
lowed to perform the functions of
barrister, attorney, or solicitor.
He could neither vote nor be elected
to office. Shut out from all public
life, from every liberal profession,
disfranchised, ignorant, despised,
was anything else needed to make the
Irish Catholic the most wretched of
men ? His land had been confiscated,
he had been robbed ; he was a beg-
gar ; but might he not hope gradually
to lift himself out of the degradation
of his poverty ? To regain ownership
of the soil was out of the question.
He was disqualified by law, which,
however, permitted him to become
a tenant not to do him a favor,

but solely for the benefit of the
landlord, to whose arbitrary will he
was made a slave. This is but half
the truth. The iniquity of the law
mistrusted the rectitude of human
nature even in an Irish landlord.
He was therefore compelled to be un-
just to his tenant ; to give him but
short leases ; to force him to pay at
least two-thirds of the value of the
produce of his farm ; to punish him
for improving his land by augment-
ing the rent; and, lest there should
be any doubt as to the seriousness
of these' barbarous enactments, a
premium was offered for the discov-
ery of instances of their violation in
favor of Catholic tenants. The land-
lord was not allowed to be just, but
he was free to be as heartless and in-
human as he pleased. His tenants
had no rights, they belonged to a
despised race, they professed an
idolatrous religion, and their exter-
mination had been the cherished
policy of the English government
for six hundred years. If there
was no hope here for the Irish Ca-
tholic, might he not, with better pros-
pects, turn to commercial or indus-
trial pursuits ?

Without, for the present, taking
a larger view of this question, it
will be sufficient to consider the re-
strictions placed upon Catholics in
this matter. Commerce and man-
ufacture were controlled by muni-
cipal and trading corporations of
which no Irish Catholic could be a
member. This of itself, at a time
when monopoly and privilege were
everywhere recognized, gave to Pro-
testants the entire business of the
country.

Prohibitory laws were therefore
not needed. But no security could
lull to rest the fierce spirit of the
persecuting Protestant oligarchy.
A Catholic could not acquire real
estate ; he could not even rent land.

8o6

English Rule in Ireland.

except on ruinous terms ; he could
not exercise a liberal profession or
fill a public office; he was unable
to engage in commerce or manu-
facture ; he had no political rights,
no protection from the law ; and, to
make all this doubly bitter, his mas-
ters were at once the enemies of his
race and his religion. This, one
would think, ought to have been
enough to satisfy the worst of ty-
rants. But it is of the nature of ty-
ranny that the more it oppresses,
the more it feels the necessity of
inflicting new wrongs upon its vic-
tims. Every motive that incites
men to activity and labor had been
taken from the Catholics, and yet
their oppressors, with the cowardice
which naturally belongs to evil-
doers, were still fearful lest some of
them might, by chance or good for-
tune, acquire wealth enough to lift
them above the immediate neces-
sities of life. A universal threat
was therefore held over all who pos-
sessed anything. A Catholic was
not allowed to own a horse worth
more than five pounds ; any Pro-
testant in the kingdom might take
the best he had by paying him that
sum. Whenever it was deemed
necessary to call out the militia, the
law declared all horses belonging
to Catholics subject to seizure; and
twenty shillings a day for the main-
tenance of each troop was levied
on the papists of the country. When-
ever property was destroyed, the
law assumed that the Catholics
were the offenders, and they were
forced to indemnify the owners for
their loss. They were taxed for
the support of the government, in
which they were not allowed to
take part and from which they
received no protection ; for the
maintenance of the Established
Church, in which they did not be-
lieve and which was already rich

with the spoils of the Catholic
Church.

No Catholic was permitted to
marry a Protestant ; and the priest
assisting at such marriage was pun-
ished with death. No Catholic
could be a guardian ; and to the
agonies of death this new pain was
added : that the dying father fore-
saw that his children would be com-
mitted to Protestants, to be brought
up in a religious faith which had
been the unclean source of all the ills
that had befallen him and his coun-
try. The law held out a bribe to
Catholic children to induce them
to betray their parents, and put a
premium on apostasy.

This inhuman Code was not
framed at one time, nor was there
found in its enactments any system
or unity of purpose, other than that
which is derived from the hate of
the persecutor for his victim. To
this blind fury whatever helped to
crush and degrade the Catholic
people of -Ireland seemed just.

Though it seems almost incredi-
ble, it is nevertheless certain, that
the execution of these laws was
worse than the laws themselves.
The whole intent of the legislators
being directed to the extermination
or perversion of the Irish Catholics,
the fullest license was granted to
the caprice and cruelty of individ-
uals. The Catholic had no pro-
tection. If he sought to defend
himself, he was forced to employ a
Protestant lawyer, who could bring
his case only before a Protestant
judge, who was obliged to submit it
to a Protestant jury. In these cir-
cumstances recourse to the law was
worse than useless. The great
landed proprietors were accustom-
ed to deal out justice with a high
hand. They had prisons in their
castles, into which, for or without
cause, they threw their helpless

English Ride in Ireland.

807

dependents ; and whenever these
outrageous proceedings were com-
plained of, the grand juries threw
out the indictments. To horsewhip
or beat the poor Catholics was a
frequent mode of correction, and
they were even deliberately mur-
dered without any fear of punish-
ment. This we have upon the au-
thority of Arthur Young, whose tes-
timony is certainly above suspicion ;
and he adds that the violation of
their wives and daughters was not
considered an offence. If the
great lord met them on the road,
his servants were ordered to turn
their wagons and carts into the
ditch to make room for his carriage ;
and if the unfortunate wretches
dared complain, they were answered
with the lash. For a Catholic to
bring suit against his Protestant
persecutor would have been at once
most absurd and most dangerous.

The religious fanaticism which
had inspired the Penal Code lost
its honesty and earnestness amid
these frightful excesses. The tyrant
is degraded with his victim, and
crimes committed in the name of
religion, if they begin in sincerity,
end in hypocrisy. Even the poor
honesty of blind zeal vanishes, and
selfishness and hate alone remain.
This is the sad spectacle which Ire-
land presents to our view after the
first fury of persecution had spent
itself. The dominant class grew in-
different to all religion, and, having
ignominiously failed to make any
impression on the faith of the Cath-
olics, connived at their worship.

But as zeal grew cold, self-inte-
rest became more intense. So long-
as the Catholics remained in pover-
ty and helplessness no notice was
taken of them ; but the moment they
acquired anything which could ex-
cite the cupidity of a Protestant,
the law was appealed to against

them. The priest, who, according
to the Code, incurred the penalty
of transportation or hanging for
saying Mass, could violate this arti-
cle with impunity, provided he pos-
sessed nothing which might serve
as a motive for denouncing him.
The laws against Catholic wgrship
were kept upon the statute-book,
chiefly because they served as an
ever-ready and convenient pretext
for robbing Catholics. Another
end, too, scarcely less important,
was thereby gained. The Catholics,
even when left in pea<:e, lived in
continual fear, knowing that any
chance spark would be sufficient to
light the flames of persecution. In
this way it was hoped that the mar-
tyr-spirit in them would give place
to the spirit of the slave; and this
hope was not altogether delusive.
Since there was a kind of security
in remaining in abject poverty, in
lurking in secret places, in speaking
only with bated breath, and in
showing the most cringing servility
in the presence of their masters, the
Catholics came by degrees to look
upon this servile condition as their
normal state, and hardly dared even
hope for a better. We may remark
that this is another instance in
which the Catholic Church is held
responsible for the work of Protes-
tants. Protestant England has
enslaved Catholic Ireland; has for
centuries put forth the most heart-
less and cunningly-devised efforts
to extinguish in the Irish Catholics
every noble and free aspiration of
the human heart ; and then she has
turned round and appealed to the
world, with the cant which is twin-
born with hypocrisy, to bear wit-
ness that Ireland is in fetters be-
cause the Catholic Church is op-
posed to liberty; and the world, in
whose eyes success is ever the high-
est and the best, has smiled approval.

8o8

English Rule in Ireland.

Is it, then, possible that six hun-
dred years of hereditary bondage, of
outlawry, of want and oppression,
should produce no evil effect upon
the character of a people, however
nobly endowed by God ? Are we
to expect industry when every mo-
tive that incites men to labor is ab-
sent ? How can he who is forbid-
den to possess anything be provi-
dent ? Or is it not natural that the
hopelessly wretched should grow
desperate, reckless of their deeds
or their consequences?

Great misfortunes, like great suc-
cesses, try men as nothing else can.
In the lowest depths of misery we
are apt to forget that there is a
lower deep. For ourselves, the
more we study the history of the
Irish people, and compare their
character with the wrongs which
they have suffered, the more won-
derful does it seem to us that they
should have remained superior to
fate. If they have not wholly
escaped the evil influences of the
worst of all tyrannies, nothing, at
least, has been able to destroy their
purity, their hopefulness, their trust
in God,- and belief in the final
triumph of right. They are, in our
eyes, the highest example of the
supremacy of the soul, of the in-
vincible power of faith ; the most
striking proof of a divine Provi-
dence that watches over the destiny
of nations. It will not be thought
out of place to quote here the
words of a Protestant historian who,
in his old age, seems to regret the
impartiality and generous love of
unpopular truth which characteriz-
ed his earlier manhood.

" Such," says Mr. Bancroft,
" was the Ireland of the Irish a
conquered people, whom the vic-
tors delighted to trample upon and
did not fear to provoke. Their in-
dustry within the kingdom was pro-

hibited or repressed by law, and
then they were calumniated as na-
turally idle. Their savings could
not be invested on equal terms in
trade, manufactures, or real proper-
ty, and they were called improvi-
dent. The gates of learning were
shut on them, and they were derid-
ed as ignorant. In the midst of pri-
vations they were cheerful. Suffer-
ing for generations under acts which
offered bribes to treachery, their
integrity was not debauched. No
son rose against his father, no
friend betrayed his friend. Fideli-
ty to their religion to which afflic-
tions made them cling more closely
chastity, and respect for the ties
of family remained characteristics
of the down-trodden race." *

So long as there was question of
oppressing and impoverishing the
Irish Catholics the Protestant As-
cendency received the hearty ap-
proval and efficient co-operation of
the English government. But there
was danger lest these Irish Protes-
tants, possessing acoun try of the rich-
est natural resources, should come to
compete with England in the mar-
kets of the world.

There are few countries in the
world so fertile as Ireland. About
one-half of the island consists of
a fat soil, with a chalky sub-soil,
which is the very best of soils. The
richness and beauty of her mea-
dows were celebrated byOrosius as
early as the fifth century. The
climate is milder than that of Eng-
land ; the scenery more varied and
lovely. The frequent rains clothe
the fields with perpetual verdure.
From her wild mountains gush
numerous rivers, which, as they flow
into the sea, form the safest and
most capacious harbors, while in
their rapid course they develop a

* History of the United States^ vol. v. chap. iv.
P. 73.

English Rule in Ireland.

809

water-power, available for purposes
of manufacture, unsurpassed in the
world. This water-power of Ire-
land has been estimated by Sir
Robert Kane at three and a half
millions of horse-power. The coun-
try abounds in iron ore, and three
centuries ago Irish iron was export-
ed to England. Geologists have
counted in the island no less than
seven immense beds of both anthra-
cite and bituminous coal ; and of
turf, the heating power of which is
half that of coal, the supply is inex-
haustible. The soil is most favor-
able to the growth of the beet-root,
from which such large quantities of
sugar are made in France and Bel-
gium. The flax and hemp, as is
well known, are of the best quality,
and the fineness of Irish wool has
long been celebrated. The rivers
and lakes abound in trout and sal-
mon and pike ; and the fisheries
alone, if properly managed, might
become the source of enormous
wealth. Were it not that, in the
designs of Providence, the most
cunningly-devised plans, when con-
ceived in iniquity, defeat them-
selves, the English statesmen would
have perceived that the most effica-
cious means for bringing about the
result at which the policy of Eng-
land, in its relations with Ireland,
had always aimed, would have been
the encouragement of Irish com-
merce and manufactures. No bene-
fit could have accrued, from such a
course, to the Catholic population,
which was not only disfranchised,
biit rendered incapable by law of
acquiring or possessing wealth.

Had the descendants of the
Scotch and English settlers planted
by Elizabeth, James, and Cromwell
been permitted or encouraged to
develop the natural resources of
the country, they would not only
have grown strong, but opportuni-

ties of remunerative labor and hope
of gain would have attracted new
settlers, and in this way Ireland
would have been filled with Protes-
tants, whose loyalty would have
been firmly secured by this wise and
conciliating policy. The agitations
which rendered some ameliora-
tion of the condition of the Catho-
lics unavoidable as part of a gene-
ral system would not have taken
place; the strength of the Protes-
tant Ascendency would have grown
with increasing numbers and wealth ;
exile would have remained the only
refuge of the Catholic remnant from
misery and death ; and Ireland to-
day might be as Protestant as was
Ulster in the reign of Charles I.

But no motive of religion or hu-
manity has ever influenced the
policy of the English government
when there was question of English
interests. The desire of acquiring
wealth or the necessity of defending
one's possessions are, in the opinion
of Englishmen, the only sufficient
reasons for going to war.

" Even in dreams to the chink of his pence
This huckster put down war."

It was not to be expected that Ire-
land, with her harbors and rivers,
her fertile fields and unnumbered
flocks, would be permitted to tempt
capital to her shores or to stimulate
enterprise. Nothing seemed more
shocking to the English traders and
manufacturers than the thought
of having to compete in the home
and foreign markets with the pro-
ducts of Irish industry. It was
deemed intolerable that this nest of
popery, this den of ignorance and
corruption, should be dealt with in
the same manner as England. The
Parliament was therefore called up-
on to " make the Irish remembe?
that they were conquered."

England had assisted the Protes-

810

English Rule in Ireland.

tants of Ireland to crush the Catho-
lics ; she had for this purpose placed
at their service her treasures, and
her armies ; and now the Irish Pro-
testants were required, in evidence
of their gratitude, to sacrifice the
commercial and industrial interests
of their country to English jeal-
ousy.

At the end of the seventeenth
century the manufacture of woollen
.stuffs had attained to considerable
importance in the southern provin-
ces of Ireland. The superiority
of the Irish broadcloths, blankets,
and friezes was recognized, and it
was therefore resolved that they
should no longer be manufactur-
ed. The Lords and Commons, in
1698, called upon William III. to
protect the interests of English
merchants ; and his majesty repli-
ed in the well-known words " I
shall do all that- in me lies to dis-
courage the woollen manufacture
of Ireland." Accordingly, an ex-
port duty of four shillings in the
pound was laid on all broadcloths
carried out of Ireland, and half as
much on kerseys, flannels, and
friezes. This, in fact, was equiva-
lent to a prohibition, and the ruin
of the Irish woollen manufactures
which followed was not an unfore-
seen, but the directly intended, con-
sequence of this measure. The linen
manufacture, since there were at
the time no rival English interests,
was opposed only in an indirect
way by offering large bounties for
the making of linen in the High-
lands of Scotland, bounties on the
exportation of English linen, and
by imposing a tax of 30 per cent,
on all foreign linens, with which
most of the Irish linens were class-
ed.

Still other measures were needed
for the complete destruction of
Irish commerce and industry. The

Navigation Laws forbade all direct
trade between Ireland and the Bri-
tish colonies ; so that all produce
intended for Ireland had first to be
unloaded in an English port. The
Irish were not allowed to build or
keep at sea a single ship. " Of all the
excellent timber," said Dean Swift
in 1727, "cut down within these fifty
or sixty years, it can hardly be said
that the nation hath received the
benefit of one valuable house to
dwell in, or one ship to trade with."
The forests of Ireland, which so
greatly added to the beauty of the
country, were felled and carried to
England to build ships which were
to bring the wealth of the world in-
to English ports. Even the Irish
fishery " must be with men and
boats from England."

By these and similar measures,
commercial and industrial Ireland
was blotted out of existence, and
even the possibility of her ever
entering into competition with Eng-
land for the trade of the world dis-
appeared. The unjust legislation
by which Irish industry was re-
pressed was not inspired by religious
passion nor directed against the
Catholic population. Their condi-
tion was already so wretched and
helpless that it would have been
difficult to discover anything by
which it could have been made
worse. " The aboriginal inhabi-
tants," says Macaulay "more than
five-sixths of the population had
no more interest in the matter than
the swine or -the poultry ; or, if they
had an -interest, it was for their in-
terest that the caste which domi-
neered over them should not be
emancipated from all external con-
trol. They were no more repre-
sented in the Parliament which sat
at Dublin than in the Parliament
which sat at Westminster. They
had less to dread from legislation

EnglisJi Rule in Ireland.

Sti

at Westminster tnan from legisla-
tion at Dublin. . . . The most ac-
rimonious English Whig did not
feel towards them that intense an-
tipathy, compounded of hatred, fear,
and scorn, with which they were
regarded by the Cromwellian who
dwelt among them." *

Molyneux, who at this time came
forward as the champion of Ireland
and of liberty, demanded nothing
for the Irish Catholics but a more
cruel slavery ; and Dean Swift, who
gained much popularity for his ad-
vocacy of Irish rights, declared he
would as soon think of consulting
the swine as the aboriginal inhabi-
tants of the island.

Indisputable* as the fact is that
the Irish Catholics had no direct-
interest in the contest in which the
commerce and industry of their
country were destroyed, the con-
sequences of the iniquitous policy
of England proved nevertheless
most disastrous to them. Manual
labor was the only work which they
were permitted to do, and there
now remained for them nothing
but the tillage of the soil, either
as tenants-at-will or common la-
borers. Ireland was to supply
England with beef and butter, and
the work of exterminating the Irish
Catholics was not to be pushed
further than the exigencies of suc-
cessful cattle-grazing might de-
mand. Society was constituted in
the simplest manner. There were
out two classes the possessors of.
the soil and the tillers of the soil :
the lord and the peasant ; the mas-
ter and the slave ; the Protestant
and the Catholic ; the rich man and
the beggar. There were but two
kinds of human dwellings the cas-
tle, with its high walls and splendid
park, and the mud cabin, in which

* History of England, vol. v. p. 45.

it was impossible that there should
be anything but filth and rags.
The multitude lived for a few
men, by whom they were valued
as their horses or their dogs, but
not treated so humanly. A con-
trast more absolute has never ex-
isted, even in the despotisms of
Asia. The picture is revolting ; it
cannot be contemplated even in
imagination without loathing, or
thought of with any composure.
It is a blot on humanity, an infamy
which no glory and no services can
condone. Ireland was in the hands
of the worst class of men whom
history has ever made odious an
aristocracy which hated the land
from which it derived its titles, de-
spised the people from whom it re-
ceived its wealth, shirked the duties
and responsibilities imposed by its
privileges, and used its power only
to oppress and impoverish the na-
tion. The Irish people were thus
under the weight of a double tyr-
rany that of England and that of
their lords; and the fiend best
knows which was the worst.

The Southern planter felt a kind
of interest in his slaves they were
his property; an Irish landlord felt
no interest of any kind in the peo-
ple by whom he was surrounded.
It was important that they should
remain slaves, beggars, and out-
casts ; that the chasm which sepa-
rated him from them should in no
way be diminished; but for the
rest he gave no thought whether
they starved or murdered one an-
other or were drowned in the deep.
He spent most of his time in Eng-
land, living in luxury, leaving his
estates to the care of brutal agents,
who pleased him the better the more
cruel and grinding their exactions
were. English in origin and sym-
pathy, Protestant in religion, there
was no bond of union between him

812

English Ride in Ireland.

and his people. He cared neither
for the country nor its inhabitants.
He was unwilling to risk capital
even to improve his own lands; for
he had no faith in the permanence
of a social and political state
which was possible only because
it outraged the holiest and best
instincts of man's nature. When it
was proposed to take steps to drain
the bogs and bring the waste lands
of Ireland under cultivation, the
Protestant party strenuously op-
posed the measure, on the ground
that this would be an encourage-
ment to popery. Nothing, there-
fore, was done either by the gov-
ernment or the landlords to improve
the soil or to introduce better me-
thods of tillage. The great pro-
prietors, living in London, spend-
ing their time and fortune in a life
of pleasure and display, let out
their estates to land speculators,
who were generally capitalists.
These speculators sublet them, in
lots of several hundred or a thou-
sand acres, to a class of persons
called middlemen, who divided
them up into portions of five, ten,
or twenty acres, and rented them
to the poor Catholics. By neither
the proprietors nor the speculators
nor the middlemen was any risk of
capital made. The peasant was
therefore compelled to rent his little
plot of ground, bare of everything
he found on it neither dwelling nor
stabling, nor implements of any kind.
He had nothing himself, and those
whose interest it would have been
to advance him money were un-
willing to risk a penny. All that
he could do was to put up a mud-
cabin, and to get a wretched spade
with which to begin work. If by
honest labor he could have looked
forward to an improvement in- his
condition, his lot would not have
been altogether comfortless. The

pioneers who in this new world
have led the army of civilization
from the Atlantic to the Pacific
began life almost as poor as an
Irish peasant of the seventeenth or
the eighteenth century ; but for
them no law of man reversing na-
ture's first law made labor sterile.
How was the poor Irish Catholic,
with but a few acres of ground, and
without the necessary means for
proper cultivation, to pay the exor-
bitant rent which was to support
the landlord, the speculator, and
the middleman? for upon him alone
rested the burden of maintaining
all three in a life of ease and luxury.
The soil refuses to satisfy the un-
reasonable demands made upon it ;
the tenant finds that he is unable
to pay his rent; and without the
least ceremony he and his wife and
children are turned upon the road.
England having destroyed the com-
merce and manufactures of Ireland,
he can find nothing to do, and, if
he is unwilling to see his wife and
children starve, he must beg. And
even beggary, with its frightful de-
gradations, affords little relief; for
the rich spurn him and the poor
have nothing to give. Few words
are needed to bring home to us the
significance of this state of affairs.
We have only to recall the tragedy
which was enacted under our eyes
in 1849. In that one year fifty
thousand families were turned upon
the road to die; two hundred thou-
sand human beings, without shelter,
without bread, sent up their piteous
moan of hunger and despair to God
from the midst of a Christian na-
tion, the richest in the world. The
terrible famine of 1847 and 1848,
which was only an unusually start-
ling outbreak of an evil that has
long been chronic in Ireland, was
not caused by excess of population.
The country, if its resources were

English Rule in Ireland.

properly developed, is capable of
supporting a far larger number of
inhabitants than it has ever had.
There were but eight millions of
people in Ireland in 1847, and it
iias been conclusively proven that
under favorable circumstances fif-
teen millions would not be an ex-
cessive population. In fact, in the
so-called years of scarcity, when
the people were dying, by thou-
sands, of starvation, the country
produced enough to feed its in-
habitants ; but they had to sell their
wheat, barley, and oats to pay the
rent, and, the potato crop having
failed, they had nothing to eat. In
1846 and 1847 enormous quantities
of grain and live-stock were export-
ed from Ireland to England, and
yet the people of Ireland were
starving. During the four years of
famine Ireland exported four quar-
ters of wheat for every quarter im-
ported. The food was in the coun-
try, but it had to be sent to Eng-
land to pay the rent of the land-
lords. The people were starving,
but that was no concern of these
noble gentlemen, so long as their
rent was paid. The cry of hunger
has rarely been hushed in Ireland.
All through the eighteenth century
the people died of starvation. In
1727 Boulter, the Protestant Arch-
bishop of Armagh, declared that
thousands of families were driven
from their homes by hunger; and
Dean Swift has given us an account
of the condition in his time of even
the better class of tenants. " The
families," he says, "of farmers who
pay great rents live in filth and
nastiness. upon buttermilk and po-
tatoes, without a shoe or stocking
to their feet, or a house as conven-
ient as an English hog-sty to re-
ceive them." In 1734 the famous
Bishop Berkeley asked this ques-
tion : " Is there on the face of the

earth any Christian and civilized
people so destitute of everything as
the mass of the people of Ireland ?"
In 174* the cemeteries were too
small for the burial of the multi-
tudes who died of hunger.

In 1778, while we were struggling
for freedom from English tyranny,
Lord Nugent declared, in the House
of Commons, that the people of Ire-
land were suffering all the destitu-
tion and misery which it is possible
to human nature to endure. Nine-
tenths of them earned no more
than fourpence a day, and had no
nourishment but potatoes and wa-
ter. In 1817 'the fever, brought on
by hunger, attacked one million
five hundred thousand persons
nearly half of the entire population
of the country. In 1825, 1826,
1830, 1832, 1838, 1846 to 1850, and
finally in 1860, 1861, and 1862, the
melancholy cry of multitudes dying
of hunger was heard throughout
the land. In 1843 Thackeray,
travelling in Ireland, declared that
"men were suffering and starving
by .millions"; and a little later we
know from the most accurate statis-
tics that more than a million of the
Irish people died of hunger within
a period of two years. The history
of Ireland is, we are persuaded, the
sublimest and the saddest of all
histories. It has neverbeen written,
and the grandest of themes awaits
the creative power that will give it
immortal life on the pictured page.
It will be written in the English
language, and it will link the Eng-
lish name and tongue for all time
with the greatest social crime which
one people ever committed against
another. In another article we
hope, by the aid of the faint and
glimmering light that shines so fit-
fully in this blackness, to be able
to trace the doubtful and devious
way along which this providential

814

A MarcJi Pilgrimage.

race seems to be slowly rising into
the promise of a better day. For
the present we shall conclude with
a quotation from De Beaumont,
whose careful and conscientious
studies on the Social, Political, and
Religions Condition of Ireland we
recommend to all who are inter-
ested in this subject.

"I have seen," he wrote in 1835,
" the Indian in his forests and the
negro in chains, and I thought, in
beholding their pitiable state, that I
saw the extreme of human misery ;
but I did not then know the fate
of poor Ireland. Like the Indian,
the Irishman is poor and naked ;
but he lives, unlike the savage, in
the midst of a society which rev-
els in luxury, and adores wealth.
Like the Indian, he is deprived
of every material comfort which
human industry and the commerce
of nations procure ; but, unlike him,
he is surrounded by fellow-crea-
tures who are enjoying all that he

is forbidden even to hope for. In
the midst of his greatest misery the
Indian retains a kind of independ-
ence which is not without its charm
and its dignity. Destitute as he is,
and famishing, he is yet free in his
wilderness; and the consciousness
of this freedom softens the hard-
ships of life. The Irishman suffers
the same destitution without having
the same liberty. He is subject to
laws, has all kinds of fetters; he
dies of hunger, and is under rule ;
deplorable condition, which com-
bines all the evils of civilization
with the horrors known elsewhere
only to the savage ! Doubtless the
Irishman who has shaken off his
chains, and still has hope, is less to
be pitied than the negro slave.
Nevertheless he has to-day neither
the liberty of the savage nor the
bread of the slave."*

* L? Irlande : Sociale, Politique et Religieusc.
Par Gustave de Beaumont, Memb re de 1'Institut.
Tom. i. p. 222.

A MARCH PILGRIMAGE.

ON Provence' hills the touch of southern spring
No laggard she with footstep faltering
Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,
Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.

In western lands, o'er turbulent seas afar,
Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,
Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snow
All scentless drifting to the earth below.

Alike on Provence' violet-studded fields,

And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,

Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent

The church's sorrow with spring's promise blent.

A MarcJi Pilgrimage. 815

c Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,
With shining altars in glad white arrayed,
In those far, frosty lands the church's voice
Bid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.

Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her song
Notes strong and jubilant swift poured along:
The long-hushed " Gloria " wond'ring echoes woke,
The angels' chant the mournful silence broke.

Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;
Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,
And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isle
Brought Patrick's faith to make their new home smile :

In rich possession of the " Unknown God " ;
Blessing the rivers and the prairies broad
With cities populous and cross-crowned spires,
And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.

So rose, exultant, on the bleak March day
The joyous notes across Lent's sombre way :
Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,
Thanking for Patrick's faith their Lord divine.

Not Provence' blossoms such glad music woke
Though happy birds in spring-time laughter broke ;
Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,
And church and people, sorrow-laden all.

Yet joyful echoes from that western land
Spoke 'mid the lapsing waves on Nice's strand ;
Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,
The heart of one who, through long busy days

Of years unresting, had with patience toiled,
With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiled
Amid the strong new world's tumultuous life.
With such persuasion his wise words were rife

As if the grace of Savoy's bishop-saint
Were his to loving guide the weak and faint ;
As if, like Padua's dear saint benign,
He bore the burden of the Child divine.

He saw afar his Irish children kneel,
The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal ;
Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,
He sought St. Honorat's pine-girdled shore

A March Pilgrimage.

There treading where St. Patrick trod of old, ^

When gathered his young heart the words of gold
That should for heaven's King a new realm win
A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.

Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,
Here thoughtful paced he Lerins' learned shade.
Ruined the abbey 'mid its olives rests,
Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests

Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,
And Lerins' vines and olives still enfold
A cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,
And Benedictine lore with labor blends.

Here, with all holy memories possessed,
With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,
The pilgrim knelt in that peace-shadowed place
Mingling his prayers with Ireland's tearful race.

Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,
While hearts, his lips had taught, St. Patrick praised,
In love, 'neath western clouds and Provence' sun,
The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.

O great St. Patrick ! each day grows more wide
The realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,
A King revered on royal altar throne,
In patient love abiding with his own.

Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,
Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,
One day with that true beauty may be crowned,
That girds thy island's mournful brows around

The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,
Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured :
W T in thou for her great heart's best heritage
The steadfast bearing of faith's strongest age.

Oh ! win her stars for beacon-light to guide
The restless wanderers from the Cross's side,
Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed
The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.

Pray that her hands be ever raised to bless
Meek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness ;
Pray tllat her soul for evermore be free,
Signed with the chrism of true liberty.

Six Sunny Months.

SIX SUNNY MONTHS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE HOUSE OF YORKE," u GRAPES AND THORNS, " ETC.

CHAPTER X.
A BREEZE FROM THE WEST.

THEY were rather late with their
coffee the next morning, and while
they were taking it the bells of
Santa Pudentiana, close to them,
were ringing a morto one, two,
three, and again one, two, three
with a mournful persistence.

" It is just what we need," the
Signora said. " Our danger, at this
moment, is that we may be too
lightly happy. Those .bells mean
that a nun is dead, and that there
is to be a High Mass for her in half
an hour or so. Shall we go ?"

Marion, who had joined them,
and was sitting beside Bianca, said
to her : " We are not afraid of see-
ing death, are we ?"

" But we might be better for be-
ing reminded of it," she said.

The ladies followed the people's
pretty fashion of putting black lace
veils on their heads instead of bon-
nets, and had the good taste, too,
to exchange their gay morning
house-dresses for black ones before
going to the church.

" Jt is the one thing in which I
would have my country-women imi-
tate the Roman ladies," Mr. Vane
said " in. their sober costume for
the church."

The sun was scorching when
they went out, and shone so bright-
ly on the gold ground of the mosaic
front of Santa Pudentiana that the
figures there flickered as if painted
on flame. But the sunken court
had a hint of coolness, and when
they entered the church they were
VOL. xxiv. 52

very glad to have the light wraps
the Signora had told them to bring ;
for the air was chilly and damp,
the floor being a full story below
the level of the modern street, and
not a ray of sunshine entering, ex-
cept what got in by the cupola.
This was enough to light beauti-
fully the mosaics of the tribune,
where it is hard to believe one does
not see a balcony, with the Saviour
and the saints looking over, so real
are the forms.

The Mass which they had come
to hear was, however, nearly ended,
having begun with a promptitude
unusual in Rome. In a few min-
utes the priest left the altar, the
people went away, and the lights
were put out. Seeing two or three
persons enter the sanctuary, and go
to look through an open panel in
the side wall, our party followed
them, and found that the panel
opened into a chapel, or chamber,
beside the grand altar. This cham-
ber was so draped as to be perfect-
ly dark, except for the candles that
burned at the head and feet of the
dead nun lying there. She lay
close to the open panel, and in
sight of the altar where the divine
Sacrifice had just been offered for
her, if her eyes could have seen it.
It was the emaciated bjit beautiful
form of a woman of middle age,
dressed in her religious costume,
with her hands crossed on her
breast, the face composed into an
expression of unspeakable solem-

8i8

Six Sunny Monti is.

nity and peace. Awe-stricken and
silent, they stood and gazed at her.
They had come here from charity,
indeed, but rather to temper their
too earthly happiness with a merely
serious thought, as one cools a
heated wine with ice, making it more
delicious so^than from any profound
recognition of the dreadfulness of
death and the perils of life. But
these sealed lips spoke volumes to
them, and the dark and silent
'church, now quite deserted, chilled
ithem like the valley of the shadow
of death through which this soul
had passed whither ? It was a life
dedicated to God, and given up as-
sisted by all the sacred rites of reli-
gion ; yet that face told them that
death had not been met with any
presuming confidence, and that be-
fore the soul of the dying religious
the stern simplicity and clearness
of the primitive Christian law had
; stood untempered by any glozings.

Marion was the first to move.
Seeing Bianca look very pale, he
drew her away, and the others fol-
lowed.

How strange the gay sunny
world looked to them when they
went out! The unexpected solem-
nity of the scene had so drawn
their minds from everything else
that they had been chilled and
darkened in soul as well as in body.
Yet, though the warmth and light
were grateful to them, they had no
wish to cast entirely off that sombre
impression, and would have remain-
ed in the church to pray awhile,
but for the imprudence, in a sani-
tary point of view. Seeing, how-
ever, the door of the little church
opposite, the Bambino Gesu, open,
.they went in there a few minutes.
This church of the Infant Jesus is
attached to a convent of nuns, and
a company of young girls were
just entering from the sacristy to

make their First Communion, rang-
ing themselves inside the sanctuary.
They were dressed alike in white
cashmere robes, and long silk veils in
such narrow stripes of blue and
white as to look like plain blue,
fastened with wreaths of red and
white roses. Floating slowly in
with folded hands and fair, down-
cast faces, they knelt in a double
ring about the sanctuary, leaned for-
ward on the benches set for them,
and remained motionless as statues,
awaiting the coming of the Lord
for the first time into their inno-
cent hearts, as yet uncontaminated
and untried by the world. At each
end of the line a little boy, dressed
as an angel, stood bearing a torch.
For a week or ten days these girls
had all been in retreat in the con-
vent, instructed by the nuns ; and
when the Mass and their last break-
fast together should be over, they
would separate to their own homes,
never to meet again, perhaps.
Their parents and friends awaited
them now in the church.

When the household of Casa
Ottatif-otto went home, they found
a pile of letters and papers from
America awaiting them, which they
read and talked over in pauses of
the dinner. There were business
letters short, if not sweet; long fam-
ily letters, such as make one feel at
home again, with all their familiar
details and touching reminiscences;
there were items of public news, de-
scriptions of pageants in which the
New World had rivalled, or surpass-
ed, the Old ; of fierce storms that h ad
found the western continent a fit*
ting stage to sweep their tragic
skirts across; and of inundations
from great crystalline rivers to
which the classic Tiber is a mere
muddy sewer. There was noncha-
lant mention of immense frauds, of
fires that had devoured whole streets

Six Sunny Months.

819

and squares, and reduced scores of
persons to penury in a few hours,
and of gigantic schemes for building
up or pulling down. There were
accounts of some popular indigna-
tion, in which the people had spo-
ken without riot and been listened
to, and of authority enforced, where
law had conquered without blood-
shed or treachery ; of public sym-
pathy with great misfortunes where
no calculation of merit or reward
cramped the soul of the givers, but
the heart overflowed generously in-
to the hand. In fine, there was
a month's summary of such events
as those with which America, the
fresco painter of the age, sketches
her long, bold lines and splashes her
colors on the page of time.

" America for ever !" cried Isabel,
swinging a newspaper about with
such enthusiasm that she nearly up-
set the vinegar and oil bottles at
her elbow. " Do you know, my re-
spected hearers, that at this instant
my country is looking across the
ocean at me with a pair of eyes
like two suns. There isn't another
nation on earth that she couldn't
take between her teeth and shake
the life out of. Will you excuse me
while I go into the other room and
play and sing just one stanza of the
' Star-spangled Banner '?"

The Signora, who was breaking
lettuce in the snowy folds of a towel,
smiled beamingly on the speaker, at
the same time making haste to save
the imperilled cruets. " Season your
admiration for a while till I have
made the salad," she said. " I would
rather not have my attention dis-
tracted by patriotic music. Besides,
nobody sings at noon. The birds
are taking their nap, and you might
wake them. Besides, again, I want
you to save your voice for this even-
ing. Some American people are
coming here, and it might please

them to hear the songs of their
country in a strange land."

The Americans who came that
evening belonged to a party which
was making a flying tour of Europe,
and two of them were representa-
tives of two distinct and extreme
classes that which scoffs at every-
thing foreign, and that which is
enchanted with everything foreign.
Both were young, pretty, clever, and
fairly educated, had gone through
very nearly the same training, and
the one had come out almost, or quite,
a girl of the period, the other a girl
of the past. The Signora found her-
self obliged, as it were, to use the
curb with one hand and the whip
with the other while talking with
the two.

"Josephine and I are the best
of friends," said Miss Warder in
her free, rapid way, " and we prove
it I by being patient with her, and
she by trying my patience. The
number of times in a day that girl
goes into raptures over tilings
scarcely worth looking at is almost
incredible. I caught her yesterday
filling a bottle with Tiber water to
carry home. I believe she thinks
that brook is larger than the Missis-
sippi."

" So it is, in one sense," respond-
ed Miss Josephine in a soft and
tranquil voice. "If you should see
a little river all of tears, wouldn't
you think it more wonderful than
a big river all of water ?"

The Signora suggested that both
might be excellent in their way.

" Then, "pursued the other, "she
looks upon old families as she does
on attar of roses and sandal-woocl
a condensation of all that is exqui-
site, the rest being the refuse. Tell
her that a vulgar soul often gets it-
self into a privileged body, and she
is shocked at you. It is all I can do
to keep my hands off her when I see

820

Six Sunny Months.

her watching with admiring awe the
affected grandeur of these little great
people. "For me, I laugh at them."
And she tossed her head with the
scornful laugh of the democrat, at
which coronets tremble.

" My dear Miss Warder," said
the Signora in her gentlest manner,
" a great many wise people have
looked at these things seriously."

"Owls!" she pronounced with
an air of great satisfaction. " In-
deed," she owned with a little com-
punction, " I hope it isn't very bad
of me, but I can't be serious at any-
thing I see here. To-day I nearly
had a fit over a fire-engine that pass-
ed our place. It was a little sort
of handcart affair with four small
wheels, and a box bottom that
might hold half a barrel of water.
A bar at each side supported seven
painted tin pails, holding about two
quarts each, and there was a small
brass pump in the middle of the
carriage. This machine was wheel-
ed along by five men dressed in
gray pantaloons with stripes down
the sides, dark blue jackets, and
blue caps with a gilt band. I pre-
sume they all go home and put on
that costume after the bell rings, or
whatever alarm they have is given.
The arrangement was just about
suited to put out a bundle of
matches, only the engine would be
too late. The matches would be
burned before it got there. I wish
they could hear our electric fire-
alarm once, and see our beautiful
engines come flying out of their
houses before the first number was
well struck."

" I am proud of our fire-engines
and companies," the Signora said ;
" but they do not prevent our hav-
ing conflagrations such as are never
known here. The little thought
giiven to fire-extinguishing here
proves the little danger there is of

fires. In judging of what people
do it is always well to take into
consideration what is necessary to
be done. One would hardly find
fault with the Greenlanders for not
having large ice-houses."

" Their very scirocco disappointed
me," the young woman went on, un-
abashed. "I had the impression
that it was a tearing high wind, like
a blast out of a furnace. Instead
of that, it is only a warm and un-
wholesome breath. How different
from our sweet south winds at
home !"

" Speaking of winds," said Miss
Josephine, " reminds me of the
trumpet-bands. How wild and
stirring they are ! They make on
me ,an impression as of mingled
wind and fire."

The Signora smiled on the gentle
enthusiast.

" Then," pursued Miss Warder,
" the pokey, slow ways of these peo-
ple, and their ceremonies, and their
compliments, and their relics "
She stopped abruptly here, recol-
lecting that she was in a Catholic
household, and had the grace to
blush slightly.

" A little more ceremony and po-
liteness would do our people at
home a great deal of good," the
Signora replied coldly. " As to the
relics, it need not, I should think,
surprise even an unbeliever that
faith should preserve her memen-
tos as jealously as art has preserv-
ed hers, and that objects which be-
longed once to beings who now are
the companions of angels, and see
God face to face, should have been
held as precious as those which
have nothing but a physical beauty.
Or even if the relic should be of
doubtful authenticity still a thing
worthless in itself, but which has
been touched by the sincere vener-
ation of centuries, has a sort of ven-

Six Sic tiny Mont /is.

821

erableness nt>t to be mocked at. It
is like the iron which has been
touched by the lodestone, and so
magnetized, or the dull gray mist
kissed by sunbeams till it becomes
beautiful and luminous. I do not
know," she added, smiling, " but
you have all heard the story I am
going to tell you apropos of false
relics, but it was new to me when I
heard it a few days ago from a
clergyman. Many, many years ago
a man who was going to the East
was begged by a pious friend to
bring him back a piece of the true
cross. The voyager promised, but
forgot his promise till he was near
home. He did not wish to disap-
point -his friend; though, at the same
time, he had no faith whatever in
relics, or, indeed, in anything super-
natural. So, after considering a
while, he cut a tiny piece out of the
mast of the ship in which he was
returning homeward, enclosed it in a
reliquary, and in due time present-
ed it to his friend, who received it
without a doubt, and, of course,
told everybody what a treasure he
had become owner of. The news,
after awhile, reached the ears of a
man possessed by a devil, and he
immediately begged that the sa-
cred relic might be brought to de-
liver him. The bit of the ship's
mast was, accordingly, brought
with all ceremony and reverence,
the devil in possession who, of
course, knew the trick that had
been played laughing, undoubted-
ly, at the efforts about to be made
to drive 4iim away. But when the
necessary prayers had been said,
no sooner did the supposed relic
touch the possessed man than the
devil felt himself thrust violently
out and forced to fly. But he cried
out in parting : ' It is faith that
drives me away, and not your chip
of the old mast.' "

"That all answers perfectly, as
far as the believers are concerned,"
Mr. Vane said. " But I would like
to know what became of that East-
ern traveller."

" The principal dtnoAment so over-
flowed and hid him out of sight
that I did not ask, or have forgot-
ten," the Signora said. "Girls,
what should have been done to the
man who made the relic ? Isabel ?"

" He should have been at sea
again in that very ship, at .the time
of the miraculous cure," Isabel said.
" He should have been standing by
the very mast he had cut the bit
out of, and a flash of lightning
should have struck him dead."

" Oh ! no, Bella," said her sister.
" He should have been standing by
the possessed man when he was
cured, and should have been strick-
en with compunction, and should
have confessed, and been forgiven,
and been, for all the rest of his life,
a model of faith and reverence."

" Suppose," Mr. Vane suggested,
"that we should choose a medium
between extreme justice and ex-
treme charity, and say that the devil
which left the possessed man en-
tered immediately into that Eastern
traveller, and tormented him by
taking him on constant voyages to
Jerusalem, swinging him to and fro
like a pendulum, always in the same
ship, till at last, after many years,
his victim was enabled to make an
act of perfect faith in the power
and mercy of the God crucified,
and so be freed from his tormen-
tor."

Meantime, Mr. Coleman approach-
ed Miss Warder, timid but admir-
ing, much as one might approach a
beautiful panther, and seated him-
self on the edge of a chair near
her.

"You like Rome?" he inquired
in a conciliating voice, not meaning

822

Six Sunny Months.

anything whatever by the question,
except to open a conversation.
That was always the first thing lie
said to a foreigner.

The bright, laughing eyes of the
girl flashed over him in one scath-
ing glance. " It's charming !" she
said with enthusiasm. " One can
ask so many questions here without
being thought inquisitive. To be
sure, one doesn't always get an-
swers to them. I asked to-day a
very accomplished Monsignore the
meaning of the broken arch that
one sees over nearly all the altars,
and he couldn't tell me. May be
you can."

Mr. Coleman believed that it was
an architectural corruption that
came in with the decline of art, but
could not be positive.

"I wouldn't mind so much," she
went on, " if only they did not set
on the sides of it a hu an inhu-
man being, who would naturally be
sure to slide off if he weren't nail-
ed on, as, indeed, he is. It makes
one feel uncomfortable !"

The gentleman descended into
the depth of his consciousness for
some other subject, and came up
with

" Have you ever been to Bologna,
ma'am ?"

"No," she replied; "but I have
eaten Bologna sausage."

There was another silence. The
young woman folded her hands,
looked modest, and awaited the
next remark. It was rather slow
in coming, and feeble when it came.
" There are a great many Ameri-
cans in Rome this winter, I be-
lieve."

"Oh!" she said confidentially,
" nothing to what there are in the
United States. The country is full
of them. They bother the life out
of the foreigners."

Mr. Coleman contemplated his

companion's serious face for some
time with bewilderment, and at
length bethought himself to smile.

" I beg your pardon!" she said,
looking at him inquiringly, and
with a mild surprise.

He instantly became crimson.

" I that is, excuse me ! I did
not speak," he stammered.

" Oh ! you're very excusable,"
she replied, with an emphasis which
gave an exceedingly doubtful mean-
ing to the words.

In the midst of the dreadful
pause that followed a polite voice
was heard at the other side, where a
second moth had approached this
flame. It was a young Italian who
was learning English with such en-
thusiasm that he would almost stop
strangers in the street to ask defi-
nitions from them. "Would you
have the gentility to do me a favor,
miss ?" he asked.

** That depends quite on what the
favor may be," she replied, looking
at him with surprise ; for the gravi-
ty and ceremoniousness of his de-
meanor were such as to imply that
a very serious matter was in ques-
tion. " I'm sure I shall be very
happy to oblige you, if I can."

" Thanks !" he said, bowing.
" I learn now your beautiful and
noble language, the which is also
much difficult. To-day of it I have
seen a phrase, the which entangles
me. At first I it believed to be a
beast. But in the dictionary I
found another signification, but
without to be able to comprehend
it. The phrase is ' Iri^h bull.'
Will you do me the favor to ex-
plicate me the expression ?"

" Irish bull," Miss Warder said,
"means no thoroughfare. The
sense goes into the sentence and
sticks there ; it never comes out. *

The young man looked deeply
interested, but not enlightened.

Six Sunny Months.

823

He did riot dare to ask more, for
his teacher looked at him with an
air of having made a lucid explana-
tion which any one with common
sense should understand at once.

"It is a very noble language, the
English," he repeated faintly.

" I saw a perfect example of it
this morning in a place the other
side of the Corso," she resumed.
" A man with a donkey-cart got out
of a great crowd into a place be-
tween two rows of houses, evident-
ly expecting to find an outlet at
the other end. There was none,
and the passage was so narrow that
to turn was impossible. Now, im-
agine that man with his donkey-
cart to be an idea, and the houses
to be words, and you will under-
stand perfectly."

"Oh! certainly. It is clear!"
her pupil replied. "Thanks!"
His eyes twinkled, though his
mouth was perfectly grave. " It is,
then, something that diverts. You
hear the words spoken, you listen
at the other end for the signification
to come out, you hear it moving
about here and there inside, but
you never receive it. It is excel-
lent. It would be a good fortune
for the world if the people who
speak and write foolish or wicked
thoughts should serve themselves
always of this mode of expression."

Isabel interrupted this lesson by
coming to make some friendly in-
quiries of her young country-wom-
an, who, after a short conversation,
gave a slight sketch of her life and
adventures, speaking with the most
entire frankness.

Meanwhile, Miss Josephine was
talking to the Signora, who was
charmed by her looks and manner,
both the essence of soft and grace-
ful beauty. She was fair, rather
small, and plump, with the white-
ness of an infant, and pure golden

hair in thick waves fastened back
from a low forehead and the most
exquisite of ears with a long spray
of myrtle. Her dress was of the
softest gray color, close at the
wrists and throat, where delicate
laces turned out like the white
edges of a gray cloud. The only
light to this tender picture was
the hair, the blue eyes, and an
emerald cross, her only ornament.

" I have been to-day to see the
relics of Santa Croce," she said,
" I coaxed Miss Warder not to
go, though the permission included
her ; for she is such an unbeliever
that she spoils all my pleasure in
seeing such things. I am not form-
ally a Catholic, you know, but I
more than half believe. My heart
is all convinced, but my head holds
out yet a little. Perhaps that is
because I am not well instructed.
Well, I started early, so as to have
a walk alone from St. John Late-
ran across to Santa Croce. I loit-
ered along under the trees, perfect-
ly happy, looking about, telling my-
self over and over again where 1
was, and gathering daisies. I look-
ed at those daisies before I came
here this evening, and every one of
them had curled its little petals in,
and gone to sleep, like a company
of babies. In the morning they
will open their eyes again. Well,
I reached Santa Croce, and stood
on the steps there. Everything
was so quiet and beautiful, with
nature so sweet, and art so mag-
nificent. No one was near but two
or three soldiers about the convent
door. I knew before that the
government had taken nearly all
the convent. After a while I
heard a trumpet-call inside, and
presently company after company
of soldiers, half a regiment certain-
ly, came out and marched off to
the avenue to drill. They were

824

Six Sunny Months.

dressed in gray linen and white
gaiters, and looked like a crowd of
great moth- millers.

" A nice, bright-faced young officer
was walking to and fro near me,
and I spoke to him, and asked some
questions. He seemed pleased to
talk I suppose he felt dull there ;
and when I told him about our
army, and what I had seen during
the war, he asked me if I would
like to go in and see their quarters.
Of course I said yes. So he led
me in, and over the two stories,
and showed me the gardens and
courts at the back, and the splen-
did view from the south windows.
What halls they were ! long, wide
corridors, arched, and bordered
with pilasters, with a grand stair-
way climbing up from one side.
Unless for hospital or barracks,
with long rows of beds at the sides,
I cannot imagine what they were
made for, except simply to look at,
to walk through, and to make a
great pile on the outside. It seem-
ed building for the mere sake of
building. All the beds had the
mattresses folded up, with gray
blankets laid on them, and a little
shelf of things over the head. One
room, occupied by two officers, was
almost as simple. There were none
of the luxuries we have. Then the
view ! I fancied I could see half
of Italy spread out before me.
' But I pity the poor frati who
have been turned out,' I could not
help saying to my guide. ' So do
I,' he answered. The soldiers are
not to blame, you know. They
must obey. Then I went out, and
the others came, and we went up
lo the relic chamber. You go up
a good many stairs, and through a
chapel hung round with paintings,
and then through low-vaulted stone
passages, not high enough for a tall
man to stand up in. I should think

that the shape of the way we went
would be like a great letter C. At
the last turn we found ourselves in
the little chamber, where the great
relics had been set out on the altar.
Behind the altar were the strong
doors of the closets in the wall
where these relics are kept. On
the wall at the right of the door
was the relic-case of Gregory the
Great, about two feet square, with
a glass cover, and filled with an
innumerable collection of tiny re-
lics. But all eyes were turned to
the altar.

" The /rate who came with us
put on a stole, after lighting the
candles ; then we all knelt while he
said a prayer. And then, one by
one, he brought forward the relics,
and showed to each, and gave each
one to kiss and touch their beads
or crucifixes to, if they wished. I
looked at them with wonder, and
neither believed nor disbelieved.
It is so hard for us Americans, you
know, to believe in the antiquity
of things, unless we have material
proofs. The bone of the finger of
St. Thomas, the thorn from the
crown of thorns, the nail they
were impressive to me chiefly be-
cause saints had believed them au-
thentic, and centuries of Catholics
had venerated them. But when, at
last, he took down the crystal cross
from the centre of the altar, my
heart melted. I felt that it was
real. I wanted to snatch it, and
run away by myself, and cry over
and kiss it. I wished the others
would kneel, but they didn't. They
looked at the relic, and kissed it,
and that was all. Perhaps they
were each wishing that some one else
would kneel and set the example.
At length, when the last one had kiss-
ed it, I dropped on my knees, and
the others did the same, and the
frate gave us benediction with the

Six Sunny Months.

825

famous old relic of the true cross
that Santa Helena brought from
Jerusalem. Then he put the lights
out, and we came away, and some
of them bought fac-similes of the
nail and the inscription of the cross,
and we came down all the passages
again, and the painted cardinals on
tile walls of the upper chapel look-
ed at us as we passed, to see if we
were any better for the privilege
we had received, and so down
through the quiet church, and out
into the sunshine again. But that
crystal cross, with its three pieces
of dark wood inside, has been be-
fore my eyes ever since. It must
be real, for it speaks. When I
think of it, I can hear all the cen-
turies weep over it."

She stopped, smiling but choked
a little.

"Dear child!" said the Signora,
and pressed the girl's hand. "You
should enter the church at once."

There was no answer in words,
but the eyes spoke in an earnest
gaze, half pleading, half inquiring.

" My dear," her friend pursued
hastily, " this is no time for us to
talk over such a subject; but if you
would like to speak with me, and if
I can do anything for you, I shall
be very happy, and you can come
to me quite freely at any time."

" I shall come, then, very soon,"
the girl replied, and kissed the Sig-
nora's hand.

She had another pleasant inci-
dent of the day to tell ; for she had
been with a Catholic friend to see
Monsignor Me r milled, who was vis-
iting Rome, and the celebrated
Archbishop of Geneva had spoken
some kind words to her, and al-
lowed her to look at his ring, in
which was set a relic and an exqui-
site tiny painted miniature of St.
Francis of Sales.

" He spoke to us of the mission

of women," she said, " and of what
power women have for good and
evil, and his illustration was -from
Dante, and Beatrice was woman
leading man to Paradise. He spoke
so that all my former life seemed
to me trivial, and worse than, lost.
O dear Signora ! if all men whom
we wish to respect would speak so !
But it really seems that to please
them, and win an influence over
them, to have even their respect,
we must be mean. Such a man as
Monsignor Mermillod requires our
noblest qualities, and encourages
us to be true. One doesn't need
to be blatant in order to be kindly
noticed by him, nor to boast in or-
der to be appreciated. He is so
noble and clear-sighted, and his
very atmosphere is charity."

" Yes, he practises what he preach-
es," the Signora replied.

When the visitors were gone, the
family had a little quiet talk before
separating for the night. The in-
fluence of the Signcra and of Bi-
anca, falling on minds already pre-
pared to receive it, had been such
that they took happiness, and all
the delights of their daily life, not
as a wine that intoxicates to forget-
fulness of duty, but as an incentive
to quicken their sense of duty, and
a balm to alleviate the pains .to
come in the future. Every new
pleasure that the Heavenly Father's
bounty lavished on them, day after
day, was welcomed generously, but
with a tender fear. Amid all this
constantly-recurring beauty and sa-
credness they walked as among
angels, hushing themselves.

A quiet word touched the key,
and found all in tune ; as, striking
but the rim of a true bell, we hear
the chord float softly up from turn
to turn. Tacitly the first hesitating
motion to separate was abandoned,
and they drew nearer together in-

826

Six Sunny Months.

stead, and presently made a close
circle around the Signora's chair.

" It gives the mind a stretch to
hear different nations talking to-
gether, by even their feeblest re-
presentatives," Mr. Vane had ob-
served.

" Yes," Marion replied, lingering,
hat in hand. "It always gives me
the same feeling of space and gran-
deur that I have at sea, when I
watch the waves meet, as if the
East and the West were rushing to-
gether to kiss or to tear each other."

" I wonder," said Bianca, " if all
our national differences are to be
obliterated in heaven, and if we
shall have no more those little pi-
quant characteristics and discus-
sions which make us like each
other even better here."

The Signora sank into her arm-
chair, quoting the famous recipe
for cooking a hare : " ' First catch
your hare.' My dear friends, we
are not yet in Paradise, and we
have a good battle to fight before
we shall get there, and I move that
we look to our armor. At all
events, heaven has been described
for us by Him who makes it what
it is."

And then Mr. Vane came and
stood at the high back of her chair,
and a 'little beside her, and Isabel
took a footstool at the other side.
Marion and Bianca slipped into the
sofa opposite.

" I have been thinking to-day,"
she continued, " that, when we go
to hear Mass in the Crypt of St.
Peter, as it is not probable we shall
ever meet there, all of us, again in
this life, we ought all to think it a
duty to receive Holy Communion,
if we can. It seems to me that the
special virtue we are to seek there
is a stronger faith. I have been
there before, but it was in the com-
pany of strangers. We are a com-

pany of sympathizing friends. I
think we should look forward to
that visit as a call to make a pro-
fession of faith more resolute, if
possible, than we have yet made."

A silence followed her little
speech, which had struck deeper,
perhaps, than their expectations.

"Has no one anything to say? 1 '
she asked smilingly. " This is not
a lecture, but a conversazione. Are
we always to skim the surface in
our talk?"

"You are quite right, Signora,"
Mr. Vane said, " and the same
thought has passed through my
own mind. I do not know if I
shall be thought prepared to re-
ceive so soon, but will ask. It
would be something for me to re-
member all my life that I had made
my first communion there, and in
company with all my family."

The daughters were silent, both
looking down, touched and awed
by their father's words. With all
their affection and confidence, they
never had known anything of his
deeper feelings or more serious in-
tentions than what their intuitive
sympathy had divined. Some
things they tacitly guessed, some
he tacitly acknowledged ; but for a
spoken confidence, either given or
demanded, they had each and all
been more free, sometimes, with
strangers. And so accustomed had
the girls become to this real reserve
under an appearance of perfect
ease that they listened at first al-
most with terror to the Signora's
challenge.

" I think the children would be
pleased," Mr. Vane added gently,
understanding their silence.

Then they both looked up with a
quick smile and a simultaneous
" Oh ! yes, papa," but said no
more.

There was still another thin ice

Six Sunny Mont/is.

827

that the Signoraha'd to break. She
understood quite well the disposi-
tion and habits of Bianca's lover,
and wished particularly to bring
him in with them on this occasion.
A man of a noble and poetical na-
ture, he was, perhaps, in danger of
resting contented with a religious
feeling born of an enthusiastic ap-
preciation of the beauty of the
church, and, while obeying its ex-
press commands in the performance
of duty, of waiting for the command
to be given. He watched with de-
light the steps of the Prince's
Daughter, his loyal word or blow
was always ready for those who at-
tacked her; but he seemed to pre-
fer to be an admiring spectator
rather than an actor, and to do only
so much as would keep him in the
acknowledged number of her fol-
lowers. The Signora suspected
that he contented himself with an
Easter Communion, and that there
was many anight when he lay down
to sleep without recommending
himself to God, and many a morning
when he rose without giving thanks
for another day. If he looked out
at the early dawn with delight in its
beauty, he felt that he had praised
God ; and if, gazing up into the
starry midnight, he thought of the
shadowy earth as a hammock swung
by invisible cords from a thick tree
full of golden blossoms, it seemed
to him that he had kissed the hand
that rocked him to sleep. In-
toxicated by the beauty of the
works of God, he exulted in the
freedom from baseness which the
magical draught gave him, and
could scarcely believe that in some
unwary hour he might draw in a
drop of poison with the honey. He
had been wont to say that the vir-
tue of the long-suffering Job had
been preserved, not so much by
shutting his bodily eyes and pray-

ing, as by opening his eyes, and
looking about where flood and
stream, and snow and hail and dew
taught each its lesson, unmarred by
earthly glosses ; that that man was
surer to fear God who looked at
the leviathan making the deep boil
like a pot, leaving a shining path
behind him over the waters, and
saying this is the work of God, than
the man who, when he would raise
his soul, left his senses behind, and
strove to climb to a knowledge of
the power of God without them.

The Signora knew all this, and
admired Marion, winged creature
that he was ; but she wished him to
practise a little more the plain and
simple duties of religion, hhe ob-
served tli at he made no motion to
assent to her proposal, and made
haste to take for granted that he
would assent, and spare him a
promise.

" Then," she said, "since we are
to have this heavenly audience to-
gether, let us make a small part
of the preparation together. How
lovely it would be if we could every
night say our prayers together, or
a part of them, at least! We will
not have company late, and Marion
lives near us, and can take his lit-
tle starlit walk half an hour later
without any inconvenience. Let
us say certain prayers together ex-
pressly in preparation for this com-
munion. We are five. Each one
shall choose a prayer."

She scarcely paused, feeling that
there was still a shyness to over-
come, and that her proposal had
been bold and unusual. The
thought fired instead of checking
her.

" However closely we may be
bound, however sure in our own
minds to spend many years togeth-
er," she added hastily, " we may be
scattered like the dust before an-

828

Six Sunny Months.

other day passes. Till we, as
closest and dearest of friends, have
prayed together, we have not well
deserved the power of speech nor
the consolations of friendship."

" I choose the Acts of Faith,
Hope, Love, Thanksgiving, and
Contrition," Mr. Vane said-

" I choose the Salve Regina,"
Marion added.

Bianca named the Memorare, and
Isabel three Our Fathers, three
Hail Marys, and three Glorias.

" And I choose the prayer to the
Five Wounds," said the Signora.
"We each will say our own prayer,
and the others answer Amen. Mr.
Vane shall begin."

They were astonished, not only
into compliance, but into willing-
ness and pleasure. The Signora's
will and enthusiasm blew away all
the foolish scruples and false deli-
cacy which would have for ever pre-
vented the others making such a
proposition, and the five Catholics
knelt together in the room softly
lighted by the night and the Virgin's
lamp, and said their prayers to-
gether.

It was a strange yet sweet ex-
perience for all, this first union in
family prayers. Mr. Vane, utter-
ing his prayers with an earnest
gravity, gave the tone to the others ;
and when Marion called on the

Queen of Heaven to hear their
cry, as that of the poor exiled chil-
dren of Eve coming up from a val-
ley of tears, the Signora's proposi-
tion showed no more an extraordi-
nary one, but altogether proper and
necessary.

They rose when all was over, and
stood silent a moment. It was a
silence full of peace and of a new
sense of union.

Marion was the first to speak.
"You have strung us to-night like
beads on a corona," he said, tak-
ing the Signora's hand. " May the
chain endure for ever !"

They parted very quietly, and
for the first time Bianca and Mari-
on said good-night to each other
without appearing to remember
that they were lovers, or remem-
bering it so seriously that no one
else was reminded of it.

The Signora went to her room
thankful and contented. In spite
of her courage, what she had done
had been very difficult for her, and
nothing but her position toward
the others of hostess and cicerone
had made it seem proper to her.
The ice was broken, however, and
successfully; they had gone togeth-
er to their Heavenly Father, and
they could never again be stran-
gers to each other nor to him. She
was thankful and contented.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Some Quaint Old Cities.

829

SOME QUAINT OLD CITIES.*

THE Zuyder-Zee will soon be a
thing of the past, and in the mean-
while it is but little known. M.
Henri Havard, known as an art-cri-
tic, has given us a glimpse of it,
with its decaying ports, its old-fash-
ioned population, its wonderful at-
mospheric "effects"; and his book is,
strange to say, newer to most read-
ers than one treating of the South
Sea Islands or the Japanese Archi-
pelago. Not only is the Zuyder-
Zee comparatively unknown to for-
eigners, but, according to Havard,
." it is more than probable that not
ten people in Holland have made
this voyage, and among writers and
artists I do not know a single one."
The navigation of this sea is dif-
ficult and dangerous ; narrow chan-
nels run between enormous sand-
banks hardly covered with water.
Tales of shipwreck abound in every
page of the history of the Zuyder-
Zee, and great carcases of ships,
breaking up or rotting away, call to
mind its dangers. There is no reg-
ular communication between the va-
rious ports, and M. Havard and his
companion, M. Van Heemskerck,
had to hire a vessel, engage a crew,
and purchase provisions for the
voyage. The vessel was called a
" tjalk," and drew only three feet
of water; her burden was sixty
tons. The crew consisted of the
"schipper," one sailor or "knecht,"
and the wife and child of the for-
mer. The travellers put up parti-
tions forming kitchen, dining-room,

* The Dead Cit iexof the Zuyder-Zee : A voyage
to the picturesque side of Holland. By Henri Ha-
vard. Translated by Annie Wood. London : Bentlev
& Son.

and bed-room, and did the cooking
by turns. They started in June,
1873, leaving Amsterdam in the
early morning ; and, says the author,
after a minute description of the
Preraphaelite country surrounding
the principal sea-port of Holland,
" the sun which brightened this
magnificent spectacle rendered the
atmosphere clear and of a silvery
transparence; reflected by the wa-
ter, the effect was splendid." The
first object of interest which they
met with were the sluices at Schel-
lingwoude. " These blocks of gran-
ite, imported from distant countries,
massed one upon the other, form
an immovable mountain ; the great
gates, which allow five ships to en-
ter abreast, have something majes-
tic about them which impresses the
beholder. I know nothing finer
than these sluices, save, perhaps,
those of Trolhatten in Sweden.'.'

The drowsy, pleasant, monoto-
nous impression of the interminable
green meadows, or polders (reclaimed
from the sea), the huge windmills,
the few church-steeples of fantastic
shapes and varied colors, the yel-
low sand-banks, is minutely describ-
ed, and then the travellers come
upon the island of Marken, like "a
green raft lost in a gray sea."
Seven villages are built on as many
little mounds, with a mound used
as a church-yard. The wealth of
Marken is in hay and fish. The
meadows are flooded once a year.
Trees never grow on the island, and
most of the houses are raised on
piles, and look like " great cages
suspended in the air." There is a
peculiarity about the bed-rooms

830

Some Quaint Old Cities.

which remind us of the cupboard-
beds common among the poorer
classes in Scotland : " The ground-
floor is one large room divided into
as many parts as may be required
by wooden partitions without ceil-
ings; the roof which is, of course,
leaning at an angle is hung whh
nets and fishing utensils. . . . The
bed is the important article, of fur-
niture; this is let into the wall in a
kind of cupboard, into which are
thrust the mattresses and other
necessary articles. Two little cur-
tains are drawn across. ... It looks
as much as possible like a large
drawer. Sometimes considerable
luxury is displayed in the bed ; the
pillow-cases and the sheets are em-
broidered with open-work, which is
a special fabrication of the women at
Marken white and yellow threads
crossed, something in the fashion
of guipure." The walls or parti-
tions are mostly painted blue, the
shelves are heaped with common
crockery and Japanese porcelain,
for which there is an extravagant
demand all over Holland ; a Fries-
land cuckoo-clock stands in one
corner, a carved oak chest in an-
other, and on this are tall glasses,
bulging mugs of delf, and miracu-
lously-polished old candlesticks of
yellow metal. One of the chief
worthies of Marken, Madame Klok,
has the richest collection in the isl-
and : china of all sorts (Dutch and
Japanese) and all colors, pictures',
foreign curiosities such as sailors al-
ways fill their houses with, are there
in profusion ; but what she is most
proud of is her carved oak chests, all
of Dutch make, their panels sculp-
tured with great art, and seeming
only just to have left the hands of
the artist. The women of Marken
have clung to their distinctive dress,
and, partly on that account, are
thought very uncivilized by the

young Hollanders, to whom freedom
and Paris fashion have become
synonymous terms. This dress is
very peculiar, and Havard says very
picturesque. Here is part of his
description :

"The head-dress is composed of an
immense cap in the form of a mitre,
white, lined with brown, to show off the
lace and embroidery ; it is tied close un-
der the chin, pressing closely over the
ears. . . . Long ringlets of blonde hair
fall down to the shoulders or back, and
the hair of the front is brought forward
and cut square along the forehead a
little above the eyebrows. The gown
has a body without sleeves, and the skirt
or petticoat is independent of it, and
always of a different stuff. The body is
brown, and generally of cloth covered
with embroidery in colors, in which red
predominates. . . . This requires years
of labor. A corsage well embroidered is %
handed down from mother to daughter
as an heirloom ; the sleeves are in two
unequal parts: one, with vertical lines
of black and white, reaches the elbow,
and the other, almost to the wrist, is of
dark blue, and is fastened above the
elbow. . . . The skirt is also divided into
two unequal parts : the upper, which is
about eight inches wide only, is a kind
of basque with black lines on a light
ground ; the rest of the skirt is dark blue,
with a double band of reddish brown at
the bottom. . . . Such is the female cos-
tume of Marken, ... so singular that
no other costume is like it, or even ap-
proaches its bizarre appearance."

These old Dutch settlements all
possess many churches, but most
of them disfigured by paint and
other monstrosities. The Premon-
stratensian monks had a monastery
at Marken, having come there from
Leeuwarden ; but the old Marienhot,
turned to other uses, was pulled
down in 1845 on account of its
ruinous condition. At Monniken-
dam, "the town of the monks," one
of the dead cities for Marken is
only a cluster of villages there is
what is now called the Great Church,
but was originally the Abbey of

Some Quaint Old Cities.

831

St. Nicholas. It has eighty great
pillars in the nave alone, aixl was
built in the fifteenth century,
though according to the style of an
earlier clay. It is now a " temple "
(Calvinist meeting-house) ; the col-
umns are whitewashed, there is a
modern, bulbous pulpit with green
curtains, and the nave is full of
ugly, closed pews in the taste of
the eighteenth century.

Havard describes Monnikendam
as having a Chinese appearance
through its " green trees, the red
and green coloring of the houses
and roofs, and the little gray wood-
en bridge." In 1573 it had the
honor of taking a prominent part
in the great naval battle of the
Zuyder-Zec, when Cornelius Dirks-
zoon, a native of Monnikendam,
destroyed the Spanish fleet and
took the admiral, Count de Bossu,
prisoner. The town kept the
count's collar of the Golden Fleece
as a trophy. Though the monks
have disappeared, the town still
preserves its arms a Franciscan
monk, habited sable (black), hold-
ing a mace in his right hand, the
shield being a>'ge/if, or white. The
tower of the Great Church is of
enormous height, and Havard, as he
looked down on the rich plains be-
low, wondered at the insensibility
of the inhabitants to the treasures
of nature and art within their reach.
This deserted place where the ar-
rival of two strangers was an event
of universal importance, to be talk-
ed of at least a month after they
had gone, and where the old office
of town-crier was discharged by
a wizened individual in a black
dress-coat, knee-breeches, and three-
cornered hat, whose duty of fix-
ing notices to the doors of such
houses as contained patients at-
tacked by a contagious disease re-
minds us of the seventeenth century

was once " a flourishing commer-
cial city, one of the twenty-nine great
towns of Holland, when the Hague
was but a village."

Between Edam and Hoorn (the
latter being the pearl of the dead
cities) the tjalk encountered a ter-
rible storm of wind, which was suc-
ceeded by as wonderful a calm.
The author says :

" I turned my head (towards the east-
ern horizon) and saw one of the most cu-
rious spectacles I ever contemplated in
my life. From the hull of the boat to
the top of the mast, from the zenith to
the nadir, all was of the same tint. No
waves, no clouds, no heavens, no sea,
no horizon were to be distinguished no-
thing but the same tone of color, beauti-
fully soft ; at a short distance a great black
boat, which seemed to rest on nothing,
and to be balanced in space. The sea
and the sky appeared of a pearl-gray
color, like a satin robe ; the boat looked
like a great blot of ink. Nothing can
give an idea of this strange spectacle ;
words canno-t describe such a pictuie.
Turner, in his strangest moods, never
produced anything so extraordinary.''

The harbor of Hoorn is now "border-
ed by masses of verdure, great trees, and
flowers. The place of these charming
plantations and gardens was once occu-
pied by ship-building yards, from whence
sailed annually whole fleets of newly-con-
structed ships. Hoorn is really one of the
prettiest towns which can be found, and at
the same time the most curious. It is en-
tirely ancient. All the houses are old
and attractive, covered with sculptures
and charming bas-reliefs every roof fin-
ishing in the form of stairs. Everywhere
wide (invents jutting out over doors and
windows ; everywhere carved wood and
sculptured stone. The tone of color of
the bricks is warm and agreeable to the
eye, giving these ancient habitations an
aspect of gayety and freshness which con-
trasts in a singular manner with their
great age and ancient forms. . . . It seems
almost ridiculous to walk about these
streets in our modern costumes. It
almost appears to me thr.t there are cer-
tain towns where only the plumed hat.
the great trunk-hose and boots, with a
rapier at our side, are in keeping with

832

Some Quaint Old Cities.

the place ; and Hoora is one of these
places."

The emptiness of the streets, the
want of all animation, is the shadow
of the picture, and the author brings
to mind the former bustling pros-
perity of Hoorn, "filled by an
active population, covering the seas
with their fleets and the Indies with
their counting-houses. Every week
a thousand wagons entered the mar-
kets, bringing inmountains of cheese
from the rich countries around. . .
Each year there was a bullock fair,
first established in 1389, which drew
visitors from all corners of Europe.
Frenchmen, Danes, Frisons, Ger-
mans, and Swedes flocked into the
town, and thus augmented its as-
tonishing prosperity. Hoorn then
counted twenty-five thousand in-
habitants." It had " massive towers
and monumental gates," and bas-
tions and ramparts, whose place is
now occupied by beautiful gardens,
shaded by fine trees, and boasting
of the few remaining ruinous towers
and gates as of picturesque adorn-
ments nothing else. The gate at the
entrance of the harbor is of" mag-
nificent proportions and superb
in its details. . . Among the sculp-
tures I remarked a cow which a
peasant-girl is seen employed in
milking a homage to the industry
of the country which once enrich-
ed the town." On the top of the
other old gate the Cowgate is a
group of two cows, and on the side
facing the town four cows are repre-
sented standing, while the heraldic
lions by their side support the es-
cutcheon of the town, the arms
being a hunting-horn. The re-
mains of the old commerce of
Hoorn may be seen on Thursdays,
when a market is held in the town,
and quantities of cheeses still ar-
rive.

" The numbers of people on foot who
pour into the town, the carved and hete-
ro.geneously-painted wagons, carts, til-
buries, and all kinds of old fashioned
conveyances passing through the east
gate, almost incline one to believe thai
the good old times have once more re-
turned to this city. Farmers and cattle-
dealers and their wives arrive in the
carriages, for the market-day is a holi-
day ; . . . they sit stolidly in or upon
these antediluvian vehicles. I say sto-
lidly ; for I do. not know a better term to
express the calm, silent, reflective look
of both husbands and wives. ... At
ten o'clock the market-place resembles a
park of artillery whence the guns have
been withdrawn. The red cheeses piled
up by thousands represent to the life the
cannon balls rusted by exposure to the
air and rain."

In the Guildhall is preserved
Count Bossu's silver-gilt drinking-
cup ; he was a prisoner in Hoorn
for three years after his defeat and
capture by the insurgent Dutch.
The churches are inferior to the
dwellings, having been spoilt by
whitewash and plaster and absurd
Greek peristyles, perhaps supposed
at the Reformation to chase away
the evil spirits of an age of super-
stition. The result is deplorable,
and has unfortunately outlasted the
fanaticism of the moment, which
was responsible for these disfigure-
ments. Although the people of
Hoorn claim that their town was
rich and famous at the end of the
thirteenth century, the first authen-
tic documents point to the middle
of the fourteenth as the date of re-
gular municipal incorporation, and
the walls were not built till 1426.
Hoorn has produced many distin-
guished men Abel Janzoon Tas-
inan, who discovered Van Dieman's
Land and New Zealand; Jan Pie-
tersz Keen, who founded Batavia
(Java) in 1619 ; Wouter Cornelis-
zoon Schouten, who in 1616 doubled
Cape Horn, which he named after
his native town; Jan Albertsz Roodt-

Some Quaint Old Cities.

833

sens, a portrait-painter known to
art-critics as Rhotius, according to
the foolish fancy of the Renaissance
for Latinizing one's "barbaric"
name, and others less ".veil known
doctors and lawyers with Latiniz-
ed names, honorably mentioned as
learned men in the archives, and
brave seamen, patriotic and enter-
prising, the Sea-Beggars of the War
of Independence against Spain, and
successful explorers in tropical seas.
Having passed through Enkhui-
zen, the birthplace of the painter
Paul Potter, Havard goes on to
Medemblik, the former capital of
West Friesland, and the seat of
King Radbod's power. Here, like
a true artist, he was struck by a
beautiful scene painted by nature,
who in these regions, as everywhere
else, has so many changing beauties
to offer, to distract one's attention
from even the most perfect human
works of art. " The town, with its
towers and steeples and with its
ancient castle, rose up before us
against a background of sky of a
rosy tint, fading into lilac-gray and
a variety of tints; the town itself
appearing of a blackish green, while
over our heads the sky was of celes-
tial blue; at the very foot of the
town the sea repeated all these
splendid colorings and completed
the picture. A painter who should
reproduce this scene without altera-
tion would not be believed; it would
be said he had invented the color-
ing." Then follows the same story
of desertion, emptiness, and decay,
that mark the " dead cities," of
which this is perhaps the oldest of
all. For the well known incident of
King Radbod (repeated seven cen-
turies later by a cacique of Mexico),
and his choice of eternal torments
with his forefathers rather than hea-
ven with strangers to his blood, we
have no room. It illustrates the clan
VOL. xxiv. 53

nish qualities of the old Teutonic
stock. Crossing part of the peninsula
least tainted by " improvement," the
author, on his way to Texel, passed
through many villages such as we
have heard about, but the accounts of
which we have believed to be exag-
gerated. But these are not to be found
on the beaten track, and he who has
seen the typical Brock has only seen
an artificially-preserved specimen,
handy and hackneyed, kept on ex-
hibition with the avowed conscious-
ness of its attraction to strangers.
" Every one has heard of the mar-
vellous cow-houses, paved with delf-
tiles and sanded in different colors,
cleaner even than the rooms, where
one must neither cough, smoke, nor
spit ; where one must not even walk
before putting on a great pair of
sabots, or wooden shoes, whitened
with chalk cow-sheds in which
the beautiful white-and- black cows
are symmetrically arranged upon a
litter which is constantly changed,
and whose tails are tied up to the
ceiling for fear of their becoming
soiled. Well, it is in these hamlets
that one meets with all this. . . .
Sometimes at the end of the stable
or cow-shed one sees a parlor with
a number of fresh young girls, with-
their high caps and golden helmets,
working at some fancy work or
knitting all sorts of frivolity ; the
fact is that many of these peasants
are millionaires living among their
cheeses with the greatest simpli-
city."

Of Texel and Oude-Schiid the
author says :

" When you land, it seems as if 3-011
entered a great round basin lined with a
thick carpet of verdure ; an endless prai-
rie with a few trees, ... all the country
surrounded by high dikes and dunes,
which limit the view. . . . We felt as if
we were in an Edeu under the waters,
with the heavens open above a bizarre
sensation difficult to describe, but which,

834

Some Quaint Old Cities.

is very strange and original. The dike
that protects the south of the island is
almost as grand and important as that
of the H elder. ... At the place from
whence these works spring it was neces-
sary to work under water at a depth of
above one hundred feet. ... On the
North Sea side are moving sands, which,
from their desolate aspect, contrast with
the rich and verdant meadows they
guard from the encroachments of the
sea. These dunes are certainly not the
least interesting part of the island ; they
can be entered only on foot or on horse-
.back. The feet of the horse or man who
attempts to cross them sink either to the
ankle of the man or the fetlock of the
horse. The green meadow suddenly
ceases at their edge, and an arid soli-
tude, burnt by the sun, extends beyond
our view we should say a strip of the
African desert rather than of the soft and
humid soil of Holland."

This passage into the North Sea
has seen some of the largest flotillas
in the world leave its shelter, and
not only great commercial fleets
and war fleets, but hardy expedi-
tions of scientific discovery, such as
that of the first explorers who sought
for a Northwest Passage through
the ice of the Pole. Although it
failed in this, it discovered Nova
Zembla. Twice did the brave Wil-
liam Barends attempt this journey,
and the second voyage was his last,
while his associate, Jacob Van
Heemskerck, returned to Holland
to be invested with the command
of the navy in 1607, and to attack,
under the guns of Gibraltar, the
large Spanish fleet commanded by
Alvarez d'Avila. Like Nelson, he
died in the moment of victory, and
fifty years later almost the same
fate befell the indomitable Van
Tromp. Space forbids to more
than mention Harlingen, a resus-
citated city, which has managed to
regain much of its old prosperity,
but is not architecturally very in-
teresting. One of its claims to pre-
sent attention is the picture-gallery

of a self-made man and discrimi-
nating amateur M. Bos; and one
of its historical claims dates from
1476, when Menno Simonsz, the
founder of the sect of Mennonites,
of whom some thousands lately emi-
grated to this country, was born
within its territory, in the province
of Witmarsum. From this place
the travellers started by canal-boat,
or treckschuit, a barge drawn by
a trotting horse through a level,
productive country. The boat has
a first-class and a second-class com-
partment, long seats well cushioned
for sleeping, a large table for meals,
and, as there is no vibration, it is
the laziest, pleasantest way of tra-
velling, if one is not in a hurry.
The breeding of those splendid
black horses, whose long tails sweep
the ground, well known throughout
Europe, is still one of the sources
of wealth of this Frison land, and
much of the marvellous wood-carv-
ing now stored up in English col-
lections comes from the Frison vil-
lages ; but of the old costume of
the women nothing remains but
the golden helmet. Circumstances,
however, have preserved the old
fashion of skating races, which take
place every winter, and are the oc-
casion of regular festivals. The
youth of a whole neighborhood
gathers together, and the prizes are
handed down as heirlooms in the
families of the winners. In old
times military manoeuvres used to
be gone through on skates, and
these "reviews" were well worth
seeing. The Frison skate is a
straight iron blade, with which,
though you cannot go in any other
than a straight line, you can glide
along with much greater speed than
with the ordinary curved one we use.
The only skating ground of Holland
the straight canals are a suffici-
ent explanation of the difference.

So; i tc Quaint Old Cities.

On Leeuwarden we will not
dwell, as it is an inland city and
by no means dead, but must notice
a funny item in one of its collec-
tions of curiosities that is a " lancl-
dagemmer," or small pail that
state members used to carry when
going to council, and in which they
put their bread and butter or
whatever else they had by way of a
luncheon.

From Leeuwarden the traveller
carries us with him to Franeker,
" well built, well lighted, and certain-
ly one of the cleanest and best-kept
towns in Friesland," formerly a
famous centre of learning. " Such
men as Adrian Metius, the mathe-
matician ; Pierius Winsemius, the
historian ; Sixtus Am am a, the theo-
logian ; Ulric Huberus, the jurist;
and George Kazer, who knew every
subtlety of the Greek language,
with a mass of other learned schol-
ars, indoctrinated the youth of that
age in the sciences, theology, law,
history, and dead languages. The
spirit of learning became contagious,
and the whole city was seized with
a desire to acquire knowledge.
The students imbued the citizens
with a love of the sciences, and the
inhabitants, not content with imbib-
ing learning themselves, spread it
about on the public walls ; and one
can still see on the front of the hous-
es, over the doors, and even on the
walls of the stables, numbers of
wise inscriptions, moral precepts,
and virtuous sentences" in Latin,
signifying, for instance, " Know thy-
self " ; " Well, or not at all " ; " No-
thing is good but what is honest, "
etc. The Guildhall, built in the
same style as the Leeuwarden Chan-
cellerie, but daubed over with paint,
contains two orthree rooms with their
walls literally hidden by gloomy old
portraits, said to be those of the pro-
fessors of the old academy. Among

them is that of a woman, Anna
Maria Schaarman, called by her
contemporaries the modern Sappho,
and who, besides poetry, music,
painting, engraving, and model-
ling, was a proficient in Latin,
Greek, Hebrew, and Ethiopian.
Her works were published at Ley-
den in 1648.

Franeker has a unique exhibi-
tion in the shape of a Planetarium,
or a small blue-room, with a mova-
ble ceiling, representing the vault
of heaven, where the planets, in the
form of gilded balls, and by means
of a mechanical process, rotate
around the sun, which stands in the
middle of the room in a kind of
half obscurity. The room itself
is only lighted by one candle. The
whole apparatus is shown by a wo-
rn an, said to be the grand-daughter of
the great mathematician, Eise Eis-
inga, who devoted seven years of
his life, from 1773 to 1780, to mak-
ing this planetarium.

The tjalk, which the travellers
had left at Harlingen, now carried
them over to Hindeloopen, a sea-
port and ancient city, but not one
of those which have to complain of
the whims of fortune ; for it never
rose to great importance at any
time of its thousand years of ex-
istence. Just outside the harbor
" the wind suddenly lulled, and one
of those dead calms peculiar to
these curious shores overtook us.
The clouds seemed to stand still in
the heavens, the very water lap-
ping against our bows grew still,
and, but for a bird skimming the
horizon, a sea-dog touching the sur-
face of the waves, or some bruin-
visch leaping in pure joy under the
calm waters, all nature appeared as
if wrapped in a deep sleep." The
town began by being a hamlet in
the huge forest of Kreijl (most of
whose area is now the bottom of

836

Some Quaint Old Cities.

the Zuyder-Zee), and its name sig-
nifies " the hind's run," while a run-
ning hind forms the municipal
arms. The harbor, which in 1225,
three hundred years after the origin
of the town, was endowed with cer-
tain privileges, was never large
enough for heavily-freighted ships ;
and though the inhabitants praise-
worthily tried to enrich themselves
by forming fishing companies, the
boats had to be built in other ports,
and the interest of Hindeloopen in
these expeditions had always more
or less of an artificial character.
Notwithstanding the real claims
of the town to notice, it has es-
caped the mention of historians;
Cornelius Kempius ignores it alto-
gether; Guicciardini merely refers
to it ; Blaeu the geographer, in spite
of his minute exactitude, only gives
it a dozen dry lines ; and a later
writer, the author of Les Dttices
des Pays-Bas (1769), is not more
complimentary, though he allows
it some " commercial interest." It
often needs an artist's eye to look
with favor on these world-forgot-
ten places, and draw out details
which make us wonder how it was
possible that they have been hither-
to so persistently overlooked. It is
often a greater pleasure, we con-
fess, to read of such places than of
those greater ones, the pilgrimages
of the world, where each successive
.generation of scholars and explo-
rers flocks to bring to light some
fact or some stone, and where,
when all that is likely to be im-
portant has been found, they still
pore devotedly over dust and frag-
ments, eager to tell the world
how the ancients ate or dressed,
and how their present descend-
ants retain or have lost or modi-
fied the old manners and customs.
Havard, accordingly, says of Hin-
deloopen :

"Small as it was, it had its arts, its
special costume, a style of architecture,
and a language only spoken within its
walls which is a fact so singular that it
would appear incredible were it not for
traces and incontestable proofs of their
existence.* The most remarkable of
its peculiarities was, and is still, the
costume worn by the women. . . . Not
content with having a dress different to
other nations, the inhabitants of Hinde-
loopen regulated the style of their cos-
tume, and adjusted it according to the
age and position of the woman in its
smallest detail. From its very birth a
child is put into the national costume :
its little legs are wrapped in the usual
linen, but the upper part of its body is
subjected to the prevailing habit of the
country. Its head is covered with a
doble cap one of linen, the other of
silk garnished with the usual kerchief;
above this again is placed another calico
kerchief, and on that again a third of
larger dimensions, scarlet in color and
trimmed with lace. The tiny body is
cased in a close-fitting jacket, over
which is an embroidered bib, and the
baby's hands are put into calico mit-
tens."

Then follows a description of the
changes of, or rather additions to,
the costume from the age of eigh-
teen months upwards. The mar-
riageable girls wore the most com-
plicated, everything, even the
"floss-silk stockings," being of a
certain regulation make, color, and
stuff. Married women wore their
hair entirely covered by the head-
dress of square pieces of red cloth
embroidered in gold, above the cap
itself. Widows wore the same arti-
cles, but all black and white ; and,
besides this daily costume, there
were others worn on festival days,
chiefly distinguished by a cape or
overall, with other details yet, be-
longing some to Whitsuntide, some
to Corpus Christi, and others to be-
trothed girls, and relating to circum-

* The author has unfortunately omitted to give
some of these proofs, and we have only his word foi
this assertion.

Some Quaint Old Cities.

837

stances, weddings, and funerals-, to
the length of lime a woman had
been married, and if she was a moth-
er, etc., etc., in endless and minute
array. The town women have al-
ready discarded their costume, but
it is still universally worn in the
country round about. The ancient
industries of Hindeloopen alas!
very degenerate nowadays includ-
ed a spedalite in furniture. It was
of carved wood painted, and many
specimens in -Dutch and foreign
collections still exist. Havard says
of ii :

44 Its general forms have a very decid-
ed Oriental cast. Its decorations of
carved and gilded palms and love-knots,
relieved by the strangest paintings it is
possible to imagine, have no equal except
in Persian art. As a rule, the colors are
loud and gaudy red or pink, green or
blue but, strange to say, the whole ap-
pears harmonious. It is peculiar and
striking but not disagreeable to the eye.
Most of the single pieces of furniture,
such as tables and stands, and sledges
are ornamented with red and blue palms,
around which are interlaced numbers of
Cupids of dark rose-color, the whole on
a red ground. Sometimes these con-
stantly-recurring Cupids (always in dark
rose-color) are placed among a bed of
blue flowers against a background of red,
lightened here and there by white dots
and touches of gold. But this medley
of discordant colors produces a harmor
nious and dazzling effect, which I can
only liken to the cashmeres of India.
This same style of ornamentation is
adopted in private houses, though the col-
ors are somewhat modified. Red yields
to dark blue, and flowers, love-knots, and
palms are toned down into soft blue,
green, and white, on a background of the
finest* shade of indigo. The effect thus
produced is very curious. I cannot say
it is fine or pleasant, but it is not dis-
agreeable to the eye. and certainly pos-
sesses the advantage of not being vulgar
or common."

Stavoren, the former capital of
Frie.sland, is one of the towns

* Probably lightest.

whose traditional annals, like those
of Medemblik, reach back into un-
historical times, and whose foun-
der, Friso, a supposed contemporary
and ally of Alexander the Great,
built here a temple to Jupiter, and
adorned his town with walls, pal-
aces, and theatres. The fifth cen-
tury of our era is its real earliest
date, and then it was only what the
first settlement of a barbaric clan
always is half-camp, half- village
but it had gained a footing
which it never abandoned since.
As the centuries passed, we find
this town, at the mouth of the Fle-
vum, " the capital and royal resi-
dence of Friesland," and with a
" considerable commercial and in-
dustrial reputation. Treaties of
alliance and trade were entered in-
to with the Romans, Danes, Ger-
mans, and Franks, who came to
Stavoren to barter their goods. . . .
The Flevum was easy to navigate,
thus rendering the port convenient
for commerce ; able to hold a large
fleet whose intrepid sailors explored
distances in the North inaccessible
to the vessels belonging to other
nations. At this epoch the Zuy-
der-Zee was not in existence, and
one could walk on dry land from
Stavoren to Medemblik. ... A
palace was built at Stavoren (by
Richard I.) which later on became
the sumptuous residence of the
kings, his successors," and Charles,
Duke of Brabant, journeyed to Sta-
voren with a numerous suite to see
and admire its wonderful splendors.
This was burnt in 808, but in 815
a still more 'splendid church was
built by Bishop Odulphus. It was
some Stavoren sailors who first
passed through the Sound and
opened the way into the Baltic,
and the King of Denmark reward-
ed the town by exempting its ships
from dues on entering Dantzic.

838

Some Quaint Old Cities.

Treaties with Sweden and Scotland
conceded to the town similar privi-
leges, rendering the merchants of
Stavoren able to enter the lists with
those of the richest and most influ-
ential towns in the world. A six-
teenth-century chronicler* though
\ve incline to take the statement
as typical of the prosperity of
the town rather than in its lit-
eral sense says " the vestibules of
the houses were gilded, and the
pillars of the palaces of massive
gold." This, however, applies to
the thirteenth century, the age
of Marco Polo and general redun-
dancy of imagination, colored by
the traditions of the Arabian
Nights. But it is true that Stavo-
ren was one of the first towns form-
ing part of the Hanseatic League,
and even in the sixteenth century
she still held the third rank. Her
downfall was due as much to the
nature of things as to adverse cir-
cumstances. Prosperity spoiled
the haughty town: "Her inhabi-
tants had become so rich and opu-
lent that they were literally intoxi-
cated with their success, and al-
lowed themselves to grow insolent,
exacting, and supercilious beyond
endurance. They were called the
spoiled, luxurious children of Sta-
voren ' dartele ofte verwendc Kinde-
rcn van Stavoren.' 1 Strangers ceased
to trade with them, preferring the
pleasanter manners of the inhabi-
tants of Hamburg, Liibeck, and Bru-
ges. In proportion as trade de-
clined the spirit of enterprise for-
sook the population, and the town,
once so rich and flourishing, now
found herself reduced from the
first to the tenth rank." This hap-
pened in the fourteenth century,
and by the sixteenth "there were
scarcely fifty houses in a state of

* Cornelius Kempius.

preservation in this city, which
formerly was the highest and no-
blest of all." Its appearance at
the present time is still more sad :
" There are about a hundred houses,
half of which are in ruins, but not
one remains to recall in the va-
guest manner the ancient glory of
its palaces. It would be difficult
to call the place a village even; it
is more like one large cemetery,
whose five hundred inhabitants
have the appearance- of having re-
turned to earth to mourn over the
past and lost glories of their coun-
try and the ancient splendor of
their kings." Outside the harbor
is a large sand-bank, called the
"Lady's Bank," which for several
centuries has blocked up the en-
trance so that no great ships can
enter, and tradition has seized upon
this to point a moral eminently ap-
propriate to the former proud mer-
chants of this hopelessly dead city.
It is said, and repeated by Guicciar-
dini, that a rich widow, " petul-
ant and saucy," freighted a ship
for Dantzic, and bade the master
bring back a cargo of the rarest
merchandise he could find in that
town. Finding nothing more in re-
quisition there than grain, he load-
ed the ship with wheat and re-
turned. The widow was indig-
nant at his bringing her such com-
mon stuff, and ordered him, if he
had loaded the grain at backboort,
to throw it into the sea at stuerboort,
which was done, whereupon there
immediately rose at that place so
great a sand-bank that the harbor
was blocked ; hence the bank is
still called " Le Sable? or " Le
Bane de la Dame.

At Urk, a truly patriarchal fish-
ing village, where " every one, as at
Marken, wears thenational costume,
from the brat who sucks his thumb
to the old man palsied with age,"

Some Quaint Old Cities.

839

and where the inhabitants " consid-
er themselves related, forming one
and the same family," and are "just
as hospitable and polite as at Mar-
ken," Havard spent a few very
pleasant hours. This place is an-
terior to the Zuyder-Zee, and was
already, in the ninth century, a fish-
ing settlement on one of the islands
in Lake Flevo. Havard thinks
that the women, with their healthy
beauty and graceful but evident
strength, are good samples of the
race that inhabited these lands a
thousand years ago.

On entering the mouth of the
Yssel the travellers left the tjalk
and went across country to Kam-
pen, admiring on their road the
beautiful fields with the cows almost
hidden in the long grass, the farms
on little hillocks looking like minia-
ture fortified castles, and the other
farms surrounded by tall trees,
where all is of a blue color, from the
small milk-pails to the wheelbarrow,
and the ladder leading to the loft.
Ivampen dates only from the thir-
teenth century, but it grew rapidly,
and two hundred years later be-
came an Imperial town, governed
itself, and had the right of coining
money. At the Reformation there
was no breaking of images or de-
struction of works of art, neither was
there any outbreak against the re-
ligious orders. Large, massive tow-
ers with pointed roofs overhang
the quay and flank an enormous
wall, through which an arched
doorway leads into the town. The
Celle-broeders-Poort dates from the
sixteenth century, and is built of
brick and stone, with octagonal tow-
ers, oriel windows, and carved but-
tresses, besides a gallery projecting
over the door. This gate was
named after the convent of Brothers
of the Common Life, formerly situ-
ated in the street leading to the

Poort. The order has been made
famous by the author of the Imita-
tion. It was one of the most popu-
lar in the Low Country, and was
founded at Deventer by Gerhard
Groot, a young and luxurious eccle-
siastic, whose life reminds one of De
Ranee, and who, giving up his pre-
ferments, retired to his own house,
where he lived with a few other
men in apostolical simplicity. The
services of his followers were invalu-
able during the plague, or Black
Pest, in the fourteenth century.
His successor was Florent Rade-
wyns, a learned priest, also in high
ecclesiastical favor, but who gave
up his canon's stall at Utrecht to
embrace the life of a Brother of the
Common Life. This institute is not
unlike the original one of St. Francis
of Assisi, founded in Italy a hun-
dred years earlier ; only these broth-
ers lived by the work of their hands,
mostly as copyists, and as revisers
of the manuscripts scattered over
the town, comparing them with the
originals and rectify ing the mistakes
of inexperienced or careless copy-
ists. Pope Gregory XI. sanctioned
the regulations of the order in 1376,
and in 1431, 1439, an< ^ T 4^ 2 Euge-
nius IV. and Pius II. confirmed the
privileges of the rapidly-growing
community, which counted con vents
by the score all over Holland.
About this time they opened
schools for the young, and " their
instruction was everywhere court-
ed, and their virtues, as well as their
great talents, made them welcome
even in the most distant countries.
Their colleges were dedicated ei-
ther to St. Jerome or St. Grego-
ry, and multiplied with astonishing
rapidity. . . In their convent (at
Brussels) they had a printing-office."
Their devotion to the poor and
uneducated, and their endeavors
to counteract the progress of the

840

Some Quaint Old Cities.

Reformation by expounding to the
people the authorized version of
the 'Scriptures in the vulgar tongue,
and also uniting their hearers in
prayers and offices in Dutch, Flem-
ish, and other vernacular, were
misrepresented by their enemies,
and twisted into evidence of their
heretical leanings.

Kampen was rich in religious or-
ders ; there were the Minorites
(Franciscans), whose church was
built in the fourteenth century, and
is still the most ancient monument
in the town, but is now used as a
school ; the Recollects, the Carthu-
sians, the Alexians, besides six con-
vents for women. The church of
St. Nicholas, with its double aisles
and its grand simplicity, its beauti-
ful antique pulpit and Renaissance
panelling in the choir, is well worth
a visit, were it not for the detesta-
ble impression likely to be made on
the visitor by the excesses in plas-
ter and paint that disfigure the
building. Notre Dame, a church
almost as large and as old, has
been restored, and its sombre, sim-
ple, and grand decoration, its panel-
ling in imitation of the Gothic, and
its careful imitation of the spirit of
ancient ornamentation make it a
more satisfactory object of pilgri-
mage. But the pearl of Kampen
is the Stadliuis, or Guildhall or
rather what remains of it; for part
of it was destroyed by fire in 1543.
The fafade is very much like the
Chancellerie at Leeuwarden, and
the niches still contain their origi-
nal statuettes of the sixteenth cen-

tury.

This corner of the town-

hall is a real delight to behold, and
to come upon a relic of this sort,
religiously preserved from ancient
times, is a great source of joy to an
artist." But the special attractions
are in the interior, especially in
" two rooms, unique in their way,

. . . decorated with carved wain-
scoting, which have remained intact
from the early part of the seven-
teenth century, when they were
used as the council-chamber and
judgment-hall. . . . The walls are
furnished with flags, standards, hal-
berds, pikes, . . . and above the
door I noticed some formidable-
looking syringes in polished leather,
shining like gold, which were used
in former times to squirt boiling oil
on those of the assailants who ap-
proached too close. A magnificent
balustrade, crowned by an open
gallery with columns supporting
arched openings, separates this hall
from the other, through which the
persuasive eloquence of the advo-
cates penetrated the council-cham-
ber. . . . Running round the cham-
ber is a huge carved bench, divided
into stalls by jutting pedestals which
support a pillar of Ionic base and
Composite capital. An entablature
also running the round of the room,
projecting above the pillars, but re
ceding over the stalls, completes
this kind of high barrier between
the councillors, and adds consi-
derably to the majestic elegance
which charms and impresses one.
At the end: of the hall there is a
fine chimney-piece, comprising four
divisions. To mention its date,
1543, is quite enough to give an
idea of the beauty of its workman-
ship and the elegance of its curves."
Among its curiosities are some fine
silver goblets given to the town,
and some pieces of gold-plate be-
longing to the old guilds, as well as
the box of beans, which served to
determine the election of the mu-
nicipality. It is a small bonbonnierc
holding twenty-four beans, six sil-
ver-gilt and eighteen of polished
silver. " When it was a question
of deciding which of the members
of the council should be chosen for

Some Quaint Old Cities.

341

the administration, the beans were
put in a hat, and each drew out
one by chance, and those who drew
forth the silver-gilt beans imme-
diately entered on their new func-
tions. This custom was not confined
especially to Kampen, as it was for-
merly in vogue i-n the province of
Groningen."

Zwolle (not a sea city) is a very
old town, but has a modern life
tacked on to it, and few of its pub-
lic buildings, churches included,
are worth commenting upon at
length, though its history is inte-
resting and stirring. It was the
birth-place and home of Thomas a
Kempis, known in his own day as
Hamerken, but the convent where
lie lived has unfortunately disap-
peared.

Harderwyk, on the Zuyder-Zee,
or the " Shepherd's Refuge," was
founded at the time of the disas-
trous flood which made the present
sea. Some shepherds collected
there from the flooded meadows,
and were joined by a few fishermen.
A hundred years after its incor-
poration as a town, it was already
prosperous enough to be named
in the Hanseatic Union by the side
of Amsterdam, Kampen, and De-
venter ; but it can boast of a better
claim to notice than its material
prosperity alone, for it had a fa-
mous academy, founded in 1372,
and specially devoted to theology
and what was then known of physi-
cal sciences. Except during an in-
terval of half a century, after an in-
undation that devastated and un-
peopled the little city, this school ex-
isted uninterruptedly till the French
occupation, a little less than a hun-
dred years ago, and among its na-
tive scholars, many of whom are
honorably known in the history of
science, it reckons the botanist
Boerhaave. Linnaeus spent a short

time there in study and research,
and the town is not a little proud of
having been sought out by distant
scholars as a centre of the natural
science of that day. Both these
famous men have a memorial in
Harder\vyk, the former a bronze
statue, and the latter a bust in the
public gardens. One of the few
interesting remains of the old town
is the square tower of Notre Dame,
where fires were burnt, by way of a
beacon, to guide fishermen and sail-
ors out at night, and indicate the
position of Harderwyk. " The sea,"
says Havard, " is very wayward in
these parts. Formerly it was at
some little distance from the town,
but gradually it advanced, and end-
ed by washing its walls ; now, how-
ever, it has in some measure re-
ceded. . . . When the tide is low,
fishermen often discover under
the sand roads washed up by the
waves, paved with stones and bricks,
which prove that at some distant
period streets existed where now
the sea rules." At present Harder-
wyk is the depot of the troops in-
tended for the Indian and colonial
army of Holland, and is, in conse-
quence, rather a gay little place.

The charming, antique, and form-
erly turbulent town of Amersfoort,
the birth-place of the heroic Jan van
Olden Barneveldt, truly the "father
of his country," was the last com-
paratively forgotten place where our
author passed before he got back to
the beaten track of travel, through
Utrecht down the Dutch Rhine to
Amsterdam. Of this hardy, learn-
ed, and brave people of the Neth-
erlands he says but too truly that
they are unknown outside their
own frontiers. " Nobody outside "
(of course he speaks of popular,
world-wide reputation ; for they are
known in scientific and literary cir-
cles) " knows that among the Dutch

842

Some Quaint Old Cities.

are to be found honesty, cordiality,
and sincere friendship; they do
not know that the language of Hol-
land is rich and poetic ; that the
Netherlander have exceptionally
fine institutions, sincere patriotism,
and absolute devotion to their coun-
try." He complains, however, that
the country or its representative,
die government, does not sufficient-
ly encourage native artists, authors,
and savants, and forces her states-
men to " submit to paltry coteries."
He also says that the decay of
trade in the " dead cities "is partly
attributable to the supineness of the
inhabitants themselves, though that
certainly does not tally with their
enterprising spirit of old, and adds
that Amsterdam, when threatened
with the same danger the moving
sands and the encroaching waters,
which have turned the harbors of the
once wealthy Hanseatic cities into
deserts did not "sleep," but
' ; with all their ancient energy, not
fearing to expend their wealth,"
the inhabitants "cut through the
whole length of the peninsula of
Noord Holland, and created a canal
40 miles long and 120 feet wide,
wide enough for two frigates to pass
one another"; and when that was
found insufficient for their com-
merce, " they again cut through the
width of the peninsula, as they had
cut through its length, giving t9

ships of the heaviest tonnage two
roads to their magnificent port.
This was how the sons of old
Batavia fought against the ele-
ments nothing stopped them ; and
we see that the generations which
succeed them are animated by the
same spirit, the same firm will, the
same calm energy, never to be
beaten by difficulties." And now
the last news of importance from
the same spot is that of the pro-
jected draining of the Zuyder-Zee,
which is a plan of gigantic mag-
nitude, the cost being estimated
at ^16,000,000 sterling i.e , not
far from $100,000,000 but the al-
lotted time scarcely more than two
years. The Dutch is a race te-
nacious of vitality and power, and
its future in its colonial empire,
which it is now thoroughly and sci-
entifically surveying, bids fair to
rival its past. Even these "dead
cities," when they cease to be fish-
inghamlets and relic-museums, and.
by the draining of the inland sea,
have to turn for their support to
new industries, have a chance of
revival. The last marvellous Dutch
work the completion of the North
Sea Canal is a proof that the old
energy is yet there, and that great
things may yet be expected, nauti-
cally, scientifically, commercially,
and even agriculturally, of the stur-
dy old stock of the " Sea Beggars."

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

843

THE GREAT STRIKE AT ERRICKDALE.

ERRICKDALE is famous for its
( -mil-pits. It has dozens of them.
All night long their fires glow red
through the darkness, and all day the
sound of pick and hammer, and the
creak of rusty iron chains dragging
heavily-loaded cars up the slope of
the mines into the light, and the
cry of the miners, and the tramp of
their hob-nailed shoes as they conle
and go, fill the place with noisy
life. It is a lonely place otherwise,
close to the sea-coast. A ponderous
stone wharf juts far out into" the
water, and a tramway runs down
to it for the use of the cars which
take the coal to the vessels that are
constantly loading.

The village of Errickdale, at the
time of our story, consisted of the
black buildings connected with the
mines, the rows of tumble-dowii
tenements where the miners lived,
and one spacious, rambling, old-
fashioned dwelling, built a century
previous by the first owner and
opener of the mines, and preserved
intact ever since, in its antique and
solid elegance, by each new owner
of the place. Eight months of the
year it was closed, with the excep-
tion of a few rooms occupied by the
agent, the old housekeeper, and two
servants; one other apartment be-
ing always kept in readiness to re-
ceive the master whenever, for any
reason, he chose to make his ap-
pearance.

But for four months, from June
to October, the whole house was
i in-own open and filled with a bril-
liant company, who spent the sum-
mer days in merry idleness, and
made Errickdale a scene of delight.

Beautiful it was always, in spite of its
loneliness a loneliness so extreme
that not another town or village,
or house or hut, was to be met with
for a doZen miles around it, except
Teal, lying hidden from sight behind
the hills, and five good miles away at
that, and the lighthouse which rose
up eerily on the summit of the dan-
gerous, ugly rock-ledge in the cen-
tre of Errick Bay. That bay gave
ample opportunity for sailing, row-
ing, bathing, fishing; the beach was
firm and good for those who cared
to walk ; the rocks 'were bold and
tempting for those who cared to
climb. In the fields the wild pink
roses bloomed, and strawberries,
raspberries, baked-apple berries, and
blueberries followed one upon the
other in superabundance. The
heaps of coal-dust, the begrimed
men, the care-worn women and
dirty children, the comfortless
dwellings, marred very much the
beauty of the place ; but what would
be the place without them ? The
guests who came there soon forgot
such trifles as the days sped by in
merry-making ; and in the city of
Malton a summer at Errickdale was
spoken of as a season of unrivalled
pleasure.

It was in Malton that John Ros-
setti, the present owner of Errick
mines, had his palace-like city
home. There he had collected such
treasures as few men could boast,
even in that city, famed for its eager
pursuit of the beautiful and the
costly; and all of them he lavished
upon the only being who made life
dear to him the daughter whom
his idolized young wife had left to

844

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

him when, at the child's birth, she
died.

It is a marvel that Eleanora Ros-
setti grew up as amiable and gen-
tle as she was ; for she scarcely
knew what it meant to have a wish
thwarted or the merest whim of
her fancy ungratified. Delicate
and fair like some sheltered plant,
she won love and tenderness wher-
ever she went, and it seemed to her
only as the air she breathed she
knew nothing else. That she
should yield her will to another's
never entered her mind ; that she
was to do anything for others was
an idea quite unknown to her. Life
was hers to enjoy ; hearts were
hers to command ; let her do what
she would, no one wished to hin-
der her. She saw the beggars in
the streets of Malton, she saw the
poorly-clad people in Errickdale,
but they never weighed upon her
heart in the least. They must be
very lazy or very shiftless, she
thought if she ever thought of
them at all.

With the approaching winter of
her eighteenth birthday the win-
ter of that great strike at Errick-
dale which was to set the country
ringing there came many prophe-
cies of want and famine, but Elea-
nora did not heed them. She had
a little dinner-party one evening.
They were sitting around the ta-
ble loaded with costly silver and
delicately-painted china and rare
viands. " Papa," cried Eleanora
from the head of the board, where
she presided in girlish state, her
clear voice ringing down to him
like a flute and attracting every
one's attention "papa, I mean to
keep my eighteenth birthday by a
masque-ball at Errickdale." And
then, glancing along each file of de-
lighted and expectant guests with
her brightest smile, " You are all in-

vited at once," she said, " without
further ceremony. The night of
the 2oth of January, remember.
How I hope there will be snow un-
derfoot and stars overhead and a
biting frost ! There will be bed and
board for all, though some of the
beds may have to be on the floor ;
and sleighs or carriages will be
waiting at Teal station. Oh ! how
delightful it will be ! "

Nobody waited to see if permis-
sion would be granted her. Elea-
nora Rossetti always had her way.
At once a Babel of voices arose.

'' We will make summer of win-
ter," Eleanora said. " The whole
conservatory shall be sent down.
It shall be a ball of the old regime _;
and mind, all of von, no one shall
be admitted who does not come
dressed as a courtier of some sort
to grace my palace halls. I shall
never be eighteen again, and I mean
to celebrate it royally."

" She looks like a princess this
moment," said a youth on her right,
loudly enough for her to hear, ami
to make her blush with pleasure.;
and like a princess she looked in-
deed, slender and tall and stately,
in her heavy purple robe, with er-
mine and rare laces at the neck
and wrists, and diamonds in her
ears that sparkled no more brightly
than her eyes.

Down in Errickdale that night a
northeast gale was blowing, the
waves were dashing their spray high
up over the wharf and against the
cliffs, and the rain drove in slant
sheets across the bay, where the red
eye of the lighthouse glared steadily.

In a cottage of three rooms,
apart from the tenements, yet lit-
tle better than they, another John
is sitting. John O'Rourke this,
an Irishman, come eighteen years
since from the old country ; and
with him sits his only daughter.

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

845

who will be eighteen in February.
Bridget O'Rourke has no need to
fear the verdict if she is compared
with the heiress of Errickdale ; she
is full as tall and stately, and her
dark, severe beauty would be notice-
able anywhere. But there is no
sparkle in her eyes, that are heavy
with unshed tears, and no smile is
on her lips.

These people are not poor, as
Errickdale counts poverty. It is
much, very much, to have a house
to yourself, even though it be of
three rooms only, and floor and
walls are bare. It is much to wear
whole clothes, though the dress is
cotton print and the coat is fustian.
It is much to have plenty of bread
and cheese and a bit of cold meat
on your table, and to have a de-
cent table to sit at. Errickdale
counts these things luxuries. John
O'Rourke is a sort of factotum for
the agent, and, next to him, has
higher wages than any other man
on the place ; but, for all that, his
brow is lowering to-night, and as he
sits in moody silence his fingers
work and his hands are clenched,
as though he were longing for a
fight with some one.

" You're not eating, Bridget, my
girl," he said at last, draining the
last drop of his cup of tea. " You're
not as hungry as I."

She pushed her plate away. " I
can't eat, father," she said. " Down
in the hollow Smith's wife and
babes are crying with hunger, and
over at Rutherford's the girls
haven't a shoe to their feet in this
bitter weather."

" And so you must go hungry too,
girl ?" he asked.

" I can't eat," she said again. " It
chokes me. Why should I have
good things, and they go starving ?
I wish I was starving with them !"

" Tut, tut, girl t What help would

that be? And what's Smith, any-
how, and Smith's boys, but Orange-
men, that hoot at ye Sundays, and
laugh at your going ten miles, all,
as they say, to worship images ?"

Bridget smiled faintly. This
righteous John O'Rourke was no
very fervent Catholic in his deeds,
whatever his words might go to
prove. It was seldom that he
found himself able to foot those
good ten miles with her, though
she did it regularly, in spite of ridi-
cule and difficulty.

" Orangemen or not," she an-
swered, " they're flesh and blood
like me. God made 'em. If I try
to eat, I think I see them with no-
thing, and I long to give all I have
to them."

" I tell ye," O'Rourke exclaimed,
" times are bad enough now, but
they'll be worse soon, if master
don't take heed. There'll be a
strike in Errickdale before the win-
ter's out."

" O father ! no. I hope not.
Nothing like that would ever move
the master. He's that set in his
own way, he would only hold out
stronger against 'em he would."

" I think so myself, girl I think
so myself. I've known him well
these eighteen years; he's firm as
rock. But the men don't credit
it. They are murmuring low now,
but it will be loud shouting before
we know it. Bridget, I'll to Mai-
ton and see the master myself, come
morning."

" Yes, father," said Bridget ; " and
I'll go with you and speak with
Miss Eleanora."

A few hours later, the city lady
and the Irish girl stood face to face
in Eleanora 's boudoir. There was
a startled look in Eleanora's eyes.
What strange story is this which
Bridget tells her ? There must be
some mistake about it.

846

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

" They are very poor in Errick-
dale." Bridget said slowly, keeping
down the quiver from her voice
and the tears from her eye. "House
after house they have nothing but
potatoes or mush to eat, and no-
thing but rags to wear. I don't
think it's the master's fault may-
be. Sometimes I fear the agent is
not all he should be, miss."

As if John Rossetti did not know
the character of the man whom he
had left in power among his miners !
Alas for Bridget? and alas for Er-
rickdale !

" But do you suffer, Bridget ?"
and Eleanora looked at her com-
passionately, and then with deep
admiration. She had let her talk,
had let her stay, where carelessly
she would have sent off any other,
because it was such a delight to
her to see that face in its grave and
regular beauty, and to hear the
rich voice with its sorrowful cadence
like the minor note of an organ
chant. Even had she been of like
station and wealth with herself,
Eleanora would have felt no pangs
of jealous fear ; for her own beauty
and that of Bridget were of too per-
fect and delicious a contrast for
that, and her trained artistic taste
was considering it with pleasure all
the while that their talk went on.

"Not that way," Bridget answer-
ed her. " I've food and clothes a
plenty myself. But it's as if the
hunger and want were tugging at
my heart instead of my body, by
day and by night. The lean faces
and the wailing come between me
and all else. Miss Eleanora, I wish
you could once see them only
once."

" What's this ! Bridget O'Rourke
here too ? A well-planned plot,
truly." And John Rossetti strode
into the room as though on the
point of turning the girl out from

it, only his daughter, coming to
meet him, stepped unwittingly be-
tween.

" Yes, papa," she said, " it's Brid-
get, come to the city, I suppose, for
the first time in her life. And, pa-
pa, she tells such a sad story about
Errickdale. Will you please send
them some money at once?"

"Not a penny," her father an-
swered. " Not one penny of mine
or yours shall they have. These
people think to force me to their
will by a strike ! They shall learn
what manner of master they have.
Do they not know that Errick
mines might lie idle a year, and I
hold my head above water bravely ?
And do they dream there are no
men willing and glad to be hired
for the price they cavil at ? Let
them strike when they please. That
is the only message John O'Rourke
has to carry home with him for his
pains, and all that you shall have
either, Bridget. Take it and be
gone."

"Oh! no, Bridget, not yet," Elea-
nora cried. " I am not ready. Pa-
pa, what can you be thinking of
sending her away when I am not
ready to have her go ? Let us con-
sider for a minute, papa. She is
so troubled " ; and, indeed, Bridget's
face was livid in its distress, and
when she strove to speak her voice
died away in a moan. " How
much do the people want, papa ?"

He laughed grimly. " I shrill
grant them nothing," he said.
" However, since you are curious,
they do not want as much as your
ball will cost me, my love. How
would you like to give that up for
them ?"

" My ball ! Of course not. What a
ridiculous idea ! All Malton knows
of it by this time, and twenty peo-
ple are invited already, and I have
sent for my dressmaker. Of course

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

847

I could not give that up for any-
thing ! But you were only jesting,
papa dear. I know you could not
mean it. Bridget, papa knows
best, you may be sure. I never
trouble my head about business.
But I will tell you what you shall
do. I am going to have a masque-
ball at Errickdale in January such
grand doings as were never known
there before and you shall come to
it ! You shall be where you can
see the splendid court-dresses and
the flowers and the feast, and hear
the music the very best music that
Malton can furnish. So don't wor-
ry any more, Bridget, and you shall
surely be there."

Bridget looked slowly round the
room, full of warmth and light, and
comfort and beauty. From the
picture-frames haggard eyes seem-
ed to stare at her; in the corners,
and half hidden by the velvet hang-
ings, figures wasted by want seem-
ed to stretch their bony fingers to-
wards net; through the canary's
song and the splash of the scented
fountain voices weak with fasting
seemed to call on her for aid. But
it had become impossible for her to
utter another word in their behalf.
A plan, a hope, flashed through her
mind.

"Yes, Miss Eleanora," she said,
"I will come- to your ball." And
waiting for no more words, she
went away.

"She is worrying her life out,"
Eleanora said pityingly. " I don't
believe she eats properly." And
taking more trouble for a poor per-
son than she had ever clone before,
she wrote to the housekeeper at Er-
rickdale to send Bridget O'Ronrke
every day Substantial and tempting
food enough for an entire meal.
Then she dismissed the whole mat-
ter ; or rather the dressmaker was
announced, and the important

question as to whether her ball-
dress should be of velvet or satin
drove all minor subjects, such as
hunger and cold and nakedness,
from her mind.

Meanwhile, Bridget strove to calm
her father's wrath, which he poured
forth volubly as the train carried
them home; and when he was still,
she thought out to its full scope
the plan which had occurred to
her. She would go to the ball, and,
when the guests were assembled,
she would step forth from her hid-
ing-place, and stand before them
all, and plead the people's cause.
But the more she thought of it
the more her heart misgave her.
Why should she hope they would
heed her then rather than to-day?
Would not the master only be the
more incensed against his miners,
because of the shame to which he
would be exposed ? Yes, she felt
sure that this would be the result.
And then the long, long days and
weeks which must elapse before the
chance would come at all ! How
could she endure it ? She put that
sudden hope and plan away. In-
stead of it, she prayed again and
again with smothered sobs : " O
Christ ! who for love of us died for
us, save thy people now."

But 'she walked the long walk
home from Teal station without
fatigue, and came into Errickdale
strong and well, to meet the woes
she yearned to heal.- The children
had learned to understand her pity
for them. They welcomed her re-
turn with cries for food ; she gave
them what she could, and lay down
supperless herself that night to
rest. After that, each day brought
her a full meal from the great house,
but she never tasted of it; there
were those who needed it more,
she said.

Once, on her way to a poor fain-

848

The Great Strike at hrrtckdale.

ily with a basket of these provisions,
the smell of the well-cooked food
produced such a violent craving
that it seemed to her for a moment
that she should go mad. With a
great effort she controlled herself
and stood still. " Christ," she pray-
ed, "have mercy! Shall I eat
dainties while the children starve ?"

The craving did not cease, but
strength to resist it came. She en-
tered the wretched room to which
she was bound, and fed the inmates
who crowded around her; then she
hurried home. In the cupboard were
a few crusts and a bone already well
picked. How sweetly they tasted !
And while she feasted on them a
woman crawled feebly in. " I've
fasted long," she said, and quietly
Bridget gave her all she had.

Twice afterward she felt that
horrible craving, and then it ceas-
ed. Her father saw that she ate
little, but never guessed how lit-
tle it really was ; he saw that she
grew pinched and pale, but fancied
it was grief alone that caused it.
He did not know, and no one knew,
that, with what Errickdale counted
" plenty " at her command, Bridget
was living like the poorest. The
thirst for self-sacrifice, the thirst
of a supernatural love, consum-
ed her. " HE did it," she used to
say to herself. " He was poor for
us, and he died for us." From her
room one by one her possessions
departed ; she-carried them to those
who, as she thought, needed them
more, or she disposed of them for
their use. Soon the attic room,
which no one but herself ever en-
tered, held literally nothing but the
crucifix on the wall. Laying her
weary limbs on the hard floor at
night, she thought of the hard cross
whereon her Lord had died. " Mine
is an easier bed than his," she
said, and smiled in the darkness.

" May he make me worthier to
share his blessed pains !"

But the nights were few that she
spent on even so poor a couch as
this. There was sickness in Er-
rickdale as well as want, and Bridget
was nurse, and doctor, and servant,
and watcher beside the dead. And
in her princess life at Malton
Eleanora Rossetti counted the same
long hours IJlithely, eager for her
festival to come.

The 2oth of January ! Stars
overhead, and snow underfoot, and
a biting frost to make Errickdale as
merry as its heiress wished. Winter
without, and want and woe perhaps ;
but who needed to think of that ?
In the old mansion summer itself
was reigning. Orange and lemon
trees mingled their golden fruits
and spicy bloom in the corridors
and halls and up and down the
winding stairs. Lamps burned
some faintly-scented oil, that filled
the warm air with a subtle, delicious
odor, and lamps and tall wax tapers
flooded the room with golden but
un dazzling light. Fountains play-
ed among beds of rare ferns and
exotics ; and magnificent blossoms
lay in reckless profusion upon the
floor, to be trodden upon, and
yield their perfume, and die unheed-
ed. And in doublet and hose and
cap and plume, and all the gay fes-
tival gear of a king's court of
mediaeval times, hosts of servants
waited upon Eleanora's word.

The winter twilight fell soon over
Errickdale. In its gathering shad-
ows John Rossetti was galloping
home from Teal on his swiftest
horse, when the creature shied sud-
denly, then stopped, trembling all
over. A woman stood in the path,
ghostly and strange to see through
the gloom. Fearless John Rossetti
started at the unexpected sight.

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

849

" What do you want of me ?" he ask-
ed.

" Food," the woman answered, in
a voice that thrilled him with inex-
plicable awe ; from some far-off
land it seemed to come a land that
knew nothing of ease and joy. "Your
people die of want, and cold, and
pain," it said. " In the name of
God Almighty, and while you have
time, hear me and help them."

Then this fearless John Rossetti
sneered. "While I have time?"
he said. " I have no time to-night,
I warrant you. Choose better sea-
sons than this for your begging,
Bridget O'Rourke."

He struck the spurs into his
horse, but, though it quivered
all over again, it would not move
an inch. The woman lifted her
hands to heaven. " God, my God !
I have done all I can," she said.
"I leave it now with thee." And
so she vanished.

In Errick Hall Eleanora was speak-
ing to a servant. " Make haste/'
she said. " I had almost forgotten
it. Make haste and bring Bridget
O'Rourke to me. I promised she
should see it all."

The servant hurried obediently
:) John O'Rourke's cottage. Its
owner was crouching sullenly over
the fire. " Where's my girl ?" he
said. " Miss Eleanora wants her
to see the sights ? See 'em she
shall, then. It's little she gets of
brightness now, poor thing. Brid-
get ! Bridget !"

But though he called loudly, no
one answered. He climbed the
stairs to the dark attic, and still no
reply.

" Give me the light, boy," he
cried, with a dull foreboding at his
heart, and he and the servant en-
tered the room together.

She was not there. What was
more, nothing was there literally
VOL. xxiv. 54

nothing except the cross of Him
who gave his all, his very life, for
men.

"I fear, I fear," this John sr.id,
trembling ; and he took the crucifix
down, and carried it with him for
defence against invisible foes whom
he dreaded far more than anything
he could see.

" We will go look for her,
O'Rourke," the servant said. " I
must find her for Miss Eleanora, if
not for her own sake."

In the kitchen supper was on the
table, and the fire crackled on the
hearth. Her loving father had
been waiting long for her. Where
was the child ?

They asked the question at every
tenement and every room. The
people joined them in the search
for her whom they all held dear.
On the outskirts of the place, and
where the road stretched out with-
out another sign of habitation for
five miles to Teal, was a lonely
hovel.

" She's there," one woman said
to another. " 'Course she's there.
Might 'a' known it. Jake Ireton's
wife had twins yesterday, and it's
little else they have. She's there,
caring for 'em."

Yet they paused at the door, MS
if loath to open it. The whole
throng seemed to feel that vague
foreboding which John O'Rourke
had felt ; those who were able to
crowd into the narrow room enter-
ed it timidly. What was it that
they dreaded ?

In the grand saloon of Errick
mansion, decked like a regal ball-
room, John Rossetti's daughter, at-
tired gorgeously like the French
queen in the famous painting which
is Malton's pride, received her
courtiers ; and the band played the
gay dance-music, and the light feet
of the dancers glided over the floors.

850

The Great Strike at Errickdale.

In the poorest hut of Errickdale
John O'Rourke's daughter receiv-
ed her courtiers, too, in regal state.

It was dark and silent there be-
fore the torches were brought in.
By their flaring light the people
saw the poor mother on a bed of
rags and straw.

"Be still as ye can," she said
softly. ' " Is't thee, O'Rourke ?
Thy .good girl's been vvi' me this
four hours. One o' my babbies died,
thank God ! She laid it out there
all decent."

And tli en, in the dim light, they
saw the outline of a tiny form be-
side the bed; such being the roses
and adornings of Bridget's court.

" She heard a horse go trampling
by, and went to see 't," the woman
said. " When she came back, says
she : * 'Twas master. I've plead-
ed my last plea for my people.
My heart's broke.' Then t'other
babby cried, and she took'tto still it,
and she lay down wi' it, and, ever
since, they've both been still, and I
hope she's sleepit and forgot her
woes awhile, God bless her !"

Sleeping on the hard floor, but
she does not feel it. They bring
the torches near her; she does not
heed the glare, though the baby on
her bosom starts and wakes and
weeps. She does not hear it weep.
In truth, this queen has forgotten
her woes in a dreamless slumber,
and truly God has blessed her ; but
with bitter wailing her courtiers
kneel before her in the court of
Death, the king.

There is food on the table which
her own hands had placed there ;
there is fire on the hearth which her
own hands kindled. She who lies
there dead has not died of cold or
hunger; she has died of a broken
heart.

And the viol and flute and harp
ling sweetly, and the trumpet and

drum have a stately sound in Er-
rick Hall, and youths and maidens
dance and make merry. The great
doors were flung open, and in long
procession the guests passed into
the banqueting-hall, where was
room for every one to sit at the mag-
nificent tables, and Eleanora was en-
throned on a dais, queen of them all.
Reproduced as in a living picture
was a ball of Le Grand Monarqus.
"John Rossetti has surpassed him-
self," his guests said with admiring
wonder. In a pause of the music
Eleanora's silvery laugh was heard ;
she looked with pride at her father,
and spoke aloud so that all might
hear : " Yes, there never was such
a father as mine. His birthday
gift is beyond my highest expecta-
tions."

" Rossetti of Errickdale /"

From above their heads the
strange voice came. Far up in
the embrasure of a window a man
with a lighted torch was standing.
John O'Rourke's eyes met John
Rossetti's, and commanded them,
and held them fast.

"We mean no harm," he said.
" We come peaceable, if you meet
us peaceable ; but if not, there's dan-
ger and death all round ye. I warn
ye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my
Bridget come to see her feast, and
we've come to bring her. Ye'd
best sit quiet, all of ye, for we've
fire to back us." And he held his
torch dangerously near to the cur-
tains. Errickdale hall and Errick-
dale master were in his power.

Coming through the hall they
heard it the steady, onward tramp
of an orderly and determined
crowd; the notes of a weird Irish
dirge heralded their coming. Two
and two the courtiers of Bridget
O'Rourke marched in.

Men in rags, their lips close-shut
and grim, a rude and flaring torch

The Great Strike at Errickdalc.

851

borne in each man's hand ; haggard
women with wolfish eyes and scant-
ly clad, leading or carrying children
who are wailing loudly or moaning in
a way that chills the blood to hear,
while the women shrilly sing
that dirge for a departed soul
would the terrible procession never
cease ? Blows and clamor would
be easier to bear than this long-
drawn horror, as two and two the
people filed around the loaded ta-
bles and gayly-attired guests.

Rising in amazement at the first
entrance of these new-comers,
throughout their coming Eleanora
stood upright, one hand pressed
upon her heart, as if to quell its ra-
pid beating. Beautiful, and queenly
despite her pallid cheeks, she stood
there, yet two and two the, people
passed slowly up the hall, and slowly
passed before her dais, and made no
sign of homage. It was another
queen who held them in her sway.

Was it over at last? for the pro-
cession that seemed to have no end
ceased to file through the lofty
doors. The men stood back against
the wall, still with their lips close-
shut and grim ; they lowered their
torches as banners are lowered to
greet a funeral train. The women
flung up their lean, uncovered arms,
and shrieked out one more wail of
bitter lamentation, then stood silent
too. The very babes were still.
And all eyes were fixed upon the
door all except John O'Rourke's,
that never stirred from John Ros-
setti's face.

Borne in state, though that state
was but a board draped with a rag-
ged sheet her face uncovered to
those stars and to that biting frost,
her feet bare to those snows for
which Eleanora wished ; the face
marked by a suffering which was
far deeper than any that mere cold
or hunger causes, yet sealed by it

to an uplifted look which was be-
yond all earthly loveliness ; the
hands crossed on a heart that ached
no longer, over the crucifix which
was this queen's only treasure so
Bridget O'Rourke had come to
Eleanora's feast.

And so they bore her up the hall ;
and before the regal dais this more
regal bier stood still.

Then at last Eleanora moved, and
started, and stretched out her
hands. " What do you want of
me?" she said. "What is it that
you want of me? Speak to me,
Bridget O'Rourke. Speak to me."

They were face to face again in
their youth and beauty, but the
contrast between them now brought
no delight. They were face to face
again ; but let this heiress command
as she might or beg as she might,
never again would the rich voice
speak to her with passionate plead-
ing, or the grave eyes meet her own
with a stronger prayer than words.
This Queen of Death made no
answer to her royal sister, except
the awful answer of that silence
which no power of earth can break.

"Rossetti of Errickdale ! "

Once again from far above their
heads they heard him calling the
man whose earthly all lay dead be-
fore them.

"We threatened to strike for
food, and we feared ye. We suffer-
ed sore like slaves, for we feared
ye. It's ye that may fear us now,
I tell ye, for to-night we strike for
a life. Give us my good girl's life
again my good girl's life."

He was wild with grief, and the
people were wild with want and grief.
Echoing up to the arches, their
shout rang loud and long. " We
strike for a life," they cried. " Give
us back that life, or we burn ye all
together."

Owner of princely wealth was he

852

The Great Strike at Errickdalc.

upon whom they called. _ Seven
hours ago that life was in his gift
one act of pity might have saved
it, one doled-out pittance kept the
heart from breaking. Let him lav-
ish his millions upon her now; he
cannot make her lift a finger or
draw a breath.

"John O'Rourke! "

It was not the master's voice that
answered. For the first time John
O'Rourke's eyes turned from the
master and looked upon Eleanora.
The queen of a night held out her
hands again to her who had gone
to claim the crown of endless ages.

" John O'Rourke," she said, gen-
tly and slowly, so that each word
carried weight, " what is it that
Bridget wants of me ? What would
she ask if she could speak to me
to-night? I will give her whatever
she would ask. Does she want her
life back again ?"

The unexpected question, the
gentle words, struck home. Sud-
denly O'Rourke's defiant eyes grew
dim ; and through his tears he saw
his good girl's face, with the deep
lines of suffering plain upon it, and
the new and restful look of perfect
peace. It pleaded with him as no
words could plead.

" Miss Eleanora," he cried, '' I
wouldn't have her back. Not for
all the world I wouldn't call her
back. She's been through sore an-
guish, and I thank God it's over.
Give us food and fair wages, miss-
that 's all she would ask of ye."

He paused, and in the pause
none dreamed how wild a fight the
man was fighting with his wrath
and hatred. But still that worn
and silent form pleaded with him
and would not be gainsaid. At
length he spoke, huskily :

" And she would ask of us, miss,
not to harm one of ye, but to let
master and all go free for the love
of God. Shall ve do what Bridget
would ask of us, my men ?"

His strained voice faltered, he
burst into loud Irish weeping a
lonely father's weeping, touching to
hear in its patient resignation.

"Yes! yes!" the men and wo-
men answered him; and in the hall
rich and poor wept and laughed to-
gether, for the great strike of Kr-
rickdale was over, and peace was
made, and want supplied. But
through the tumult of sorrow and
rejoicing she alone lay utterly un-
moved and silent who had won life
at the price of life.

The story is often told in Malton
of a young girl, very beautiful and
much beloved, who renounced the
world on the night of her eighteenth
birthday, in the very midst of a
feast of unequalled splendor, and
at the threshold of a future full of
brilliant promise. They say she
dwelt in lonely Errickdale, among
the poor and ignorant, and lived
like them and for them. And now
and then they add that, when once
some one ventured to ask her why
she chose so strange a life, she an-
swered that she had seen death at
her feast in the midst of pomp and
splendor, and had learned, once for
all, their worth. But when she was
further asked if she could not be
willing, like many others present at
that feast, to care for the poor and
to give to them, and yet have joy
and comfort too, the fire of a di-
vine love kindled in her eyes, and
she answered that she counted it
comfort and joy to live for the peo-
ple for whom she had seen another
content and glad to die.

Modern Melodists.

MODERN MELODISTS.

SCHUMANN.*

ROBERT SCHUMANN was the true
successor of Schubert. The impas-
sioned admirer of him whom he de-
signated as " the Prince of Melody,"
Schumann, though not equalling his
inimitable predecessor, succeeded
nevertheless in winning for himself
a lofty place among the masters of
lyric music.

We say that Schumann has not
equalled Schubert ; but it must not
thence be concluded that he is ne-
cessarily inferior to his rival each
time that he treats an analogous
subject. Schumann has perhaps
rendered all the shades of human
iove with as much truth and depth
as Schubert, but scarcely ever has
he reached the dramatic power of
" The Erl King " and " The Young
Nun " ; never has he found the
brilliant coloring and light which
shines out in " The Mariner," " The
Departure," and " The Stars." Thus
Schumann's Hidalgo is evidently the
same cavalier as he of Schubert's
" Departure." In Schubert he quits
his German Fatherland and hur-
ries forth to seek new pleasures.
Schumann takes him into Spain :
u Mine be fresh flow'rets rare," he
cries, " the hearts of ladies fair, and
mine the combat fierce." Alas !
Quantum inutatiis ! The beauties
ot Spain bring small inspiration, and
Schumann's bolero resembles the
joyous song of Schubert just as
much as a military band of Madrid
resembles an orchestra of Vienna.

* See "Les Melodistes," by M. Arthur Coquard, in
Le Conieinporain for Nov. i, 1872

In the same way, in dramatic situa-
tions, Schumann is not always well in-
spired. Insteadof being simple, his
thought is vulgar (as in "The Hos-
tile Brothers " and " The Two Gren-
adiers"), or else, in larger works, his
search for the dramatic accent gives
a strained expression to his style and
a wearisome obscurity to his inten-
tion. This, however, is not always
the case. Who does not know the
admirable " Funeral March " of his
Quintette, assuredly the most beau-
tiful of his symphonic works, and
excelling all the mitsitjue de chatn-
bre of Schubert ?

The overture to Manfred has
many sombre beauties ; but instead
of following these lugubrious ac-
cents by a plaint more melodious,
more human, and less infernal
instead of letting in a little light to
make his " darkness" yet more "vis-
ible" Schumann only quits the
shadows to precipitate himself into
utter blackiress, and horror suc-
ceeds alarm.

We find, however, the true note
of dramatic inspiration in the Lied
" J'ai pardonne," with its cry of
Jove betrayed and of terrible male-
diction.

" J'ai vu ton dme en songe,
J'ai vu la'nuit ou sa douleur la plonge,
Et le remords a tes pas enchaine,
Et ton printemps aux larmes destine." *

The effect is all the more striking
because absolutely new : an harmo-

* " In dreams I have seen thy soul ; I have seen
the night in which she hides her woe ; I have seen
remorse to thy footsteps chained, and thy spring-
time doomed to tears."

854

Modern Melodists.

nic sequence of incredible bold-
ness, resolving itself into fresh dis-
cords more audacious still, and,
hovering above, a simple phrase of
song, which falls cold and solemn,
like a malediction from .on high !

Towards the middle the discords
resolve themselves regularly; and
before resuming the original idea,
before returning to the expressions
of anguish uttered by the first
harmonies, Schumann allows us,
through eight bars, a breathing-
time, on a very simple phrase which
he keeps in the proximate keys to
the primitive. If, with regard to
the overture to Manfred, Schumann
is to be reproached with having al-
lowed so little light to find entrance
among its shadows, he has, at any
rate in this case, had the good
sense to submit to the necessary
laws of contrast, and thus gains
much by allowing us to breathe a
few moments, that we may realize
more fully the depth of despair to
which he is about to drag us down.
He returns to the first phrase, and
we hear again the chords which
have already so deeply moved us ;
still the melodic phrase enlarges
and mounts upward, while the dis-
cords take a new development.
After this tempest* of the soul, we
reach the haven, the key returns to
ut on the words J*ai pardonne
(" I have pardoned"), and Schu
mann leaves us filled with admira-
tion, not unmixed with horror.

Strange eccentricity of the hu-
man genius ! In this sublime Lied,
perhaps the most powerful page
which Schumann has written, we
can discover the germ of those de-
fects which too often mar his more
extended works, and begin to un-
derstand why Schumann has fallen
into the obscurities we just now
named. What is, in lact, the espe-
cial characteristic of this wonderful

melody? Despair; but despair
under tortuous and exaggerated
forms.

If only Schumann would have
been content to paint the sufferings
of the heart, all might have gone
well ; but no, he exhausts fiim-
self in attempting also to render t*ie
tortures of the mind, the anxious
doubting of Manfred, the absolute
negation incarnate in Faust. Now,
if the torments of the heart furnish
one of the most powerful elements
of the drama (Orestes, (Edipus, and
Phccdrns prove this truth), there is
absolutely nothing artistic whatever
in mental torments, philosophic
doubt, and scepticism. The true
artist, by his very nature, must be-
lieve and love.

If against this assertion Goeth:-,
Byron, and Alfred de Musset are
quoted three great poets, with
whom Schumann has some analogy
we would say : All three were poets,
not because, but in spite, of doubt ;
and, what is truer still, they are
poets when they cease to doubt,
or when they struggle against it.
Even Alfred de Musset was no
sceptic when he exclaimed in his
immortal " August Night" (Ntiif
d'Aotii) :

" O ma muse, ne pleurez pas ;

A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.
Dieu li-haut, 1'espoir ici-bas ! "

Alas! Schumann also knew the
evil of our time. Was it not doubt
which made him lose his way in
the search after some impossible
and anti-artistic ideal ? Was it not
doubt which, by day and night, tor-
tured his sick soul and urged him
on to commit suicide? Doubt, in
his impassioned mind, engendered
madness ; need we, after this, wonder

* u Weep not, my Muse ; oh! weep no more. God
stays whh him who l;:er. a!! beside Ccd on hi^'.i,
and hope below !'"

Modern Melodists.

S55

that his artistic ideas were confus-
ed, his tone unhealthy, and that his
music oftener makes us think of
death than life, darkness than
light : But when Schumann suc-
ceeds in tearing himself from the
fatal embrace of scepticism, his
musical inspirations take sublime
flights. When he sang of love he
was truly great, because he believ-
ed in love.

While Schubert was content to
throw off, one by one, without appar-
ent connection, his admirable Lied-
cr* Schumann gathered all the
shades of tenderness into a marvel-
lous unity as, for instance, in the
" Loves of a Poet " and " Woman's
Love," in which we are made to
traverse all its phases.

Before saying any more about
these two important works, we
would name several detached Licder
of singular gracefulness : " Desir,"
or " Chanson dti Matin " (A Morning
Song), and "O ma Fiancee." Nor
must we forget a reverie, "An Loin"
(Far Away), on which is the impress
of an infinite sadness. We seem
in it to be listening, at the dead of
night, to the lament of an exile weep-
ing at the thought of his country and
all whom he loves. It reminds us of
a Daniel singing, on the banks of
the Euphrates, the divine plaint
of captivity : Super fliimina Baby-
lon is, iflic scdimus et flevimus.

The " Loves of a Poet " open
with a series of little melodies full of
poesy a little nosegay of fragrant
flowers which the poet offers to his
beloved. It is when, alas ! he has
been betrayed by the faithless one
that he sings his sublime song "J'ai
pardonne " a pardon which is,
nevertheless, worse than a male-
diction.

* We hope that in a former notice we have shown
that there is an artistic connection between them.
(See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1077.)

If only the " Loves of a Poet "
ended with this admirable melody,
the work would be complete ; and
the effect marvellous. But no ;
Henri Heine, the author of the
poem, prolonged in an inexplicable
fashion the situation, henceforth
without interest, and the betrayed
poet comes back to tell us that he
is unfortunate ! Did we not know
it already? He repeats this stale
bit of information nine times over
consecutively, in nine " Lieder,"
and under nine different forms ! a
literary impossibility which inevi-
tably reminds us of the despair of
the Cid, persistently offering his
head to Chimenes.

At the fourth reapparition Heine
seems at last to begin to suspect
that the plaintive tone is weari-
some; but he finds nothing better,
by way of a change, than to throw
his hero into the humoristic style
we had almost said the grotesque.
Our readers shall judge :

11 A man loves a woman,
Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love."

Already we have a trio of lovers.
We continue :

But he who reigns in this heart
Fancies another, in /i/Vturn."

Here, then, is an interesting quar-
tern ion of people who cannot
contrive to come to an understand-
ing with one another ; but we are
not at the end. Enter another in-
dividual Number 5.

u The fair one, in revenge,

Makes choice of an unknown."

And now, place for the last
lover,

Whose "hand and heart alike
Will he for the first comer."

A jurisconsult would simply

856

have told us : Primus am at
dam, quae Tertium, qui Quartam,
quae Quintum, qui Sextam . , .
(csetera desiderantur) which, at
any rate, would have had the merit
of clearness ; and, on remarking
immediately that the species contain-
ed three feminine terminations and
three masculine, he would have
celebrated three marriages.

Even the genius of Goethe, which
imagined the Elective affinities,
.would never have sufficed to create
these Repulsive affinities. But the
one most to be pitied is the unfor-
tunate Schumann, who had con-
demned himself to set this theory of
Elective Repulsions to music. In
his place one would have preferred,
like Rameau, to seek one's inspira-
tions fron the Gazette de Hollande.

Henri Heine, after this tour de
force, has nothing left but to kill
his poet ; and he kills him accord-
ingly. After a few more insipid-
ities which fill the twelfth, thirteenth,
; fourteenth, and fifteenth Lieder y
ithe poet will order. his coffin

u Of wood encircled with iron,
Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,
Longer than the bridge of Treves

Or that of Frankfort," etc.

The last feature might have been
touching, if it had been better man-
.aged. " Know you," asks the poet,
'" what makes my coffin so heavy ?

" It is that it contains my joy,
My sorrow, and my love."

The music of Schumann is af-

fected by the feebleness of the

poem. The melodies which follow

'" J'-ai pardonne " are inferior to the

preceding ones. It is only towards

the end that the musician escapes

from the material hindrances of the

subject ; the air gains in freedom,

the harmonies in richness.; the poor

Modern Melodists.

poet recovers some of his first ac-
cents when he sings : " It is that
it contains my joy, my sorrow, and
my love."

" A Woman's Love." Here is a
little poem far superior to the pre-
ceding. The author is Adalbert de
Chamisso, well known for his Won-
derful History of Peter Schlemihl.
This time poet and musician identify
themselves with each other marvel-
lously, and Schumann lives and
breathes in every verse of the poet.

In the first song the young girl
owns her love :

Have I, then, had a dream ?
But him I see !

What makes me tremble thus,
And takes my sleep from me,
And makes my heart beat fast ?
-Yes ; it is he !"

Throughout this melody one is
conscious of a deep and inward
happiness, which is not without a
pleasing touch of melancholy.

In that which next follows the
young girl sings her beloved. The
rhythm is lofty, the melody bril-
liant. There are, however, in this
Lied parts which are not equal to
the preceding, and which are want-
ing in naturalness. But listen ; she
is loved :

" Why tremble thus ? why doubt, my heart ?
Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah !
Me has he chosen among all ;
And thou, my heart, believ'st it not !"

The enthusiasm which fills this
melody makes it comparable to the
deepest melodies of Schubert. What
we feel peculiar in it to Schumann
is a feverish tone, a shade of de-
lirium, if we may say so, which we
might seek for in vain in Schubert.
The ternary rhythm, especially when
the measure is rapid, is singularly
suitable to impassioned movements.
A chord, detached not too strongly
falls upon the first beat of eacli

Modern Melodists.

bar; the hurrying melody stops
upon the word Ah, on a concord
of the seventh, very simple, but of
a pleasing effect after the regular
ascent of the bass. Then it con-
tinues, rapid and fevered, and the
first phrase closes in C, on the
words : " And thou, my heart, be-
liev'st not. '

Then, more slowly, the maiden
caresses her precious memories :

il His mouth has said to me :
I love thee."

a youthful pride and gladness, '* Jf
I am fair, I owe it only to my hap-
piness," and the melody breaks
into a song of exceeding beauty.

A wife, she murmurs soon into
her husband's ear, "I hope," and
in the following Lied we see her as
a mother. She presses her little
one to her heart, and a melody of
exquisite sweetness expresses the
words :

" Fresh brightness and new love
In a cradle are revealed.''

The melody softens, the phrase
is more free and becomes freshly
animated on the word?, "A dream
bewilders me," then bursts out pow-
erfully when the young girl ex-
claims :

1 Heaven ! if this is but a dream,
Then may I wake no more."

This phrase, by its lofty accent
and a certain lyric transport, pleas-
antly recalls certain movements of
Gluck's.

When, in a low voice, the maiden
resumes, "Why tremble thus," etc.,
we might think the melody termi-
nated. But the artist has kept us
a few last notes, breathed from the
depths of his soul. After an eager
repetition of the words, " Me has
he chosen among all, and thou, my
heart, believ'st it not," she once
more utters them, very slowly and
very softly, in a melodic phrase
full of tenderness and supplication.
She is more calm ; her heart belies
her mouth, and she believes.

The fourth and fifth Lieder are
two songs of an affianced maiden.
The young girl at first sings to her-
self of her betrothed, and the sen-
timent of the music is inward, tran-
quil, and deep; but on quitting her
father's roof to meet her husband
the fiancee sings to her sisters, with

Alas ! the eighth Lied recalls
us to sorrow, the great reality of-
life. "O bitter woe! my best-be-
loved beneath the wing of death
is sleeping; forlorn, I shrink with-
in myself, and solace my sad
'heart with weeping." Then the
veil falls.

Again I see thee, happiness gone by
Of former days."

So ends the poem. But if the part
of the poet is finished when he has
made this sorrowful appeal to the
past, there is nothing to enchain the
inspiration of the musician. From
the depth of his grief, at the foot of
this coffin, the- poet has just evok-
ed the memories of happiness for
ever fled. The musician will give a
voice to that soul which is call-
ed music O marvellous power !
Words would be misplaced ; harmo-
nies are more discreet, more silent.
There is nothing outward here ; it
is the soul, contemplating the past,
to which anisic lends its poignant
reality.

We cannot quit Schumann with-
out a few words on the wife he
so loved, and who his shown her-
self worthy of his love by a stead-
fast devotion to the memory of her
husband, so long and so unjustly
unappreciated. The author of a

858

Modern Melodists.

number of remarkable Lieder, Mme.
Clara Schu.iiann deserves a place
among the most distinguished rep-
resentatives of the melodic style.
Her place should be elsewhere,
among living composers, but we
could not separate her even in
thought from the husband to
whom, in death, she proves so
faithful.

We have read with exceeding plea-
sure a little collection of Lieder, of
which the idea is touching. The hus-
bandand wife contributed each their
flowers (of melody) to the garland
they have woven. We even douut
whether the best page of this col-
lection is not a melody by Mme.
Schumann, entitled "Love for
Love."

If we were asked, What is the
style of Mme. Schumann? we should
answer, That of Robert Schumann.
Can we Bonder at it ? They loved
each other so much that their souls
must gradually have come to bear
a mutual resemblance, and they
would have but one inspiration, as
they had but one love.

Schubert and Schumann are the
two composers of the past who oc-
cupy the first rank in the melodic
style; they have in common that
the Lied has been carried by them
to its highest expression,' and that
in return they owe to it their most
lasting renown.

In a complete work we should
have now to inquire what the dif-
ferent great composers have been
at the time when they were drawn
by their inspirations on melodic
ground. Without entering into
disquisitions which would here be
out of place, we ought nevertheless,
from the fear of being too incom-
plete, bring forward certain Lieder
which, however small a place they
may claim among the works of the
masters of whom we are about to

speak, none the less reveal an illus-
trious origin. Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven have written a tolerably-
large number of melodies, very lit-
tle known until twenty years ago,
when an intelligent editor had the
happy idea of collecting in one vol-
ume forty of these melodies, chosen
from the most beautiful.* It needs
no long examination to show that
Haydn and Beethoven, always in-
spired, but above all symphonists,
generally take some large phrase
which one would suppose borrow-
ed from one of their symphonies.
Thus Haydn's " Love Song " re-
minds us of those fine themes with
which his andantes open ; and in the
same manner Beethoven, who, by
exception, has found in his charming
"Adelaide" the true form of the
melody, surprisingly recalls, in the
canzonetta, " In questa tomba," the
admirable adagio of the grand Son-
ata Appassionnata in F minor.

Mozart, who was more of a melo-
dist f than these two masters, has
composed real Lieder, in which, at
times, we seem to have a presenti-
ment of Schubert. Thus, " The
Cradle Song" might very suitably
bear the signature of the author of
" The Young Mother." Elsewhere,
on the contrary, in " L'Amour Mal-
heureux "and " Loin de toi," we find
the style and the dramatic accent of
the author of Don Jitan and The
Magic Flute.

The Lieder of Weber and Men-
delssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz
and Richard Wagner, will not de-
tain us longer. These illustrious
masters have cultivated the Lied
with too little zeal to have won

* Quarantj Melodies de Beethoven, Mozart ', et
Haydn^ chez Flaxlnnd.

t We say melodist '\ and not melodic. One may
be a musician of the first order without being a
great melodist. Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other
respects, is a poor mslodist ; but will any one: say
that he is not melodic ?

Modern Melodists.

859

from it any lasting fame. Even
Meyerbeer would gain nothing by
our dwelling on this subject in re-
gard to him. He has a certain
" Monk" upon his conscience, of
which the less we say the better.
On the other hand, other artists,
greatly inferior to those just named,
have given in their melodic com-
positions the full measure of their
talent. We may quote, as ex-
amples, Niedermeyeiy an accom-
plished musician, whose "Lake"
lias obtained a great and deserved
success ; Monpou, the author of
"Castibelza," whose merit must not
be confounded with that of such
contemporaries as Abbadie, Ar-
naud, and Loisa Puget.

In Italy Rossini and Donizetti
have left melodies to which they
have given the singular name of
Soirees. Our readers will recall

Rossini's " Mini la bianca lunn,"
which has a real charm, but which
reminds one rather of the author
of the "Gazza ladra" than of
the inspired singer of "William
Tell."

In the " Abbandonata " Donizet-
ti reaches a truth of expression of
which, unfortunately, he has not
been too lavish. In listening to
those prettinesses, written chiefly
to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and
which, in the hands of writers like
Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their
compeers, have been lowered to the
level of the most vulgar vocaliza-
tion, we find ourselves regretting
the old masters of the Italian
school Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello,
Durante, whose melodies are incon-
testably more youthful and fresh
than the romances of the modern
Italian composers.

86o

Nciv Publications.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE BROWN HOUSE AT DUFFIELD ; or,
Life within and without the Fold.
By Minnie Mary Lee. Baltimore :
Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.

A good Catholic novel is still, we fear,
Nigro simillima cygno.

The great majority of semi-controversial
tales which have been written during the
last twenty years, by well-intentioned but
injudicious writers of our faith, have
no claim to be recognized as works of
art ; for their execution has been in gen-
eral too hasty to admit of that careful
study and elaboration indispensable to
the production of an enduring work.
Neither can they be fairly considered as
natural or practical illustrations of the
influence of our holy religion in social
and domestic life, still less as successful
means of initiating outsiders into the
beauties of the church's doctrines. It is
not the legitimate aim of a novel to be
prosaically didactic. One page of Bsl-
larmine or Petavius contains more sound
doctrinal position than the fresh cut
leaves of any modern controversial
tale. Of course in master-hands the
difficult task of blending narrative and
dogma has succeeded, but it took no
less a writer than Cardinal Wiseman to
render Fabiola interesting, and it re-
quired the pen of Father Newman to
write Loss and Gain. Narrative is bet-
ter suited than controversy to most of
our lay writers. In every case the silont
example of a noble character is more po-
tent for good than the most ingenious
arguments or most earnest exhortations.
The book before us is hot free from the
strictures we have passed on its numer-
ous train of companions. There is
much improbability in the plot, and a
decided lack of naturalness in the char-
acters. It is a mistake to elevate an or-
dinary heroine to the highest plane of
wisdom ; she ceases to be flesh and
blood, and thsn our interest in her
ceas-es likewise.

The tale is replete with the holiest

examples for imitation and the highest
lessons in self sacrifice, devotion, and
duty.

FRANK BLAKE. By Dillon O'Brien. St.
Paul : Pioneer Press Co. 1876.

So long as works of fiction constitute
an important department of literature of
which the supply is rarely in excess of
the demand, it is well for critics to insist
that at least no morbid products of fancy
tinged with a vile pruriency be admitted
to take rank under this head. We are
glad that the author of Frank Blake has
appreciated this truth ; for though he has
worked up some delicate situations, he
has been a most strict observer of pro-
priety and has tempered sentiment with
sense. Frank Blake is an oft-told Irish
story. The incidents are not such as we
meet in Orlando Furioso, but still such
as are calculated to enlist a sober inter-
est. The plot is natural and ripens with
ease. For once the Irish peasant is rep-
resented as though seven centuries of
English misrule had at least enabled him
to acquire a decent knowledge of the
language of his subjugator. But he is
not by any means Saxonized, as is made
evident by his unmistakable Celtic wit
and adequacy to meet and make the
best of sudden emergencies.

THE WISE NUN OF EASTONMERE, AND
OTHER TALES. By Miss Taylor. B?J-
timore : Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.

This unpretentious volume derives
its chief attraction from the fact that
every line bears testimony to the modest
estimate the writer has formed of her
powers. We will not vouch for the
amount of instruction to be derived from
Miss Taylor's little book, but there can
be no doubt that it is edifying, and in a
wise, sober sense. Its simplicity in
style and construction makes up for the
absence of more conspicuous qualities.

11 And few, of all, at once could make pretence
To royal robes and rustic innocence."

The Catholic world

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY